"Frankie..." the whimper rips from your throat, echoing off the light pink walls of your bedroom. It's late, maybe 1 or 2 am? You couldn't tell, not with Frank being so so close like this.
You'd been sleeping before you felt his lips on your neck, a needy little whine leaving his lips, "Baby... you awake sweetheart..?"
Oh, you were definitely awake now.
His cock slipped inside you easily. A few nights before Frank murmured against your lips, "It's like coming home..". You couldn't stop thinking about it.
You whined louder now, when Frank's thrusts got a little deeper. His soft palm came to cover your mouth gently. You mewled.
"Shhhh baby," he whispered against your chin, "Feels that good huh?"
You nod, eyes wide with want.
"M' gonna need you to stay quiet for me sweetheart, don't want the neighbors to hear your pretty moans,"
It only made you want to be louder, he slowed his pace when he felt your gummy walls clenching down, wanting to make the pleasure last a little longer for you.
Frank pulled his hand away from your mouth to rub slow circles into your clit, making your eyes roll back.
A proud grin appeared on Frank's face and he laughed lightly as he teased you, "Is my sweet girl close? It's only been a few minutes honey..."
A choked out plea of his name left my mouth "Frankie... Frankie please..."
"So good for me," he murmured against my lips.
Frank quickly realized the only way to actually keep me quiet? Was to kiss me senseless while I came.
robby knows it’s wrong. you’re this sweet little thing, clutching your iPad to your chest, looking left and right like you’re about to cross the road. but all you’re doing is standing in the er, deer in headlights expression painting your face.
he wills himself not to approach you, speak to you, but you look so inviting, he just has to. “lookin’ for someone?”
“oh — hi.” if he thought you were adorable before, you being flustered takes the cake. “i am supposed to look for a dr robinavitch?” you frame it like you’re unsure, eyelashes fluttering as you take in his towering figure. “i— i have to shadow him.”
robby’s palm connects with the small of your back, ushering towards the break room like he’s taking you to meet your mentor. well, that isn’t far from what’s happening, is it?
summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly)
a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.
A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.
The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.
The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.
He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.
The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.
It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.
Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.
You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.
“Jack.”
He doesn’t even look up. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet!”
“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”
You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.
“I just need a small, tiny favor.”
“No.”
“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”
You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”
“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”
“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”
“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”
“You froze.”
I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.
“It was just…one second.”
“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”
You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.
“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious!”
“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”
“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.
He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”
“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”
He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.
You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.
The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.
You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”
His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”
“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”
He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says again, quieter.
You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.
“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”
You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.
“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”
You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.
Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.
Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.
Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.
“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”
──────────
Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”
“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.
He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”
“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”
You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.
“Oh, immensely.”
“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”
You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”
“I’ll go down on you.”
“What?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”
“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”
His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”
The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.
“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.
And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.
“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).
“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.
And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.
You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.
You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.
──────────
Four days after, you get behind on your charting.
Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.
“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”
He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”
You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”
Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.
“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.
“Oh, really.”
“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”
Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.
Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.
──────────
“Hey kid.”
You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.
“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”
He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.
Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.
“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.
“How long?”
You blink. “How long what?”
“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.
You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”
Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”
He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).
“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.
His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”
You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.
You can’t help but smile back at him.
Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”
Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.
“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”
You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.
“I hate you, Robinavitch.”
“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.
Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.
And there is a thing.
──────────
It happens after the code blue.
You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.
Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.
By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.
The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.
You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”
The door opens quietly behind you.
“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.
The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”
“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.
He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”
His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.
Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”
Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.
You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”
You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.
“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”
You study him, skeptical.
“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”
He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.
“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”
“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.
“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.
Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.
The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.
And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?
He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.
Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.
“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”
You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”
“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.
“Oh, do I know her?”
“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”
You pinch his side. “Rude.”
“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”
You swallow. “Oh. Her.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love that.”
You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”
You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.
Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”
“Shower.”
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𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS: fem!reader, fluff, flirting, kissing, just cute shit really, established relationship, reader wearing a dress
PROMPT: here!
WC: 0.5k
You’re laughing from something Jack had said when the rain starts.
You’ve learned, in the short week you’ve been overseas, that the weather here turns on a dime.
Perfect one moment, furious the next.
And at first, it’s almost lovely; cool, scattered droplets like tiny crystal fairies kissing sun-toasted skin.
And it’s hard not to smile wider when Jack’s face tightens into that annoyed little scowl of his, because really, there is something delightful about a man as handsome as him looking inconvenienced by a little nature.
But the humor dies fast when those same droplets warp into biting sheets, lashing down as if angry for being laughed at.
You both scramble at once, quick steps and frantic eyes, until you’re packed beneath a narrow archway with barely enough room, shoulder pressed to thicker shoulder, hair plastered damply to your foreheads while the rain still sprays you both anyway.
“You okay?” He’s looking down at you. Eyes big and brows wrinkled.
“‘M fine,” you manage through clattering teeth, each syllable clicking against the next.
Not your best work. Not even believable enough to count as lying properly.
He doesn’t even bother pretending to buy it, just gives you a look that says, sure you are.
You’re dressed for balmy afternoons and golden-hour strolling and being admired properly, not this.
Your thin sundress is pasted cold against your skin, and your sandals (the ones he said made your legs look endless), are now doing nothing for you now except sliding around on wet stone.
“What about you?” you ask, nudging him an elbow tucked against your side. “Know you hate rain.”
“I’m tougher than I look,” he teases, lips twitching.
“That feels unlikely, seeing as you look pretty tough.”
The smile he gives you is a killer. A proper smile, too, cracking through his usually composed surface like sunlight slicing clouds.
He's quiet while he shucks off his overshirt to drape it over your shoulders. A very sweet thought, if not super practical, because the thing's already soaked through and instantaneously cold against your skin. But, well, it's still better than nothing.
And also, now you smell like Jack, which is never a bad thing.
“Plus body heat is a beautiful thing, you know,” he says, completely ignoring your obvious plight. “I’ll just stay right here and steal yours.”
He makes a grab for your sides and tugs you flush against him, sealing the whole heist with a swift, soft nip at your bottom lip.
You hum in surprised approval, feeling all the chill being sucked from your limbs straight into the pool of heat collecting in your toes.
He shifts slightly, taking the brunt of it on his back in order to keep you drier.
“That’s very parasitic of you,” you finally respond into his lips, feigning accusation even as you lean in, every excuse welcomed, fingers curled loosely into the wet cotton of his shirt.
His eyes glitter. “Yeah, well,” he continues, pulling you a little closer, “I’m cold and you’re pretty. Tough combination.”
Heat climbs into your neck. You duck your head a little, like maybe the rain and the dark and the fact that he’s looking at you like that will do you the courtesy of swallowing the reaction whole.
“You really do just say whatever pops into your head, don't you?” you mutter, mostly to his chest because making eye contact now would probably be the end of you.
“What?” he says, voice dripping with exaggerated innocence as he pulls you another tiny, entirely unnecessary inch closer. “You know you’re my pretty girl. Wanna hear you say it too.”
A helpless little laugh bubbles out of you, muffled as you try to hide your face. “Jack —”
“C’mon.”
You hide for one more second, then surrender with a mumbled, “I’m your pretty girl.”
He smiles again, and this time it's smug and triumphant and entirely too charming. He always manages to get exactly what he wants. You included.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s right.” Then he presses a kiss to your mouth and starts guiding you out from the archway. “Now let’s get my pretty girl inside before she gets sick.”
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
Summary: Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
Prequel to:
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
The first time takes place in Jesse’s spare bedroom at his Fourth of July party. The fireworks are erupting outside, the colour playing out across your bare skin through the slats of the blinds as Brendon goes down on you.
“Don’t stop.” You chant as the explosions from rockets burst through the air, practically rocking the entire house. Your hand is in his hair, tugging hard at the roots as your back arches off the bed. “Oh my God, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t, not for a single second. He chases your release like it’s his pathway to paradise, until you’re coming on his tongue, the taste of sweet honey flooding his mouth. Then your hands are on his zipper, shoving his designer jeans down over his ass as his dexterous fingers withdraw the condom out of his wallet. You take it from his hands, tearing it open with your teeth before pinching the top and rolling it down his needy cock. Your desperation, it’s a fucking turn on, especially from the woman who hates his guts 90% of the time.
That moment when he enters you, its bliss, the closest thing to heaven he’s ever tasted. He can tell it’s the same way for you, from the sound you make as his palm grasps the headboard and he starts to thrust. The ecstasy sears through his nerve endings, building to a crescendo, a fever pitch that rings in his ears as your thighs tighten around his waist. Your teeth sink into his shoulder to stifle the sound of your orgasm, the bite of pain mingling with the pleasure as the fireworks start to peter off. His mouth claims yours, drinking down the rapture as his release spills out of him in long, hot spurts, painting the inside of the condom.
“You know we can’t tell anyone about this right?” You say in the aftermath as you drag those tiny denim shorts up your thighs. He’s sitting with his back against the headboard, watching as you dress in flashes of violet that light up the sky outside from the last of Jesse’s roman candles. The parties starting to die down now, the chatter of guests a dull murmur in the background of your fucking.
“I know.” He says resolutely, the edges of his mouth tipping up as he reaches down alongside of the bed and comes up with your tank top. “Which is a shame because hate fucking you, it’s the most alive I’ve felt in years.”
It’s not a lie. He’s fucked dozens of women over the past seven years but none of them hold a candle to the woman who gets his blood boiling, who drives him to distraction, who puts him in his place and calls him out on his shit.
“Yeah, me too.” You say, snatching the tank top from his hand before your fingers thread through his hair once more, grasping it. Your mouth covers his, a filthy, solicitous kiss that gets him hard again underneath the sheets before you release him, pulling away. “I’ll see you around Park.”
“Yeah.” He says as the door clicks open a fraction and you give a furtive glance to make sure the coast is clear. “You certainly will.”
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AN: Loosely inspired by Ana Huang's King of Wrath - I have been wanting to write something like this for a while for Bren but I couldn't get all the pieces together in my head but until I read that book and was ahhhh this is how it would happen.
Summary: Jealousy is not an emotion Brendon Park is accustomed to.
SET AFTER:
Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.
Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.
The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.
A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...
This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.
The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.
SET BEFORE:
Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.
Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.
The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.
THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.
Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...
Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.
Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.
A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.
The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.
The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.
The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.
Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.
His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.
The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.
A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.
The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.
Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.
Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.
Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.
The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.
Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.
Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.
Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.
The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.
Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.
Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.
Roses - Brendon is forced to deal with a vindictive POS when a dozen red roses are delivered to your door.
The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.
Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.
A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.
Home - Brendon introduces you to your new home after the accident.
The Change Up - When you struggle to reacclimate at home Brendon realises you need a change up.
Jealousy.
It’s not an emotion that Brendon Park feels, especially not with a woman like you. One who berates him, who infuriates him, who fucks him and then leaves him ruined in his sheets while she dresses as the lights from the city play her skin through the open windows of his condo.
But here he is at one of those obnoxious hospital galas, his chest it’s full of shattered glass because you’ve just walked in with that asshole Noah from radiology. He remembers him from Jesse’s Fourth of July party as the guy that didn’t pay enough attention to realise you were freezing. He’s certainly paying you a lot of attention right now, his hand gliding down along your backless dress, thumb skimming over the space where Brendon’s mouth had been just two days ago.
If he undresses you tonight, he’ll find the bite mark that Brendon left on your right ass cheek. The perfect indentation of his teeth on a pretty little peach.
But Noah… he won’t be undressing you tonight, Brendon’s going to make sure of that.
He waits for the opportune moment, lingering closely on the fringes of the event, stalking you as you move through the crowd with the same purposeful grace you undertake in the E.D.
It’s when Noah leaves you unattended to get a drink from the bar that he pounces, his arm sliding across your waist, hand clapped over your mouth drawing you into the darkness of the alcove that hides the door to the library. It slams shut behind you as you drive an elbow into his solar plexus, knocking the air right out of his lungs.
“You fucking asshole.” You snarl as you turn around to face him. You shove at his chest and he grips your arms, hurling you against his body. “You’re lucky I don’t murd-”
His mouth claims yours, crashing against berry red lips as he kisses you with a ferocity he’s been feeling since the moment you stepped into this ballroom tonight. You fight him, just for a second, but then your fingers curl in his tuxedo jacket, dragging him closer. His tongue traces along the seam of your mouth, forcing it open as he shoves you up against the hundred year old bookcase, the paperbacks vibrating as he drives his knee between your thighs causing the slit of your dress to reveal a gateway to heaven.
“If you want me to stop I will.” He mumbles as his hand delves between the fabric, his fingertips doodling lazy patterns along the inside of your thigh. “Otherwise, I’m going to remind you of exactly who you belong to sweetheart and it’s not the man in the other room.”
The sensation of his fingers skirting over your panties must be maddening, he can feel your excitement underneath the lace, the thrill at being taken like this.
“Tell. Me. To. Stop.” He annunciates every word, but you don’t repeat them.
This thing between the two of you, it’s messed up in all the right ways. It’s the reason he’s never heard a no from your lips, no matter how much fucked up shit the two of you get into.
His thumb skims over your clit and a whimper escapes your throat, one that resonates through his entire body like a call to the wild as his fingers hook in your underwear, pushing the damp lace aside.
“You can’t, can you?” He whispers, his middle finger tapping against that needy little hole as he works your clit with his thumb. “Because you want this, you want me.”
Your breath catches as he eases his finger inside you, a low moan erupting from your mouth. His palm claps over it, stifling the noise and you give him a furious glare as a smirk crosses his features.
“We don’t want him to hear now would we, my little rage machine?” Brendon taunts as he slips in another finger, curling them so they hit that sweet spot. Your body arches against him, those pert nipples of yours pebbling against the fabric of your dress. “He’s probably out there right now looking for you. What would he say if he found you like this, getting off on my hand like the bad girl you are?”
Oh, that does a little something for you. You clench around his fingers, soaking his palm as his fingers piston in and out of you, striking their target every single time.
“You like that Rae?” His voice is a filthy rasp as he increases the pressure on your clit, keeping the same slow and steady pace as he draws deviant circles over the needy little nub. “The thought of him seeing exactly who you belong to. Watching us, knowing that I’m the only man who can make you come like this, so he’d better fuck off home alone.”
Your chest heaves, your breath coming in ragged pants as your skin starts to flush underneath his palm. The rapture is coming, his naughty little minx giving into him because the pleasure he bestows upon her is simply too much.
“That’s it Rae.” He coaxes as you start to tighten, gripping his fingers so impossibly hard that he knows you’re about to gush all over him. “Show me who owns this pussy.”
Those words, it’s enough to get you over the edge. You climax against his hand, your rich honey dripping down his fingers as a muffled scream erupts from behind his palm. He keeps it there, his eyes fixed on yours as he withdraws his fingers from your cunt, pressing them to his lips before sucking them into his mouth. He groans around them, your taste bursting on his tongue as he licks every decadent drop off them.
His palm falls away, your lipstick smeared across your lips, and you look so beautiful in that moment, so reckless. You push off the bookcase, your dress falling back into its natural state, your mouth opening to say something, berate him probably.
“I…”
The library door opens interrupting you, a masculine laugh you both recognise, followed by the deeper guffaw of your boss carrying through the room. Your eyes widen as you look to Brendon, who bites his lower lip as Jesse and Robby tumble inside, a tangle of limbs, fervent kisses and unfastened buttons.
Brendon clears his throat and the two break apart like they’ve been struck by lightning, guilty expressions sliding across their features until they lock on to the two of you.
“It looks like this library is getting a lot of action tonight.” Jesse remarks with a knowing grin as Robby pulls at his collar trying to look contrite and failing.
“We were just leaving.” You tell them, snatching up Brendon’s hand in an iron clad grasp and tugging him along with you. “Enjoy your night.”
You slip past them into the dark alcove of the ballroom, the door closing behind you. There’s a thud and a moan and you have no doubt that one of them is now on their knees, ruining the other.
“Did you know?” You ask Brendon, leaning against the pillar as you take your phone out of your purse so you can fix your lipstick. “That they were…”
You don’t have the words for what they are, just like you both don’t have the words for what you are.
“Yes.” Brendon says, the edges of his mouth curving up into a smile as he thinks about how happy Jesse’s been recently. “Yes, I knew.”
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BABY LOGIC
jack abbot x f! reader | 1.5k
fluff, suggestive themes, no use of y/n
ft baby abbot and robby
Jack had always thought your daughter would grow up to be a genius. You were an emergency medicine resident, he was an attending, the knowledge transfer was bound to happen. That’s what anyone would’ve thought. But, boy was he wrong.
His adorable little pocket sunshine of a daughter is currently nibbling on his scrub top. Jack wants to chastise her, tell her it carries the worst of the hospital in it, but she’s six months old and incapable of comprehension.
What she was trying to reach? Milk. Your little one does not understand biology. That he can let it slide, no half-year old kid would know it. But shouldn’t she know by now that only her mom will be able to feed her?
How many times in the middle of the night has Jack woken up to find her screaming her ears off, only to wake you up and deposit the bundle of sweetness into your lap with a kiss to your forehead and an apology in his mouth?
Gladly Jack would feed her if he were able to produce milk. But humans and other mammals alike, males are not genetically evolved to nourish their offspring. Because if he could, he would.
“Bug, there’s nothing here,” he tries telling her. Which does nothing good, except earn a chuckle Jack knew very personally. The voice and its owner — a perpetual pain in his butt since the first year of med school — make themselves known with another chuckle. To which Jack can only groan, “what’re you doin’ here?”
“Here to see my goddaughter.” Robby and his insane timing. Why must he choose this specific moment to display his affection? Of every low point Jack has quietly accumulated throughout his life, Robby has been there. It is impossible to figure out how Robby knows these embarrassing moments and decides to pop up, but he always does.
The statistical probability of this is insulting. Of all the rooms in this hospital, of all the moments in a day, Robby walks in for the exact one where Jack is being actively suckled at by his infant daughter. He could’ve walked in when Jack was skillfully changing her diaper — wait that’s not better. Thing is it’s unfair, with drool on his shirt and a six-month-old clamped to his pec, is when Robby decides to be a present and loving godfather.
“How did you know I was here?” Jack prods, all the while trying to keep your baby from latching onto his nipples through his shirt, it not being much of a barrier at all.
Robby completely ignores Jack’s question — like he usually does, like that one time when Jack asked him, directly, in plain English, whether he'd eaten the rest of his leftovers from the fridge, and Robby held eye contact with him for four full seconds and then asked if Jack had seen the new attending in neuro — and nods towards the baby, “she good?”
“Yeah, she’s — she’s just —” Jack cannot bring himself to say out loud that his daughter is gnawing at his muscles in hopes of quenching her thirst. Some things you just don't say. Some things you carry alone.
“God. Is she trying to — feed from you?” Robby throws his head back in a bashful laugh. Jack feels his hands itch to put him in a chokehold, the only thing keeping him away from doing that being his current object of affection, his lovely daughter. The laugh alone tells him this is a story that'll be recounted many years to come. Told at every bar they ever drink at, Christmas, at the next three people's weddings, at Jack's funeral probably, Robby having outlived the former purely out of spite. “Told you to go easy on the weights,” Robby continues, pushing past Jack’s glares. But the latter can only seem so intimidating with little sunshine on his arms, babbling with spit oozing from the corner of her mouth.
“You know what, why don’t you take her?” Jack practically shoves the baby into Robby’s arms, the latter immediately straightening up to hold her without missing a beat.
As Jack sorts out the spit situation, little bug has found residence in Robby’s chest, pawing at his scrub — worse condition than Jack's — as she tries to figure out a way to milk. So, the shape and geography of the area wasn’t the problem; your daughter is. If she’s that hungry, shouldn’t she latch onto the bottle? Apparently bottles are beneath her, as she pays them no mind, only snuggling deeper into Robby’s embrace now.
"See, it's not just me."
Like always, Robby ignores Jack's tantrums and rocks her, swaying from left to right as he eyes Jack, who now seems very victorious about establishing the fact that his daughter needs to be latched no matter the anatomy and physiology, and maybe is a little dumber than he’d thought. That is a terrible thing to think about a baby — much more, to think about his own baby — but that’s where Jacks head is at.
Thank god you decided to walk in that exact moment, confusion painting your face as you raise one eyebrow at the situation. Like a sunflower finding sun, your baby slots herself against Robby, straining her neck to find you, her own North Star. “What’s going on here?”
Jack has never felt luckier. That’s an overstatement, he knows. He’s felt lucky everyday since you came into his life, but particularly now with you glancing up at him with smile laced lips, and soft sighs from working for four hours straight without feeding.
“Our beloved daughter missed you, is all.” Missed you and your boobs, and tried to burrow into mine and Robby's, is what he doesn't say. Like she was summoned, your baby raises her arms from Robby’s hold, babbling a string of bah-bah-bah, exact to her social development, the little genius she apparently is, now that she has you in her sights.
The same child who spent twenty minutes trying to nurse from two men with no relevant equipment is now performing perfect developmental milestones on cue. Fine. She'll be fine.
Walking closer to both men, your own arms open, reaching in the air, a laugh bubbling up from your throat, the soft kind, the honest kind, the full kind. Jack sees your body sense little bug, smell, sound, and everything heightened. Coupled with the laughter, your letdown reflex makes itself known as two perfect patches of wetness coat your blouse, the warmth of it you register almost immediately, eyes darting between both Jack and Robby, a little insecure, a little flustered.
While Jack has seen you in everything and nothing, Robby hasn’t — of course, why would he? — and a redness climbs up his face, tinging his ears pink, as he tries to divert his gaze from your chest to the baby in his arms, who is now oblivious and content now that she has you within grasp.
Jack watches this unfold in real time. Robby, undone by a biological reflex. The ears going first, embarrassment creeping up from behind him, working its way forward.
Robby hands her over to you, immediately taking a step back, putting distance between you both as he rubs the nape of his neck with his hand, stuttering, “uhmm — I think— I should go.”
Not waiting for a response, Robby walks past you both, still completely red. Jack had never thought a biological response would petrify his friend, what with the countless number of bizarre things they've collectively and individually witnessed during their careers. A man who has genuinely seen everything emergency medicine has to throw at a person, walking very quickly away from a breastfeeding-adjacent situation like it might follow him into the hall.
Little bug throws her arms over your face, trying to grab your attention from her godfather.
“Poor Robby.” You mutter as you start feeding your daughter.
“He’ll live,” Jack replies instantly, though he knows the image of Robby's ears going full red while he stared intensely at the crown of the baby's head will sustain him through at least two more shifts. Maybe three.
When your baby is almost done, Jack takes that opportunity to ask you one thing that's been plaguing his mind forever. Forever would be a stretch, let's say almost six months. Six months of being in the general vicinity of a thing and very much not included in it. Watching his daughter treat this like the most obvious arrangement in the world, and Jack, who understands the oxytocin, the prolactin, the whole cascade, understanding perfectly well why, and still experiencing what he can only describe, clinically, as being left out. “You know, now that she's old enough to start complimentary feeds…” He looks at you expectantly.
“Mhmm?”
“It’s only fair I get a taste… since she's this addicted.”
A swat lands on his arm before he can close his mouth. But your face tells him a different story. And he knows exactly what it means.
Jesse Van Horn x Paediatrician!Wife!Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
You and Brendon Park could be deemed as two sides of the same coin.
Day and night between you two.
And yet.
So very similar.
This was a well known fact amongst those at PTMC.
What wasn't quite as well known.
Was that you.
Were in fact the long time sweetheart of one Jesse Van Horn.
...All of which is brought out into the open as he comes in with his sick daughter, and his son clasping his hand.
Notes: strong language. established relationship. secret relationship. secret family. medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: ~3.6k
Jesse was a breath of fresh air in the ER.
With a wicked sense of humour that often left others hunched over in stitches, belly aching from laughter.
It was simply in his nature to jump in on the joke.
To make light of an otherwise grim situation with dry sarcastic wit.
It was his flavour of choice when it came to coping with the stresses of the ER.
And if that meant moving the life size training dummy to funny places just to make an unsuspecting resident or intern laugh, then so be it.
At work Jesse never pined for attention.
Never fought to be seen.
He simply did the work.
And he did it well.
Strong.
Silent, competent.
With a few little sarcastic remarks and side eyed glances in between.
It was no wonder that each time you came down from pedes to perform a consult, you gravitated towards him.
Finding his presence to be perfect when working with young patients.
At least that was what everyone else assumed.
Unknowing that there was a little more behind you and Jesse always managing to be found side by side whenever you came down…
Unaware that you.
Dr Y/N Park.
Was in fact, Nurse Jesse’s longtime sweetheart. His very wonderful wife.
Unaware that you and Jesse were well and truly deep in love with one another.
Naturally gravitating towards each other’s presence if only to be soothed by having one another nearby.
Those softened glances.
Those sweet smiles.
Murmured words of love you and see you later.
All gone amiss by those in the ER.
All unseen. Unnoticed.
All unaware of the little matching tattoos imprinted upon your skin. A little reminder of your love for each other.
You had met years ago.
Having been dragged to an open mic night at a local bar by your friends. Even if all you had wanted to do was stay home and flop into bed.
You had reluctantly left the house.
Making the most of the night.
Most of the music is drowned out by your friends talking your ear off. Until the strum of the new band that had come on had caught your attention.
Turning your gaze to face the little makeshift stage, you had locked eyes onto one of the band members.
It was kismet.
The night had become a blur.
From the way your friends had practically shoved you into the man’s arms noticing your starstruck gaze.
Locked onto the very hot drummer. With loosely curled hair, to the glinting nose ring, and piercing in his ear, the small little J catching your eye beneath the dim lights.
How his music had seemed to make you fall into a trance.
“You guys sounded great,” you complimented, shooting your friends a scolding gaze before turning to meet his eyes once more.
Trying your absolute best to play it cool.
Despite having your heart simply melt from the way he smiled, a little lopsided, kind and carefree, “Thanks–I uh, noticed you in the crowd, you seemed to get pretty into it,” he scratched the back of his neck.
The way the light seemed to make your eyes sparkle, capturing Jesse’s attention entirely.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he had asked. A little boldly, spurred on by his bandmates shooting him a thumbs up behind you.
You flashed him your pearly white smile, nodding.
The evening spent talking each other’s ear off, tucked away in some booth in the corner of the room.
Relishing in the sound of his laugh, gravel like and melodic.
Perhaps getting to know each other a little better in the privacy of his apartment…
One thing led to another.
Until soon you were trying to match up schedules, trying to carve out time for one another.
Until you were essentially building a life together.
You had him meet your overbearing brother who didn’t know when to give you space. Who had played the role of intimidating your new partner far too well.
But Jesse had taken it well.
Hadn’t backed down.
And instead understood Brendon’s overprotective resolve.
Rather than fighting him, arguing with Brendon. Jesse had taken to showing Brendon just exactly why it was you had fallen so deeply for him.
How his considerate nature and care for you would never think to hurt you in any way.
And just perhaps the next time Jesse saw Brendon he had given him a bottle of scotch, one Brendon had mentioned in passing as one of his favoured ones.
With an arched brow, an impressed look crossing his features.
Realising that Jesse truly listened.
Truly paid attention to you – unlike a few of your previous partners who would unnerve Brendon to no end.
This time it was different.
This time Brendon could understand why you had insisted that Jesse was the one for you.
Had understood why you chose to share your life with him.
Finally having found your partner.
Your equal in life.
With promises of being together, side by side. In this life and the next.
…It was something that those at PTMC were unaware of.
What they did know however.
Was that you and Dr Park were two sides of the same coin.
Whilst Brendon was clipped and cold.
You dissuaded others with humour and a softness to your resolve.
Both keeping others at an arms length it seemed. It was just the way you both were.
Nothing much was known about the Park siblings, apart from the work they did.
You were both so diligent, and hyper focused.
But at times it was hard to remember you were related.
Brendon was the orthopedic surgeon that kept everyone on their toes. That moved through the room, like the Shark they knew him to be.
His presence sliced through any and all conversations.
A quiet falling over the room.
Unlike you.
Whenever you entered a room, you never failed to make it brighten just a bit. You lightened the tone.
Always so considerate, friendly.
No bite to your words.
Unless you were teasing your brother.
You were a paediatric doctor, your speciality was calming down even the most frightened of kids, helping quell nerves and always doing your best in the most dire of circumstances.
You were quick to respond whenever needed – whenever you were required.
And each morning, you always walked through the ED, passing by sharing quick hellos and good mornings.
Little stickers plastered upon your stethoscope, key chains swinging from your bag, a medley of different charms, a small little shark, a star, a little guitar, and an assortment of characters from animated films like Dory, a little Eeyore, and a few other characters.
They clinked gently as you moved through the ED, passing by before going to your department.
Coming back through whenever a consult was needed. And whenever time allowed, you always stopped by to at least share a coffee.
Always enthralled by the little tidbits of gossip.
Pearly whites gleaming, not in a scowl, but in a glistening smile as your laughter would bubble out.
You helped guide the med students giving them a little advice when handling younger patients.
Santos absolutely adored you, and your humour. Whitaker was always amused whenever he saw you take Shark down a peg.
Your heart was the size of a whale’s.
With a demeanour that was soft around the edges, deeply understanding and kind hearted.
So unlike the reputation of your brother’s.
Who’s presence would make everyone who didn’t want to get chided to scramble out of his way. To be anywhere else except for the trauma room he was in.
Well…
Almost everyone.
There were of course a handful of people who could go toe to toe with PTMC’s Shark of the OR.
Those who had garnered his respect.
Such as Dana.
And Robby.
And surprisingly.
Nurse Jesse.
If ever a particularly severe orthopedic trauma case entered through the doors, Perlah and Princess would be quick to shove Jesse over to help.
To throw him to the shark. They had joked.
Jesse would merely send them a side eyed look before moving quickly to work.
And though the chances were slim, if it were a particularly complex case.
Shark would appear.
With piercing eyes.
Controlled movements.
Clipped tone.
With a delivery so blunt it would make even the most thick skinned students rethink their life’s choices.
But around Jesse, he would tip his head with a small nod.
A mutual respect brewed between the two.
Now, while most might assume this simply had to do with the fact that Park was simply civil with the nurses.
The way Park would greet Jesse – or the way Jesse would manage to make Park’s lips curl up in a barely noticeable smile from some random joke would make anyone falter for a second.
No one questioned it anymore.
The odd little dynamic between Brendon Park and Jesse Van Horn had simply become another accepted part of PTMC.
Somehow...
They worked together flawlessly.
Like clockwork.
Like they'd spent years learning each other's rhythms.
Jesse anticipating instruments before Park asked.
Park trusting Jesse's judgment without question, "Retractor."
Jesse handed it over before Park had even finished the word.
"You're getting predictable, Shark."
Brendon's expression remained perfectly flat, "...You're getting annoying."
Jesse grinned, "You say the sweetest things."
Whitaker blinked.
"Why does Dr Park tolerate him?" Santos frowned.
Perlah snorted, "Dunno. Maybe Jesse sold his soul."
Princess nodded solemnly. Before shrugging as she offered, "Or maybe Shark respects competence?"
"...Or maybe Jesse has blackmail," Santos muttered, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
None of them noticed the way Brendon's eyes flicked toward Jesse.
The faintest twitch threatening at the corner of his mouth.
Before letting it simply slide under the rug.
Forgotten for another day.
Until…
One day.
Just a random Tuesday.
Nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
Which, in the emergency department, generally meant it was only a matter of time before everything descended into chaos.
Santos was buried beneath charting.
Whitaker was just trying to get through the day without needing to change scrubs.
Princess and Perlah were restocking supplies. Sending each other little side glances or hushed comments whenever they caught a little snippet of gossip.
Dana was coordinating traumas with her usual effortless efficiency.
And Jesse had been called out of work today.
Barely midway through the day, he was tucked into the corner of the ER. A solemn expression on his face.
Before moving to mutter quietly to Dana, “That was Mina’s school, she’s got a fever–”
In an instant she was shoving him towards the lockers, “Go, get out of here and make sure she’s ok”
He nods, a grateful look entering his eyes.
Even as the others asked where he went, Dana kept the reason close to herself. No reason to divulge information that wasn’t hers to share.
Waving them off, barely stating anything more than that it was for personal reasons.
What no one expected to see however.
Barely an hour later.
Jesse had returned.
But this time he wasn’t alone.
Propped up on his hip, curling into his grasp was a young little girl. Face splotchy, eyes curled up tightly shut. Frown etched onto her face, as she buries her face into the fabric of Jesse’s top.
Linked in his other arm, stands a young boy. A layer of concern laced in his eyes as they flick up to the little girl.
Immediately, everyone noticed something was wrong.
Not catastrophic.
But enough.
This morning Jesse had arrived with easy smiles and dry remarks. But now that had all been wiped away.
Now.
He looked worried.
Dana looked up instantly, "What happened?" Rounding the desk to meet him, eyes darting down to scan over the little girl.
The young boy slightly waved to Dana. A flash of recognition crossed his eyes.
"Mina’s been running a fever"
The little girl buried his face against Jesse's shoulder. Jesse adjusted her higher automatically.
"She started complaining his ear hurt an hour ago."
Dana softened.
"Hey, sweetheart."
Mina blinked watery eyes, "No."
Dana snorted, "Fair enough."
Princess immediately moved into action, "I'll get her checked in." Sympathy flooding her features.
Whitaker froze. Javadi practically nearly stumbled into him, distracted by the scene before them.
Santos practically buzzed from the new information.
Because...
Jesse had a child.
A child currently wrapped up in his arms.
"...Jesse?" Whitaker asked carefully.
Jesse glanced over, "Hm?"
"...Is that your kid?" Santos completed.
Silence.
Jesse blinked, before his brows furrowed "...Yeah–Whose else would it be?"
"...Your kid?" Santos repeated.
Mina lifted her head, tugging at him slightly. "Dad?"
Those watching in curiosity practically combusted from the new information. Muttering amongst each other in utter shock.
None of the nurses appeared to be particularly surprised. Dana least of all. Robby glancing up to see all his med students frozen in place.
He merely sighs from their utter surprise.
The fact that Jesse was a dad was something that had come up over after work drinks with his fellow nurses more than a few times.
But there seemed to be many in the ER who were in complete ignorance of this fact.
"You never told us!"
"You never asked?"
"You have a kid?!"
Jesse shifted Mina again. His grip slightly tightening around Sammy’s hand. Glancing at him to make sure he was ok.
Whitaker looked seconds away from fainting.
Before anyone could recover–
The lift doors open.
"Jesse!"
Everyone turned.
You hurried into the department. Trying your very best not to break into a sprint.
Stethoscope bouncing against your chest.
Tiny cartoon stickers decorating the tubing.
Relief flooded Jesse's face instantly, "Oh thank God."
You moved straight toward him.
Toward Mina.
Your hands automatically reaching for your daughter’s forehead, you murmured softly, sweetly, "Hey, sweetheart."
Mina whimpered, leaning into your grasp, "Mama."
The room went silent.
Because...
Mama.
Your hand moved to Jesse's arm,"You okay?"
He exhaled, "She spiked another fever."
"You should've called me sooner,” you said, brows knitted in concern.
He looked at you as though it were obvious, "You were working."
"So were you,” Your tone was fond.
Not annoyed.
Jesse's responding look was soft.
"You know I would've come,” you added.
"I know,” Jesse nodded, “But I had it covered.
You let a small smile form on your lips in understanding, before crouching down to your little boy, reaching out to bundle him into your arms, “You ok, buddy?”
He nods, before pointing up to Mina, “Is Mina going to be okay?”
You smile at his concern for his little sister, “We’re going to make sure she’s ok, yeah?”
He lets out a small hum in agreement.
Santos stared.
Then pointed.
Then stared again.
Everyone’s eyes flicking between you and Jesse.
Even the nursing staff was stumped. Utterly shocked by the new information.
Not once.
Never.
Had either of you mentioned that you were married…Let alone parents of two little kids…
Mouths agape as they watch the scene unfold.
Dana guiding you both to one of the open bays, you’re quick to slip into doctor mode as you check up on your little girl. Going through all the necessary checks.
While Jesse sits with Sammy, occupying him.
Javadi’s eyes widened even more if it were possible, tugging onto Santos’ arm, “Do you know what this means?”
Her brows furrow looking at Javadi in question.
Mohan shares a look with Javadi as she makes the same realisation.
“What–oh!” Santos states.
Whitaker furrowing his brows darting between them all before looking back over to the little family.
“What?”
Santos looks at him, “Jesse’s married to Y/N, as in Dr Park…which means”
“Means what?” He looks at her quizzically.
“That means Jesse is related to–”
As though summoned, their mouths snap shut at the sight of the very man they were referring to.
Steely eyed as they scan the room.
Not a single orthopedic trauma in sight.
And yet his locked jaw.
His tense shoulders.
Before meeting Robby’s gaze.
Robby merely points a finger to the bay where you were, “They’re over there”
Brendon offers a curt nod in thanks, taking quick strides to reach the bay.
Paying no attention to the audience formed nearby.
His sharpness immediately melts as the young boy leaps out of Jesse’s lap scrambling to Brendon, who lifts him with ease.
“Uncle Shark!”
“Hey kiddo,” he said, eyes drifting for a moment to meet your eyes, the silent question residing behind his blue eyes.
Whilst you shoot him a thumbs up, a curt nod.
A silent. It’s all ok. Nothing major.
His shoulders relax.
His demeanor softens, looking back at Sammy as his little hands clasp at Brendon’s face to turn his attention back to himself.
“Do you want to say it Mina?” Sammy calls back.
Your heart melts at his thoughtfulness for his little sister.
“Yes!” she says, eyes gleaming at the sight of her uncle. A small spark in her eyes, as the medicine begins to kick in.
Whilst you bite back a grin, already knowing what was about to be said.
“Shark Bait!” she calls out.
Brendon’s lips purse for a moment, before he mumbles. The noise, barely louder than a whisper.
Sammy grins cheekily, “Can’t hear you~”
“Hoo Ha Ha,” he says louder.
Whilst Mina giggles out, coinciding with Sammy’s laughs.
Any sense of embarrassment never makes its way onto Brendon’s features, as he instead grins at his niece and nephew.
It never failed to amuse them whenever they did this.
Never getting old.
Whilst you and Jesse laugh softly. With a small shake of your head.
Santos clutches onto Whitaker’s arm, stunned, “Is it just me or did Shark literally quote Finding Nemo”
“I think I’m having a stroke,” Whitaker mutters out.
Mina tugs onto your arm, eyes wide. Head tilting in question, “Can Sharkie come over to our house to play? He needs to be Elsa!”
You nod, “You’ll have to ask him nicely.”
She peers up at her uncle, whilst Sammy does the same.
“Pretty please”
“Only if you promise to get better soon,” Brendon replies.
Princess comes up beside Jesse, elbowing him gently, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us your wife was Park.”
“It never came up,” he shrugs.
While Princess scoffs. Before raising her brows, with a slight impressed look, “She’s quite a catch”
“Don’t I know it,” he replies with a grin.
“Though I don’t understand how Shark didn’t scare you away,” she adds. Watching as the doctor in question is busy entertaining the two young kids.
You move to stand beside Princess adding, "Brendon isn't terrifying."
Jesse merely laughs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, "You've lost perspective."
His grin faltered for a second, dipping lower, “Is it ok I brought Mina here?”
Your arm curling around his waist, “You made the right call”
He arches a brow, “ Even if I interrupted your day
“Never an interruption when it comes to you and the kids,” You say, shaking your head.
The ER watched.
Speechless.
Because somehow...
None of this fit together.
Shark.
Warm-hearted paediatrician.
Sarcastic nurse.
Two very loved children.
Finding Nemo references.
Frozen sing alongs.
How you and Jesse always were side by side.
Why Jesse never shied away from Shark’s cold resolve.
The little matching tattoos that no one had noticed enough to associate.
Or the little rings hung around both of your necks, tucked beneath your scrubs for safe keeping.
And yet somehow...
It all fit perfectly.
You smile softly at the little family you cherished so dearly. In simple awe of the overwhelming love felt in this moment.
Jesse’s arm snug around you.
Mina and Sammy consume the entirety of Brendon’s attention as they talk his ear off.
Both Brendon and Sammy doing their best to distract Mina from her aches.
As Sammy leads the way into singing, “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming–”
He nudges Brendon, “C’mon Uncle Shark, it’s Mina’s favourite”
He reluctantly nods before singing along, voice low as he tries to keep it down, whilst Sammy beams, “Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim, swim, swim”
Your little baby girl, looking better by the minute.
Your panic settles and subsides.
A pager buzzes in your pocket, duty calling. You hesitate. Before Jesse plants a kiss to your temple in reassurance, “We’ve got it handled. We’ll see you at home–I’ll make chicken soup”
You nod, before wrapping up your kids in cuddles, promising that you’ll see them later.
Brendon reassures you that he’ll help Jesse, whilst you thank him for the help. Grateful to have such a supportive brother.
The ER watches you duck away.
Before flicking back to the scene before them.
It was unbelievable that Jesse Van Horn, their witty colleague.
Was in fact the brother in law to Brendon Park the Shark.
It was safe to say that as soon as your girl was feeling better and as soon as Jesse would be back at work.
That a flood of questions would be headed his way.
But for now they let the little family simply bask in their peace.
…
And just perhaps.
Santos might just boldly mutter out with a grin, “Shark Bait,” the next time Brendon Park comes down for a consult.
Whilst he lets out a disgruntled hum.
...
It was safe to say there was never a dull moment in your life.
With Jesse as your loving husband.
Two little bundles of joy, in the form of your daughter, Mina and son, Sammy.
With Brendon as their doting Uncle Shark.
No matter what came your way.
No matter if the entirety of PTMC would flock to you in utter shock about the fact that your husband was Jesse.
No matter if his coworkers all looked at him in awe as he handled Brendon.
With endless questions about, how, when and why this had all come to be.
You both took it in stride.
With a little hum.
A bounce in your steps.
Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed (I'm a lil iffy but overall happy with it) definitely wanted to incorporate Shark being the absolute fixation of his niece and nephew. And Jesse would totally be unafraid of Brendon (like you just have a stern face- is that meant to scare me??) and honestly that simply makes Brendon respect him a lot more. Fun fact Mina apparently means Fishy as well so that’s a cute little thing. Let me know what you thought ✨
As of right now, this is the last instalment for the Shiver Collection (Unless inspo strikes for other ideas/characters - I am playing around with the idea of Frank or even Shen?? idk)
Hope you've enjoyed them! It's been a lot of fun exploring different stories featuring the reader as Park the Shark's sister 🦈
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
If you enjoyed, consider checking out my Pitt Masterlist here!
summary: When you've been feeling sick for a few weeks, Jack expects to face the worst. But a trip to the emergency room reveals something he never expected. And you have to face the fact you're there for each other in sickness and health... and everything between.
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of abbot being a widower, lots of uncertainty and anxiety, age gap (but reader is implied to be a bit older), talks about infertility/ trouble getting pregnant. let me know if I need to add anything!
notes: had this idea a few days ago and like the devious baby fever pilled gal I am and managed to bang it out in two evenings. thank you jack abbot for being my current muse.
Jack’s work shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, his heavy footsteps echoing down the empty hospital hall. He’s running, a layer of sweat already beading at his temple. The glass ambulance bay door hits the wall with a teeth chattering thud. Jack is almost suprised it didn't shatter with his thrust.
He pants, eyes scanning the hospital’s back lot, trying to find the ambulance he knew was on his way.
“Mr. Abbot, we have your wife here- she fainted in the grocer’s parking lot…”
Jack knew he shouldn't have left you. He'd had a feeling. The looming dread that had been creeping up on him the past couple of weeks.
You'd been feeling out of it for a while now. A lethargic and nauseating achiness you couldn't quite shake, no matter how much tylenol or herbal teas you’d tried.
You had played it off as nothing. Just a headache that came and went. An upset stomach due to the day old chinese food you’d eaten.
“It's fine, Jack. I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m okay. I’m here. You don't have to worry.”
But Jack worried.
He was always worrying.
He knew that little things sometimes added up to a bigger, meaner somethings. That if you missed the signs, you might catch it too late.
What exactly? Jack wasn't sure. He didn’t particularly want to find out.
But he sure as hell wasn't gonna let you blow it off now.
His heart pounds as the ambulance finally pulls into the bay, the emergency lights blaring an ugly red and orange. Jack bary registers the EMT saying hello to him, his eyes focused on your splayed out form, laying on the gurney.
“Hey baby,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
“Jack,” you look up at him blearily, your eyes hazy, a bandage already taped to your forehead. Jack is quick to come by your side as the EMT lowers the gurney, his hand running over the back of your hair.
“One of the bystanders said she hit her head going down. It's not too bad. Just needs some cleaning. Same for her legs,” the EMT says to Jack as she watches him carefully lift the bandage.
Jack lets out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and leading your gurney back into the Pitt.
“What the hell Jack. You just ran off-” Robby calls out, watching Jack come back in. He stops once he sees you, your scraped up knees and bandaged head, the confused expression on your face. “What happened?”
“She fainted. We’ll need to start her on an iv, get her fluids and run a couple of blood tests. Do you still feel dizzy?”
“I don’t… Jack, what’s going on?” You look up at Jack, confused, panic written across your face. Jack looks back at the EMT who shakes her head.
“She was having trouble remembering the fall. Only remembers her headache and feeling sick.”
Jack remembers how you had looked this morning. The purple bruises around your eyes and the wince you'd tried to hide when he said goodbye.
“I don't have to go in today. Shen can cover if Robby really needs him to.”
“Go Jack. They need you more than me.”
He should have known better.
Robby comes beside the railing of the gurney, helping to pull it into a trauma room. You look around, your chest beginning to rise and fall quicker as your eyes begin to clear of the confused fog.
“What’s going on?”
“Jack, stay with your wife.”
“I am with her,” he throws back at Robby, turning to grab the bag of fluids Princess was moving to hand him.
“No. Stay with her as Jack. Not Dr. Abbot,” Robby tosses back, gesturing to your wide and fearful eyes. Jack swallows thickly, torn.
Especially when you groan, turning towards Robby and vomiting off the side of the gurney railing.
Jack’s heart hurts, pounding heavily against his sternum. You were here. The one place he hated seeing you.
Jack knows he can help take care of you right now. Bandage you up and order labs. He can solve the mystery behind why you were suddenly so ill. Why you haven’t been feeling well lately.
He can handle that. Dr. Jack Abbot, night attending and army vet, can handle bad news.
But just Jack. Mr. Jack Abbot, loving husband and worried widower, cannot.
He can’t take another bad diagnosis.
Jack looks up at Robby who’s helping Princess clean up the vomit, and then back at you. And he makes a decision.
“Hey,” Jack says, pushing down the railing on his side of your gurney and sitting on the edge. “Hey, honey-” He takes your head in his hands, taking the damp cloth Robby hands him and helping to clean your face.
Jack sits with you, his scrub top abandoned, his hand clasped tightly over yours. He watches as the color slowly comes back into your face, helps you take a sip of juice when your hand trembles too much to hold the cup. He stays silent for it all, Robby cleaning and bandaging your scrapes, Perlah coming in to draw your blood, the hospital gown Princess helps you into. He watches it all with a wariness. An awful churning in his gut.
A fear gnawing away at him.
“Jack,” you whisper, squeezing his hand. He hums, glancing up at you from where he was sitting beside your gurney. “It’s going to be alright.”
“I know,” he whispers back. You hadn’t said much to each other. Mostly hushed whispers and clinging to each other's hand. Like raising your voices was too much for the already overstimulating hospital room.
Jack’s knee is bouncing up and down anxiously. He couldn’t help it, his mind turning over the many diagnoses, the myriad of things that could be wrong with you. You gently wrangle your hand out of his iron grip, reaching over to rest it on his jostling knee. Jack stills at the feeling of your warm palm over the fabric of his scrub pants, swallowing. You smile.
“Whatever it is… we’ll be okay.”
"I know," Jack repeats again. But it's hard to really believe it.
He's been here once before. A hospital room just like this. The woman he loves loved sitting by his side. Slowly wasting away. And he didn’t even know it.
He sees the symptoms, too familiar and painful. The exhaustion and fatigue that wore you down. The migraines and brain fog, lethargicness and nausea that plagued you. He sees it and he knows. Whatever labs Robby is currently looking at holds a future he’s not sure he’s ready for.
You sigh, your hand moving upwards to run through his salt and pepper curls. They had already been mussed and messed up from his own hand raking through them. Jack sighs at the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning his head against your side. You hum, holding him close.
“I didn’t even get to do any shopping. I just… passed out in the parking lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Jack mumbles into your gown. “I’ll order some groceries for delivery later.”
“I really wanted to get that new cream cheese to try. The one with the jalapenos.” You sigh. “Gosh, I wish they could just inject that into my iv. Maybe I’d perk up faster.”
Jack can’t help but crack a smile. You hum happily, still petting his hair.
“There he is.” Jack looks up at you, his mouth open to say something. To apologize for worrying. For being so scared.
But he doesn’t get a chance.
The door to your room opens, Robby’s familiar silhouette shadowing behind the curtain.
“Jack?”
Jack clears his throat. “Yeah?”
Robby peeks his head through the fabric.
“I’ve got the test results back.” He comes in and sits down on the stool by the foot of your bed with a grunt. You give Jack a nervous look, your hand finding his again. He takes it, squeezing gently. Grounding. Robby clears his throat.
“Well, your blood panels came back fine. No signs of infection or disease.”
“So…what is it? What’s wrong with her?” Jack asks, swallowing thickly. Robby looks down at the lab work in his hands, peering over the frames of his glasses at the two of you.
“Nothing.”
The word hits harder than Jack could have expected. Of all the things he had anticipated-
You frown, looking confused.
“Nothing,” you repeat, the question no louder than a breath of air. Robby smiles and nods.
“Well, nothing that won’t go away in nine months. Congratulations kids. You're gonna have a baby."
Both of you go very still. Your mouth falls open, Jack’s eyes practically bug out of his head. Robby sits there smugly, folding the lab results over.
“A…” Jack starts, trailing off as he leans forward. Surely he’d heard Robby wrong.
“I- a baby?” You ask, dumbstruck.
“Hmm.” Robby nods. “From what I can tell you’re roughly six weeks along. Of course, you’d need an ultrasound and larger blood panel to be able to tell more accurately.”
“Pregnant,” Jack breathes. His eyes dart around the room, finally meeting Robby’s. “But how?”
Robby raises an eyebrow.
“It’s a simple process. I don’t think I have to explain the exact mechanics on conceiving to you Jack-”
"No, I know- I mean how... I can't even...
"We aren't exactly prime candidates for conceiving," you finish for Jack.
He can feel your fingers wrap tighter around his hand, your shoulder brushing against his.
Robby gives you a look, his features softening. “I know. I know, I don’t know why. It happens. Sometimes fertility problems resolve themselves. No on can pinpoint why exactly. Could be hormonal changes, medication changes, reduced stress-”
You and Jack finally glance over at each other. He looks at you, eyes raking over your face, the glimmer of hope you were trying to hide. And it hits him.
The sabbatical, he thinks. The long overdue vacation he'd finally gotten around to taking.
Three months without either of you worrying about work or patients. Three months of just the two of you; long walks in the park, lazy mornings spent in bed. Decadent yet nutritious dinners and way too many trips to the ice cream shop down the street.
Leaving behind the worries of your every day.
The sabbatical he’d finally come back from not even a few weeks ago. Just before you had begun to get sick-
You're the first to smile. A small curve upwards, more nervous than anything.
"I'm pregnant."
Jack breathes heavily in his chair.
“You are,” Robby smiles. You take a shaky breath, unsure of what to say. “There’s quite a few things we’ll have to go over. I’m sure Jack knows this speech like the back of his hand, but it’s still customary…”
Jack is half listening as Robby goes on about the usual procedure. The prenatal vitamins you’ll need, the appointments you’ll have to set up. The safety precautions and symptoms and internal changes. The risks considering Jack was older and you weren’t very young yourself.
Jack is so far zoned out he doesn’t even realize you’re calling his name.
“Jack. Honey," you shake his shoulder, frowning. “Are you okay?”
Jack opens his mouth, looking between you and Robby. He glances once at your stomach. Hidden behind the hospital gown. Looking exactly like it had yesterday.
But it was different. There wasn’t some disease growing inside you. Some foreign thing making you sick and slowly sucking the life out of you.
There was a baby growing there. You were sick because you were making another life.
Jack is hit by the realization that for the next nine months, you were going to be going through all kinds of changes. All kinds of hurdles and milestones.
A baby.
Jack suddenly feels sick.
“I have to go,” he blurts, shaking your hand off of his shoulder and beelining out of the hospital room.
“Jack!” You call out, your voice raising with surprise.
“I just need some air!”
Jack doesn’t turn back. He can’t. He can’t let you see the utter terror written on his face.
He marches down the hall, ignoring the looks the nurses give him, the confusion Trinity and Mel share as he storms out down the crowded hallway and to the stairwell.
You find Jack outside. Not on the roof like you’d panicked he’d be.
Robby had come back, shaking his head, trying to calm your racing heart.
No. After finally convincing Robby to let you help him look, You find Jack sitting on one of the benches in the park across the way from PTMC. He’s sitting there, elbows braced against his knees, staring off into the distance.
You approach him carefully, blades of grass crunching beneath the slip on clogs the hospital provided. Your clothes feel cold against you, comforting and familiar after the scratchy hospital gown. You glance back at Robby who stands at the edge of the park. He nods, encouraging you to keep going.
As you get closer, you realize Jack’s not just staring off at nothing. You catch sight of his eyes, focused and glistening beneath the late afternoon light. You follow his sight line, watching a little family on the other side of the park. A broad shouldered man tossing a foam ball to a toddler girl, her mother laughing as her girl toddles about.
You watch Jack for a moment, staying out of his sight line. You don't have to try very hard to guess what he's thinking about. The sheer amount of worry and confusion he's feeling.
You felt it yourself. The whiplash of expecting the worst outcome only to learn you were carrying something wonderful. There was still the nervousness of what the future would look like.
The schedules that would need rearranging, the house child proofed, your office room cleared out in space for another little person. Doctors appointments and ultrasound photos taped to the fridge, onesies and books and diapers tucked away in a closet.
In spite of the excitement you felt, the confused yet exhilarating feeling of knowing you were going to be a mother, you were scared.
There was a whole person you'd have to take care of. You'd have to grow and birth. You weren't exactly a spry chicken. Neither was Jack. And there were more risks and complications that came with that.
On top of all the things that came with pregnancy.
You might not be dying from some malady. But pregnancy was no small thing either.
You finally take a step forward, placing your hand gently on Jack’s shoulder. He snaps out of his stupor, back straightening, a panic written in his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be up-”
“I’m okay.” He frowns. You point to the space beside him on the bench. “Can I sit?”
Jack nods, scooting over a bit. You sit. Jack wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand; being closer now, you can see they’re red rimmed and glassy. He doesn’t look at you. Not at first.
But he’s the first to open his mouth again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out if there. That was a dick move."
You swallow against the thick lump in your throat, trying to keep the well of anger rising at bay. It wasn’t hard to. The fear and anxiety laid bare in Jack’s voice. The thoughts he tried so hard to hide from you unveiled.
You nod. “Yeah. It kinda was."
He takes a breath, reaching out to hold your hand. You take it, his thumb brushing along the ridge of your knuckles.
"I just... this whole time I was worried I was going to lose you. I kept thinking about all the ways I’d have to watch you die. All the treatments or surgeries…” he chuckles dryly. “I was so worried about you. And now all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to have a kid walking down the aisle in a cap and gown when I’m 70.”
You sigh, the breeze a gentle comfort as it blows against your cheeks.
“That's all you’re thinking about? College already?” You give his hand a small, loving squeeze. Teasing. A clearing amidst the stormy turmoil you both had been worrying over.
“Well,” he shrugs slowly. “You know, between wondering if the pregnancy will hold. Or birth. Or what elementary school drop offs will look like and dinners and the house and my crazy schedule-”
“I know. I know, it’s a lot.”
Jack nods. “It is… and I’m scared.”
You look at him. Your heart aches with the pure sincerity written on his face. Jack was never one to hide his feelings. But he rarely gave them away easily. Not like this.
Truth written in the glassy mist of his eyes, the worry carried in the tightness of his hand around yours.
“I know,” you nod. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Robby explained the risks.”
The long list of complications and genetic disorders and risky side effects run through your mind. You hadn’t known just how fragile pregnancy became the older you got. It was just never something that had crossed your mind. To think or worry about. But now…
You continue.
“I know this wasn’t what we had planned, Jack. Us. Having kids… and I know you may not want- may not think we can do this. But I don’t think this is such a bad thing.”
Jack’s eyes widen, his frown deepening.
“What, woah. No I don’t want you thinking that. I don’t- I don’t think that.”
“Really?” You take a deep breath, hopeful. Jack finally smiles. A small and gentle quirk of his mouth.
“Really. And I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. I just… I didn’t think that I could have one.”
“A baby?” You clarify. He nods.
“I told you about what happened in the army. With my leg and, well, everything else. And you told me having kids wasn’t exactly going to be easy for you.” It’s your turn to nod.
Between Jack’s injury and age, your genetics and seemingly lackluster fertility, a baby had just never been a part of your plan. And you were fine with it. Life was crazy enough as it was.
“I know. But here we are.”
Jack nods, looking out into the park again. He’s watching the small family again, eyes glued to the man as he hoists his giggling daughter into his arms.
“Here we are,” he mumbles.
“We don’t have to figure everything out right now Jack. There’s still time.”
“Seven months and two weeks,” he huffs. You chuckle.
Robby makes Jack leave the hospital early with you.
Although Jack would use the term ‘make’ loosely, considering he had already decided he wasn’t staying the moment he saw you in the ambulance’s hull. You’re cleared to leave not long after Robby drags the both of you back into the ED, making sure to stop by the pharmacy to pick up your new prescriptions.
The prenatal vitamins and nausea medication sit among Jack’s own clutter of meds on the kitchen counter. Jack told you not to worry about groceries or the car still at the store. He’d take care of all of it in the morning.
For now, he just wanted to clean away the sterile smell of the hospital lingering on both of your clothes and get to bed.
He’s grateful, for once, that you're exhausted enough to fall asleep the minute your head hits the pillow. You’re breathing softly beneath the sheets before Jack can even pull his prosthetic off, your hand lain out on his side, like you still wanted him to hold it unconsciously.
But sleep doesn’t come for him. Jack lays awake for a long while.
The moonlight casts wispy shadows along the wall and he watches them, thinking. He plays with his wedding ring, twirling it between his fingers with mesmerizing ease.
Not the ring you'd slipped onto his left hand years ago, the dark amber band that still glistens on his ring finger. Jack plays with the wedding ring he wore a long time ago, still a young man figuring things out. From his first marriage. His first wife.
It wasn't often he pulled the ring out. Sometimes it hurt too much to even look at it; to think about and remember her. Jack fiddles with the ring now, holding it against his lips as if he could whisper all his worries into it.
The worries which still rested in the side of his ribs, changed but there all the same. Jack can’t help but think of all the things he never got to do with her. The future they’d planned cut short by an illness he couldn’t cure. Maybe it’s why he felt so scared now.
This unplanned thing laid out before him. Far out of his control.
Jack tosses and turns, his mind reeling with memories and thoughts about the future. He quietly gets up, setting the ring on his nightstand and fitting his prosthetic back on. He slips out of your bedroom, making sure you were still settled before wandering down the hall.
He’d always wanted to be a father. That wasn’t the problem. Hearing that you were pregnant had resurfaced those feelings like they’d never been buried. The idea of having a mini him, with matching curls and crooked smile. Or a mini you, with your bright eyes and pretty nose.
The problem was that desire had been locked away for a very long time. After he got injured in the army. After he became a widow. Even after he met you. Jack had begun to accept that being someone’s parent was just not in the cards he’d been dealt. But now…
Jack stands in the living room, staring around the dark room. He moves quietly, picking up a random glass and setting it in the kitchen, moving the tossed couch pillows back into their designated places. He can’t sit still when he tries. The air suffocating inside in spite of the cooling system blowing gently.
Jack ends up sitting outside on the back porch, his head in his hands.
What would she have thought? After all this time.
A baby.
Jack’s not even sure he should begin to want this. To let himself hope. There was so much uncertainty with a later in life pregnancy, of an older parent conceiving a child. The constant what ifs and complications. So much to worry about.
Jack sighs, running a hand through his mussed curls as he realizes how tired he is. Of feeling on edge. Of never feeling like he could settle. The worry of something bad happening again. Of being all alone-
A noise sounds from the bushes running along the fence.
Leaves rustle softly, twigs crunching beneath something weighty. Jack looks up, brows furrowing. He squints, standing and flipping on the porch light to illuminate the dark backyard. The rustling sounds again, and Jack inches closer.
He pauses. And then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, instantly quieting himself.
The rabbit which had ducked back into the foliage at the sound of his voice peeks it’s head out again in the new silence. Her nose twitching, beady black eyes staring straight into Jack. He lets out a breath, in awe of the rare sight. He knew there were plenty of rabbits that lived around the neighborhood. He often saw where they burrowed through your garden or ate certain plants. But actually seeing one was rarer.
Of all the nights…
He goes still when the rabbit moves. Inching slowly out of the bush. She turns back, snuffling softly and moving forward again. A baby in tow.
Now, Jack was not a very superstitious man. At least, not by nature. He laughed when Ellis chastised him for saying the “q” word in the ED, rolled his eyes when Joy and Nazely talked about karma.
But if life had taught Jack anything, it was to never ignore the signs.
He watches the pair of rabbits hop through the backyard, eyes following their path until they squeeze through the cracked boards of the fence, disappearing into the night. Jack lets out a slow and much needed exhale, the cool air of the night finally feeling fresh.
New.
Second chances that don't always happen every day.
Baby rabbit.
Baby Abbot.
He liked the sound of that. And maybe, this time, there wouldn’t be so much to worry about. Not with you by his side.
"Jaack!" You call out from the kicthen, where you're putting the first few bags of groceries away.
"Yeah?" Jack's voice echoes down the hall, the sound of more paper bags rustling.
"Did you get- never mind!" You grin as you find the tub of cream cheese you'd been dying to get your hands on, practically tearing the package open and digging in. You let out a satisfied hum as you eat a spoonful of the spicy spread, nodding in satisfaction.
Jack enters the kitchen, arms full of groceries, an amused look on his face.
"As good as you'd hoped it'd be?" You hum again.
"Better. I think your child already has great taste in cuisine."
Jack stills for a fraction of a second, then smiles. He sets down the bags and moves over by your side, pressing a kiss to your forehead, carefully around the tender cut still hidden by a bandage.
"Yeah they do."
You both put away the food and various household items you'd needed to stock up on. Trash bags and pasta, that lavender creamer you loved and Jack's protein bars he always carried in his scrub pockets.
You munch on a bagel- properly toasted and spread with your cream cheese because Jack insisted on at least being civilized about your cravings- going through the last bag. The bag crinkles as you feel around inside; you frown as your hand comes into contact with something soft. Fluffy. You peer inside.
A little stuffed bunny peers back at you. You stare at it for a moment, and then you laugh.
"Jack?"
"What?" He asks, folding the towel he'd just used to wash his hands. You smile, holding up the bunny. His ears go pink and he gives you a bashful grin.
"I just thought... well I thought it might be cute for the baby. You know, rabbits are thought to be good luck charms or something."
thinking about 𝒍𝒆𝒐𝒏 𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅𝒚 conforting you after finding out that your excuse of a boyfriend, who happens to be his oldest son, had cheated on you.
you were trembling on his arms, sobbing while trying to say some coherent to him but leon could only focus on how pretty you looked with your face all teared up, lipstick smudged and rosey puffy cheeks.
you were so cute, he didn't want you suffering over the actions of an asshole, even if that said asshole was his own son. so, with all the best intentions a man like him could have, he did all he could to cheer you up and make you forget.
and if that implied eating you out with his son's hoodie still on, so be it.
"mmf, fuck, mr. kennedy," your sweet moans were like music to his ears. your delicate hand found its way towards his head and grasped the grey-ish strands, tugging at them when his face buried deeply into your pussy, and his nose tip brushed against your puffy clit. a low growl teared from his throat when your thighs squeezed his head, making him choke on his breath.
mr. kennedy. oh, how he loved whenever you called him that. normally, it would have been in a polite greet whenever you came to visit. but now, with your soft legs tangled around his head and his mouth glued to your leaking cunt was more enjoyable than ever.
you're squirming and whining under his tongue, holding onto his hair as his mouth sinked more into your core, telling him it's too much for you to handle. yet, he didn't care, not when your pussy was clenching around his tongue, begging for him to keep going. you were so desperate for his touch it was almost pathetic.
poor baby, all of this time fucking a useless prick, not knowing what it was like to be worshipped like you deserved. it was bordeline criminal, a beautiful woman like you—the root of all desire, the tought on his brain whenever he furiously fisted his cock at night—neglected by someone who didn't know what he had.
"that's right," he groaned against your soaken core. "feels good, isn't it? spread your legs a bit more, yeah—just like that, fuucking god."
his hot breath ghosted over your sensitive clit, making your head falling back against the cushions, moaning and pleading, crying your eyes out for a release. "mhmp, mr. ken—oh fuck! r-right there! i'm so.."
leon increased the pace of his tongue, smothering his moans in your pussy, sending vibrations that were enough to drown out his lewd noises with your orgasm— shutting him off while squeezing your thighs, hidding his face between your shaky legs.
Leon never expected to come home to find you asleep on the kitchen counter.
Yet there you were.
Your head rested on folded arms, a half-finished cup of coffee beside you and a note scribbled on a napkin that simply read:
“Waited for you...”
A tired laugh escaped him.
After weeks away on a mission, he'd imagined a dramatic reunion. Maybe you'd run into his arms. Maybe he'd finally get one peaceful evening without some new disaster showing up.
Instead, you were drooling on his countertop.
Perfect.
Leon quietly set down his duffel bag and walked over. Even asleep, you looked exhausted. You'd probably stayed up far later than you should have waiting for him.
His chest tightened.
No matter how many monsters he fought or impossible situations he survived, coming home to you always felt unreal.
Carefully, he brushed a strand of hair from your face.
Your nose scrunched.
Then your eyes slowly opened.
For a second you stared at him blankly.
Then—
“Leon?”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You shot upright so fast the coffee nearly spilled.
“Oh my God, you're actually here!”
Before he could answer, you launched yourself at him.
Leon caught you automatically, laughing as your arms wrapped around his neck.
“Missed you too.”
“You were gone forever.”
“It was two weeks.”
“Forever.”
He couldn't argue with that.
You buried your face against his shoulder, and he felt the tension he'd carried for days finally begin to disappear.
Being here.
With you.
Safe.
That was all he wanted.
After a moment, you pulled back and narrowed your eyes.
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“You need food.”
“Yeah yeah but I just got here—”
“And a shower.”
“You're very bossy for someone who fell asleep waiting.”
You gasped dramatically.
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On the counter?”
“It was strategic.”
Leon laughed again, the sound softer this time.
God, he'd missed this.
Missed you.
Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a kiss on your lips.
The teasing immediately died on your lips.
Your expression softened.
“So...” you murmured. “You're staying for a while this time?”
Leon wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer.
“As long as they'll let me.”
“Good.”
You smiled.
And finally after weeks in hell, Leon Kennedy felt completely at peace.
Because no matter where the job took him, no matter how dangerous the world became—
Summary: Brendon notices his favourite resident has been a little off recently, and when he finds out why he is morally obligated to help out
Warnings: Power imbalance, work place romance, daddy kink, face/pussy slapping, (wet) panty gag
Word count: 2k
Brendon noticed everything. He’d noticed your patience thin as you were called to the ER for a consult that was unnecessary, he’d noticed the slightly duller tinge to your complexion, he’d noticed you taking a beat longer than normal when answering his questions on the process of the attachment of Mr Lisbon’s finger this morning. And now he was noticing that slight tremor in your hand as you stood across from him over a patient.
He told himself he would worry about any resident if he noticed these things, but even he wasn’t convinced. Any other resident would be asked how they expected a patient to hold any respect in their diagnosis and treatment plan if they were so clearly incapable of looking after themselves. But not you. You, he wanted to take home, wrap up in a blanket safe from the world. He would solve each and every one of your concerns as easily as smoothing out the crease between your brows with his thumb, until all the weight was lifted from your shoulders and you were nothing but soft and sweet for him.
“Doctor Park?” He’d been staring again. He blinked at you, sizing you up.
“Swap out.” He gestured with his head for one of the other residents in the back of the OR.
He hated watching your face crumple in response, but the fact you didn’t fight him was a testament to how far gone whatever this was had gotten. Park heard the snickers and whispers that followed you out, he could imagine what they were thinking. That the two of you were fighting (he hoped not), that he’d gotten sick or bored of your (never), that you’d fucked something up (impossible). His head turned slightly to the notice, his eyes never leaving the operating table, but the residents caught it. The noise stopped. That wouldn’t be enough to save them.
The rest of the surgery went well, he handed off to Garcia and went to find you. It wasn’t hard, you were sitting in his office. You felt comfortable here, had spent enough time at the small table in the middle of the room together pouring over case files and journals. Even sharing take out after one particularly bad shift.
You jumped when the door opened and stopped your pacing. “Are you going to tell me what is going on?” He’d ask once, a professional courtesy something only you seemed to get from him.
“Doctor Park, it's nothing. I just haven’t been sleeping.” His eyes were drawing to your hands where you were nervously picking the skin around your nails. You were lying to him and he had had enough.
He stalked towards you, his large frame quickly dwarfing you as you took a step back finding his large desk at your back. He raised an eye brow, his gaze dropping to your mouth as your tongue darted out to wet your lips.
“I just, it's nothing! I should go” you tried to straighten up but he didn’t move. Your hand almost involuntarily came up to his chest, as you tried not to think about (or squeeze) the firm muscle under your palm. You pushed but he didn’t move.
“You know I don’t like to repeat myself.” You could feel the vibrations of chest as he spoke against your palm. You cast your eyes down to look at his feet. His leather shoes shining a stark contrast to the black rubber of yours.
“I’ve just been a little frustrated recently, okay it's no big deal and nothing you need to be sticking your big nose in.” you could hear the pout in your voice as you said it.
Brendon’s hand gripped your face tilting you up to look at him, he squished your cheeks together as you determinedly looked anywhere but at him. “It is a big deal I need to stick my big nose into if it is affecting patient care. So I will give you one final chance to tell me yourself. Why is your hand shaking in my OR.” The reminder of what you do here was like cold water through your veins. Of course Brendon cared you could kill someone because you were so distracted. Hot tears welled up in your eyes threatening to spill but Brendon remained unmoved.
“I can’t cum” your voice was so quiet he hardly heard it over the background noise of the hospital. But he had, and it was like his brain whited out. The thought of you in bed with your legs spread desperately playing with your clit or pushing your fingers into your pussy trying to get off but just making yourself more needy and desperate. He needed to hear your little whimpers more than he needed air at that moment.
You whined and he realised he was squishing your face hard as the images of you flew through his mind. He let you go and watched you pout at the loss of his hand on you. “Poor baby, how long has it been since you came? I bet you are aching for it aren’t you?” His tone was thick with condescension, not that you noticed anything. He tried not to laugh at how hard you were nodding your head at him.
“Been weeks. I need to cum so bad I can’t think about anything else. I can’t focus at all, it's awful.” A few of those tears escaped and Brendon watched them race down your cheek before swiping one with his thumb and bringing it to his lips to taste.
His hands gripped your hips, lifting you onto his desk and pushing himself between your legs. It was unprofessional, improper, and grounds for termination but all he could see were your bright wet eyes begging him to help you. He was really doing this for the patients and your care, it was a completely selfless act.
“You know my rules. You need help, you ask for it.” He had lots of rules, they weren’t written down and he expected his residents to know them back to front within a few weeks. He thought it was important to recognise when you need help and to have the humility to ask for it, something a lot of his colleagues lacked. But not you, never you.
“Please” you whined looking at him, trying to subtly rub yourself against his leg the pressure hot against you.
Brendon rolled his eyes at your display. He reached up to your face, but before you could lean into it he lightly slapped your face. It wasn’t hard, just enough to settle you. “I know you can do better than that.”
You were pretty sure your scrub pants were showing the signs of how desperately you needed the Shark to stop teasing and fuck you. Your breath was fast and shallow, your brain a hazy mess of need and want. You turned your head into the hand still resting on your warm cheek and sucked his thumb into his mouth. Your tongue swirled around it a few times before you sucked it as deep as you could into your mouth. You let go with a wet pop letting the string of drool break and land on your chin.
“Please Brendon. I need you to make me cum. Please you fingers are so big” your wide glassy eyes were staring at them. “Kept thinking about how they would feel inside me watching you in surgery. How good they would feel holding me in place so I can’t do anything but take what you give me. I need to be so full of you I can’t think anymore. Need my brain to be so overwhelmed that I can’t think about anything else but you and how you make me feel.” His face was close to yours now he could feel your hot breath fanning over his face at each plea for him.
“Once we do this there is no going back baby, you’ll be mine. I can’t do things by halves, not with you. If you want to leave now, go and sleep this off we’ll never mention it again.” Your hands flew to his neck gripping him like a vice scared he would leave.
“I want it. All of it. With you.” You were rubbing yourself against him again, the whole thing too much you were convinced this was a dream.
“Are you sure?”
“I thought you didn’t like to repeat yourself?” The last part came out in an almost shriek as your found your back against the large desk and the man who had featured in every fantasy since you started at PMTC above you.
Your scrubs were quickly pulled down and you felt Brendon’s hands press down into your thighs as he ran his hands up your legs. “You smell fucking incredible baby. You’ve soaked your panties.” His thumb ghosted over the thin piece of fabric covering your pussy, making you shiver and goosebumps to appear on your thighs. “This all for me sweetheart? This how needy you get thinking about Daddy playing with you?” You let out a high pitched whine at his teasing.
Brendon’s tongue ran along your panties before sucking on your clit through them. He sighed, stopping at you moaning loudly again. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself you with you making so much noise hm? Do you want the rest of the team barging in here to find you laying out like this dripping all over your boss’ desk like a slut?” It wouldn’t happen, most were in a surgery that would still take a few hours, and the door was locked. The screams of a victim being murdered in this room also wouldn’t be enough for any on of the staff on this floor to so much a knock on the Shark’s office door.
“Nooo please I’ll be good Daddy just don’t stop please!” You hiccuped. The idea he might stop almost bringing you to tears. You were so close already just from him being so close to you.
“Hmm” Brendon mused as he pulled your panties slower down your legs, watching the sting of wetness connecting them your cunt. Once they were off he looked back at you, your wide eyes and already messy hair, and smirked. “It’s okay baby, Daddy couldn’t stop if he tried. But I am going to help you be a good girl, okay?” You nodded looking like prey.
Brendon leaned over you “open” he demanded and you did. His fingers pushed into your mouth making it open wider as he pressed the wet centre of your panties down against your tongue. Tears filled your eyes again and the humiliation burned so sweetly through you. “Do you like tasting what a messy little girl you are for me?” He used the leverage of his fingers in your mouth to move your head into a nod, making you whine and flush. “Good girl” he groaned, pushing the rest of the fabric into your mouth.
Next went your scrub top, pushed up under your chin so the Shark could mouth and bite at your tits, leaving you to try and grind against him before he held you firmly down against the desk. “Now now, what was that about wanting to just take what I give you, hm?” His tone was like syrup all sickly sweet and fucking addictive.
His hand came down hard on your cunt, the slap echoing around the room. The heat bloomed causing you to hiss and bite down on the panties, your mouth constantly filled with the taste of your own need. Your hips bucked in response, your thighs shaking and toes curling as you felt yourself finally cum. It was quick, your poor pussy clenching around nothing and aching to be filed. Your chest heaved against him as you tried to focus back on the present.
“Was that all it took, baby? Don’t worry you can give me more, Daddy isn’t finished with you let.” You looked up at his smiling face, looking every bit the predator of the sea.
Summary: You take down a monster but it has one last surprise for you – a polar plunge. Leon's forced to go in after you. Once you're free of the ice, you've got to go get warm, fast.
WC: 4.5k
CW: NSFW, minors DNI, you and Leon are partnered DSO agents, monster fight, no use of y/n, no mention of ages, reader put in peril, reader is injured, shared body heat, sex in the back of the Porsche, first time (together), unprotected p in v, creampie, synchronized orgasms, sort of aftercare (Leon is sweet and attentive), I'm so incredibly not kidding half of this is porn
Notes: MINORS DNI
The root of the problem is there are too many fucking limbs to keep track of.
The monster’s knotted, slimy arms – if you could call them such – are clawed into the ground, keeping it pulled onto the shore, and it has plenty more to swing and slam and bludgeon with, swatting at you and Leon running around like you’re nothing more than pestering flies. After an initial trial of overwhelm, you’re learning: shoot for the bends to shatter joints, hit the ground when it swings then immediately roll to avoid the follow-up slam meant to unite you with the dirt. Permanently.
There’s an additional complication.
“It’s a fucking hydra!” Leon shouts.
It’s a fucking hydra. You’re dealing with more limbs now than when it had burst out of the frozen lake and charged you, with a screech so piercing it still rings in your ears. This changes things, if you don’t want to end up popped like a sauce packet on the patchy grass bank.
“Fuck.”
You have to keep moving, but you’re not shooting at it now. You’re reassessing, heart pounding, breath loud in your ears and visible in the cold, grey air. Leon grunts as he dives clear of a slamming limb, rolling to his feet and dodging the bullwhip crack of another arm.
Your gaze locks on the grenade hanging from his belt. A plan fills in behind your singular focus.
He sees you half a second before you slam into him at full tilt, no time to slow down, but his stance is wide enough that it doesn’t knock him over.
“What–!”
You meet his eyes. You can see the next threat in your periphery; your one, his six, another slimy limb coming in hot. He’s realizing where your hand is. It all happens in the space of a heartbeat.
“Spicy meatball,” you explain, then drop him by kicking your heel into the back of his knee, folding it. Your grip on the grenade yanks it free of his belt and you hold it up over your head as the hydra’s arm, great ugly claw-hand open, misses Leon on the ground and grabs you, ripping you into the air. Leon shouts your name but it’s lost under an ear-splitting, triumphant screech.
The monster’s clutching you too tight, you're gasping for air. Your dominant arm is free, grenade in hand, even if your other arm is squashed in against your side. The fucker’s whipping you around like a litigiously unregulated county fair ride; black edges your vision and your head pounds horribly. You manage to arm the grenade with your teeth and grip it, breathless, waiting.
You need the hydra to screech again. You need the great stinking mouth open, throwing saliva and mucus past rows of needle teeth, the perfect basket in which to throw your one and only egg.
Leon’s already caught on.
A single splattering gunshot splits the air and the monster jerks, limbs flying skyward as it screams in fury; you’re helplessly along for the ride, heaved almost directly above it – and here’s your window.
You drop the grenade. It goes right down the gullet.
The explosion ruptures the monster’s body cavity in a great geyser of green and black gore. Its limbs thrash and flail, whipping high, slamming into the ground. You brace as the arm gripping you speeds for the ground, but then it swings you around and back up, your stomach lurching violently, and –
It throws you.
Your heart and lungs hitch, suspended; time runs slow as you arc high, tumbling, too high, way too high – and start falling. You see where you’re going to land and curl yourself into a ball, protecting your head and neck.
Your body blows a hole right through the lake ice, plunging into the freezing water below.
Leon’s already running.
The hydra is nothing but a tangled, limp, caved-in pile of slop, disregarded the second Leon saw you go airborne. He’s running, stripping off his jacket, ripping open the buckles on his chest rig, tearing off his tac belt, leaving a trail of weapons and ammunition and nylon webbing strewn in his wake. He reaches the bank in his street clothes, shoes skidding to a stop just before the water, breath loud in his ears and visible in the air.
The jagged crater you left in the ice is still sloshing dark, slushy water.
You haven’t come up for air.
“Fuck.”
He looks down at the scuffed grey ice pack, gauges the distance to you, and sprints.
The ice groans and cracks under his feet; he keeps moving. He closes the gap, every pounding footfall turbulence that fractures the lake ice in great echoing snaps, the whole thick sheet weakened by the violence of your intrusion. Finally, with a leap that calves the ice beneath him, Leon dives into the freezing water after you.
The shock of the cold pulls on Leon’s lungs, he has to fight against the primal instinct to gasp. His limbs are immediately leaden, but he doesn't stop moving. The flat grey daylight barely filters through the murky ice above and the water is dark with disturbed silt. He kicks towards the lakebed in search of you, his pounding heartbeat a timer counting down.
Something that looks like a branch solidifies into your arm, limp hand floating in a slack reach skyward. Leon grabs your wrist, hauling your dead weight towards himself, hooking his arms underneath your shoulders and swimming up for the gap in the ice.
He heaves in air when your heads breach the surface.
You do not.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls through gritted teeth, and manages to slide you up onto the ice pack, pushing you clear as he kicks his legs up behind himself and drags flat onto the ice beside you. He moves you onto a thick, uncracked stretch of ice and pushes you onto your back, plugging your nose and forcing air into your mouth.
You choke, spurting dirty lake water, rolling onto your side and spitting up more, coughing and heaving. You try to prop yourself up on your elbow, your throat raw and tight, nose stinging and burning. Your eyes are blurry when you open them, your ears are waterlogged. You squeeze your eyes shut and blink them clear enough to see what keeps pulling at you.
It’s Leon, wet and pale, saying something to you, his eyes intense. You squint at his mouth, trying to read his lips because your ears might as well have been left underwater for all the good they’re doing you.
Get up
We need to move
Can you “hear me? We have to go, now!”
As if to punctuate his statement, the ice below you jerks, a crack scything underneath your body like a bolt of lightning. You recoil onto your hip and Leon pulls at your arm, pulls you up, the ice creaking and popping under your shoes.
“Run!”
It’s a bit much to ask.
You do your best, stumbling after Leon, short on breath and coughing. You’d impacted the ice with your left shoulder, the force ramming your curled arm into your ribs, hard. That side is tight and painful, and you know you’re too frozen to feel the full extent of it yet. It’s really not gonna be pretty.
Your foot catches on a rising gap in the ice and trips you; you slide and weakly scramble back to your feet. Ahead of you, Leon’s almost to the shore.
You’re almost there.
You hit the bank on your hands and knees, gasping. Your fingers, clawing into the crumbling dirt, are pale, the nail beds blue. You can barely feel the dry grit of the cold earth under your hands.
Leon grabs the collar of your jacket and yanks you to standing.
“Keep moving. Keep moving, come on.” He grabs your hand, already running, pulling you after him.
You half-register the scattered bullet clips, weaponry, and leather jacket on the bank as you run in Leon’s wake. You pass the fuckass hydra; it’s nothing but a gelatinous stinking puddle that you quickly leave behind.
The thin, brittle air razors through your lungs, freezing and metallic. The bitter wind axes at you. You can’t feel your extremities; you keep stumbling and it’s slowing you down. Leon looks back just in time to watch you actually fall, tripping in a rut, knees slamming into the ground. He runs back to you and helps you up. You’re both breathing shallow, wracked with tremors, teeth chattering and skin close to blue.
“Almost there. Come on.”
Leon’s car is half-hidden behind a broken fence and an overgrown shrub, parked haphazard on the dry, patchy grass. He hits the driver’s side door with more momentum than he meant to, pressing his thumb to the door handle; it unlocks and he yanks it open. You hear the whole car unlock, the lights flashing, and he slaps the driver’s door shut in favor of the backseat.
“Get in. Get in!”
You slip in the back passenger’s door just as he slides in on the other side, the both of you slamming the doors on the freezing wind. Leon immediately grabs the hem of his soaked shirt, peeling it over his head and dumping it over the headrests into the trunk. It lands with a wet plap.
“Wet stuff in the back,” he says, twisting over the seats to grab something out of the trunk. It’s a duffel; he grunts in frustration when his numb fingers fail at first to catch the handle but then he drags it into the backseat while you’re struggling out of your soaked jacket and shoving it over the backrests. It lands with an even wetter plorp.
You’re still wearing your chest rig; your numb, stiff fingers can’t get the fucking plastic buckles to open.
“Fuck!”
There’s a sharp snk noise; Leon shoves your hands clear and slips a folding knife under the nylon webbing of your rig. The straps pull taut and dig into your injured side, but then he’s cut clean through the belts and he’s helping untangle it from your arms. The buckles clatter against the back windshield as you throw it in the trunk. Leon uses the knife to make quick work of his shoelaces, kicking his soaked and muddy shoes into the footwell, then he leans across and holds your ankles steady, cutting your bootlaces while you peel your shirt up over your head. Your side screams at the stretch and you rasp out a cry of pain.
Your left side is already violently bruised, livid and dark against the pale blanch of your goosepimpled skin. You’re caught for a moment by the horrible picture it makes, trying to remember to breathe.
“Jesus,” Leon says in agreement. In your periphery, he’s struggling with his waterlogged skinny jeans and there’s suddenly a lot more skin above the line of his waistband; the denim sucked his boxer briefs halfway down his hips before he managed to shove the jeans to his knees and off. He throws the jeans in the back, pulls the waistband of his underwear up, and again he’s in your space undoing your useless fucking tac belt that your frozen fingers can’t open. His hands are just as cold and numb as your own, why the fuck do they work better than yours?
Wind gusts against the outside of the car, scratching the scraggly branches of the nearby shrub against the doors. You feel a draft even through the sealed door. Your teeth are clacking uncontrollably.
“Can we get the fucking heat running?” You shove your pants and boots into the trunk, smearing mud on the leather seat. Leon’s rooting through the duffel again.
“No.”
“No?”
“The keys are in my coat.”
“The fuck kind of agent are you? Hotwire the car.”
“Smart, when I can’t feel my hands,” he says, and shoves the duffel into the footwell, tearing open a passport-sized plastic package with his teeth and turning towards you on the seat. “Come here.”
He shakes out the mylar safety blanket and you realize exactly what’s going to have to happen, here. It’s a thought you’ve had triaged as a last-resort solution while stripping semi-nude in the backseat of his car; now it turns out it’s your only solution. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat and you’re going to have to get on top of him. He’s scooting to lay down across the backseat in nothing but wet cotton boxer briefs and you’re going to have to get on top of him in nothing but a wet bra and panties, and then he’s going to close you both in under the mylar blanket to trap heat like you’re a fucking turkey in a roasting pan.
Fuck.
You clench your jaw against your chattering teeth and don’t let yourself hesitate. There’s no can or can’t here – you’re both freezing, this is life or death. So you climb up over him in the limited space available, helping to pull the mylar blanket around you and tuck it in under your shins, under his head and shoulders, sealing you together into a lumpy, creased foil bubble.
It’s not pitch black like you'd hoped. The mylar filters the grey daylight into a dim, intimate dusk. You can still see Leon’s face clearly, on your hands and knees above him; you could count his eyelashes if you could bear to look him in the eyes. You keep your head down and focus on the uncontrollable chatter of your teeth, the way your whole body is shivering unpleasantly, and not the way his knees are framing your hips. He’s too tall for the backseat.
Your disloyal stomach flutters when you feel his hand brush your darkened side.
“How are your ribs?” He presses his thumb carefully against the darkest patch, low on your ribcage, where your elbow impacted. You hiss and jerk away.
“Tenderized, Leon. Ow."
“How bad?”
“I don’t… think anything’s broken.”
“Deep breath in.”
You oblige, slow and careful, your ribs expanding over your lungs. It stings horribly, your skin feels too tight, but nothing stabs you. His hand rides the motion of your ribs, feeling for telltale hitches or jerks. It’s nothing but clinical.
“Alright,” he says, quiet. He eases his touch but doesn’t drop it away. You’re staring at your hand in the crumpled landscape of the mylar blanket over Leon’s shoulder, because everything else is his naked skin.
His hand moves from your side to your arm, fingers close to the bend in your elbow like he means to fold it.
“You gotta get down on me."
You want to laugh but your side only lets you make a pained huff through your chattering teeth.
"Nice one, icebrain. Lemme loop HR in real quick."
“The air pocket only works if one of us is warm,” he says, steamrolling the comment. And he’s right.
Fuck.
"I don't know where you think my knees are going."
You have to play some strange and painful backseat Twister, the foil blanket complicating shit by clinging to your damp skin and hair, but then you’ve puzzled yourselves together so you can drop onto him with a put-upon huff.
He hisses and pushes you back up by the shoulders.
“Fuck, how much water is in that thing?”
You both look down at your high-impact bra. Squeezed between the two of you, it's now weeping drops of frigid water down your stomach. It's also left an imprint across Leon's chest, wet enough to bead up and roll towards his armpits.
“You can’t be wearing that.”
“Leon–“
"No, this isn't an argument. That's over your heart."
Yes, but. It's also over your breasts. Preventing them from being all over Leon. All over Leon's naked skin.
"Do you trust me?"
You don't even hesitate, because that's the easy question.
"Yes."
It's a zip-front bra. His fingers touch the zipper.
"Okay?" His gaze is holding yours, strong, a promise to keep his eyes up.
It’s taking all your energy to appear calm and unaffected right now.
“Yeah. Fine."
It’s a relief, actually, the compression easing as he pulls the zipper down, releasing entirely when the sides come apart. It’s easier to breathe. He pushes the straps from your shoulders, brushes them down your arms until you can drop the soaked bra into the footwell, tucking the foil blanket back in place. His chest, still cold, feels warm against your freezing breasts.
He rubs the damp, freezing skin of your back, paying special attention to the deep impressions left by the bra seams like he can smooth them out, putty under his fingers.
“Do you know you're doing that.”
He stops. You shift, shoulderblades rolling under his hands.
“I didn't tell you to stop,” you say.
“Yes ma'am.”
Your head is turned away from his, because otherwise your nose would be right against his cheek. You have to maintain at least one boundary in the smoking ruin of all the others. He keeps stroking your back; the gentle flats of his palms, the firm pads of his fingers. You’re starting to feel like putty.
Your eyelids are heavy.
“Is it bad to fall asleep?”
He pinches you hard and you jolt away from it, knocking against the seatback. Your injured side flares with pain.
“Fuck! You ass,” you gasp, poking him hard between the ribs. He jerks under you, cursing, and you brace for retaliation, but he’s gone still.
And you register why.
His face is right under yours, noses almost touching. You’re sharing breath.
And something else is different.
“…Where are your hands?”
You know where they are. He moves them from your hips up to your back again.
“Good boy.”
You don’t know what fucking possessed you. It sounded like a joke in your head, but released into the narrow space between your faces it’s far more charged than that, because of course it is. You’re hearing it now, where it’s too late to take it back. You still have a brain like a frozen chicken cutlet, fucking cold and smooth, he has to understand–
He’s breathing out hot against your mouth, pushing his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your body tighter against his, and it ignites something sharp and fervid in your belly.
“Shit,” you whisper, and kiss him.
He meets it. He kisses you back like he’s just been waiting, gathering the damp hair at your nape with one hand, blunt nails scraping the skin of your neck. His other hand goes lower, the heel of his palm digging in, fingers gripping your ass. You gasp and roll your hips, body lighting up.
“Fuck,” he says into your mouth. “Careful with your side.”
“You be careful with my side.”
“Damn.”
“Shut up.” You fist his hair and pull his head back, kissing the taut line of his neck under his ear, scraping your teeth against the skin. He’s got both hands on your ass now, sliding his fingers under the sides of your panties to gather the fabric into a thong, palming the cool skin of your bared cheeks. You hum, rolling your hips again.
“You’ve got a fixation.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, unashamed. He smooths his hands down your thighs where they’re framing his sides, his fingertips digging in. You’re sitting on his pelvis, grinding on nothing but the flat of his low abdomen, his thighs closed behind your ass, his knees pressed to the car door. You kiss his mouth, open and loose, and speak against it.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you that cold?”
“Don’t be rude.”
You stop moving, pushing up to stare down at him. “Are you serious?”
“No.” He opens his legs, shifting his hips, and you gasp when you feel him against your ass. You shift back, rubbing yourself against the hardening length of his dick, the lake-wet fabric of your underwear dragging together, no longer cold and clammy where you’re touching. His breath tumbles hot from his open mouth, hips rolling to meet you.
“Fuck, Leon.” If this is him with shrinkage, how the hell has he been packing all that into skinny jeans all these years?
He’s watching you, his eyes half-lidded, hands on your naked waist. You sit up more, tipping your head back, running your hands along his forearms as you drag your wet pussy along the firm heat of his cock.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he tells you, molten. You groan, arching.
“Jesus. Keep talking like that.”
“Yeah?” He tugs you by the arms to bring you lower, kissing your neck with an open mouth, his scruff lightly scratching your skin and making you shiver. His hands find your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and your breath hitches. “Fuck, I’ve wanted to touch you like this.”
You laugh, just a teasing exhale against his lips. “What, cold and injured?”
He’s pulling the fabric of your panties to one side, holding it there, out of the way. You moan when he rubs his fingers through your drenched folds, slow.
“Naked and wet,” he growls, teeth grazing your shoulder. You whimper and thread your fingers into his hair, gripping, gasping when he circles your clit. Your hips jerk erratically; he’s mouthing kisses up the side of your neck, nipping lightly, then speaking against your skin, his voice subterranean.
“What do you want?”
Holy shit. You don’t remember what it feels like to be cold, anymore. Your body’s on fire. You’ve maybe never been this turned on in your life, and all this after a fucking ice bath.
“Take yourself out," you tell him. "I wanna feel you.”
The first drag of your wet cunt along the satin heat of his naked cock has him groaning, his hips rocking helplessly. You glide on him like that, wetting his dick, feeling it jump and throb between your pussy lips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat, grinding your clit firm against the head of his cock with little gyrations of your hips. He’s gripping your waist, mouth open, just watching you.
“I’ve never seen you so speechless,” you tell him.
“I’ve – shit – never seen you riding me.”
“Mm. Lucky day.”
“I know.”
“Any last words?”
“What?”
You cant your hips back, reaching down to guide the glistening head of Leon’s cock to your entrance. His fingers tighten on your sides, breathing in sharp.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You’re sweet,” you tell him, bearing down with little adjustments, caging his dick in place with your fingers. The tip of him presses into your tight wet heat and Leon gasps, head thumping back against the seat. You stare at the display of his body below you; the taut stretch of his neck, the flush of his chest, the tight muscles of his stomach as he works to keep his hips still, letting you control this. You take him into you in increments, the burning stretch of him blurring into white-hot pleasure, the length of him making your thighs shake before you’re finally fully seated, the throbbing heat of him bottomed out inside of you, filling you deep. You drop forward, hands on his shoulders, panting.
“Are you okay?”
You manage a nod. “God, Leon.”
He moves his hips, just a small adjustment, experimental. You gasp, lifting to half-mast him, sliding back down. He’s so thick.
Your thighs are shaking too much and you don’t exactly have the room to adjust. You lean down, desperate.
“Fuck me.”
He doesn’t need telling twice. He grips your ass, pushing you down into every thrust of his hips, long and slow at first so you can feel every inch, grinding tight against you when he bottoms out. He uses your breath by his ear as a barometer, picking up the pace, the wet glide turning into a wet slap, and turns his head to catch your moans in his mouth.
“Think you can come like this?”
“Limited menu of options, garçon,” you pant. There’s no fucking space back here.
“Tip your hips down,” he says.
You do; he slams in deep, grinding, putting delicious pressure on your clit. You cry out.
“Fuck, like that Leon!”
He pulls your earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly, resuming the faster slap of his hips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, filthy, and jesus christ, he is going to get an orgasm out of you. Almost just did.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Are you close?”
“Do you want me to be?”
You clench around him and he groans, hips stuttering.
“Fuck. I am if you do that,” he gasps. You do it again and he buries deep to grind on you, like he’s warring you, fighting to set you off first.
“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” you whimper, bouncing on him, stalling for time. He’s got you right on the edge and you don’t wanna go over yet. “With me. Come with me.”
He curses, fucking into you hard and fast, thrusts starting to go erratic. You keep a litany of babble going in his ear, obscene, feeling him catching up, drawing tight; and then he’s bottoming out hard against you, groaning brokenly as he pulses deep inside of you, your walls convulsing as the final slap of his hips sends you tumbling over the edge with him.
When you come back down to earth, the foil blanket is askew, his leg sticking out in the passenger’s side footwell, your forearm dangling in the driver’s side footwell. You’re lying bonelessly on top of Leon, riding the heaving of his chest as you both catch your breath. He pulls the mylar down to the middle of your back and the cold air raises new goosebumps on your flushed skin.
"I think that did the trick,” he says.
You hum, your eyes closed, face pressed to the side of Leon’s neck. He runs his thumb lightly along the dewy column of your spine.
“How’s your side?”
“Stings.”
He’s still inside you, starting to slip free as he softens. He gently pulls out and your forehead creases, a grumpy noise escaping you.
“Hey,” he says, soft. You don’t lift your head, it feels like too much effort. He shifts under you and you grumble your displeasure, but he’s just resettling you so you’re not leaning your bruised side so heavily against the seatback. He cards his fingers through your hair, pulling it back from your sweaty temple.
“I’m going to sleep,” you murmur. “Try to pinch me again and see what happens.”
He laughs, just a short rumble low in his chest.
“Worked out fine the first time.”
You smile, eyes closed, and tuck your arm in under his body.
“Beginner’s luck.”
There’s a lot of shit to do. There’s kit to grab from the beach, samples to take from the hydra, clothes to dry, reports to fill out, bruises to heal, complex developments to talk through with your partner.
But right now, there’s just Leon’s heartbeat and steady breathing beneath you, his fingers combing lazily through your hair, and you’re pretty sure it’s all gonna work out okay.
On AO3
Guys quick tip don’t take survival advice from a gratuitous x reader they probably died lmao
Thanks for reading! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist when I post these fics 💙
Warnings: fluff, married!Leon, whiny Leon, needy Leon, established relationship, tiddies <3
Summary: Leon Kennedy has seen it all: broken bones, las Plagas, gunshot wounds ... but nothing, nothing is worse than the common cold.
a/n: I had a cold recently and I wondered who would be whinier, me or Leon? So I wrote this. I feel like this could be any version of Leon, but I had RE9 Leon in mind because it's the funniest. Special shoutout to @regionaldoubloon <3
Masterlist
word count: 900
The chicken noodle soup was bubbling on the stove and the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Another cough from the bedroom, followed by a pained groan.
Ah, yes. Poor Leon was suffering unimaginable torture.
You rolled your eyes, put the lid on the pot and reduced the heat down to a simmer.
"Baby?" His voice was pathetically thin as he called for you from your bedroom. "Baby, can you come here?"
"In a minute, honey," you yelled back, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol and the other remedies you had gathered to nurse your husband back to health. The same husband that had lived through cracked ribs, several other broken bones and unfathomable horrors multiple times, but for some reason the common cold was what made him want to write his testament.
"Nurse is here," you announced yourself as you walked into the room. The curtains were drawn and Leon was sprawled out on the bed, arm theatrically draped over his eyes. "Do you need me to call the priest?"
"Not yet," he croaked, breaking into a coughing fit.
You sat down on the edge of the bed. "Oh my poor baby," you crooned, gently brushing a sweaty strand of hair out of his face. Leon closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like a stray kitten. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible,” he whined, sniffling. “I’m all congested, I have a headache, I can’t sleep because I’m coughing so much…”
“I made you chicken noodle soup,” you said.
“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching for you but you leaned back.
“Leon, no. I can’t get sick, too. One of us has to keep this house running,” you said, firmly brushing his hands off your body. He whined again.
“So you’re really going to let me die without a kiss, huh? Wow.”
You chuckled. “You know, for being a tough government agent, you’re being a little bit dramatic right now.”
He groaned, a cough racking through his body again. “That’s just not true,” he insisted, his hands wandering again, slipping under your shirt.
“Leon,” you warned him, opening the bottle of Tylenol. “Here, take these.”
He obliged and you pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead. “Good boy.”
He chuckled and his hands immediately found your breasts, softly squeezing them. “You know, I think it’s actually very beneficial for my recovery to receive a kiss at least every five minutes. And body heat is also very important.”
You tried to lean away from him to prepare what you actually came here for, but no matter how whiny, he was a trained agent with great reflexes after all. Before you could react, he pulled up your shirt and slipped his head under it, burying his face in your chest.
“I thought you had a hard time breathing?” you asked, gently rubbing his shoulders.
“It’s already getting better,” he murmured, his voice muffled by your boobs. You sighed and he pulled your bra down, gently slipping one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking on it.
“Oh my god, you’re just like your son.” You let out a defeated breath. “Only that your son is barely two years old.”
Leon let out a content sigh, as he kept sucking and kneaded your other breast with his free hand. “It’s actually also medically proven that sucking on boobies can help recover from any kind of illness.”
“Leon, stop. That’s for babies. You’re a grown man.”
“So?” he murmured, demonstratively coughing again, looking at you with puppy eyes. He knew full well those were your weakness. Jesus Christ, that man was impossible.
You pushed him off you.
“Here, open wide big boy,” you said, offering him a spoon with an entire clove of garlic covered in honey on it.
“Why do you always have to come in with your witchy shit? Why can’t we just be normal, take a Tylenol and call it a day?” He eyed the spoon in front of him and hissed like a cat.
“Oh?” your eyebrows shot up. “Look who’s already feeling better and obviously doesn’t need any tiddy time. Well in that case…” You faked getting up from the edge of the bed and Leon’s hand shot forward, snatching the spoon from you and pushing it into his mouth.
He grimaced as he chewed. “Happy now?”
“Not quite.” You handed him a glass full of cloudy yellow liquid. “Turmeric ginger shot. It’s good for you.”
He looked at you like you were about to betray him, then knocked back the drink in one go. He shuddered, sticking out his tongue.
“Oh come on,” you mocked him. “Leon shooting-whiskey-like-it’s-nothing Kennedy can’t handle a ginger shot? Are you sure you’re my husband?”
“Don’t ever question that, I love you,” he said, pressing his face back against your chest. “Thank you for taking care of me. You’re my favourite nurse.”
“And you’re my least favourite patient,” you said, not getting very far because Leon pulled you into bed with him.
“Leon,” you yelped, as he moved down, pushed your shirt up and cuddled up to your chest.
“I’m already feeling much better, you know.”
You huffed. “I have to get up to take the chicken soup off the heat.”
Leon shook his head, nuzzling your tits. “No, you don’t.”
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