art shit

20s super hot super chill grad student

[gingerhouseplant]

Brendon Park x Pediatricnurse!wife!reader

Thanks for all the support with my other Park x reader stories! I just love writing for this man 😭 if anyone has any ideas they want to see, feel free to comment them and I’ll see if I can do them justice!

Most people assume that pediatric nursing is soft. An easy, cushy job. You’ve spent your nursing career caring for the most helpless of patients, providing your compassion and love to the sweet pediatric patients in your hospital. From working in the NICU and caring for the tiny 23 week baby that was born far too early, to the 17 year old boy with type 1 diabetes in DKA.

Today, you were headed to the emergency room at PTMC to check on the newest pediatric patient, the “Baby Jane Doe” that was found abandoned in chairs. The pediatric floor was bursting at the seams, so there wasn’t any room for the sweet baby to be admitted to.

“Good afternoon, sweet cheeks. I guess you’re down here to see Baby Jane Doe?” Dana, the all knowing charge nurse chirped from behind the desk. You gave her a grin and leaned against the tall desk.

“Of course, but I love getting to see your face while I’m down here.” You teased, laughing as Dana gave your shoulder a push.

“You shameless flirt, what would your husband think?” She scolded, leading you to the room where baby Jane Doe was asleep under the radiant warmer.

You did a quick assessment, did a vitals check, and changed her diaper. By the time you finished, she was awake and rooting, trying to latch onto your finger for a feeding. You cracked open one of the ready-to-use formula bottles and picked up the sweet baby, and she immediately latched on to the bottle and began to feed.

You gently rubbed her cheek with your gloved finger while she ate, and you were so focused on her that you jumped when the doors to her room slid open. “Hey, your charge nurse said you were down here.” The deep voice of Brendon Park brought a smile to your face.

“You keeping tabs on me?” You teased, standing on your tip toes and accepted a kiss on your cheek. The baby in your arms squeaked at the disruption, and you held her close as she still sucked on her bottle.

“Someone has to in this place. How’d you get unlucky enough to end up down here in this hell hole?” He asked, bending down just slightly to look at the baby, her bright eyes watching him closely. She smiled a gummy smile around the nipple of the bottle and he blinked, feeling a twinge in his chest that he wasn’t used to feeling.

“I volunteered to come check on this little one. Someone just left her in chairs, just abandoned her like she was nothing.” You whispered, your voice wavering as you rubbed a finger over her cheek. Her eyes were fluttering closed, so you quickly burped her and laid a baby blanket over her as she dozed on your chest. Brendon watched you quietly, eyes flickering between your face and the baby’s. “You want to hold her?” You offered, but you didn’t leave him any time to argue, as you all but pushed the baby into his broad chest.

His eye brows were raised as the baby pressed her cheek against his chest and continued to sleep, and his large hand completely engulfed her back. Neither of you said anything for a moment, until you couldn’t resist anymore. “God, you look so good holding a baby.” Your heart was pounding in your chest as you reached out and placed your hand over his on the baby’s back.

“Yeah? You thinking about taking advantage of me when we get home?” Brendon said, his voice teasing, but you heard the low rumble in his chest that meant he was thinking the same thing that you were.

“I mean, always. I have a hot husband,” you said, and Brendon smirked, but you saw the pink creeping up his neck. “But I do have some ulterior motives for tonight. Maybe practice making one of these for ourselves? A little, tiny Park “the shark” to love?” You suggested, feeling your voice shake as you said it.

“Baby girl, I’d love nothing more.” He said, voice low and close to your ear. “You’re lucky I don’t drag you into a supply room and knock you up right here, right now.” Your voice caught in your throat and you took baby Jane Doe from him, putting her gently back under the radiant warmer.

“How much longer is left in our shift?”

[louferrignojrofficial]

the greying sideburns 🙂‍↕️

[cheris-posts]

i went to this yoga class today and there was this couple in the same class and the guy literally looked like brendon park im talking like same build, facial features literally everything i kept glancing at him because okay doppleganger! but i could tell that he wasn’t the guy to be flexible at all like he had trouble doing some of the poses and it was easy to tell that he was more of like a weight workout person but his gf was definitely into yoga cause she was able to do all the poses and was very flexible, it was so cute cause she was encouraging and teaching him how to get into the poses and stuff and he was not flexible at all sooooo i was thinking a talented writer should right a fic about yoga gf x workout bf brendon park doing a yoga class and her absolutely slaying while he struggles and if someone writes it tag me!!

[prettydaisygirl]

Hiiii I dont know if you still take requests for Park the Shark but I would like to give one!!

I’d love your headcanons or blurb about Park being possessive and jealous over very kind and warm younger!nurse :)

He was enamored by her when she first started at PTMC and everyone was like “wow Park has feelings?” She’s always super kind and warm to him because she didn’t realize he was an intimidating person to everyone else. He’s always concerned about where she is and if she’s okay like when she’s out with her friends because duh she’s drop dead gorgeous and he knows guys will throw themselves at her. And ofc concerned about her while she’s at work :)))

lmao my brain took this and ran with it so this is what i have lmao :) i hope you enjoy!

dr. brendon park x nurse!reader who can't stop talking about him ✿ 1.5k words

summary: you're out getting drunk with your friends and you can't stop talking about brendon. one of them decides to play matchmaker

cw: fem!nurse!reader, alcohol/drinking, reader has two friends named sarah and chelsea who do not work in the ED, reader is a silly drunk and is very obviously in love with brendon

the pitt masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

You don’t understand what grudge everyone seems to have against Dr. Park. 

Sorry, Brendon. He gets antsy when you call him by anything other than his first name. 

And that’s weird, at least according to everyone you work with. You’d been scared to meet him at first, given all of the warnings and low whispers you’d heard about him on your first few shifts. 

‘He’s horrible.’ One of the other nurses had told you with a shiver, her elbows knocking against yours where you lean on the nurse’s station counter. ‘He’s got these eyes and it’s like he can see directly into your soul.’

‘He wants to eat all of us alive.’ Dr. Whitaker had whispered once when Dr. Park had come up as a topic of conversation during surgery. It was enough to make your heart race at any mention of him. 

But then… you’d met him. And sure, you can’t argue that he’s not intimidating. His eyes constantly narrowed in suspicion, his jaw sharp and clenched, the tendons in his neck pulsing with every movement of his body. But you understand him, or maybe it’s that no one else looks past the “shark” exterior to see what’s underneath. 

The overwhelming desire to be successful, focused, calm even in the worst of storms. The fear of failure, the anxiety that he or someone else might majorly fuck up and he can’t fix it. The vicious growl in his voice that really means he’s scared to let anyone get too close. 

You looked at him, and you saw bits and pieces of yourself. 

And you think maybe he saw the same in you, because you became his right hand any time he had to consult in the ED. Maybe part of that was against your will, everyone knows that he doesn’t speak down to you the way he does everyone else. You stand beside him like you’ve always been there, predicting his moves before he can even make them. You hand him the right tools at the right time. You move in flow with him, and he always leaves the perfect amount of space right at his side for you. 

So, no, you don’t understand what grudge everyone else seems to have against him. 

“Wow.” One of your friends, Sarah, finishes off her drink, eyes scanning you up and down from her place across the table as you finish speaking. “Seems to me like you really like this Dr. Park guy.”

You feel heat bloom in your cheeks, your fingers twisting your straw back and forth in your already empty cocktail glass. “It’s not like that, okay? Brendon and I just work well together.”

Chelsea, your other friend, meets Sarah’s eyes and they both grin brightly. “Brendon…” They both repeat his name, a teasing lilt in their voices. You swat your hand at them. 

“Stop it!” You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you try to ignore the butterflies erupting in your stomach. You sit up a bit when you realize the waiter is approaching your table, and you send your friends a look. “The waiter is coming.”

“Oh! Let’s do shots!” Sarah suggests despite the slight slur already present in her speech. Chelsea nods excitedly, already leaning over Sarah to tell the waiter, who nods and takes the empty glasses from in front of you. You roll your eyes at them, but you don’t fight when the shots come to the table. 

It’s not long before you decide to go to the bathroom, already a little dizzy when you stand up, steadying yourself on the table. 

“I’m going to the bathroom.” You announce, pointing toward it. Sarah and Chelsea nod, waving you off as you go. The two of them sit there, debating ordering another round of shots, when they hear a phone ringing. 

It’s your phone, left face up on the table. And the name on screen reads Brendon Park.

Sarah gasps, whacking Chelsea on the arm to get her attention, gesturing to your phone. “It’s that doctor! He’s calling her!”

Chelsea’s smile turns mischievous, and her nimble fingers pluck the phone from the table top. 

“Wait, Chelsea don’t-" Sarah tries to protest but Chelsea holds up a finger to silence her, raising your phone to her ear. 

“Helloooo Brendon!” She greets brightly, her voice only slightly less slurred than Sarah’s. 

“Who is this?” A masculine voice answers from the other line. Chelsea covers the microphone with her hand, looking at Sarah. 

“He sounds hot!” She whispers, before clearing her throat and continuing, “I’m Chelsea, I’m just answering the phone because she’s not at the table…” All of her words are long and wobbly.

“Where is she?” His voice is almost snappy now, something that makes Chelsea’s face morph into an even more mischievous look. Sarah tries to shake her head, but Chelsea waves her off again. 

“Hmm… I don’t know… She hasn’t been at the table for a while…” She watches as you exit the bathroom, leaning away from Sarah as she tries to grab the phone from her hand. “She was pretty drunk though, you should probably come get her!”

Chelsea can already hear Brendan moving a bit frantically around on the other end, presumably getting his things together to come find you. Her thoughts are confirmed when he bites out a clipped, “Where are you?”

Chelsea quickly gives him the name of the bar as you approach the table again, then an “okay, bye!” and tosses your phone back on the table. You sit down, an eyebrow raised as you look between the two of them.

“What? Did someone call me?” 

“Oh, just spam, I think!” Chelsea gives Sarah a pointed look, full of meaning you don’t understand. “Right, Sarah?”

Sarah hesitates, looking between you and Chelsea for a moment before agreeing with a slow, “Right…”

You roll your eyes but move on, distracted by chit-chat and the arrival of the waiter again. 

Two shots later, you find yourself wondering if you can even stand, head bobbing side to side as you giggle. You jump when you feel a hand land on your shoulder, almost falling out of your chair to squint at the culprit through your blurry vision. Luckily, he catches you before you end up on the floor. 

“Brendon?” You blink hazily at him, and his grip on your shoulder tightens just a bit. “What are you doing here?” You’re drunk enough that you don’t notice the giggling of your friends, but Brendon obviously notices, his eyes narrowing a bit at them.

“I heard you might need some help.” He says, eyes returning to yours. Your stomach twists in the most pleasant way, and you can’t stop a drunk grin from taking over your face. 

“You came here for me?” Your voice, as slurred as it is, drips sickly sweet like honey. 

Brendon eyes you, then your friends, who giggle and whisper between each other, not nearly as sly as they think they are. 

“It seems I did.” He steps closer to your chair, and you find yourself leaning toward him, your forehead bumping his hip. He gets a look on his face, one you’d definitely question if you were sober, and says, “I wanted to make sure you were safe.” 

You melt, and so do your friends. Brendon has to stop himself from sneering at them, reaching for your hand and encouraging you to stand. 

“Let’s get you home.” He tells you, and your body follows him like it’s as easy as breathing. Sarah and Chelsea giggle and wink at you, giving you a silly wave goodbye. 

“You should probably take her to your house!” Chelsea calls out behind you as you walk away. Brendon puts his hand on your back to guide you and it makes your knees feel even weaker than they already do. “And probably in your bed too! Just to make sure she’s okay!”

Brendon lets out a huff and rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s go to my car.”

He guides you to it, surprisingly close to the bar given how busy everything is. You find yourself wishing you were sober so you could try to find more details of him in the car. You always want to learn more about him. 

Your drunk mouth decides to voice these thoughts out loud, and the corner of Brendon’s lips raise. 

“Are you really going to take me to your place?” You ask him then, practically giddy to be sitting next to him as he pulls off and starts heading down the road. 

He gives you a side eye. “Not while you’re drunk like this.” You pout, and he scoffs. 

“We can talk about it more on Monday when you’re sober and not at risk of throwing up. Now, give me your address.”

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[thykingdoncome]

—his best girl

summary: you're robby's favorite reward. when his staff earns it, he doesn't hesitate to offer you up.

|| SMUT MDNI 18+ angst, dom / sub dynamics, dom!robby, subby!reader, subspace, cuckolding, free use, some medical jargon and gore, orphaned!reader || >> see each chapter taglist for specific warnings >> please note: this is a continuous story, not a collection >> I do not condone these dynamics unless spoken about between two respectful partners. the characters in this story are not good communicators nor do they have healthy dynamics.

main masterlist | read on ao3

chapter 1: Frank Langdon

chapter 2: Brendon Park

chapter 3: Jack Abbot

chapter 4: Michael Robinavitch

chapter 5: Rabbot [part one]

chapter 6: Rabbot [part two]

chapter 7: TBD

more chapters to come!

🏷️ @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @kittymeowmeow17, @viviandarkbloom11, @kneelforloki, @kitkatrina, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @dugiioh, @ineedbooksandoldermen, @spookyscaryfish, @anthropsych, @shawnysimp, @1-800-bobcut, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @thoroughfareblues @isasdreams @katestuff17 @obi-wansgirl @archxve, @readersassemble5, @ohmeohmy0, @vipervixxen comment below if you'd like to be added!

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day Four): Herb Garden ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park

summary: it’s day four of the ‘to do list’ and park tags along to help bring your herb garden vision closer to life. (wc: 1.5k)

pairing: brendon park / f!reader

content: cont of the ‘expectations’ series. fluff/humour. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader who has park wrapped around her finger. some mild sexual tension and physical touch in this. (1) honeybee mention

“Good morning, my little snuggle muffin.” you chirp with a cheerful bounce in your step as you enter the store; the smell of greenery at the forefront of scents. 

Park is impassive toward the newfound nickname, as nothing that comes from your smart little mouth surprises him anymore. The tables turn when he passes you a coffee. 

“Morning. This is for you.” his tone is more gravelly from the sleep still evident on his face—yesterday had been a longer shift at the PTMC than anticipated. 

You gratefully take the cup drooling with condensation from his grasp, “Thank you, Sharky—Look! The barista drew hearts on the side of my cup. Were you nice to them?” you tease. 

“That was me.” Park informs. 

“Oh.” your quick-wit falters. 

Park drops his gaze to look at you when you fall silent. His lip curls into a satisfying smirk, “Sleep well?” 

“Could’ve slept better.” you shrug, dragging a cart toward you with your free hand.

Park takes it from your grasp, “There’s a two-person remedy for that.” he suggests. 

“Ooh.” you sing, “So explicit and it’s only 9AM! What kind of girl do you take me for, Sharky?” 

“A fun one.” 

It was great. Throughout your own…playful stipulations for Park to win back your phone number, his personality—although similar to his workplace one—was revealing to be less two-dimensional and reeking less of that menacing, sardonic tone that he often work within the PTMC. (That side of him also extends further to the poor strangers who shoot a friendly smile in his direction.) 

This whole facade was slipping before your eyes, revealing the softened centre you had presumptions about the first time he swam through the ED; shrouding everyone’s semi-egotism with his own. 

In addition to this, it also helps your case of getting a free hall pass into Park’s true temperament because he was sorely into you. 

You walk at a slow pace, content as you sip at the coffee Park brought you. He leans his weight onto the trolley, slowing his steps to match yours whilst he observes the surroundings like a godforsaken member of the SWAT team. 

It had been agreed during the last time Park managed to wrangle some time in between surgeries to show face in the ED, that the next day off would be focusing on your newfound passion for a herb garden. Now, Park had his own queries about it, and you weren’t exactly living in an establishment that was in abundance of space and natural sunlight.

But nevertheless, what you wanted; Park was going to make it happen. 

“Do you know what type of herbs you want?” Park asks when you stop in front of the potted herb section. 

“Uh…Easy ones.” you mumble and pick up the pot labelled as coriander. 

Park angles his body into yours, his head dropping read the pink label. He plucks the pot from your hand, “Coriander is hard to keep alive. Highly sensitive. Short lifespan. If it gets too warm, the flavour of the leaves are ruined.” 

(Consider yourself speechless. A rarity.) 

“Sharky, are you a green thumb?” 

Park chuckles, “I’m Italian.” 

“Ah. That’ll do it.” you place the herb back amongst the others. You hum, “What about basil? That’s pretty easy to keep alive, right? The last one I had lasted much longer than I anticipated.” 

“Basil will survive.” Park affirms. He tilts his head to inspect the leaves on the stem, “This one is good. Mint will also survive under minimal maintenance. Chives. They’re all pretty hardy.” 

You smile widely. (Definitely liking this side of him.) 

“Who knew the Ortho Bro had such a keen eye for herbs.” you pat his chest in passing, feeling the muscles tense beneath your palm. You bend over to drop the umpteen pots of herbs into the cart, not missing Park’s wandering eye as he shoots it back up to look at your face. “Eyes up here, Park.” 

“Heard.” Park clears his throat, tugging at his bottom lip to conceal the growing smile that was aching to break free. 

There were things that Brendon Park wanted to be successful in life doing. The obvious being a top surgeon in Orthopaedics, living a healthy and fulfilling life and to see gray hairs sprout from his scalp; and to be able to kiss you whenever, and however he wanted. 

Even if it made other people within the public area flush at the sight. 

It wasn’t as if he was plucking this out of thin air. Having been with a handful of women, the guy could spot hungry eyes from across a room. Something you were so eloquently sporting whilst you wrap your lips around the paper straw of your coffee. 

Park prays for some respite. Really. The way his mother had raised him was not reflecting at the present moment. 

Thankfully, it comes in the form of a distracting task of finding moisture-retentive, fertile soil with organic matter—his words to you. Park keeps you close, occasionally taking his thumb and forefingers to rest on your hips as he guides you down the aisle with the cart abandoned at the end. You allow him the tactile touches, leaning into his touch whilst you bask beneath the glow of his undivided attention. 

When he hauls the raised garden planter over his shoulder, you follow him back to the cart with a shit-eating grin. 

That was about to become all yours. You know, when you decided to stop stringing him along for entertainment purposes. 

His freshly washed hair flops when he lands the smaller scale planter into the cart.

His chest puffs, “Do you have a garden for this?” he asks since he forgot to when you giddily pointed to the cutest planter on the shelf. 

“Shared garden. My neighbours are really sweet. They’ll be fine about it.” you tell him in a nonchalant tone before taking hold of the cart to push it. “Take five, big guy.” 

“Uh-huh.” Park muses lowly before deciding to be intentional with where he places himself. He cages you in with two muscular arms on either side of you as he helps you push the heavy-weighing cart—his front flush with your back. “Ready to check out?” he asks innocently. 

“Yup.”

You’re really struggling to maintain composure. (There’s no way you’d let Park the Shark one-up you with his flirtations.) 

You walk like that all the way to the cash register. There’s a handful of customers in front, placing their items on the conveyer belt; so you lean back into Park who cements himself to the spot to allow you to rest. 

There’s part of him that wants to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head as you wait. Domestic and for all intents and purposes: a severe public display of affection—in his eyes anyway. Also, not something he should doing without your phone number and an official date set in stone. 

Park the Shark was many things…a creep was not one of them.

It’s as if you can sense his overthinking, turning your head and lifting your chin to stare up at him. “Happy?” you query. 

“Always with you.” 

You hum in content, dropping your head back to stare at the moving queue you were in. Your hand rubs up and down one of the forearms he had still caged you in. 

Eventually, you’re able to lift the items for your herb garden onto the conveyer belt. It’s really Park that does all the manual labour of shifting the items from A to B after tells you to just stand and look pretty for him, which was an easy feat for someone like you. 

He even gives you a glower when you go to pay. For your own items, nonetheless. 

You make it back out into the parking lot, where Park abandons the cart at the front of the shop and decides to show off his extensive workout plan that makes juggling a planter over his shoulder whilst balancing all the herbs you selected in his other hand, a real cinch. 

He follows you to your car and you pop the trunk for him. 

“You will be rewarded in your next life, Sharky.” you bounce on the balls of your feet as he places the purchased goods into your car. 

He stands to full height. “How about this life?”

“Let me sleep on it.” you openly taunt. 

“Have you got someone to lift this on the other side?” Park cocks his head when you hesitate to produce an answer, “You’re gonna lift and build this?” 

“I’m not weak.” (No, you weren’t. But you 100% could not lift that planter yourself.) “I can ask one of my neighbours for help.” 

Park shuts the trunk, “I’m not convinced.” 

You pause, and then throw your hands up in defeat. “Fine—” you fish out your car keys, “—Let me stroke your ego for a little while longer. You can come to mine and build it for me.” 

“Atta girl.” Park’s answer makes your skin prickle with heat. He gestures to your car, “Lead the way, honeybee. I’ll be right behind you.” 

[romantic-insomniac]

❀ thinking about how jack abbot would talk to you while helping you be more vocal in the bedroom... ❀

! mdni !

ughhh he’d be teasing you. rubbing his fat fingers through your wetness, gliding across nothing in particular that would give you any relief. he'd be all gruff, not taunting but teaching, “cmon honey, use your words. gotta tell me what you want, yeah? know you can do it."

you're squirming beneath him, legs spread wider then you're comfortable with due to being pinned beneath his heavy thighs. but you'd need him sooo badly that you'd forgo the insecurity and whine, “please jack! touch me- please!”

he'd hum, circling two fingers on the sensitive spot that had you gasping and clawing at his shoulders. and you thought that was it, that your older boyfriend was done instructing. but then you needed more. needed to be filled. when you tried to push his fingers inside you wordlessly with a grip on his muscular forearm, jack would chide, "want em inside you sweetheart? yeah? i know you do. tell me how many."

you'd whimper at his ridiculous yet dirty command. but cowering under his intense stare only had him pausing his movements. you'd panic at the loss, mustering enough courage to raise your voice barely above a whisper, "need- need two please…"

much too satisfied with himself, jack would slide his thick fingers into you easily due to how worked up he got you, “gooood job. such a good girl. that wasn't so hard, was it munchkin?” you'd shake your head as you grow warm with pleasure. all the embarrassment washing away as jack works his fingers how he knows you like before making you beg him to let you come <3

[louferrignojrofficial]

lou ferrigno jr + noah wyle dodgers celebrity baseball game (1995) the pitt 2.10 (2025)

[10pinkelephants]

[thefictionalmanswhxre]

Can you do a park story about his wife being really shy and does crafts and baking and sales them online and gets hurt baking or doing a craft and comes to the emergency room nobody there knows she's parks wife thanks

𑣲 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺!

༄˖°.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.࿔*:･༄˖°.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.࿔*:･༄˖°.ೃ࿔*:･༄˖°.࿔*:

𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑨𝒔 𝑷𝒊𝒆

warnings! 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘺, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴, 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣, 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘸𝘤: 𝟏.𝟑𝑲+

To say you were busy was an understatement. As a small local baker, you didn't tend to get too many orders on a regular basis. But this week? Absolutely slammed for your business of one worker, yourself.

You started tackling orders at 6 a.m., briefly saying goodbye to Brendon as he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for his shift.

It’s now 10 a.m. and you're almost caught up on orders. Right now you’re working on a few apple pies. It’s not the worst thing but peeling and cutting apples? That’s the annoying part.

You’re scrolling through emails as you cut the apples, trying to manage orders while keeping up with the ones you’re working on.

One email snags your attention as you work

“Ten cakes for next weekend? Are they insane? That’s way too m–FUCK!”

Your mumbling turns into a scream as you glance down and see a deep gash in the palm of your hand, bleeding pretty bad.

“Shit, shit, sh–owww” you wince as you make your way to the sink.

I guess that’s what’s bound to happen when you cut an apple in your hand.

Brendon had warned you time after time to use a real cutting board and not sacrifice your hand as one.

Of course he’d eventually be right about this.

You find a clean dish rag and tightly wrap it around your hand as you turn off all the appliances before heading to the pitt.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You walk into the pitt nervously. You had never met anyone from the hospital and Brendon had kept you private from his work life. He just loved being able to unload the day’s stress in the safety of home, specifically in your arms.

You had been to the pitt a few times for friends, family, and a few injuries of your own. You didn’t really know who anyone was other than names and they definitely had no idea about you.

—-

After checking in you only sat in chairs for around 30 minutes before being called back. You sit on the bed and count to twenty in your head to try and distract yourself from the pain that’s now setting in.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Langdon, what brings you in tod–oh!”

Your face warms in slight embarrassment. In your haste to make it to the hospital you didn’t check your appearance. One that consisted of being covered in flour, sugar and now some blood.

“Langdon, you know it’s rude to stare at our obviously injured patients.”

A man as you recognize as Dr. Michael Robinavitch ,or Robby, speaks as he follows Dr. Langdon in. You had seen him on the hospital’s website in the list of doctors when you had wanted to see who Brendon worked with.

The same voice draws your attention back.

“Good morning Miss…” he looks at your chart “Miss Park.”

You can tell he doesn’t make any connection to your husband.

“What brings you in today?”

You slightly lift your wrapped hand “Me vs. a knife and it's safe to say I didn’t win” you manage to say with a smile as a tear falls.

“Well, I hope you put up a fair fight.” Robby jokes to help ease your nerves.

He gently grabs your hand and unwraps the towel for a closer look.

You wince as it peels away and turn your head to the side.

“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, you got yourself pretty good here. It’s gonna require stitches unfortunately.”

You nod as you wipe your face.

“That’s fine. I should’ve known cutting things in my hand would end badly one day. My husband told me this would happen.”

Robby chuckles as he gathers the medical instruments.

“Smart man.”

——

The elevator dings as it makes it to the pitt floor and opens, revealing Brendon Park. He stalks towards the nurses station in search of information on a consult.

As he shuffles through some charts, he quickly glances up at the patient board and looks back down.

Suddenly his head snaps up and he reads the board again

‘Y/n Park’

The name makes his blood run cold and he moves quick towards the room listed, not even looking at the reason you’re there.

He comes to a halt at the doorway of your room. Robby is gathering supplies and Frank sits by the tray holding your hand out to examine it before numbing it.

“Get your hands off her.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Dr. Langdon or Frank, as Robby has also referred to him as, holds your hand out to look over it one more time before administering the numbing medicine.

He grabs the needle off of the tray and goes to inject it when a deep familiar voice grabs everyone’s attention.

“Get your hands off her.”

You look up towards the doorway and are met with the eyes of your husband.

Brendon stands there very still, frown in place, and eyes locked on you.

“Bren, I–” he cuts you off, repeating the same phrase to Frank.

“Get your hands off of her now.”

Frank looks over his shoulder as Robby looks at Brendon. “Park? What's going on? We didn’t ask for a consult. Nothing's broken.”

“Yeah Park,” Frank says as he turns back to you “This has nothing to do with you.”

Brendon’s eyes harden, as they shift towards Frank.

“She’s my wife.”

Everyone looks at each other. Then you. Then Brendon. Then back at you again.

“Your wife? You have a wife?” Frank questions in shock.

Brendon pulls out the ring attached to the chain around his neck.

“Shit” Frank mutters.

Robby steps forward “Look Park, you know the rule about working on family. You can be here but you can’t help.”

Brendon silently looks at you before nodding slightly.

“But only you or Abbot can do the stitching.”

Frank makes a face “Look I’m perfectly capable of—“

“No.” Brendon states firmly “She’s my wife and she gets the best care that’s available. You can put a bandaid on at the end if it makes you feel better but anything else is attending work. I won’t have anything less for her.”

He sits behind you on the bed and pulls you back against his chest.

“Hey baby.” you whisper over your shoulder.

He rests his chin on your shoulder and whispers to you.

“What happened, sweetheart? You okay?”

You laugh a little “I think I might take your advice on using a cutting board after today.”

“Cutting those damn apples in your hand, huh?” you feel him smile against your cheek.

You roll your eyes playfully “Yeah, yeah, yeah you were right, big guy.”

His hands come up to your face and gently wipe the last few tears away.

Your moment is interrupted by Robby grabbing your hand and administering the lidocaine.

Brendon holds you tighter when he hears you wince.

“Sorry, Mrs. Park” Robby cracks a half smile with you.

“No,” you smile. “I’m sorry about my husband and his oh so gentle words.”

That pulls a laugh from Robby. “No worries. He’s prickly because he cares. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same if this happened to someone I loved.”

You blush as Brendon rubs your hip gently with one hand as he securely holds you around the waist with the other.

—-

Unbeknownst to you three, there's a small group at the nurse’s station watching the interaction.

“Who would’ve guessed the Park the Shark would have a wife. She looks like such a sweetheart too.” Trinity says to Dana as they both watch Brendon hold you.

“She is but him? What a fuckin peach.” Frank mutters with his head on his fist.

Trinity glances back at him with a teasing look

“You’re just mad because Park made you look like an intern compared to everyone else.”

“I’d say he’s husband material if you think about it. Very book trope coded” Samira says looking at the other two.

“Black cat x golden retriever.” Frank states.

“Mmmm, more like grumpy x sunshine. Only soft for her.” Trinity says.

They all three look at you and Brendon in the room.

“Yeaaaah.” they all agree in unison.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @kmc1989 @zeynire @livlovesfastcars @lospy41 @annabellq @ilocuras24 @thehockeynerd30 @straykids1011 @gf4lwt @itzpixiebabe @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @barcelonaaababe @deanwinchestersgirl8734

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ EXPECTATIONS ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park

summary: park accidentally washes your number off his hand, you make him a list of things to do to get it back. (wc: 1.9k)

pairing: brendon park / f!reader

content: fluff and humour. park is still moody but a softie for reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates princess!reader who is a menace. related to these fics. the idea is to write each thing on the list as its own little blurb/fic!

pilates princess!reader agenda

Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point. 

So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake. 

(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.) 

Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number. 

It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers. 

In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord. 

He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand. 

Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department. 

Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.

It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them. 

The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.

“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.

Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”

“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed. 

The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark? 

Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys. 

It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident. 

You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest. 

“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.

You press your lips together. 

Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.” 

It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.

He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up. 

Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you. 

Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you. 

Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)

“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”

“Does that make you the human I tasted?” 

You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”

Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.

The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.

“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”

“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon. 

“You don’t want to?” 

You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.” 

“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to. 

“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.” 

Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg. 

He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created. 

Instead, you answer for him. 

“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.” 

Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour? 

Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.” 

There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at. 

Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.) 

Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics. 

You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.” 

You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark. 

What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration? 

Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off. 

“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add. 

Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?” 

“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.” 

(Risqué insult, but it paid off.) 

“Do I look like I go to Pilates?” 

You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?” 

Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter. 

Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?” 

“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.

It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.

Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you. 

He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.” 

“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.” 

The corner of his lip curls, “You too.” 

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ Park the Shark’s To Do List

please help select the order of pilates princess!reader’s agenda for park to get her number back—he’s willing to do anything! send the number from the to do list and the most popular ones will be written. (5 days of things to do).

1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!

2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm

3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm

4. pottery! @ 6pm

5. watch the sunrise @ ???

6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm

7. herb garden creation @ 9am

8. farmers market @ 11am

this is purely just for funsies cause i thoroughly enjoy writing the grumpy x sunshine dynamic. divider credit: @sssilverblessings

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Fragile Bones; Fragile Hearts—Brendon Park

Summary: Everyone acts like Brendon Park has no heart and most days, he agrees. Until one neonatologist looks right through him with no idea who he is. Then he finds out just how fragile bones and hearts can be. Or how Brendon Park falls in love with you. (5.5k)

Pairing: Brendon "the Shark" Park x neonatologist!fem!reader

TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope; patient loss; angst; fluff; Park is down bad; Reader had ADHD; medical inaccuracies; smut; reader's nickname is Candy; mentions of wearing a backpack for a getaway if someone grabs it (I recommend you do this); 18+ because of a short sex scene although it's not descriptive really; Park is a dick and down bad; reader makes him work for it.

Credit: GIF made by @siratonin

Requested: Yes. Osteomyelitis article used for research in this fic, here

Bones break, that’s reality. Bones are strong but even they have a breaking point, something you can’t push past, fragile in a way. Hearts are the same way—strong up to a point but after that, then they’re fragile, so fragile. And they’re a lot harder to piece back together.

            The babies are small, smaller than Brendon thought, nearly impossibly small, their fingers like specs of dust, their faces smushed and tiny, bodies not even as long as his forearm. He knew logically that babies are small, neonates even more so, but there is a difference between logic and reality. Even the strongest of logic can falter in the face of reality, especially a reality like this. Where what’s real seems like it shouldn’t be. 

            The one he’s looking at right now, has tiny eyes closed, fists raising upwards at the concealed glass bassinet that holds it, tubes and wires and medical gear all around it, a monitor beeping out a steady, fast rhythm of a heartbeat. 

            He knows that its bones are even smaller, soft and malleable, that ossification won’t have started yet, the bones mere cartilage really, hard enough but soft enough too. He remembers learning about paradoxes in his high school English class, but he didn’t understand it until now, looking at the baby here. These babies are paradoxes, fragile and yet not, strong yet not, malleable yet not. 

            He’s never been here on this floor, the one reserved for the NICU, the place most doctors avoid if they can help it, the sight of babies, the most innocent and delicate things fighting for their life too much for most. It takes a special kind of person, he believes, to handle losing these kids, knowing that sometimes you just can’t save them. It takes a special kind of person to keep coming back here. 

            “Can I help you?” he hears a voice behind him, one that rings strong and true and yet bright and light at the same time. He turns around, gaze trailing as he does so, taking in the matching bassinets and the babies all hooked up to machines that keep them living, his heart breaking in particular when he sees a baby on dialysis. He lifts his gaze to you, a woman with arms crossed over bright pink scrubs decorated with lollipops. 

            “I’m—” he begins, but your face brightens as you take him in, the scowl shifting to a smile as you interrupt him. 

            “Oh, uh, you’re ortho, right?” you say and he nods, swallowing hard, his mouth going dry as you step towards him, your hand outstretched. He takes it, your skin soft against his hand, shocks spearing through his nerves at your touch, listening as you say your name, the sound pretty and perfect and suited to you. “…but everyone calls me Dr. Candy,” you finish. 

            “I’m…” he pauses, glancing off at the delicate children all around, the ones you deal with as an attending neonatologist and he realizes he doesn’t want you to know him as the rest of the hospital knows him, as Park the Shark. It doesn’t fit here in this quiet, special place full of life. “You can call me Dr. Brendon,” he tells you and you nod, turning and walking away while he remains rooted to the floor, watching as you go. 

            “Come on, Dr. Brendon,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder, “the patient’s this way.” He follows after you, smoothing his suddenly damp palms on his scrub pants, his steps just slightly hurried as he catches up to you as you stop before a bassinet, your palm pressing against the glass as if you’re touching the small child within. 

            “The call said something about advanced osteomyelitis,” he says, his words drawing your attention back to him, your expression turning solemn as you nod, taking the iPad from the side of the table, swiping and clicking on a chart, passing it over to him. 

            “This is Brandy Michaels,” you tell him, “we’ve been treating her osteomyelitis with antibiotics and antimicrobials. She presented with the second form of presentation, that of sepsis-like symptoms accompanied by temperature instability, feeding intolerance, irritability and reduced movement. It progressed to fever and local swelling at which point we tested her CRP and erythrocyte sedimentation rates and found that they were elevated. We treated, as stated, with antibiotics and antimicrobials as decreed in the protocol. We also performed bone scintigraphy and MRI, finding high evidence for osteomyelitis. Unfortunately, this little one hasn’t improved on her regimen over the past two weeks.”

            Brendon could listen to you speak forever, your voice high and light and pretty, your hand resting against the glass of Brandy’s…home as if it’s her, as if it’s giving her comfort. He scans the charts, taking in the notice of the five affected bones, the sites of manifestation and looks up at you, his lips pressing together. 

            “I’ll book the OR for her,” he whispers, handing the iPad back to you, watching as your expression falls, your bottom lip trembling just slightly as you nod, your chest moving just a bit as you draw in breath, trying to make it seem like you’re not. “The abscesses need to be drained,” he tells you, his tone softer than it’s ever been, soft for only you. 

            “I know, Dr. Brendon,” you tell him, lips pressing into a thin-lipped smile. “It just never gets easier this job. Thank you, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go inform this little one’s parents.” You nod once more at him, spinning on your heel, the soles of your bright pink shoes squeaking on the polished floor as you do so. 

            Brendon is surprised by hard it is to watch you walk away, the first doctor to see him without seeing him. 

            He resolves to see you again. Somehow, someway. It just doesn’t feel like the story’s done yet.

            “Do you know what that was?!” you hear Ava cry, her voice loud, too loud for your quiet space, the one place that focus is easy, that everything seems to align. The place you belong. 

            “The ortho consult I called for?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at your hectic, chaotic friend, her dyed red hair loose around her shoulders, frizzing from the heat outside. 

            “That was Park the Shark!” she hisses, reaching you, her acrylic nailed fingers digging into the skin of your forearm as she walks with you, your steps in sync like always. 

            “Who?” you ask, attention snagging on one of the monitors for your patients, the sight of the hiccup in the line enough to derail you, the destination you had in mind fading for the moment as you stop, checking on the small, precious baby. 

            “Park the Shark,” Ava repeats as you slide your hands into the gloved areas attached to the sealed bassinet, reaching in, gloved thumb stroking the baby’s cheekbone as you reattach the sliding wire causing the change on the monitor. “The super-hot, sexy ortho surgeon who scares everyone in the hospital cause he’s all mean and nasty only increasing his rom-com lead charm?” she continues, the end of her sentence lilting into a question as if she expects you to understand right away despite the phrasing. 

            “But he…wasn’t mean,” you tell her, sliding your hands from the gloves and turning back to her, your brows knitting together, the image of the man with his awed expression for the babies superimposing over reality for a moment before you blink it away, focusing back on your best friend and her darkening cheeks. 

            “That’s cause that man wants you,” she says, her tone clear and heavy with innuendo. “That man wants your cookie bad, my friend.”

            “Shut up!” you tell her, stepping away from the bassinet, feeling that familiar confusion, the one that comes with not knowing what you were doing before distraction. 

            “You were going to tell the Michaels baby’s parents about the surgery,” Ava prompts and you can feel that familiar relief that comes from her picking up on your silent cues and returning to you to the real world. 

            “Thank you,” you tell her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze before running off down the hall towards the parent’s room where Riley and Jesse will be waiting for updates on their daughter. 

            But as you go, as you approach them and tell them what’s happening, what needs to happen and they cry, folding in on each other, holding each other up as they thank you, you wonder. 

            You wonder what Dr. Brendon’s arms would feel like holding you up when the tears made it impossible to stay up on your own. 

            Brendon doesn’t know why he’s here, doesn’t entirely know why he came back only that he liked the fact that you saw him and not the idea that has been built up in the hospital to the point he’s practically an urban legend. He doesn’t entirely know why he bribed the red-headed nurse for your coffee order, promising to bring her one as well, hers already dropped off, only that he did. 

            And now he waits with sweaty palms, two cups of coffee from the shop down the street from the hospital in his hands as he waits for you to arrive. He’s curious too, to what scrubs you’ll be wearing today. 

            “What are you doing on my floor again, Dr. Brendon?” he hears you call out and he turns around, swallowing hard again as he takes in your appearance, your lips glossed and shimmering in the light, light blue scrubs decorated with rainbows on, your badge on your pants rather than your chest like everyone else and your arms crossed, hip cocked out. 

            “Coffee,” he says, the words said far too fast and far too loudly as he holds out the clear plastic cup holding an iced crackle (whatever that is) coffee. The condensation on the cheap plastic beads and slides from the cup, dripping onto the floor so, maybe his palms aren’t all that sweaty after all or even if they are, at least he has an excuse. 

            “For me?” you ask him, stepping closer, crossing the room to him and taking the proffered cup from him as he nods, swallowing again at your proximity, at the way you smell like citrus candy. Maybe that’s why they call you Dr. Candy. You lift the cup to your lips, pursing around the lime green straw and drawing liquid up as you hollow your cheeks in a way that has Brendon feeling like he’s burning up. “How’d you know my coffee order?”

            “Would you believe a lucky guess?” he asks, adjusting his stance, shifting weight from the left to the right. All you do in response is raise your eyebrows until he nods, just once, understanding. “Yeah,” he says, “I didn’t think you would. I bribed a nurse to tell me your order.”

            “Out of curiosity,” you begin, your eyes flicking from him to a sight in the NICU, in the glass behind him, “did this nurse have bright red hair, dark eyes, glittery skin and really annoying acrylic nails?”

            “I don’t know if the nails were annoying, but yes,” he says. “All it took was getting her a coffee too, why?” But you’re already walking away, expression in a faux kind of scowl as you lift a hand in a wave, glancing over at him, the scowl changing briefly to a smile as you call out, “see you around!” before disappearing behind the tall glass doors. 

            “Yeah,” he whispers, “see you around.”

            “You’re back!” you call out, crossing the room, heart beating faster with excitement when you see Brendon standing before the door to the NICU, two cups in his hands again. He’s been coming every day for the past three weeks, offering small bits of conversation before you each disappear to the jobs that consume you. 

            “I am,” he replies, the corner of his lip tugging up in a smile as he holds out your cup, the one that holds the dark chocolate crackle coffee, the cup decorated with frozen chocolate that you crack into the coffee. “I have to ask,” he says, his eyes trailing over your body, everywhere his eyes linger heating up beneath your lime green and neon pink scrubs, the ones decorated with watermelons, “what’s with the scrubs?”

            “Oh!” you exclaim, your voice rising as your eyebrows lift, excitement rising in you making your heart rate fast and your breaths choppier. “Neo’s pretty lax because, I mean, if you’re down here, you’re here for one reason, right? There’re no real codes, it’s kind of just the NICU so we’re given free reign unlike the rest of the departments. You know surgery is purple and EM is black…neo…we’re the wild child of the hospital.”

            “What about peds?” he asks, lifting his cup to his mouth, taking a sip of what must still be a scalding flat white, your eyes following the trail it takes down his throat, momentarily distracted, his question slipping away. 

            “Sorry,” you say, “what was the question?”

            “I asked, what about peds?” he says and you nod again, smiling at him, the kind of smile you have that apologizes while also doesn’t. It says I’m me and sorry if you don’t like it.

            “Peds is allowed patterns but they’re told the base colours they have to wear,” you tell him. “See peds surgery has to have a base of light pink, peds general is light blue, peds oncology is lime green and peds EM is, unfortunately, just black. No patterns, no nothing. It doesn’t matter how much I argue with management, it doesn’t change. But these kids! They’re meeting their doctor who wears black like the fucking grim reaper!” Your rant cuts off when you hear the deep chuckle of Brendon, blinking back into focus as you take in the sight of him and his unfairly hot, Greek god body, shoulders shaking as he tries to suppress his laughter. 

            “Something funny, Park?” you ask him, crossing your arms, the condensation from the coffee cup, slick on your hand. 

            “No, nope,” he says, his face still split into a smile, the kind that sets your heart aflutter. “I just like listening to you.”

            And you can feel your entire body burn at his words, no one having ever said that to you before.

            “Are you free tonight?” Park asks you, the feeling of his heart in his throat and trembles in his hands all new to him. You bring out nerves in him like no one ever has before. 

            “Depends,” you tell him, shouldering your bag on your back, one strap on your shoulder, the other loose. You say it’s safety, if someone grabs it, you can just slip out of it, the thought of you getting hurt causing his chest to constrict and blood to pulse in his head every time. 

            “On what?” he asks, his hand reaching for yours, the habit something built up over the past two weeks where bringing coffee migrated to walking with you out to the parking lot, seeing you safely to your car. It helps him sleep at night, knowing that you’re safe. 

            “If you’re finally asking me out or not,” you tell him and he pauses, his reflection distorted as it stares back at him from the shiny metal doors of the elevator, the distorted expression of shock and disbelief and happiness almost comical. 

            “I was planning on it,” he says, his tone stilted, slightly nervous as you turn to him, your face split in the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen as you bounce on your toes, excited, hands clapping once as you nod, teeth sinking into your glossed bottom lip. 

            “Then yes,” you tell him, your voice high with excitement. “I’m free.”

            “Pick you up at seven?” he asks as the elevator doors ding open, the two of you slipping on, hands still joined. 

            “Yeah,” you tell him, leaning forwards and pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. “See you at seven.”

            “You have not lived,” you tell him, dragging him over with you across the grass towards the taco truck, set up for the movie night, “until you’ve had a taco from here.”

            “Okay,” he says, his hand, warm and large and firm, calloused in a way that has your heart jumping in your throat at the way it feels against you, “then let me live.” You can’t help but laugh a little, a breathy kind of chuckle, a nervous kind of giggle as you drag him up to the order window. 

            “Can I order for you?” you ask him quickly, glancing back at him as he nods, lips curving up in that pleased smirk he has, the one that always makes you want to kiss him even when you never have before. 

            “Of course, Candy,” he says and you swallow hard on instinct, never having been called just candy. You’ve been Dr. Candy since you were a med student, known for your sweet attitude, but also an attitude that is never the same, like each piece of candy is unique from any other. But no one’s ever just called you candy; you’ve never had a real nickname before. 

            And you really like it. 

            “Two number threes, please,” you say, your free hand pulling your wallet from the pocket of your skirt, the one that you and Ava spent hours adding to the vintage find, the one that seems like vintage Stevie Nicks. 

            “Nuh-uh, Candy,” Brendon says, pulling you back by your joined hands. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay on the date? I feel bad enough that we’re not going to a restaurant.”

            “I didn’t want a restaurant!” you cry, slapping his chest with indignation. “I’ve been excited for this movie in the park for months!”

            “Then I’m paying,” he says, his eyes darkening in a way that makes you understand why he’s called the Shark, the look in his eye predatory in a way that has your breath hitching, your body burning in a way that is new and strange and delicious. Like that look. 

            He taps his card against the card reader, accepting the taco bag with his free hand and guiding you back to the green of the park, to the blanket you spread out on the grass. He sinks down beside you, pulling you against him, your back to his chest, arm anchoring you against him, heavy and protective in a way that is heady. 

            And it stays like that for the entire movie, even when he whispers that you were right about the tacos or when you start to cry at the ending of The Notebook. He stays holding you just like that for the entire time, his touch safe and gentle in a way that no one’s touch has ever been before. 

            And something changes when you get in his car and he drives back to your house, Ethel Cain playing on low volume over his Mercedes sound system. Something changes because every moment is charged. 

            “Come inside?” you ask him when he’s stopped before your house, “Nettles” softly playing in the background. 

            “Candy,” he whispers, his hand reaching out to cup your face, touch gentle and igniting in its own way. Your skin feverish beneath his touch. “If I go inside…I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself.”

            “Maybe I don’t want you too,” you whisper and he nods, pupils expanding across ocean blue eyes as he follows into your house, helping you out of your coat, his hand torturously slow as he eases the zipper down. You kick off your shoes as he hangs the coats up and you turn to him, reaching for his shirt and pulling him too, wanting to feel. 

            You press your lips against his, feeling a spark move through you, his hands resting on your hips, fitting to you as if they were meant to be there all along, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels too good, in a way that should be illegal. 

            You move as one, backing up to your bedroom, clothes worked free from bodies, his tongue sliding along yours before you break away, breathless, chest heaving, stomach coiling and body wanting. You want his touch. 

            “You ready?” he asks you, his eyes entirely black and you nod, his hands freeing you of the rest of your clothes, freeing him of his. He pushes you back onto the bed, his touch gentle as he spreads your legs, kneeling before you, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, his eyes on yours as he inches closer to your cunt. 

            You shudder at the feeling, at the rightness of it, when he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, swirling twice, whispering, “just as sweet as I imagined.” The rest of the night is a haze of sex, sex and more sex, his touch perfect in a way you’ve never had before. 

            And when it’s over, when you’re falling asleep you hear him whisper, “I think I might love you, Candy.”

            And you think you might love him too.

            Brendon watches as you push through the glass doors, every inch of your body drawn tight like a high wire, anger writ all over you. He heard the codes called, watched as you tried to save that infant, pumped air into their lungs, watched as it wasn’t enough. 

            It’s why he crosses to you now, guiding you from the hallway, into your office, shutting the door behind him. He knows you need to explode, but he also knows that no one else can see it. You need to explode where no one will judge. 

            “Come on, Candy,” he whispers, your attention not on him, but on some distant point, a storm raging in those perfect eyes. “You need to hit something, so hit me.”

            You listen, your hands moving, slamming into his chest over and over and over, but it doesn’t hurt, not the way the sounds of your sobs do as you hit him. And he just lets you hit him until you stop, until the anger gives way and sadness reigns completely, your voice broken as you whisper, “it hurts, Bren.”

            “Then why do you do it, sweet girl?” he asks, his hands taking yours as you collapse onto the couch, looking up at him with haunted eyes. 

            “I do it for the ones that survive,” you whisper, your expression still sad but shifting to a happier look. “You know,” you pause, swallowing hard, “for every patient I lose, there is one that survives.”

            “Is it worth the pain?” he asks you, his own voice breaking. He doesn’t understand, but he wants too desperately.

            “So much,” you tell him, smiling a watery kind of smile. “I know that every patient that survives will go on to do great things. I know they’ll save the world even when we’ve given them a fucked up one.”

            “Because of you,” Brendon whispers, surprised when your face shifts, twisting into anger, into annoyance, the sadness wearing away for a bit. 

            “No, I don’t a surgeon’s god complex,” you tell him and if he didn’t know you, he would be insulted, but he does know you and he knows you just speak. “They’ll do great things because that’s them. I just will be the one who never gave up on them because of one bad day.”

            “Babe?” you hear Bren call out and you turn from the sink, your hands wet, peaches slipping between your hands, the water from the tap rushing out and over your hands. 

            “What’s up?” you ask, watching as he steps in, shirtless, pajama pants hung low on the V of his hips. 

            “What are these?” he asks you, holding up an orange prescription bottle, the one you take every day, the Adderall for twice a day. 

            “My meds,” you tell him, your tone slow and not understanding. You feel like there’s some bigger picture here that you’re not seeing, something you’re missing as you turn the sink off, setting the peach into the drainer, turning and wiping your hands on a dish cloth. 

            “Why do you have Adderall?” he says, his expression knitting together into one that you can’t quite read as your eyebrows rise and you cross your arms, your body prickling, muscles tensing with defensiveness. 

            “I have ADHD, why? What’s your problem?”

            “Should you really be a doctor?” he asks you, his expression looking concerned, but you don’t give a fuck. You thought he was different! You thought he was better!

            But he’s just like all those fuckers who told you that you’d never be a doctor. That the dream you’ve had since you were a kid was impossible for someone who couldn’t fucking focus! But you’ve shown them! You’ve become an attending! You run a department! You save more lives than most NICUs across the country!

            How the fuck can he question you?!

            “GET THE FUCK OUT!” you scream, your voice guttural and raw and aching. You back up when he moves to step towards you, his expression falling. But he did this to himself! He has no place in your life if that’s how he’ll be.

            “Candy,” he whispers, but all you do is reach beside you, grabbing the peach you’d just washed and throwing it at him with all your strength. He dodges it and it smashes against the wall, the pulp crushed on impact, juice and skin and guts splattered on the wall as it sinks down to the floor, slow, slow, slow. 

            “Did I stutter, Park?” you ask him, tone cold and cruel and nothing like the one you’ve used around him before. He blanches, setting the pill bottle on the kitchen table and walking from the room, the front door slamming. 

            When it slams, you give yourself permission to fall apart, sinking down to your knees, back sliding against the kitchen cabinets, your head falling against your knees as you cry, giant hiccupping sobs, your body shaking. 

            You thought he was different but you were wrong again. You thought he was the one but you were wrong again. 

            When will you ever be right?

            Park stands outside your house, his hand hovering, wanting to knock, to have you open the door so he can take back what he said, but he can’t. You won’t. 

            It’s that thought—that you wouldn’t open the door for him—that has him moving, turning and leaving. 

            But he’s not giving up on you, on the two of you. 

            He just has to figure out how to remove his foot from his mouth.

            You see the coffee on your desk, a sorry, Brendon on the plastic. You wonder if he’s watching, but you don’t really care either way, simply knocking it off your desk, into the trash can, the lid coming off, the coffee gushing and filling every crevice in the black bag. 

            Some things just can never go back in once they’re out.

            “Hey, Ava?” you call out, holding out the lip gloss, the Rhode one that was sitting on your desk, another gift from Brendon. “You want this?”

            Another coffee. 

            Into the trash it goes.

            “Where do you keep getting these gifts?” Ava asks as she takes the bracelet from your hand, a silver chain lined with small sapphires. “I mean, I love that you keep giving them to me, but don’t you think you should keep them?”

            “They’re from Brendon,” you tell her and she hisses, her lip curling at his name. “I’d trash most of them, but some of them,” you nod at the bracelet she’s clasping on her wrist, “are too expensive.”

            “While,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “At least one of us gets usage out of ‘em.” The two of you laugh even as your heart twists painfully at the idea of him.

            A clock. What the fuck do you want with a Bulova clock?

            “Hey Marge?”

            The note has his handwriting on it. You don’t even bother reading it, simply sweeping it into the trash can and dumping out the rest of your coffee on it, the letter disintegrating underneath the liquid. 

            You only feel bad for the janitors.

            “What the fuck are you doing at my house?!” you cry, stepping out of your car, your keys on one finger, the metal clicking against the bright pink key chain which reads kicking ass and taking names in glittery gold writing. A gift from Ava. 

            “I want to talk.” Brendon looks horrible, bags under his eyes and dry, chapped lips, but you can’t find it in you to be sorry because he’s the one who did this. He’s the one who said something you can’t take back. 

            “Pretty sure you said all you needed to,” you tell him, your tone sardonic, voice just slightly husky from the tears building in your throat as you push past him, sliding your house key into your deadbolt. 

            “I didn’t mean it,” he says, his hand pressing against your arm. You shrug away from his grip, the movement aggressive as you turn to him, your face burning with anger and your eyes narrowed in a glare. 

            “Don’t fucking touch me, you asshole!” you hiss and he takes a step back, but he doesn’t leave. 

            “I want to apologize and you’ve been getting rid of all my gifts!” he cries, his own anger getting the better of him and you step forwards, hauling your hand back and slapping him, the sound ringing through the still air of your neighbourhood. You can see, even in the dim lights, the red welt from your hand on his cheek. 

            “FUCK OFF!” you scream. “Take a fucking hint! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! I. DON’T. WANT. YOU. IN MY LIFE!”

            “You can’t just decide that!” he yells, his own voice arcing through the air as he reaches forwards, his hand wrapping around yours. “I made a mistake—”

            “No!” you yell, your voice guttural. “You were a fucking ableist prick! That’s not a mistake, that’s just you!”

            “I LOVE YOU!” he cries and you wrench your hand from his, turning from him and unlocking your door, stepping in and closing the door, leaving only a little bit open as you look out at him.

            “Fucking prove it.” And then you close the door, falling apart all over again, great heaving sobs as you run through your house to your bedroom, collapsing into sheets that still smell like his skin, still carry the imprint of his body. 

            He hurt you in a way that no one ever has before. He’s hurt you in a way that is not so easily forgiven even as your heart wants him here to hold you against the pain he caused.

            He’s your paradox. 

            You can see Brendon standing against the door to the NICU, two coffees held in his hand, just like those early days, months ago. 

            “Hi,” he says, stepping up towards you, “my name’s Brendon.” He holds your coffee out to you, worry and hope warring in his eyes. 

            “Cute trick,” you whisper, shoving past him, your shoulder digging into his chest. “Keep trying.”

            And he does. Every day, waiting for six months. Six months in which he never complained about your cold shoulder, about your ignoring him. Six months of him never pushing for more. 

            That’s why you decide that a second chance might be in order.

            “How’d you know my coffee order?” you say to him today from across the hall, running up to him and taking the proffered cup from his hands. 

            “Would you believe a lucky guess?” And it’s that easy to fall back into it, to fall back into friendship, then something more. 

            It’s not always easy and it’s not always perfect, but second chances do exist. Can happen. Sometimes, damaged people can worm their way back into a damaged heart. 

            Park looks at the tightly bundled baby in your arms, thinking he’s never seen anything so tiny in his life, never seen anything so fragile and yet strong, so paradoxical before. He’s never seen anything as precious as you, the love of his life, holding his child before though, for sure. 

            “Smaller than you think, huh?” you whisper and he nods, tearing his eyes away from the baby girl in your arms, the one with your hair and eyes and frown. 

            “Thank you,” he whispers, the words thick in his throat as he reaches for your hand, holding it as he sinks down beside you on the bed, his other hand smoothing non-existent hair back from your—his—daughter’s head. 

            “For what?” you ask, your words elongated with the yawn. 

            “For giving me a second chance.”

            Hearts are, definitely, the most fragile organ in the human body. They break and bleed and stop and start and do a million things that destroy you completely. 

            But they’re also the most essential. They give you life and love and second chances. They can be fixed when they break with time and a skilled hand and sometimes, a persistent, fucking asshole.

            Bones and hearts break but that’s just being human. That’s just the paradox of living. 

            Fun right?

[abilouwrites]

REAL REAL ESTATE

Masterlist

Looking at real estate while seven months pregnant really changes the aspect of homes you look at, because you know you’ll be moving in with a newborn. But you want something you love.

“I like the kitchen” you comment, hand still wrapped with Brendon’s as you look about the house. It’s one of those big houses. Two stores with a porch. A big front yard that you picture planting things in. White wooden panels on the exterior, stone lifting the house.

The kitchen is bland, black marble on the counters, white cabinets and drawers. You rub your stomach slowly as you continue following the realtor around the house. She shows you the bathrooms, the bedrooms, master bedroom with a walk in closet, “I don’t even think we own enough clothes to fill that” Brendon whispers in your ear; you snicker. Hand still wrapped in his as you walk to the back yard, “I like this”

You hum, “yeah. The overhang is nice for the grill, especially on the patio” You point, “with that wrap around porch, and I like how it steps out here because when it rains and snows we can still grill”

Brendon wraps an arm around your shoulders, “and you like the open windows by the front? And how the doors slide open in the back to get that fresh air in?”

You nod, “talk in the car?”

Brendon and you do exactly that, hiding your absolute love of the house from the real estate agent, only discussing on the way home, “and the neighborhood has a bunch of families so baby won’t be the only kid.” You note as he drives away from the house, “plus I routed it when I went to the bathroom, it’s way closer to the hospital than our townhouse now”

Brendon puts a hand on your knee, “I like the stairs, and the kitchen is really open” He notes, “the bathroom might need some work but it has good bones”

You smile, “only the orthopedic surgeon would mention bones while buying a house” you poke at his side, “but I like it. The front yard is great, and the garage fits two cars, plus driveway” you twist at your wedding ring, “and I like how close the rooms are. And the master bedroom is huge”

“I know, and I could see a nursery in the room next to the master, and the two rooms with the jack and Jill bathroom work really well if we want to keep the kids close in age” Brendon says, slowly pulling into your driveway of the bustling city you live in, “and the neighborhood is much more quiet, I think we’d get an actual night of sleep”

You step out of the car, rubbing your temples as you do so, “yeah, the noise really gets to me” you groan softly, then reaching to soothe the kicking baby inside of you, “how much is it?”

“560” Brendon kisses the side of your cheek, “don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it”

You trust him, you did when you first met him when he was in med school and you were in college, and when he proposed and promised to love you forever. And when he moved you from North Carolina to Pittsburgh, “okay, but you like it? The windows and trim?”

Brendon nods, “if you like it I like it” he takes your hand as you step into the small townhouse. A simple kitchen and living space, then upstairs a bedroom and a bathroom. Just enough for the two of you, not enough room for three, “does your head hurt?”

“A bit; I’m probably just tired. Can I sit and look pretty while you make me dinner?” You ask; plopping down onto one of the barstools to watch him ponder into the fridge

“Isn’t that how I always make dinner?” Brendon raises an eyebrow as he pulls out a pan and some chicken breasts, “pasta? With a chicken?”

You nod, “yummy, I love my husband especially because he cooks for me”

Brendon scoffs slightly, but he continues seasoning the chicken, cutting the fat off and everything else, “so you want the house?”

You nod, “if that’s okay? As long as you like it.. I mean you’re paying for it” you bite at your nails. An anxious habit you’d been trying to break

“Hands outta your mouth baby” Brendon says, voice firm and eyes focused on the middle finger between your lips, “it’s your house too. You’ll be spending the most time there with the baby” you know he’ll be there too. But he is right, you usually work from home, and with having a baby. You’ll need to be there to feed it.

“Yeah. I do love it… I like how it’s like the homes back from home? The shutters on the window. Big front porch and yard. And the windows. Imagine how much light we’ll get during sunset” you imagine.

Brendon continues cooking, “I know, you like all that light, and the front lawn I thought we could plant some native flowers. Like wild flowers?” He asks, putting the pasta in with the cream sauce

“I like that, yeah. Let’s buy it or- however you purchase land…” you laugh a little, feeling oddly immature over the entire situation

Brendon nods, “okay, we should try and move in before the baby comes. Unpack the nursery and bedroom before everything else”

You nod, hand rubbing over your stomach, “how much longer? I’m hungry”

[obsessivefanfictionauthor]

Fragile Bones; Fragile Hearts—Brendon Park

Summary: Everyone acts like Brendon Park has no heart and most days, he agrees. Until one neonatologist looks right through him with no idea who he is. Then he finds out just how fragile bones and hearts can be. Or how Brendon Park falls in love with you. (5.5k)

Pairing: Brendon "the Shark" Park x neonatologist!fem!reader

TW: Sunshine x grumpy trope; patient loss; angst; fluff; Park is down bad; Reader had ADHD; medical inaccuracies; smut; reader's nickname is Candy; mentions of wearing a backpack for a getaway if someone grabs it (I recommend you do this); 18+ because of a short sex scene although it's not descriptive really; Park is a dick and down bad; reader makes him work for it.

Credit: GIF made by @siratonin

Requested: Yes. Osteomyelitis article used for research in this fic, here

Bones break, that’s reality. Bones are strong but even they have a breaking point, something you can’t push past, fragile in a way. Hearts are the same way—strong up to a point but after that, then they’re fragile, so fragile. And they’re a lot harder to piece back together.

            The babies are small, smaller than Brendon thought, nearly impossibly small, their fingers like specs of dust, their faces smushed and tiny, bodies not even as long as his forearm. He knew logically that babies are small, neonates even more so, but there is a difference between logic and reality. Even the strongest of logic can falter in the face of reality, especially a reality like this. Where what’s real seems like it shouldn’t be. 

            The one he’s looking at right now, has tiny eyes closed, fists raising upwards at the concealed glass bassinet that holds it, tubes and wires and medical gear all around it, a monitor beeping out a steady, fast rhythm of a heartbeat. 

            He knows that its bones are even smaller, soft and malleable, that ossification won’t have started yet, the bones mere cartilage really, hard enough but soft enough too. He remembers learning about paradoxes in his high school English class, but he didn’t understand it until now, looking at the baby here. These babies are paradoxes, fragile and yet not, strong yet not, malleable yet not. 

            He’s never been here on this floor, the one reserved for the NICU, the place most doctors avoid if they can help it, the sight of babies, the most innocent and delicate things fighting for their life too much for most. It takes a special kind of person, he believes, to handle losing these kids, knowing that sometimes you just can’t save them. It takes a special kind of person to keep coming back here. 

            “Can I help you?” he hears a voice behind him, one that rings strong and true and yet bright and light at the same time. He turns around, gaze trailing as he does so, taking in the matching bassinets and the babies all hooked up to machines that keep them living, his heart breaking in particular when he sees a baby on dialysis. He lifts his gaze to you, a woman with arms crossed over bright pink scrubs decorated with lollipops. 

            “I’m—” he begins, but your face brightens as you take him in, the scowl shifting to a smile as you interrupt him. 

            “Oh, uh, you’re ortho, right?” you say and he nods, swallowing hard, his mouth going dry as you step towards him, your hand outstretched. He takes it, your skin soft against his hand, shocks spearing through his nerves at your touch, listening as you say your name, the sound pretty and perfect and suited to you. “…but everyone calls me Dr. Candy,” you finish. 

            “I’m…” he pauses, glancing off at the delicate children all around, the ones you deal with as an attending neonatologist and he realizes he doesn’t want you to know him as the rest of the hospital knows him, as Park the Shark. It doesn’t fit here in this quiet, special place full of life. “You can call me Dr. Brendon,” he tells you and you nod, turning and walking away while he remains rooted to the floor, watching as you go. 

            “Come on, Dr. Brendon,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder, “the patient’s this way.” He follows after you, smoothing his suddenly damp palms on his scrub pants, his steps just slightly hurried as he catches up to you as you stop before a bassinet, your palm pressing against the glass as if you’re touching the small child within. 

            “The call said something about advanced osteomyelitis,” he says, his words drawing your attention back to him, your expression turning solemn as you nod, taking the iPad from the side of the table, swiping and clicking on a chart, passing it over to him. 

            “This is Brandy Michaels,” you tell him, “we’ve been treating her osteomyelitis with antibiotics and antimicrobials. She presented with the second form of presentation, that of sepsis-like symptoms accompanied by temperature instability, feeding intolerance, irritability and reduced movement. It progressed to fever and local swelling at which point we tested her CRP and erythrocyte sedimentation rates and found that they were elevated. We treated, as stated, with antibiotics and antimicrobials as decreed in the protocol. We also performed bone scintigraphy and MRI, finding high evidence for osteomyelitis. Unfortunately, this little one hasn’t improved on her regimen over the past two weeks.”

            Brendon could listen to you speak forever, your voice high and light and pretty, your hand resting against the glass of Brandy’s…home as if it’s her, as if it’s giving her comfort. He scans the charts, taking in the notice of the five affected bones, the sites of manifestation and looks up at you, his lips pressing together. 

            “I’ll book the OR for her,” he whispers, handing the iPad back to you, watching as your expression falls, your bottom lip trembling just slightly as you nod, your chest moving just a bit as you draw in breath, trying to make it seem like you’re not. “The abscesses need to be drained,” he tells you, his tone softer than it’s ever been, soft for only you. 

            “I know, Dr. Brendon,” you tell him, lips pressing into a thin-lipped smile. “It just never gets easier this job. Thank you, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go inform this little one’s parents.” You nod once more at him, spinning on your heel, the soles of your bright pink shoes squeaking on the polished floor as you do so. 

            Brendon is surprised by hard it is to watch you walk away, the first doctor to see him without seeing him. 

            He resolves to see you again. Somehow, someway. It just doesn’t feel like the story’s done yet.

            “Do you know what that was?!” you hear Ava cry, her voice loud, too loud for your quiet space, the one place that focus is easy, that everything seems to align. The place you belong. 

            “The ortho consult I called for?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at your hectic, chaotic friend, her dyed red hair loose around her shoulders, frizzing from the heat outside. 

            “That was Park the Shark!” she hisses, reaching you, her acrylic nailed fingers digging into the skin of your forearm as she walks with you, your steps in sync like always. 

            “Who?” you ask, attention snagging on one of the monitors for your patients, the sight of the hiccup in the line enough to derail you, the destination you had in mind fading for the moment as you stop, checking on the small, precious baby. 

            “Park the Shark,” Ava repeats as you slide your hands into the gloved areas attached to the sealed bassinet, reaching in, gloved thumb stroking the baby’s cheekbone as you reattach the sliding wire causing the change on the monitor. “The super-hot, sexy ortho surgeon who scares everyone in the hospital cause he’s all mean and nasty only increasing his rom-com lead charm?” she continues, the end of her sentence lilting into a question as if she expects you to understand right away despite the phrasing. 

            “But he…wasn’t mean,” you tell her, sliding your hands from the gloves and turning back to her, your brows knitting together, the image of the man with his awed expression for the babies superimposing over reality for a moment before you blink it away, focusing back on your best friend and her darkening cheeks. 

            “That’s cause that man wants you,” she says, her tone clear and heavy with innuendo. “That man wants your cookie bad, my friend.”

            “Shut up!” you tell her, stepping away from the bassinet, feeling that familiar confusion, the one that comes with not knowing what you were doing before distraction. 

            “You were going to tell the Michaels baby’s parents about the surgery,” Ava prompts and you can feel that familiar relief that comes from her picking up on your silent cues and returning to you to the real world. 

            “Thank you,” you tell her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze before running off down the hall towards the parent’s room where Riley and Jesse will be waiting for updates on their daughter. 

            But as you go, as you approach them and tell them what’s happening, what needs to happen and they cry, folding in on each other, holding each other up as they thank you, you wonder. 

            You wonder what Dr. Brendon’s arms would feel like holding you up when the tears made it impossible to stay up on your own. 

            Brendon doesn’t know why he’s here, doesn’t entirely know why he came back only that he liked the fact that you saw him and not the idea that has been built up in the hospital to the point he’s practically an urban legend. He doesn’t entirely know why he bribed the red-headed nurse for your coffee order, promising to bring her one as well, hers already dropped off, only that he did. 

            And now he waits with sweaty palms, two cups of coffee from the shop down the street from the hospital in his hands as he waits for you to arrive. He’s curious too, to what scrubs you’ll be wearing today. 

            “What are you doing on my floor again, Dr. Brendon?” he hears you call out and he turns around, swallowing hard again as he takes in your appearance, your lips glossed and shimmering in the light, light blue scrubs decorated with rainbows on, your badge on your pants rather than your chest like everyone else and your arms crossed, hip cocked out. 

            “Coffee,” he says, the words said far too fast and far too loudly as he holds out the clear plastic cup holding an iced crackle (whatever that is) coffee. The condensation on the cheap plastic beads and slides from the cup, dripping onto the floor so, maybe his palms aren’t all that sweaty after all or even if they are, at least he has an excuse. 

            “For me?” you ask him, stepping closer, crossing the room to him and taking the proffered cup from him as he nods, swallowing again at your proximity, at the way you smell like citrus candy. Maybe that’s why they call you Dr. Candy. You lift the cup to your lips, pursing around the lime green straw and drawing liquid up as you hollow your cheeks in a way that has Brendon feeling like he’s burning up. “How’d you know my coffee order?”

            “Would you believe a lucky guess?” he asks, adjusting his stance, shifting weight from the left to the right. All you do in response is raise your eyebrows until he nods, just once, understanding. “Yeah,” he says, “I didn’t think you would. I bribed a nurse to tell me your order.”

            “Out of curiosity,” you begin, your eyes flicking from him to a sight in the NICU, in the glass behind him, “did this nurse have bright red hair, dark eyes, glittery skin and really annoying acrylic nails?”

            “I don’t know if the nails were annoying, but yes,” he says. “All it took was getting her a coffee too, why?” But you’re already walking away, expression in a faux kind of scowl as you lift a hand in a wave, glancing over at him, the scowl changing briefly to a smile as you call out, “see you around!” before disappearing behind the tall glass doors. 

            “Yeah,” he whispers, “see you around.”

            “You’re back!” you call out, crossing the room, heart beating faster with excitement when you see Brendon standing before the door to the NICU, two cups in his hands again. He’s been coming every day for the past three weeks, offering small bits of conversation before you each disappear to the jobs that consume you. 

            “I am,” he replies, the corner of his lip tugging up in a smile as he holds out your cup, the one that holds the dark chocolate crackle coffee, the cup decorated with frozen chocolate that you crack into the coffee. “I have to ask,” he says, his eyes trailing over your body, everywhere his eyes linger heating up beneath your lime green and neon pink scrubs, the ones decorated with watermelons, “what’s with the scrubs?”

            “Oh!” you exclaim, your voice rising as your eyebrows lift, excitement rising in you making your heart rate fast and your breaths choppier. “Neo’s pretty lax because, I mean, if you’re down here, you’re here for one reason, right? There’re no real codes, it’s kind of just the NICU so we’re given free reign unlike the rest of the departments. You know surgery is purple and EM is black…neo…we’re the wild child of the hospital.”

            “What about peds?” he asks, lifting his cup to his mouth, taking a sip of what must still be a scalding flat white, your eyes following the trail it takes down his throat, momentarily distracted, his question slipping away. 

            “Sorry,” you say, “what was the question?”

            “I asked, what about peds?” he says and you nod again, smiling at him, the kind of smile you have that apologizes while also doesn’t. It says I’m me and sorry if you don’t like it.

            “Peds is allowed patterns but they’re told the base colours they have to wear,” you tell him. “See peds surgery has to have a base of light pink, peds general is light blue, peds oncology is lime green and peds EM is, unfortunately, just black. No patterns, no nothing. It doesn’t matter how much I argue with management, it doesn’t change. But these kids! They’re meeting their doctor who wears black like the fucking grim reaper!” Your rant cuts off when you hear the deep chuckle of Brendon, blinking back into focus as you take in the sight of him and his unfairly hot, Greek god body, shoulders shaking as he tries to suppress his laughter. 

            “Something funny, Park?” you ask him, crossing your arms, the condensation from the coffee cup, slick on your hand. 

            “No, nope,” he says, his face still split into a smile, the kind that sets your heart aflutter. “I just like listening to you.”

            And you can feel your entire body burn at his words, no one having ever said that to you before.

            “Are you free tonight?” Park asks you, the feeling of his heart in his throat and trembles in his hands all new to him. You bring out nerves in him like no one ever has before. 

            “Depends,” you tell him, shouldering your bag on your back, one strap on your shoulder, the other loose. You say it’s safety, if someone grabs it, you can just slip out of it, the thought of you getting hurt causing his chest to constrict and blood to pulse in his head every time. 

            “On what?” he asks, his hand reaching for yours, the habit something built up over the past two weeks where bringing coffee migrated to walking with you out to the parking lot, seeing you safely to your car. It helps him sleep at night, knowing that you’re safe. 

            “If you’re finally asking me out or not,” you tell him and he pauses, his reflection distorted as it stares back at him from the shiny metal doors of the elevator, the distorted expression of shock and disbelief and happiness almost comical. 

            “I was planning on it,” he says, his tone stilted, slightly nervous as you turn to him, your face split in the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen as you bounce on your toes, excited, hands clapping once as you nod, teeth sinking into your glossed bottom lip. 

            “Then yes,” you tell him, your voice high with excitement. “I’m free.”

            “Pick you up at seven?” he asks as the elevator doors ding open, the two of you slipping on, hands still joined. 

            “Yeah,” you tell him, leaning forwards and pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. “See you at seven.”

            “You have not lived,” you tell him, dragging him over with you across the grass towards the taco truck, set up for the movie night, “until you’ve had a taco from here.”

            “Okay,” he says, his hand, warm and large and firm, calloused in a way that has your heart jumping in your throat at the way it feels against you, “then let me live.” You can’t help but laugh a little, a breathy kind of chuckle, a nervous kind of giggle as you drag him up to the order window. 

            “Can I order for you?” you ask him quickly, glancing back at him as he nods, lips curving up in that pleased smirk he has, the one that always makes you want to kiss him even when you never have before. 

            “Of course, Candy,” he says and you swallow hard on instinct, never having been called just candy. You’ve been Dr. Candy since you were a med student, known for your sweet attitude, but also an attitude that is never the same, like each piece of candy is unique from any other. But no one’s ever just called you candy; you’ve never had a real nickname before. 

            And you really like it. 

            “Two number threes, please,” you say, your free hand pulling your wallet from the pocket of your skirt, the one that you and Ava spent hours adding to the vintage find, the one that seems like vintage Stevie Nicks. 

            “Nuh-uh, Candy,” Brendon says, pulling you back by your joined hands. “What kind of man would I be if I let you pay on the date? I feel bad enough that we’re not going to a restaurant.”

            “I didn’t want a restaurant!” you cry, slapping his chest with indignation. “I’ve been excited for this movie in the park for months!”

            “Then I’m paying,” he says, his eyes darkening in a way that makes you understand why he’s called the Shark, the look in his eye predatory in a way that has your breath hitching, your body burning in a way that is new and strange and delicious. Like that look. 

            He taps his card against the card reader, accepting the taco bag with his free hand and guiding you back to the green of the park, to the blanket you spread out on the grass. He sinks down beside you, pulling you against him, your back to his chest, arm anchoring you against him, heavy and protective in a way that is heady. 

            And it stays like that for the entire movie, even when he whispers that you were right about the tacos or when you start to cry at the ending of The Notebook. He stays holding you just like that for the entire time, his touch safe and gentle in a way that no one’s touch has ever been before. 

            And something changes when you get in his car and he drives back to your house, Ethel Cain playing on low volume over his Mercedes sound system. Something changes because every moment is charged. 

            “Come inside?” you ask him when he’s stopped before your house, “Nettles” softly playing in the background. 

            “Candy,” he whispers, his hand reaching out to cup your face, touch gentle and igniting in its own way. Your skin feverish beneath his touch. “If I go inside…I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself.”

            “Maybe I don’t want you too,” you whisper and he nods, pupils expanding across ocean blue eyes as he follows into your house, helping you out of your coat, his hand torturously slow as he eases the zipper down. You kick off your shoes as he hangs the coats up and you turn to him, reaching for his shirt and pulling him too, wanting to feel. 

            You press your lips against his, feeling a spark move through you, his hands resting on your hips, fitting to you as if they were meant to be there all along, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels too good, in a way that should be illegal. 

            You move as one, backing up to your bedroom, clothes worked free from bodies, his tongue sliding along yours before you break away, breathless, chest heaving, stomach coiling and body wanting. You want his touch. 

            “You ready?” he asks you, his eyes entirely black and you nod, his hands freeing you of the rest of your clothes, freeing him of his. He pushes you back onto the bed, his touch gentle as he spreads your legs, kneeling before you, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, his eyes on yours as he inches closer to your cunt. 

            You shudder at the feeling, at the rightness of it, when he drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, swirling twice, whispering, “just as sweet as I imagined.” The rest of the night is a haze of sex, sex and more sex, his touch perfect in a way you’ve never had before. 

            And when it’s over, when you’re falling asleep you hear him whisper, “I think I might love you, Candy.”

            And you think you might love him too.

            Brendon watches as you push through the glass doors, every inch of your body drawn tight like a high wire, anger writ all over you. He heard the codes called, watched as you tried to save that infant, pumped air into their lungs, watched as it wasn’t enough. 

            It’s why he crosses to you now, guiding you from the hallway, into your office, shutting the door behind him. He knows you need to explode, but he also knows that no one else can see it. You need to explode where no one will judge. 

            “Come on, Candy,” he whispers, your attention not on him, but on some distant point, a storm raging in those perfect eyes. “You need to hit something, so hit me.”

            You listen, your hands moving, slamming into his chest over and over and over, but it doesn’t hurt, not the way the sounds of your sobs do as you hit him. And he just lets you hit him until you stop, until the anger gives way and sadness reigns completely, your voice broken as you whisper, “it hurts, Bren.”

            “Then why do you do it, sweet girl?” he asks, his hands taking yours as you collapse onto the couch, looking up at him with haunted eyes. 

            “I do it for the ones that survive,” you whisper, your expression still sad but shifting to a happier look. “You know,” you pause, swallowing hard, “for every patient I lose, there is one that survives.”

            “Is it worth the pain?” he asks you, his own voice breaking. He doesn’t understand, but he wants too desperately.

            “So much,” you tell him, smiling a watery kind of smile. “I know that every patient that survives will go on to do great things. I know they’ll save the world even when we’ve given them a fucked up one.”

            “Because of you,” Brendon whispers, surprised when your face shifts, twisting into anger, into annoyance, the sadness wearing away for a bit. 

            “No, I don’t a surgeon’s god complex,” you tell him and if he didn’t know you, he would be insulted, but he does know you and he knows you just speak. “They’ll do great things because that’s them. I just will be the one who never gave up on them because of one bad day.”

            “Babe?” you hear Bren call out and you turn from the sink, your hands wet, peaches slipping between your hands, the water from the tap rushing out and over your hands. 

            “What’s up?” you ask, watching as he steps in, shirtless, pajama pants hung low on the V of his hips. 

            “What are these?” he asks you, holding up an orange prescription bottle, the one you take every day, the Adderall for twice a day. 

            “My meds,” you tell him, your tone slow and not understanding. You feel like there’s some bigger picture here that you’re not seeing, something you’re missing as you turn the sink off, setting the peach into the drainer, turning and wiping your hands on a dish cloth. 

            “Why do you have Adderall?” he says, his expression knitting together into one that you can’t quite read as your eyebrows rise and you cross your arms, your body prickling, muscles tensing with defensiveness. 

            “I have ADHD, why? What’s your problem?”

            “Should you really be a doctor?” he asks you, his expression looking concerned, but you don’t give a fuck. You thought he was different! You thought he was better!

            But he’s just like all those fuckers who told you that you’d never be a doctor. That the dream you’ve had since you were a kid was impossible for someone who couldn’t fucking focus! But you’ve shown them! You’ve become an attending! You run a department! You save more lives than most NICUs across the country!

            How the fuck can he question you?!

            “GET THE FUCK OUT!” you scream, your voice guttural and raw and aching. You back up when he moves to step towards you, his expression falling. But he did this to himself! He has no place in your life if that’s how he’ll be.

            “Candy,” he whispers, but all you do is reach beside you, grabbing the peach you’d just washed and throwing it at him with all your strength. He dodges it and it smashes against the wall, the pulp crushed on impact, juice and skin and guts splattered on the wall as it sinks down to the floor, slow, slow, slow. 

            “Did I stutter, Park?” you ask him, tone cold and cruel and nothing like the one you’ve used around him before. He blanches, setting the pill bottle on the kitchen table and walking from the room, the front door slamming. 

            When it slams, you give yourself permission to fall apart, sinking down to your knees, back sliding against the kitchen cabinets, your head falling against your knees as you cry, giant hiccupping sobs, your body shaking. 

            You thought he was different but you were wrong again. You thought he was the one but you were wrong again. 

            When will you ever be right?

            Park stands outside your house, his hand hovering, wanting to knock, to have you open the door so he can take back what he said, but he can’t. You won’t. 

            It’s that thought—that you wouldn’t open the door for him—that has him moving, turning and leaving. 

            But he’s not giving up on you, on the two of you. 

            He just has to figure out how to remove his foot from his mouth.

            You see the coffee on your desk, a sorry, Brendon on the plastic. You wonder if he’s watching, but you don’t really care either way, simply knocking it off your desk, into the trash can, the lid coming off, the coffee gushing and filling every crevice in the black bag. 

            Some things just can never go back in once they’re out.

            “Hey, Ava?” you call out, holding out the lip gloss, the Rhode one that was sitting on your desk, another gift from Brendon. “You want this?”

            Another coffee. 

            Into the trash it goes.

            “Where do you keep getting these gifts?” Ava asks as she takes the bracelet from your hand, a silver chain lined with small sapphires. “I mean, I love that you keep giving them to me, but don’t you think you should keep them?”

            “They’re from Brendon,” you tell her and she hisses, her lip curling at his name. “I’d trash most of them, but some of them,” you nod at the bracelet she’s clasping on her wrist, “are too expensive.”

            “While,” she says, pulling you into a hug. “At least one of us gets usage out of ‘em.” The two of you laugh even as your heart twists painfully at the idea of him.

            A clock. What the fuck do you want with a Bulova clock?

            “Hey Marge?”

            The note has his handwriting on it. You don’t even bother reading it, simply sweeping it into the trash can and dumping out the rest of your coffee on it, the letter disintegrating underneath the liquid. 

            You only feel bad for the janitors.

            “What the fuck are you doing at my house?!” you cry, stepping out of your car, your keys on one finger, the metal clicking against the bright pink key chain which reads kicking ass and taking names in glittery gold writing. A gift from Ava. 

            “I want to talk.” Brendon looks horrible, bags under his eyes and dry, chapped lips, but you can’t find it in you to be sorry because he’s the one who did this. He’s the one who said something you can’t take back. 

            “Pretty sure you said all you needed to,” you tell him, your tone sardonic, voice just slightly husky from the tears building in your throat as you push past him, sliding your house key into your deadbolt. 

            “I didn’t mean it,” he says, his hand pressing against your arm. You shrug away from his grip, the movement aggressive as you turn to him, your face burning with anger and your eyes narrowed in a glare. 

            “Don’t fucking touch me, you asshole!” you hiss and he takes a step back, but he doesn’t leave. 

            “I want to apologize and you’ve been getting rid of all my gifts!” he cries, his own anger getting the better of him and you step forwards, hauling your hand back and slapping him, the sound ringing through the still air of your neighbourhood. You can see, even in the dim lights, the red welt from your hand on his cheek. 

            “FUCK OFF!” you scream. “Take a fucking hint! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU! I. DON’T. WANT. YOU. IN MY LIFE!”

            “You can’t just decide that!” he yells, his own voice arcing through the air as he reaches forwards, his hand wrapping around yours. “I made a mistake—”

            “No!” you yell, your voice guttural. “You were a fucking ableist prick! That’s not a mistake, that’s just you!”

            “I LOVE YOU!” he cries and you wrench your hand from his, turning from him and unlocking your door, stepping in and closing the door, leaving only a little bit open as you look out at him.

            “Fucking prove it.” And then you close the door, falling apart all over again, great heaving sobs as you run through your house to your bedroom, collapsing into sheets that still smell like his skin, still carry the imprint of his body. 

            He hurt you in a way that no one ever has before. He’s hurt you in a way that is not so easily forgiven even as your heart wants him here to hold you against the pain he caused.

            He’s your paradox. 

            You can see Brendon standing against the door to the NICU, two coffees held in his hand, just like those early days, months ago. 

            “Hi,” he says, stepping up towards you, “my name’s Brendon.” He holds your coffee out to you, worry and hope warring in his eyes. 

            “Cute trick,” you whisper, shoving past him, your shoulder digging into his chest. “Keep trying.”

            And he does. Every day, waiting for six months. Six months in which he never complained about your cold shoulder, about your ignoring him. Six months of him never pushing for more. 

            That’s why you decide that a second chance might be in order.

            “How’d you know my coffee order?” you say to him today from across the hall, running up to him and taking the proffered cup from his hands. 

            “Would you believe a lucky guess?” And it’s that easy to fall back into it, to fall back into friendship, then something more. 

            It’s not always easy and it’s not always perfect, but second chances do exist. Can happen. Sometimes, damaged people can worm their way back into a damaged heart. 

            Park looks at the tightly bundled baby in your arms, thinking he’s never seen anything so tiny in his life, never seen anything so fragile and yet strong, so paradoxical before. He’s never seen anything as precious as you, the love of his life, holding his child before though, for sure. 

            “Smaller than you think, huh?” you whisper and he nods, tearing his eyes away from the baby girl in your arms, the one with your hair and eyes and frown. 

            “Thank you,” he whispers, the words thick in his throat as he reaches for your hand, holding it as he sinks down beside you on the bed, his other hand smoothing non-existent hair back from your—his—daughter’s head. 

            “For what?” you ask, your words elongated with the yawn. 

            “For giving me a second chance.”

            Hearts are, definitely, the most fragile organ in the human body. They break and bleed and stop and start and do a million things that destroy you completely. 

            But they’re also the most essential. They give you life and love and second chances. They can be fixed when they break with time and a skilled hand and sometimes, a persistent, fucking asshole.

            Bones and hearts break but that’s just being human. That’s just the paradox of living. 

            Fun right?

[thykingdoncome]

╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬, 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠, 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 !

summary: you ask your boyfriends to kiss

|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, just silly girly things || a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you wc: 1.7k

"please—"

it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.

robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.

"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.

you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.

"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.

both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.

you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.

"wanna see you kisssss—"

jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.

"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.

"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.

robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"

jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.

"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."

you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.

you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.

"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"

"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."

you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.

"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.

nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.

robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.

"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"

"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.

"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.

"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.

it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.

"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.

"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.

"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."

"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."

his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.

"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."

you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.

"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"

"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.

"fuck it—" robby growled.

he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.

they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.

robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.

"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."

"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."

robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"

but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.

a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.

"oh my god," you whispered.

when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.

"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.

"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"

"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."

robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.

it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.

then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.

you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.

the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.

"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."

jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.

"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."

"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.

you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.

"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"

"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"

"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.

jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.

your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.

as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.

but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.

wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped

[pearlessance]

now now now what have we here rabbot x reader??? DP????? ROBBY X ABBOT??????? oh!!!!

whoooweeee the way i NEED this paris experience is actually sinful like the things i would let these two do to me would make the devil blush baby!!!!!!!

[rr-after-dark]

working on the park x fat!reader fic because of a donation to my birthday fundraiser and it’s going swimmingly 🦈 still taking donations through the end of the month uwu