@not44radio's writing sub-blog | juna. . .ᐟ 22 / phil . . . cabin ten 🪷
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You barely remember whose idea it was. You don‘t even have time to protest. It just happened, because that‘s what normal things are between you and him. It, like all things with Art, does. A birthday slash graduation trip that turned into a weekend at the beach. No plans, no budget, just a spontaneous one. So fucking reckless and irresponsible. YOLO, what he always says to you when he asks you to do something spontaneous with him. Trip. Movies. Resto. Everything. That was enough. That was always enough when it came to him. You said yes before he even finished the sentence. You always do. Don‘t need to ask twice. If he asks you to jump, you‘ll say how high. If he calls for an emergency, you‘ll come, even if his emergency is just picking which clothes he will wear for the match. And now you‘re here, crammed into the back of his car, half-sober, half-numb, trying not to think about how this might be the last time you see him like this without consequence.
Art is driving. One hand on the wheel, the other slung lazily out the window, sun catching the bones in his wrist. The wind keeps blowing his curls into his eyes, but he doesn‘t fix them. You want to reach out and do it for him, but you don‘t. He has that curly blonde hair you always want to run your fingers through. But well, you‘ve done enough of that, it‘s nothing new the fixing things he doesn‘t ask you to fix, offering pieces of yourself he never asked to keep. He glances in the rearview mirror once. Not at you. At her. Tashi. She‘s sitting in the passenger seat like she‘s always belonged there, and maybe she has. Maybe that‘s the part that hurts most.
Patrick‘s next to you, headphones on, mouthing along to some sad gay song like he‘s in a different movie entirely. Like he‘s annoying the fuck out of you about this situation. You‘re grateful for him, really, for his silence, for the way he doesn‘t ask you what‘s wrong. He already knows. He‘s the one who knows you and Art too closely. You tell him things, but he doesn‘t rat you out to Art. Sometimes you think everyone knows it already. Like it‘s not a secret anymore, well except for Art. It‘s just a punchline. Seven years in love with your best friend, and he still introduces you as his “bro” when he‘s drunk. You laugh too hard at his jokes. You always have. It‘s easier than saying you‘re scared he‘ll leave and forget you entirely.
By the time you arrive, the sun‘s too bright and the sand‘s too hot and you already feel like you‘re a mess. The air smells like salt and cheap alcohol. Art‘s shirt is off before the car even finishes parking. He runs straight toward the water, laughing, yelling something you can‘t hear. Tashi follows. You sit on the hood and watch them, beside Patrick who‘s ready to tease you already. To give you a reality check. You don‘t take a photo. The view is so beautiful, too bad you‘re not in the mood. You don‘t move. You feel like the only person on earth who knows they‘re living inside a memory. Patrick opens a beer beside you and offers one without a word. You take it. Drink half in one go. It doesn‘t help. You ask him something stupid like, “Do you think we‘ll remember this?” and he says, “Only if it hurts enough.” And god, you think maybe that‘s the truest thing you‘ve ever heard.
Later, when the sky turns heavy and violet, someone suggests karaoke like it‘s a joke. Like they don‘t know the kind of night they‘re summoning. But Art lights up, yeah, of course he does, and you‘re already nodding before you think better of it. Because you know he will ask. That‘s how it always is. One look from him and you forget your boundaries. You forgot to take. You forgot what you really are to him. You forget you ever wanted to have any. And the place is a patchwork of bad lighting and worn leather booths, and the mic smells like every feeling that‘s ever touched it. Art picks something old and loud, something to shout with his whole body, and Patrick howls through every line like he‘s exorcising something. You‘re on your second beer. Your third. You lose count by the time you‘re singing with Art, shoulder to shoulder, yelling lyrics you don‘t know into the same mic. He looks at you like a memory. You look at him like a prayer.
Then he says, “I love you,” in the middle of the chorus, smiling at you, but it‘s followed by “bro,” and that‘s the part that lodges in your throat. You don‘t even like that- that fucking term. It‘s a punch in your face. That one fucking word. That one stupid syllable that flattens everything you thought maybe tonight could be. Everyone claps. You do too. You smile like it‘s funny, like it doesn‘t hurt. But you feel it. In the pit of your stomach. You feel it wants to be cut out and thrown in the ocean. In your jaw, clenched around the scream you won‘t let out. Like you want to scream at him if he‘s blind.
Bottle after bottle, you find yourself sitting outside with a cigarette you don‘t finish and a heart that won‘t shut up. Art plops down beside you, drunk and golden, knees bumping yours. “You good?” he asks, voice slurred just enough to make him seem soft. You nod. Of course you do. What would you even say? That you‘re not sure you can keep doing this? That being his friend feels like bleeding in public and hoping no you can just hit him in the head to the point he‘ll have an amnesia and tell him you‘re his girlfriend?
Yeah, no, that won‘t work, so you just sit beside him. Let him talk about nothing. About surfing tomorrow. About how Tashi‘s good at it, apparently. It‘s not like you have anything against the woman, you don‘t. You can‘t just help to feel envious that will maybe, maybe make you say shitty things if you are just in front of Patrick. But you just nod again. You keep nodding. And when you finally speak, it‘s just to say, “Let‘s go back.” Not because you want to. Because if you stay here one second longer, you‘ll say the wrong thing - or worse, the truth.
You love the place you guys picked. But right now it just feels different. The room feels like it‘s breathing without you. The windows rattle slightly from the ocean wind outside, the curtains flutter like someone else‘s heartbeat. And Art is perched at the edge of the bed with his guitar in his lap, bare feet on the floor, hair damp from the shower. He looks golden in the lamplight. Familiar. Comfortable. You‘ve spent years memorizing this version of him. The quiet one, the one that only shows up at 1 a.m. when no one else is looking. The version that looks so peaceful. The one who loves music besides tennis. The one who- who gets your heart. He plays something without a name, just a slow set of chords, barely holding shape. Maybe it‘s something he‘s composing. It should soothe you. Instead, it burns.
He doesn‘t notice you watching him. Or maybe he does and doesn‘t care. You always have the chance to look at him because... because he lets you. Or probably he‘s just that oblivious. You‘re sitting on the floor with your back to the wall, knees pulled tight to your chest like that could keep it all in. The want, the ache, the exhaustion of waiting. The pining. He hums under his breath. You swallow around the lump in your throat.
“Seven years,” you say suddenly. It startles even you. He pauses, one hand still on the frets. You don‘t know why you bring it up but the following words you‘ll say will fuck you up, you just know that.
“What?” he questions, your words made him stop playing his guitar and look up at you.
You let out a shaky breath. “I‘ve been in love with you for seven years.” You quickly press your lips together. Feeling the environment. Feeling him how he‘ll react. Observing him. Overthinking many things.
It hangs there, heavy and soft, too real to take back. You watch his face. First confused, then careful. He blinks like he‘s trying to remember something important. You keep going, because if you stop now, you‘ll never start again. You will never say shit again if you are sober.
“I don‘t know when it started. Maybe when we were I don‘t know... seventeen? Eighteen? And you asked if I wanted to walk home instead of calling a cab. Or when you shared your fries and said you didn‘t want to eat alone. Or maybe it was every time you told me something that felt small to you, but I carried it around for days. I don‘t know. I just know that I‘ve loved you. Quietly. Constantly. For seven fucking years.”
He doesn‘t speak. He just stares with his mouth half-open, hands still resting on the guitar like he forgot they were there. You don‘t look away. Not this time.
“I don‘t want anything from you,” you say. “I just didn‘t want to leave without telling you. I wanted you to know that someone loved you that long. That hard. Even if you never noticed.”
And that‘s when he kisses you.
He kisses you like he‘s doing you a favor. Like it‘s the polite thing to do. You feel it instantly. The shape of it, the temperature, the lack. His mouth on yours is nothing like you imagined. It‘s soft, yes, and it‘s careful, but it isn‘t full. It isn‘t real. He doesn‘t touch you like someone who‘s been waiting seven years to feel your mouth. Like... like someone who will think like fuck I want her too despite of the friendship. He touches you like someone trying to soften a blow. Like someone stalling. You don‘t even close your eyes. You just wait for the part where it starts to matter and it never comes.
You pull away, slow and stunned, like your body already knew before your brain caught up. Your face is warm, but not from the kiss. Not from anything good. You feel numb. Like a robot or something. He‘s still looking at you like he doesn‘t understand what just happened. Like you kissed him. Like this is something you started. You wait for something, anything. A breath. A question. A fucking name. Or maybe something like, Are you drunk? Or let‘s do it better, maybe call you bro? But there‘s nothing. Just his face, blank and open, like maybe you should say thank you.
So you just pulled back before the kiss could become anything. Before you convince yourself to pretend it feels like love. His hand is still on your face when you say it, quiet, tired, done. “Don‘t do that.” Your voice doesn‘t shake. It‘s steady in the way grief is steady. “Don‘t kiss me just because you don‘t know what else to do.” You wait for his face to shift. To see his reaction. To read him like you always do. For guilt, for panic, for anything human. Maybe today is the day you won‘t be able to read what the situation is because he just looks at you like you‘ve made things difficult. Like you‘ve embarrassed him.
He just sits there, watching you like he‘s hoping you‘ll backpedal. Like you‘ll laugh and say it was a joke. Like you‘ll make it easy again. But you‘re drunk enough to do that anymore. You are too aware despite the drinks. You‘re not young anymore. You‘re not stupid. You‘re just tired. Tired of loving him the way he‘s always let you quietly, invisibly, as long as you never asked for anything back.
And what gets you, what really fucking gets you is that he didn‘t even say no. He didn‘t reject you. He didn‘t turn away, or flinch, or apologize. You keep thinking and thinking that all the things you say, he‘ll be just speechless. Stunned? But he can just kiss you? Kissed you like a Band-Aid. Like pity. Like he was trying to keep you from crying, not because he cared, but because it would be inconvenient if you did. He kissed you to shut you up, and you almost let him.
You nod. Not because you understand, but because you‘ve finally decided to stop waiting. You stand. You don‘t slam the door. You don‘t say anything else. There‘s no last word. You don‘t say anything after that. You don‘t need to, anyway. Just you, leaving with your mouth still tasting like him, and your heart still convinced you should‘ve waited five more seconds, just in case. Just in case he would‘ve said it. Just... just maybe he came to his senses and said anything. Something.
You don‘t cry in the hallway. Not yet. You don‘t have the dignity for that. You just press your back to the wall, close your eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to still believe he could love you back. So stupid. So dumb for someone who‘s always receiving compliments about being smart. And when the tears come, they don‘t come loud. They come like shame. Slow. Quiet. Familiar. You feel like you just stabbed yourself in the stomach way up to your chest. That‘s how it feels. Seven years.
You think about what you said. I love you. Three words you spent seven years swallowing, and when they finally left your mouth, they didn‘t sound brave. They sounded desperate. Like you said, it‘s because you are too tired to feel it anymore. Desperate that he will love you back. It was easy to mean them in the moment, easier than you thought it would be. But now they sit in your mouth like something spoiled. Bitter. Embarrassing. You thought saying it would free you, like maybe the weight would lift once it was real. But it didn‘t. It just made you feel stupid. Like you misunderstood the assignment. Like you ruined something that was never yours to begin with. You weren‘t brave. You were just drunk. And stupid. And still in love with someone who looked you in the face and offered you silence.
Reader was in love with Michael, but he made it clear it was nothing more than sex. At some point, he absolutely shatters her heart.
Years later, there’s a new doctor at the Pitt. Everyone jokes that he’s like a younger, hotter Robby. It never bothers Robby, he actually really likes the guy.
They all know he’s very happily married. He’s always talking about his amazing wife and kids.
One day, Reader rushes in because one of the kids is hurt. Robby is completely thrown seeing her again. He’s never forgotten her.
But then her husband rushes past him from another room.
And for the rest of the night, Robby is forced to watch this young doctor live the life he once could have had. The life he chose to lose when he broke your heart.
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader
John Carter x Reader
WC: 1.02K
Warnings: angst with no comfort for michael, description of a seizure and probably medically inaccurate descriptions, i have not watched er so john is very out of character, really bad english
Notes: hello! i am really sorry for the delay in responding to your request, i just got back from a trip and the draft was on my computer at home, i hope you like it and do not mind that i included dr carter
“Why do you think I would be with someone like you?” is what Michael told you years ago when he broke your heart “Isn’t casual sex about sleeping with the hottest person you can find? I just found someone better, go do the same!”
And now years later he sees you walking into his emergency room.
‘Robby Jr’ was what John Carter had been called since he was hired to join the ER team, he was a younger and less traumatized version of the older man. Many might have been bothered by the comments, but Michael didn’t mind and genuinely liked the younger man and could even say he felt honored to be ‘compared’ to such a competent doctor.
However there was a striking difference between the two, while Dr Robinavitch had seven week cases Dr Carter was very happily married and had a child and everyone knew it since John couldn’t stop talking about his wife and his boy for a single shift. He talked to the doctors, the nurses, the patients and anyone nearby. Some were already fed up, but Robby always listened and liked seeing how Carter was extremely happy outside the ER.
John was the best at dealing with children because in his words “I imagine it’s my son there”, Michael never failed to give the younger doctor a pat on the shoulder as a silent compliment after a more intense pediatric case. Dr Carter was also the most pursued man in the ER, and Robby was old enough to have seen countless doctors cheating on their wives there but the younger one was very faithful and as soon as he noticed any sign of flirting he would pass the case along so as not to embarrass the patient and not to give a one hour speech about how much he loved his wife.
No one had ever met his little family, but he had confirmed their presence at the annual day shift barbecue, so everyone would finally be able to put faces to the people he talked about daily.
However the meeting was brought forward today when you Mrs Carter walked in with your son in your arms while he was convulsing.
Michael was taking off his gloves after a trauma when he saw you, you were shaking and crying while holding a boy in your arms who was clearly having spasms. Eight years had passed since the last time you saw each other, when he was immature and cruel and dismissed you as if you were nothing, when in reality you were everything. Mohan and McKay were already by your side as they placed the child on a stretcher.
“Trauma one clear” Dana shouted as she left the nurses station and headed toward you to try to calm you down, even from a distance Robby could see your panic as your eyes scanned the ER as if you were looking for someone.
“You were great back there man” John said smiling, he had helped with the car accident case and was leaving Trauma Two after updating the chart so surgery would be aware of everything that had happened during stabilization. Michael didn’t respond which made the younger man frown, so he followed the older doctor’s gaze finding the last person he wanted to see in that hospital, he moved before he realized he was doing it.
You sobbed and unsuccessfully tried to explain what had happened to the head nurse when Carter appeared at your side, a loud tearful breath left your throat when you noticed your husband’s presence.
“Hey what happened?” he asked as he hugged you trying to comfort you and realization lit up Dana’s eyes. You opened your mouth but couldn’t say anything, it felt like your voice didn’t work, the tears came back stronger. The grip of the hug tightened.
“If I’m not making assumptions about your relationship I think your son may have had a seizure” the older woman said gently “But I think it was just a scare and we won’t have any lasting effects” the platinum haired woman finished noticing how you had started to breathe better.
“It’s going to be okay my love!” your husband said without letting you go.
Inside the room your son was fortunately stabilized and would be taken to an observation bed, Samira explained the situation as a normal event during the heat wave but that they should investigate so it wouldn’t happen again. It didn’t take long for Doug to be awake and full of energy.
Michael was avoiding like a plague the news that the Carter family was in the ER. For the first time that shameful feeling of envy and jealousy hit him, not knowing anything about you was better than knowing you were married and loving a good man. A man like John.
He didn’t want you to see him, however Carter made that impossible when he asked him to check the four year old boy before discharge. The older man walked into the ward and your eyes met, your eyes widened but you said nothing. But worse than your silence was the indifference, there was no hurt, anger or… love. Just the surprise of seeing him and nothing more.
He greeted your son who behaved calmly during the exam and Robby should have been a better doctor since his attention kept drifting to you the whole time, and you didn’t even bother to look at him. Your eyes, which now held love and concern, were directed only at your son and your husband, John Carter.
summary — this thing between you and john is still fairly new, but he already knows he's completely obsessed with you. and, well, he's not exactly good at keeping things like that to himself.
word count — 4k
18+mdni — smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), mentions of m!masturbation, john cums in his pants (this is apparently a running theme whoops), pussydrunk carter, i call him johnny like 3 times, reader is afab, wears a dress and makeup, and is called a girl by carter
note — still very very new to writing smut but i am getting more comfortable with it so i hope that people like this?? i also didn't mean for this to end up as long as it was but i feel like i blinked and suddenly it was like 2k and nothing had really happened. thank you so much for 500 followers??? absolutely insane considering like, a week ago i didn't even have 450. based on this ask <3
You seem to be very invested in making him tea.
He’d said yes on a whim, not realising what it meant. He’d been more preoccupied with you in his lap, the feeling of your bare legs against him, the way he had been close enough to see each and every crease of your makeup under your eyes.
You’d been impossibly quiet all evening, and John doesn’t know you well enough to know if it’s uncharacteristic or not. You’re not generally pretty talkative on the whole, but he’s not sure if that’s shyness or just how you are. He doesn’t mind, if it is how you are, you’re such a pretty thing and your thighs are so soft under his hand that he couldn’t be paying attention to anything even if you were talking.
This thing between the two of you is pretty new, only a couple of months old, and John’s managed to get his hands on you a few times. His hand on your thigh while driving, your feet in his lap while watching a movie with his lazy hands on your ankles, his nose pressed to the top of your head while you slept.
He can count on two hands the number of times you’ve let him kiss you longer than a soft press of his lips to yours. He’s tasted your chapstick, knows the taste of your spit mixed with his.
He’d finally taken you out on a real date. A nice dinner, a bouquet of flowers that you’ve placed in one of your nicest glasses in the kitchen, and a whole evening of John charming the breath out of you. He had driven you home and not even bothered to hide his glee at being invited in.
“I had a really good time,” you’d admitted, looking down at your shoes. John’s heart has been trying to crawl out of his throat since he came to pick you up. Delicate black shoes, a pair of tights that is hiding a hole in the upper thigh under a pretty red dress the same colour of the blood he’s drawing from biting his tongue all night.
John had an index finger curled around your middle finger, and he had used it to tug you closer to himself, and this time you let him. Letting him pull you into his lap on your soft couch, halfway through airily suggesting that he find something for you two to watch when he kissed you.
He keeps you there for almost twenty minutes, pulling those pretty flats off and makes himself dizzy by peeling those ripped tights off your legs. You’re smiley, kissing him back, threading your fingers through his hair with the utmost care and softness. “I had such a good time, baby,” he kisses the fat of your cheek, feeling the way they warm under his touch. “Loved seeing you, look so pretty.” His hand had gone slowly from the back of your knee, up, up, and up, until it was past the hem of your skirt.
He was being so slow, knowing you’re kind of jumpy and not wanting anything to happen without you having the opportunity to stop him. Hands grabbing at your thighs wherever they could reach, committing every one of your pleased noises to memory.
You’d pulled away, sounding breathless and looking kissed. “Do you want something to drink? I have tea?”
He had laughed, fully and utterly endeared. “Sure, baby.”
John hadn’t quite thought it through, just wanting to agree with you, feeling his nose against the flat of your jaw. You’d climbed off his lap at that, legs shaky, still giggly, and pranced off to your kitchen, leaving him spread on the couch feeling a little embarrassed and a lot turned on.
He wants to say he doesn’t care that the two of you haven’t hooked up, but care doesn’t quite feel right. Mind seems too indifferent. It doesn’t bother him, he’d wait forever if he had to. Even if he didn’t have to and you’d just prefer it. A quiet life of the two of you, cohabitating an apartment where he gets to look at you every day. He won’t say he hasn’t thought about it though. Hasn’t collapsed into bed after a twelve hour shift and had his thoughts drift with his hands following suit.
You’re not quite his girlfriend, but the two of you have been seeing each other for enough time that he doesn’t feel like it’s creepy that he thinks of you that way. As it stands, it’s only on occasion. If it got any further it might be a little creepy. It depends on what you think. The idea of asking you brings a sickly burn to his face - hey, baby, you don’t mind if I touch myself while thinking of you, do you? Don’t worry, it’s only like, half the time. That’s probably worse than if it was every time.
Fuck, you look pretty. With your dress he can see your upper thighs and your entire upper chest, the top coming to rest just high enough to protect your decency. You kept pulling it up over dinner because you would lean down over your plate and accidentally give him an eyeful. He charitably pretended not to notice. You always look pretty, even when you’re not showing skin. He likes you with your lovely dress, he likes you in the chunky sweater you’d been wearing the first time he met you, he likes you that time he’d accidentally come into your bedroom while you were changing and gotten a glimpse of you pulling your skirt up.
What he had liked even more, though, was the embarrassed smile that had stretched up your face and the quiver of your voice as you’d told him to turn around.
You’re taking a very long time, turned away from him and fussing with a mug, and he wants to go over to see you. It’s practically been a billion years since he got to see your face.
“Baby,” he groans, leaning down so the back of his neck is curved with the arm of your sofa.”Where’d you go?”
You cough, startled. “You wanted tea?” Not that bad.
“You growing the tea leaves over there?” He lilts, voice honeyed and lazy. “I’m forgetting what you look like.”
There’s some twinkling of metal on ceramics, and soon the pad of your feet. You have a mug of tea, slightly misshapen, cream coloured with fruit painted on, and you offer it to him bashfully. “Still like me?”
He takes the mug and puts it down on the floor, hands enveloping yours. “Hmm,” he pretends to think. “Need a closer look,” he presses another kiss to the side of your mouth. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Can’t believe you kept me from seeing this for a whole nineteen minutes. Some new kind of torture.” His lips quirk up at the side.
You look down, embarrassed under his intense gaze as he pulls you into his lap again.
“You couldn’t be a doctor, pretty girl,”’ he says, not unkindly but with a formality that leaves little room to argue. “First rule is do no harm,” he presses a distracted kiss to your temple. “And you’re fucking killing me.” He can feel the plush of your thighs under the pads of his fingers.
You stutter a laugh and he can feel it against his face. “I’m killing you?”
He looks at you gravely. “To death.”
You giggle and he’s hit right in the gut with a yearning that makes him feel like a high schooler. John feels like his breathing has synced with yours, the two of you drawn together instinctively as he kisses you again. He swallows you sighs, touches your legs, and tries to avoid thinking about the twitchiness of his hardening cock. You accidentally get too close to it and he lets out a deep groan. “Still killing me,” he mutters, not bothering to pull back fully.
You make a slicing motion across his neck with an index fingernail, teasing. “Don’t think I can stop,” you admit. “You seem kinda weak spirited.”
John laughs, ducking his head to get his mouth on whatever part of your hand is still at his neck, settling on kissing the side of your finger. “Me? Weak spirited?” He laughs. “What gives, babe?”
That makes you smile and he regrets not trying to nip at you, he might have gotten a full laugh. He decides to rectify that, taking his hands and digging his fingers into your sides. He gets something that’s a cross between offense, glee and bewilderment. In your surprise, he bolts up and overshoots, shooting forward to push you on your back. “Woah, officer.” He has each of your wrists in his hands and you squirm under him. “Give a girl some warning.”
“Is that really the path you want to go down?” He kisses you again, perfectly content to keep you smiling up at him, “You want to be a bad girl?” His tone is stilted and awkward, and you’re completely endeared. John’s a flirt, but he doesn’t usually like them as much as he likes you.
“This is a wrongful arrest,” you insist. “You can check my record, it’s clean.”
He kisses you and you make a happy noise that sends blood straight to the tips of his ears and the pull of his groin.
John’s grip on you tightens without him meaning it to. He’s trying so hard to keep this light, innocent, plausibly deniable, but you’re looking up at him with those pretty eyes and he can feel his self-control crumbling faster than the arms trying to hold him above you.
“That’s cute,” he says against your skin. “My girl’s never been arrested before.” His hips shift almost involuntarily against yours, and he knows you can feel he’s half-hard just from kissing you. He doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed, not when he’s trying so hard to behave. The little sigh you let out at the feeling doesn’t help his case.
“John,” you say his name just to say it, blinking up at him like one time your eyes will open and he’ll be gone. He makes a bit of a face.
“No one I know really calls me John,” he admits. “Most of the other doctors call me Carter.”
His lips are down at your neck by this point, and he can feel the vibrations of each breath you take. He shoves down the feelings of wanting to swallow them,
“Do you want me to call you Carter?”
He shakes his head, nose brushing your jaw. “No, baby. I like hearing it from you.” You duck your head to try and catch his mouth once he reaches your collarbone and he lets you if only to keep you comfortable.
“Want me to stop?” He asks gently. He pulls back enough to look at your eyes. “Pretty girl, gotta tell me what you want.”
You’re breathless against him. “Want you,” you admit.
A noise barrels its way from his mouth and dilutes itself against your skin. You’re driving him insane, you’re going to be the fucking death of him. How is he meant to function after you say shit like that?
“Yeah?” he rasps, voice already wrecked. His hips are staying decidedly still, but the way your body arches under him isn’t helping. “You want me?” He swallows against you, mouth suddenly bone dry.
He lets your hands go, one hand coming to clutch the arm of the sofa behind your head, the other travelling down to rest on the outside of your thigh, teasing the hem of your dress. “What part of me does my girl want, hey?”
He knows, can feel the heat between your legs, wants to push his knee between your thighs and finally feel you.
“Your fingers…”
Oh, God, you’re going to be his undoing.
“Yeah, sweet girl?” He’s out of breath and he hasn’t even gotten under your dress yet. He pushes his lips to yours and slides off his position above you, now kneeling at your side. Completely and wholly devoted. “You can have my fingers. Can have anything you want, baby, you just gotta tell me.”
His hands push the skirt of your dress up, bunching it around your waist. His name tumbles from your lips and he feels his cock twitch at the sound. Your upper thighs are printed on the back of his eyelids, he’s never been so hard in his entire fucking life, and if he’s not careful he’s going to admit he loves you.
“John,” you whimper at the feeling of him rubbing circles into your thighs. “Don’t tease me.”
He plants a kiss to the side of your knee, reaching a hand up to let you thread your fingers through his. His thumb brushes a line up your panties, and he can feel how wet you are already.
“Fuck, baby,” now he’s started he can’t stop. “All this just for me? You’re so fucking wet.” His thumb finds your clit through your panties and you keen, throwing your head back, already so worked up. His shy girl, out of breath, begging him to make her cum.
“Please,” your voice is uneven. “Don’t- please touch me.”
He can smell you through the saturated fabric and when he slips his hand underneath through the side, pressing his thumb into your folds he groans like he’s the one getting groped under the clothes.
“Fuck, look at you,” he can’t even get a good view of your pussy with your underwear and his hand in the way, but it’s enough to have him rock fucking hard. “So pretty, all spread out for me? Is this for me?” He knows it is, but he needs to hear you say it.
Needs to hear you tell him he’s got you dizzy and touched and desperate while his hands is in yours. He knows it, wants to hear you gasp it out.
“Uh huh,” you nod, eyes clamped shut, vaguely embarrassed at the fact you can’t articulate your feelings. “Just for you.”
He’s rutting against the sofa on his knees on pure instinct, too focused on you to even register. His nose gets up in there to join his fingers, and he’s sure he’s squeezing the life out of your hand. “Fuck, smell so good.” He licks a stripe up your panties and almost cums at the sound that pulls from you.
“Can I take these off?” He looks up at you, eyes wet, one thumb running over your knuckles and the other absently toying with your clit. “Please?”
“Yeah, Johnny,” you breathe. “Yeah, you can take ‘em off.” He lifts your hips enough to tug them down - heart constricting at how pretty they are; pink and lacy and (potentially?) just for your date tonight. They go straight into his back pocket, and he’s distracted briefly at the idea you might forget to ask for them back.
He doesn’t waste time after that, his face finding purchase at your core as soon as he’s able to. He groans into your pussy at the taste, licking from your hole to your clit. He can vaguely hear you moaning above him, can feel the friction of his cock against the inside of his pants, your nails digging into the back of his hand, but that all falls at the wayside behind the punch-sweet slick coating his chin.
You can’t recall ever being touched like this, one hand clutching his so tight his knuckles are turning white, the other stroking his hair as softly as you can bear to. “Oh, that’s so nice, can you- oh, just a little up.” He lets you give him direction until an almost violent moan rips itself from your chest and you finally take a good grip on his hair.
“There?” You can barely hear him because he doesn’t bother to detach himself from your cunt.
“Uh, huh,” you nod, blissed-out and dazed, hips twitching at the vibration of his voice against your clit.
John’s eaten pussy before, would consider himself quite good at it, but the way you’re bucking up to meet him, the fluttering of your walls around him, the god-fuckin’-have-him sweetness on his tongue has made every coherent thought fly out the window. “Can I use my fingers, baby?” He gasps out, coming back up for air. “Please? Wanna feel you, wanna feel you so bad I bet you’re so tight, aren’t you, pretty?”
“Yeah, Johnny.” No one calls him John and even fewer have ever called him Johnny. “Please, want your fingers.”
His brain is completely fried as he slips two fingers inside your pulsing hole and feeling the way you completely suck him in. He’s about five seconds from ruining your very nice couch when you clench down on him with an agonising moan.
His fingers are moving so slowly it’s almost torturous, brushing that sweet spot deep inside you that you’ve never been able to reach with your own fingers. John laps at your clit, flat, broad strokes over the swollen nerves as he pushes in deeper with his fingers.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, barely even talking to you anymore. He feels something drip down his neck and the only thought that goes through his head is a mournful what a waste. All rational thought is gone, he can’t even remember his own name when you’re not crying it, and he doesn’t care to.
He takes his mouth off your clit - dutifully replacing it with the thumb of the hand that’s inside you - to bring his mouth under his hand. John maneuvers himself so he can lap the drops of your essence where his fingers are fucking you deep enough to make tears prickle at the corners of both your eyes and his.
John can feel you clenching, so tight he can’t imagine having feeling in the tips of his fingers much longer, and he groans again, pressing his nose to your inner thigh. “You close, baby?” He asks, mouth full. You nod at him, pretty makeup smudged around your eyes, pupils blown and looking somehow impossibly prettier than he’s ever seen you. He’s going to marry you. You’re not even his girlfriend yet. “Gonna make my girl come,” he slurs against your slick.
You make a strangled noise like you can’t breathe, the hand not in his is clenching your skirt so you can see his face. John would let his fingers fall off if it meant you kept panting his name the way you are and getting to feel you grip him the way you are on both of his hands.
“Can you come for me, sweet girl?” he coaxes, curling his fingers again and moving his mouth back up to wrap his lips around your clit.
“Fuck!” Your hand grips his hair so hard he cries out against your core. “John- Oh!”
He shoves his fingers in further, trying to get as deep as he can to push an orgasm out of you. “There we go, fuck, you look so pretty- taste so good. Need you to come, can you come for me? Please - God - need you to come for me. Please, baby. Fucking- fuck- love-”
You come hard around him, gushing around his fingers with a cry of his name. John’s pressing open mouthed kisses to your core, absolutely no finesse or rhythm, just trying to get as much of you in his mouth as he can.
“Oh, thank you baby,” he squeezes your hand, trying to stop his eyes from clamping shut so he can see the shine of your lips as your jaw forms the O of his name.
You jerk, pressing the back of your heel into his back, scrambling to find something to hold in your spare hand that’s gone back and forth between your skirt and his hair, settling on pulling his hair which makes him whine into your thigh.
You lay them for a moment, still in a daze as you come down from your orgasm, getting hit with an aftershock as he pulls his fingers out of you and presses them right against his tongue.
John can vaguely feel his heartbeat behind his eyes as he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, revelling in the way his mouth is slick with you. He pulls back on his haunches, squeezing the fingers in his hand gingerly. “You okay, baby?”
You nod, flushed and glowing, smoothing down the hair that’s stuck to his forehead. “Yeah,” you sigh out. “Yeah, John, I’m okay. C’mere,” you tug him off his knees by the collar of his too-fancy shirt and pull him back on top of you. You kiss him firmly, uncaring that the lower half of his face has a sheen of your arousal.
He lets himself be manhandled, one hand still in yours and the other on your bare thigh. Even though you’ve just had one of the most scathing, white-hot orgasms you’ve ever had, he’s the one who looks completely ruined.
“You’re crazy, Carter,” your spit mixes with your arousal fluid and he swallows it eagerly.
He shakes his head against your mouth. “Uh uh, not from you.”
“You don’t like that?” He hums disapprovingly. “John? Johnny? Baby?” He groans and you know you’ve hit the jackpot there.
John chases your mouth as you pull away. You blink at him through wet lashes and when you speak John feels both his heart and his cock jump. “Can I suck you off, baby?”
He chuckles under his breath, avoiding your eyes and pulling back just enough. “I, uh…” he pulls one of his hands back just to scratch the side of his neck, his skin pink under his palm. He’s suddenly very aware of how sticky his underwear feels. “I kind of already…”
He doesn’t have to say anything, you see the flush of his face and the growing wet patch on the front of his pants.
“Already?” You seem very excited at the fact that he came in his fucking pants like a virgin. “Just from going down on me?”
He groans. “I- yeah,” he admits, embarrassed. “I was… yeah, just from doing that.” Even the tip of his nose is red. “You’re too pretty, sweet girl, drove me crazy.” He leans in and lets you close the gap - just in case his desperation is too much for you now.
You kiss him sweetly. “Had a really good time tonight, John,” you can’t quite look him in the eye, like you’re the one who’s embarrassed even though he’s got a sticky mess in his lap. You’re past the point where you have to ask if you’re going to continue seeing each other, but you always try to gauge how he’s feeling after every date.
And he’ll be damned if he lets you think for even a single second that he’s feeling anything other than completely obsessed with you. “Me too, baby,” he pulls you down, laying back on the sofa and pulling you close.
He’s only half on the couch, one leg hanging off and when he shifts to let you get comfortable there’s a clink of ceramic on wood and you shoot up. “Shit!” You roll off him and scoop up the cup of tea, now mostly cold.
“Hey, baby?” He lays there, calling out to where you duck off to the kitchen. You hum distractedly to show you’re listening. “Do you mind if I take a shower? Not super stoked at the idea of spending the night covered in jizz.”
You arrive back with paper towels. “Oh you’re staying the night, are you?” He never has before. That’s probably because he’s never had his fingers inside of you before. Your voice is teasing as you get on your knees to clean up the spill.
“I can’t drive home like this,” he protests.
You giggle. “Yeah you can shower, you know where it is.” He hauls himself off the sofa, kissing the top of your head as he goes past you.
“Wanna come with?” he’s not asking you to shower with him and you both know it. You’ve showered with him in the room before, he likes to come sit on the floor and sit with you with you behind the curtain.
You throw a look over your shoulder at him.
“What?” He throws his hands up in surrender. “I might forget what you look like again.”
summary ﹏ What's better than a karaoke party to hide the loud noise of moans and whines coming from Dean's room? And what's better than wearing his hockey jersey after sex?
cw ﹏ ( +18 ) mdni / no plot smut fic. afab!reader. friends with benefits vibes with mutual attractions. semi-public. flirting&teasing. petname (baby). praise. dirty-talk. oral fixation. body worship. breasts / nipple play. unprotected piv. clit stimulation. voice kink (being loud)&exhibitionism-adjacent fantasy. overstimulation. squirting. external ejaculation. aftercare. “you look better in my clothes” trope.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!
Your voice was loud in Dean’s room, vibrating against the wall just to hit back in your ears; and for once, you were glad for whoever was in charge of the music for this party.
The music was so loud tonight, so many people came to celebrate the guys’ victory, alcohol flowing in red cups, laughter in every room. But you were here, inside Dean’s room, behind fucked against his desk; his sweaty torso against your back as he thrusted his hips against your own, slapping your butt at the same time.
The skin slapping skin noise echoed in the room, the desk creaking under both your weight but Dean didn’t seem to care much about it. “Come on baby, show me how much you love my cock, yeah?” He groaned, one hand grabbing your hip tightly to pull you back onto his cock while the other cupped your jaw, tilting your head up just so he could see the expression on your face due to his tall height.
His thumb had slowly slipped inside your mouth, pressing against your tongue; your saliva coating it, dripping down to the palm of his hand. “Mmmfuck baby, you take me so good… That pussy’s squeezing me.” You heard him say, and even though you were unable to reply, a whine escaped your mouth.
Dean chuckled at the noise, before snapping his hips against your ass; his fat cock stretching your gummy walls open, making you coat his shaft with more juices.
He pressed his torso fully against your back then, sweat and skin touching, and you arched toward him. The angle changed then, as Dean’s tip rubbed against your entrance each time he pulled out of your sloppy pussy; a moan so loud left your mouth and you were sure everyone downstairs had heard it, which was impossible with the volume of the music. “Fuck, y’want them to hear us or something? Want them to come take a look?” He joked, groaning as you clenched around his cock.
The hand Dean had to cup your jaw moved away, his thumb leaving your drooling mouth in a wet pop before traveling down to your tits. Saliva coating his digit and he used it to rub around your areola, making your nipple peak up. “Y’so fucking pretty… Goddamn.” He whispered in your ear, cock buried deep inside you for a second, tip kissing your cervix so gently.
“Dean fuck…” You voiced back at him, head all dizzy from the way he was fucking you. The hockey player had always taken his time to make sure and pleasure you first, watching what made you moan and come. You sighed as his hand on your hip also moved to your tits, and he groped both of them in his large and warm palms; he squeezed the fat, pinched your nipples, rolled them in between his fingers before tugging softly.
Moans and whines escaped you, showing how good you felt at that moment.
“You like it, pretty girl? You like me touching you like that?” He asked, both in a mocking and genuine tone—like he wanted to make sure you were having fun like he did. You nodded at his question, panting while replying. “I love it so fuckin’ much, yeah. I love when you touch me.” And it was enough for Dean to get cocky again, snapping his hips in fast and quick thrusts against your ass, making it bounce. You gasped, arching up to feel him more inside you.
“I want to make you come on my cock, what do you think? You want to come on my cock?” He asked, pinching your nipples again and you struggled to reply for a second, and especially when the room was filled with squelching noises coming from your sloppy pussy. The noises were perverted, mixing with skin slapping skin and moans from the both of you.
Dean’s hands ended up moving to your hips, grabbing them to pull you back onto his cock faster. Your juices were coating his balls, making them slap and stick to your clit each time he thrusted back inside you.
“Yeah, yeah, I want to come on your cock!” You cried out, one hand searching backward to grab Dean’s forearm just to feel him. He groaned, cursing under his breath when you clenched around his shaft once more. His tip rubbed and pushed against your g-spot as he lifted your hips up slightly. “You’re such a good girl, yeah? Y’want to come where? I can’t hear shit with the music.” He asked, mocking you just so you’d repeat it.
You groaned in annoyance, turning your head to look at him from above your shoulder; he had his usual cocky smile on, face sweaty from the efforts, blonde hair falling on his forehead. “Fuck off, Dean…” He laughed out-loud at your answer, nodding his head before fastening his pace. The thrusts now sent you forward, your weight making the desk creak as Dean fucked you.
One of his hands also traveled between your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit with a feather-light touch before he started rubbing circles onto it, digits smearing wetness around with how slick you were. Your thighs shook as the pleasure coursed through your body, your mouth opening wide and you cried out Dean’s name; thankfully the loud volume of the music and karaoke behind the doors covered it.
“Y’so fucking loud, baby, you really want them to hear you, uh? Just tell me if that’s what you want.” You heard Dean say as he kept snapping his cock inside your pussy; juices covering all his length to his bushy base and making his skin glisten. You didn’t reply, too busy focusing on your orgasm coming.
Warmth pooled inside your stomach, your pussy clenched tight around Dean’s cock and your thighs started to shake. He must have realized, because the circles he rubbed onto your clit fastened and his thrusts were quicker.
“Dean, fuck, I’m about to come!” You whined, arching toward him again and he cursed, his hips making your ass bounce. “Yeah, I can feel it, baby.” He said, his tip rubbed the sweet spot at the entrance of your pussy.
You only needed a few more thrusts before crying out loudly, muscles trembling as you came onto the hockey player’s cock; his fingers still rubbing at your sensitive clit. You squirmed, mouth wide open and drooling onto Dean’s desk while being overstimulated. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to—” He groaned, hips slapping your ass, the tip of his cock still rubbing your g-spot. “Dean! Dean, fuck!” You cried out, pussy clenching as you suddenly squirted from the amount of pleasure you felt.
Your juices flowed out, drenching Dean’s cock, his thighs, both your feet and the floor of his room. He gasped, cursing as he kept going just to bring it all out of you, his fingers rubbing your clit faster. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it, good girl.” You heard, before your upper body fell onto the desk, you were all spent.
Only then, you felt Dean pull out of your sloppy hole, him groaning behind you before you felt the warmth of his semen hitting your lower back; the ropes of it slowly dripping to your ass. You were both breathing loudly, silence took over—if you forgot about the loud music of the party—before Dean’s hands moved to grab your hips. “You were so fucking good.” He said, pressing kisses to your sweaty skin; from your shoulders to your nape.
“Was I?” You chuckled at him, looking at his face from above your shoulder. “Yeah, you were, duh. You always are.” He only replied.
You watched as he moved away, grabbing his boxers and putting them on before turning around to grab tissues from his bed table. He came back, slowly hit the floor to be on his knees and started to clean the mess between your thighs and the semen off of your skin. You smiled at his actions, feeling his lips on your skin; kissing your thighs or the back of your knees, you waited for him to give you the go before moving away from the desk too.
He got up from the floor, grabbed your panties before giving them to you. “You staying a bit or you want to get back to the party?”
You hummed, still half-naked and now sitting on his bed. “Thought about staying here for a bit, what do you think?” He smiled, throwing the tissue away before grabbing a hockey jersey with his name and number on it. He threw it to you, licking his lips like he already thought about you in his shirt. “Here, you can keep it or whatever.” He shrugged, sitting next to you in the bed.
You chuckled before putting the shirt on, and rolled to lay on your stomach. Dean imitated you, blue eyes focusing on the view he had of you. He hummed before speaking again. “Yeah, I like that view. You’re pretty like that.” You rolled your eyes at the compliment even though you knew they were genuine coming from Dean.
“You know I made a mess on the floor, right?” You simply replied back to him and he shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll take care of that, don’t worry about it. Right now I’m just having ideas with you wearing my jersey.” He leaned over, pressing his lips against yours for a single kiss before pulling away.
“Yeah, I think you should wear it all the time, just saying.”
“In your dreams, Di Laurentis.”
taglist ﹏ @ravensreadingrecs @nuitts @filthgf @avasarchve @girldisrupted @userhotd @wiishies ( to be added )
Warning: This fic contains domestic fluff overload, relentless family softness, and a deeply loved ER doctor being emotionally bullied by his own twins. Includes accidental identity crises after children discover their father has a government name, dramatic sulking from a grown man called “Jack Abbott” instead of “Daddy,” and two tiny chaos gremlins weaponizing new information for entertainment. Features warm family routines, sleepy cuddles after night shifts, shared laughter in the kitchen, matching apologies, and a husband who pouts exactly like his children. May cause aggressive smiling, aching fondness, watery eyes from how loved they all are, and the sudden urge to build a family with someone who looks at you the way Jack Abbott looks at his twins. Read gently.
Six years of marriage, and somehow the love between you and Jack only kept growing stronger.
Maybe it started on your second anniversary, when you sat beside him in that tiny examination room, fingers intertwined while the doctor smiled and told you both the news.
Twins.
You still remembered the way Jack looked at you that day. Completely speechless. His eyes had turned glassy almost instantly, his hand gripping yours so tightly as if he was terrified this was all just a dream.
After everything he had lost before every heartbreak, every lonely night, every moment he thought life had already taken too much from him and there you were. And now, two babies growing inside you.
He had laughed and cried at the same time, leaning down to kiss your forehead over and over.
“Two?” he whispered in disbelief. “We’re having two babies?”
From that day on, Jack changed in the softest ways possible.
He started calling himself “Daddy” long before the twins were even born.
“Daddy’s talking to you both,” he’d say while resting his head against your stomach after exhausting ER shifts.
And you?
You became “Mommy” naturally. Effortlessly.
Especially once the twins were born.
The house was never quiet anymore. Tiny footsteps, endless giggles, toys scattered everywhere, and Jack an exhausted emergency doctor still somehow finding enough energy to crawl around the floor playing dinosaurs with the twins at midnight.
And honestly? You barely called him “Jack” anymore.
It felt strange on your tongue.
To you, he was honey, love, daddy, babe; anything but his actual name. The only time “Jack Abbott” fully came out of your mouth was when you were genuinely angry at him, which thankfully didn’t happen often.
So one night, after Jack left for another night shift at the ER, you were in the bathroom carefully doing your skincare routine when the twins padded into your bedroom wearing matching pajamas.
Like always, they wanted to sleep with you whenever their daddy worked overnight.
One climbed onto the bed while the other stood beside you, watching you apply moisturizer with intense curiosity.
Then suddenly
“Mommy?”
“Hm?”
“Is Daddy’s name Jack?”
You blinked at him through the mirror before smiling softly. “Yes, sweetheart. Daddy’s name is Jack Abbott.”
The other twin immediately gasped dramatically from the bed.
“JACK ABBOTT!” he shouted loudly, clearly delighted by this discovery.
You burst into laughter instantly.
“Yes,” you said, trying not to laugh too hard. “But you both call him Daddy, okay? He’s Daddy for you.”
The twins nodded obediently.
For about three seconds.
Then they both started whispering to each other on the bed, giggling suspiciously while glancing at one another like they had just invented the funniest joke in the world.
You narrowed your eyes at them.
“What are you planning?”
“Nothingggg,” they answered together far too innocently.
You should’ve known right then.
The next morning felt normal.
Jack came home from the hospital exhausted but smiling softly the second he saw you in the kitchen. He leaned down automatically to kiss your cheek while wrapping an arm around your waist.
“Morning, Mommy.”
“Morning, Daddy.”
Completely normal.
He even brought the twins’ favorite donuts on the way home like he always did after night shifts.
Nothing seemed wrong.
Until daycare pickup.
You were in the kitchen preparing lunch when the front door opened.
The twins rushed inside first, laughing uncontrollably.
And behind them was Jack.
Sulking.
Actually sulking.
His lips were pushed into the deepest pout imaginable, brows furrowed while he carried the twins’ tiny backpacks over one shoulder.
You stared at him in confusion.
“What?” you asked, pulling off your apron. “What happened?”
No answer.
Jack walked dramatically toward the couch and sat down with his arms crossed like an offended child.
The twins immediately climbed all over him, still giggling.
“We’re sorry, Daddy,” they both said at the same time between laughter.
Jack only huffed.
You looked between all three of them, trying not to laugh already.
“Okay… what did they do?”
One twin buried his face into Jack’s shoulder while laughing.
The other pointed at him proudly.
“We called him Jack Abbott!”
That was it.
You pressed your lips together instantly.
Apparently, during pickup, the twins had run toward Jack screaming—
“JACK ABBOTT!”
Right in the middle of the daycare hallway.
And when Jack crouched down in absolute confusion, they kept doing it over and over.
“Hi, Jack Abbott!”
“Carry me, Jack Abbott!”
“Look at me, Jack Abbott!”
Meanwhile, the teachers were apparently trying very hard not to laugh.
Jack had stared at them in betrayal.
“No,” he told them firmly while picking them up. “I’m Daddy. Daddy, twins.”
But that only made it worse.
Because the twins found his reaction hilarious.
So the entire walk home became
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“…Jack Abbott.”
And then uncontrollable laughter.
Now on the couch, Jack looked genuinely offended as the twins hugged him tightly.
“We said sorryyy,” one whined.
“You hurt Daddy’s feelings,” Jack muttered dramatically.
“You’re not Jack Abbott?”
“I am,” he sighed. “But not to you two. I’m Daddy.”
The twins looked at each other seriously for a moment before nodding.
“Okay, Daddy.”
Jack finally softened a little.
Then one of them grinned mischievously and whispered loudly,
“Okay… Daddy Jack Abbott.”
You lost it immediately, laughing so hard you had to grab the kitchen counter for support.
Jack looked absolutely betrayed.
“Mommy!” he complained while the twins collapsed into giggles again.
And honestly?
Watching your husband pout while your twins teased him mercilessly might’ve been one of the cutest things you had ever seen.
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
𝑰𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉, you're who Malcolm wants, but you don't think you're enough
malcolm liked you– no, he loved you. to him you were everything, his eyes admired you as if you'd hung the stars in the sky and kept the moon in place, to him you were everything so he never understood how you couldn't see it.
it pained him, seeing how badly you struggled to love yourself, the way you never took his compliments. he yearned to love you, to tell you how beautiful you were and how much he loved you, but now as he stood here confessing you were shutting down.
you loved malcom, you really did but you truly couldn't understand why he'd want you, you felt yourself shutting down staring at him slightly wide eyed and confused.
"why me?" you stared at him, your voice low as if it were any louder the energy in the room would explode, "why not you sweetheart?"
you let out a shaky breath, your finger picking at your nail, "you don't want me malcolm, look at me."
malcolm's heart broke hearing you, god he wish he could just shake you and rattle that part of your brain that made you feel this way, "sweetheart, I want you so badly it scares me, I want to be the one who paints that soft smile on your face, I want to be the one hold you, to tell you how pretty and how worthy you are of love until you believe me, god I... I need to be the one to do that."
your eyes were glassy, the breath you'd taken sucked in as he approached you, his hands came to hold your face drawing softly circles on you cheeks, "malcolm you don't want me, trust me, im not the one you nee-" "quit saying that, I want you sweetheart, and I will wait as long as I need if I need to. I will show you how worthy you are of this, how beautiful you are, please let me."
you let out a shaky sigh, staring at malcom and the flowers disregarded on the countertop, you throat was aching but amidst all the overwhelming emotions pooling in your eyes and gut, you muttered a barely audible "okay."
malcom let go of a breath he didn't even know he was holding, his hands brought you closer placing soft kisses all over your face muttering small thank yous and how beautiful you are.
your eyes fluttered shut letting out a shaky sigh, it was overwhelming– you werent used to this, nor did you think you really deserved it, his kisses never stopped, getting closer to your lips, softly kissing the corners before fully engulfing you in the most heart aching and gentle kiss filled with nothing but love and longing.
and in that moment you finally let yourself believe you deserved this.
every time I see someone act rude, entitled or disrespectful towards a fanfic writer and/or the fics, I think the writer should be legally allowed to kill them
wet t-shirt contest - there are two things that everyone in the ER knows about you—you're incredible at your job and extremely hot. the thing that they don't know is that you're dating one of their newest residents and have been for years.
WORD COUNT: 3.7k
staring contest - dennis steps in when a drunken patient gets handsy with you.
WORD COUNT: 3.5k
punching above his weight...or is he? - once your relationship is no longer a secret, the emergency department starts to see just how perfect you and dennis are for each other, and they realize that you may not be as far out of his league as they initially thought.
WORD COUNT: 4.2k
✿ cold compress - you and dennis get interrupted while you're...messing around in a call room.
WORD COUNT: 4k
i've got you - you get a concussion while at work, courtesy of a med student panicking over a bit of blood.
WORD COUNT: 4.7k
undermined - you and dennis struggle to get back to normal after your concussion.
WORD COUNT: 6.1k
destabilize - dennis puts his frustrations on you during a mass casualty, after seeing how people seem to drop everything to make your life easier.
WORD COUNT: 4.9k
false positive - a few people start speculating that you and dennis have a kid after seeing the two of you with your niece.
WORD COUNT: 2.3k
slim pickins - trinity finds your tiktok page, leading to a full-blown investigation.
WORD COUNT: 1.9k
ten minutes - yours and dennis' routine on a cold december day, plus a little sneak peek into your future.
WORD COUNT: 3.4k
all things dennis and hot shot (ideas, blurbs, thoughts, moodboards, etc!)
