brendan makes Emma's braid every mronign 🥹🥹🥹🥹 (i say this wetly like I've been crying thinking about it)
god me too, anon. anyway, consider the following:
having grown up in a female centric family, park learned very quickly that women rule the world.
especially those under the age of ten, as proven by the fact that he is seated on a children’s chair, knees folded to his chest as he holds a small porcelain cup between his thumb and forefinger.
emma’s baby sister, the result of the marriage between her mother and stepfather, is the cause of his current situation. merely six, the girl is the spitting image of both his girl and their mother (a promising thing; he can appreciate a woman just a tad older than himself just as well as a younger one, and ms. Nolan is a beautiful woman), and a true dictator.
it’s his first time visiting their house, and the second he gave the flowers to the lady of the house, a tiny hand had wrapped around his finger and dragged him along towards a small table looking out over the spacious garden with the command sit.
park had learned very quickly to listen to his mother, his aunts, any nurse, and apparently also six year old girls that look so much like his angel that it makes something in his chest vaguely ache.
he expected the afternoon to be made up of stiff small talk, perhaps your average shovel talk delivered by either emma’s mother or stepfather, and excuses made after an hour or two. instead, he was held captive by this little thing who ruled with an iron fist.
“mr. brendon, you can’t spill the juice okay, mommy says it’s the fancy juice that i’m only allowed when we have guests.”
he peers down into the minuscule cup, only a drops of a pinkish liquid in it. “i won’t,” he replies, trying to ignore the smile that he cannot see, but absolutely can feel, knowing full well emma is watching him.
“he won’t, soph. mr. brendon has a steady hand,” emma tells her.
“what’s that mean?”
god, that eyebrow crinkle is the exact same. before he can explain, emma does.
“you know how I work at the hospital, right? like we’ve talked about?”
sophia nods solemnly. “yeah, you’re a nurse. you help the sick people.”
emma nods as she walks over to them, crouching down and adjusting her sister’s shirt where it has ridden up. “mr. brendon is a doctor,” she tells the girl. “sometimes he does surgery, which is where he helps fix something when people are sleeping. it’s very important that he doesn’t mess up when he does that, though.”
“like how mommy says i’m not allowed to hold the scissors when we’re crafting unless i’m at the table? or when ms. kayla says we have to colour inside the lines?”
“yes,” he replies. “like that.” he drinks the few drops of juice before placing the empty cup on the table.
it’s awkward, stiff; he never knows how to hold himself around children, and this particular one is eyeing him up like she understands more than she should at age six.
“does that mean you’re good at braiding my hair?” she blurts, which is immediately met by a chorus of protests from the other adults in the room (soph, baby, leave mr. brendon alone. sophia no. sophia–)
“yeah,” he grunts, ignoring everyone else. “c’mere.”
the girl grins, rounding around the small table before plopping herself down on a pillow between his knees. this he knows. he learned to braid when his mother was ill, not sure how to help in other ways but the small ones.
her curls are similar to emma’s, perhaps a bit looser. the second he starts braiding, his shoulders relax, the tightness of his jaw reduces and he gets lost in it, the steady rhythm of his fingers familiar and easy to get lost in.
he’s unaware of the fact that emma has joined her mother near the kitchen counter, the pair of them staring at his hulking figure bent over this small figure, wrapped around her finger from the moment he stepped through the door. he also doesn’t hear the murmured compliment his angel receives.
Park the Shark sweet talking his way into Emma's place after driving her home and she goes to get him a drink from the kitchen. Comes out and he's got her dirty panties out of the hamper and held up to his nose.
He just grins at her shock and palms his cock, stuffing the panties into her open mouth as he drags her into the bedroom to dirty up the ones she's wearing.
I imagine that Brendon and Emma date for three years before getting he kneels before her with a ring in hand. Emma is clear with her boyfriend: she's not getting engaged before 24, and she's not getting married before 25. This is fine with him, as long as he gets a ring on her finger at some point.
Brendon chooses a cushion-cut diamond ring, buys it when she's 23. He knows it's the right choice because after he proposes — a balmy spring night, one week after her 24th birthday — she keeps staring at it with an impossibly big smile. He also knows that she's going to want a small wedding; she'll want both of their families there, her old college roommate, and the ED nurses. If it were up to him, they would get married the day after her 25th birthday in city hall, and he would bring her home and ravage her like a man starved.
But no, they get married on a an estate near Cherry Springs that belongs to an old professor of his. That night — they're staying on the estate, no one else — he does ravage her, sucking on each of her pulse points. He barely lets Emma sleep and drinks in every breathless sigh that escapes her mouth.
They come back to PTMC after a two week honeymoon, and God he thinks his heart is going to stop when he's in the ED two days later and overhears her speaking with a young boy and his parents.
"Thank you, Nurse Emma!"
"We don't call adults by their first names," the boy's mother scolds.
"Oh, no—" Emma starts, but the parents insist.
And when they ask what their son should call her, she does not hesitate:
pope goes to smurf's house only to find you playing dress-up in lingerie
bet u wanna MEET THE READER! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNING 18+ MDNI explicit language, sexual tension, male-gaze objectification, lingerie/revealing clothing, voyeuristic framing, possessive behavior, jealous pope, power imbalance (age & authority), internal monologue with some violent thoughts, smurf's coercive caretaking, family dysfunction/toxic dynamics, obsessive attraction
WC 2k
Well, that sucked.
By the time Pope gets back, the rush has leeched out, leaving only that deep-kernel ache that seats itself behind his eyes and chews on the hinges of his knees.
Two straight hours of Craig’s bullshit. Handling one of his messes: steal a box truck, ditch it by the frontage weeds, ferry a duffel that sloshes like loose change in hell.
And that kid — peach-fuzz jaw, barely old enough to drive, hands rattling on the wheel — kept chirping, They get the plate? You think the cops got the plate? Until Pope finally told him to Shut the fuck up.
It should’ve been simple. And it was. But now his shoulders have ratcheted up to his ears, boots scraped with dried roadside clay, and something electric still zings along the wire of his veins, buzzing rest right out of reach even while his muscles sag for it.
He ought to drive to his own apartment. Strip, shower, face-plant into bed. Instead, he hooks the wheel into Smurf’s driveway, jaw hooking and unhooking as the tires snap and grind.
His place has felt wrong lately. Like stepping into a church long after the candles are snuffed, all the heat siphoned off, air too neat, too unlived-in.
He skips the confession that he knew you’d be here tonight.
You’d told him earlier you were going over to Smurf’s after dinner, helping finish month-end paperwork for one of the Cody businesses because half the receipts were missing, the books didn’t match, and Smurf liked having someone patient enough to untangle the mess without asking too many questions.
Pope kills the engine and sits there for a second, both fists locked on the wheel, eyes tracking the jaundiced porch light as if it might blink out.
The notion of finding you perched on the counter, hair pulled back, tongue caught between your teeth while you tame Smurf’s math brings him a molecule of relief.
Maybe if he can stand close enough, let that warmth bleed off you and into him, that static in his body will finally ebb.
But when he steps inside the kitchen he doesn’t find you there.
Instead the room is empty except for a lamp left on and a stack of folders spread across the island.
He’s halfway to calling your name when your voice drifts down the hallway.
“No, I don’t know if this one fits right.” A heartbeat of silence, Smurf’s gravelly reply lost in drywall, then you again, soft and rueful: “It’s weird in the shoulders.”
His boots are already angling down the hall before the thought finishes forming. A prickle climbs the back of his neck. Pre-impact warning, he thinks.
He rounds the doorway and when he sees you, the whole room seems to swim in distorted colors.
Every sane impulse collapses into a pinhole centered on you. Balance? Shot. Vision? Down to one shaky frame. All he can do is absorb the hit and pray his face doesn’t show it.
You’re standing barefoot in the glow of Smurf’s vanity lights, one arm over your chest, gigglinh a little while Smurf fusses with the back clasp of a dove-gray lingerie set that leaves most of your spine exposed.
Lace webs your hips, throwing sparks of silver thread catching every twitch of light, sketching a glittered arrow that drags Pope’s gaze downward before he can marshal a single thought.
His palms twitch, desperate to chart every raw continent of skin in front of him. He’s never seen this much of you outside a bathing suit.
His zipper strains as his cock twitches in his jeans.
And still he’s motionless, swallowing hard, worship curdling into something closer to panic because if you turn and see what’s in his eyes, you’ll know things he’s barely admitted to himself.
You twist, a startled little oh hitching out as gravity helps sink the lace a fraction to frame your breasts in shadowed leafwork.
Pope’s eyes bite down, brutal and starving, then wrenches upward to your face, forcing itself past you to Smurf.
She waits with that fox-like smile, the one that says she laid the snare hours ago and knew exactly which wolf would step into it.
“What the fuck is this?” he barks.
“Langauge.” Smurf reminds, tapping your hip like you’re a showroom dummy.
“You got her parading around like that in the middle of the house?”
“She’s not parading,” Smurf corrects. “We were having fun.”
You hunch your shoulders like a breeze just cut through, never mind that the motion only lofts your chest higher in the fabric, and offer him a sheepish half-smile.
“Smurf was just helping me pick out some… stuff,” you say, as if the word covers feathers and dynamite alike.
Stuff. Harmless, cute, nothing to see. At least that’s the story you seem to be trying to sell.
What use do you have for lingerie? Especially the kind that looks like sin stitched up?
A boyfriend? Somebody you’re texting while he’s too busy mopping up Craig’s mistakes to notice? Far as he knows you’re not seeing anyone, but the idea of that sweetness wrapped up for anyone else pours molten lead straight into his head.
“You don’t need —” he falters, fingers flexing like they might crumple the air — “stuff like that.”
He knows it’s a selfish claim. The idea that lingerie is pointless unless he is the one unhooking it, unless his mouth is the one to learn every inch of you that the fabric covers. Anything that decadent belongs behind a door he locks, the key warm in his fist, an invitation meant for him alone.
Smurf lifts a single painted brow. “Need’s got nothin’ to do with it, baby. A girl gets to feel pretty just because.”
Pope scoffs.
“She’s already plenty pretty —” His eyes flick to you. “ — you’re already… you’re fine without all this.” He swings his glare back to Smurf. “Whatever game this is, it’s not what you hired her for. Cut it out.”
You wet your lips, nervously looking between the two Codys. “Pope, it’s okay.”
His name, or the semblance of it (he’s not sure you even know his real name at this point), from your lips while you’re dressed like this feels like blasphemy.
In an instant he’s seeing the bodysuit rolled down slow, edges snagging on goose-bumped thighs while you try to stay modest, him kissing away the apologies that rise in your throat, laying you back across the vanity bench so he can have his way with you.
Sweat beads at his hairline. He pinches his nose, swallows broken glass. “Go put somethin’ else on.”
“Don’t bark orders at her,” Smurf chides, the words lazy.
He pretends he didn’t hear her; only when his eyes meet yours do they soften, apology threaded through the glare. “Go on, please.”
You nod at that and hurry back down the hall. Pope’s body tilts to follow the sway of your hips before he yanks it still until the bathroom lock snicks closed.
When he turns, Smurf is already studying him the way a jeweler studies a flawed diamond, looking for cracks, head tipped, eyes sharp.
He offers nothing, no twitch of the mouth or flinch, just the blank slate he’s spent years perfecting.
She finally concedes and pushes off the dresser.
“Think I’ll fix myself a sandwich,” she murmurs, “Try not to devour the poor girl before I’m back.”
Her hand lands on Pope’s chest in a mock-pat; he jerks away and she chuckles low as she saunters past him, heels clicking all the way down the hall.
He wipes a palm down his jeans, trying to scrape off the phantom of her touch.
Devour — that’s her word, not his. And as much as he wants to do that, what he feels for you is bigger than hunger.
It’s blueprints and scaffolding, a whole cathedral of intention he barely dares to name. Smurf can’t fathom that depth. She pokes at the surface and calls it knowledge, never understanding the miles of dark water beneath.
The bathroom door creaks open and you step out, head ducked, hands smoothing a cotton sundress the color of lemon ice.
The hem flutters modestly around your knees, though you still tug it lower.
“Sorry,” you breathe, a nervous puff of air.
The word pricks at him. He wants to say there’s nothing to be sorry for, that the fault lies in his own head, in Smurf’s games, in every inch of distance he keeps for your sake.
A knot in his shoulders eases. “Don’t apologize.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, because after the way he’s treated you, how would you know you didn’t have to?
He presses the heel of his hand over his mouth, scrubbing like he could wipe the taste of the whole night away. His eyes flick to the dirt still crusted on his boots, grit he suddenly can’t stand around you, and scuffs one sole against the other as if that’ll fix anything.
“C’mere.” The request is low, ragged, and you obey without hesitation. Always a good listener for him.
As you step into the slice of light between you, he lifts one broad hand, slowing it at the last second to straighten the twisted strap at your collarbone.
His touch is rough in theory, calloused pads snagging silk, but in practice it’s feather-light, reverent, as though he’s afraid you’ll bruise if he breathes too hard.
The tiny contact is a fuse and a salve all at once. The instant your warmth bleeds into him the restless buzz he’s been carrying dims, a far-off generator finally cut.
He draws back just enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t gotta let her play dress-up with you like that.”
“I don’t mind — honest,” you say, giving a tiny shrug.
“I mind,” he says, the line grating rough. Even he seems surprised by the bite, lips pressing thin as he exhales.
Your shoulders dip. “You didn’t like it?”
The downward curve of your mouth guts him. He curses under his breath.
“I… yeah, I liked it.” Too damn much, he thinks. “...It’s just the kind of thing that’s supposed to be private, y’know? Meant for one set of eyes.”
“Private as in… like, saved for a boyfriend?”
He schools his face, but inside he’s turning over every recent memory, searching for the invisible man who might already have his hands on you.
“Yeah… like for a boyfriend,” he murmurs. “And only when you’re good and ready. Don’t let some jerk fast-talk you into giving him what he hasn’t earned.”
“He wouldn’t,” you say, like the question never existed.
Your eyes lift to his like you’re lining up a target, lashes barely fluttering.
There’s no shimmer of shyness now. Just concentrated fire, sliding over his cheekbones, jawline, the slight stubble he didn’t bother shaving. It feels like you’re pocketing measurements for later, mapping angles with the same precision he uses to load a round.
Hallway light glints off your pupils, then pools into rich shadow.
Pope’s next breath sticks in his throat; he isn’t used to being seen like this — like the whole world has funneled down to just him, and you’re perfectly happy living inside that narrow beam.
And it’s strange when you just confirmed his suspicions. Proof there is someone out there who’s already earned that privilege, someone so gentle you can declare his goodness without blinking.
It should reassure him. Instead it tastes like rust and gun-oil, sparks off a terrible instinct that wants a name, an address, a reason to break knuckles until the picture stops existing.
Possession floods his lungs. He forces it down, masks the scorch as nothing more than a normal breath.
“Good,” he manages through grit teeth. “Just… promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. People aren’t always what they say.”
Your fingers toy with the strap he’d fixed. “Promise.”
Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, just a flicker, before sliding back up, a soft smile playing at the corners as if you know a secret he hasn’t caught.
Something in it says the good man you vouched for is already standing here, but Pope’s too busy counting heartbeats to see the answer staring him down.
MARIA NOTE thank u for reading!!!!! u get a gold star and a juice box !! if u r craving more bunny antics (or want pope to suffer in new and interesting ways), requests are open!! and reminder that feedback feeds the gremlins, and the gremlins write the fics :-) 💛⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 🌼
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, fluff, smut
word count: 3.6k
a/n: the penultimate chapter ahhh. it won't be the end for trouble and jack, don't worry—we'll keep seeing them in blurbs/one shots! thank you all for still being here! it's been so much fun!! i appreciate you lots and LOVE reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! <33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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Morning comes fast.
By E.R. standards, it had been a relatively slow night. The most exciting case was a drunk college girl who'd managed to snap her leg spectacularly after stumbling off a curb in six-inch heels. Beyond that, it had been the usual parade of forgotten medications, minor lacerations, kitchen burns, coughs, fevers, and people convinced that symptoms they'd ignored for weeks suddenly constituted an emergency at three in the morning.
Now day shift trickles in, filling the department with the scent of fresh coffee and half-awake greetings.
Jack's at the hub finishing the final comments on his last chart when a shadow falls across the counter. He looks up to find Robby, who jerks his head toward the elevator and leaves without saying anything else.
"Better get it over with," you say, logging off your computer.
He chuckles and follows your lead. "I guess. You'll wait in the car?"
You straighten and nudge his shoulder. "Mm. I'll probably call Olivia."
"Good idea," he says, standing. He catches your hand before you can walk away. "Good luck." He wishes he could lean in and kiss you, but you agreed on no PDA. Past him was a fool.
You squeeze his hand. "You too."
Jack waits until you've disappeared around the corner to the lockers before heading for the elevators. Five minutes later, the rooftop door swings shut behind him.
Robby's leaning against the railing, staring out across the waking city. He turns once he hears Jack's familiar stride, and a grin spreads across his face.
Jack groans as he steps beside him. "Just get it over with."
"What?" Robby asks. "The fact that I was right from the beginning? Or the fact that you should've listened to me ages ago? Or maybe"—he tilts his head—"the fact that this conference was exactly what you needed?"
Jack looks over at him. "You finished?"
Robby hums thoughtfully. "I could keep going—"
"Please don't."
"—but I do have a shift I need to get back to, so yes."
"Good."
Robby laughs and turns back to look out again. For a moment, neither of them says anything.
"I'm happy for you," Robby says.
Jack lets out a lighter breath than he would've managed a few weeks ago.
"She's good for you," Robby continues.
A smile tugs at the corner of Jack's mouth, his fingers curling loosely around the railing. "She is."
"You're good for her, too." Jack opens his mouth, but Robby continues before he can say anything. "Believe it or not, everyone else can see it."
Jack rolls his eyes.
"And if we've learned anything from this whole disaster, it's that you should trust my judgement."
Jack huffs a laugh but doesn't disagree. "It's weird."
"What is?"
He shrugs. "Getting something you'd already convinced yourself wasn't going to happen."
The teasing fades from Robby's expression, and he bumps his shoulder against Jack's. They stand there for another moment before Robby claps his shoulder. "I'd better get downstairs before they manage to burn down the place. I expect an invitation to dinner one of these days."
"Yeah, yeah." Jack waves him away.
Robby is halfway to the door when he calls after him. "Hey."
Robby turns.
"Thanks."
For a moment, Robby just looks at him. Then he dips his chin once before disappearing through the door.
Jack stays there for another five minutes, just breathing and watching the city. The hospital hums beneath him. Traffic slowly fills the street below.
For the first time in a long while, he lets himself enjoy the view before heading back inside.
With both your bag and Jack's grabbed, you head toward the parking lot, moving slower than usual as you try to summon the courage to call Olivia before you get there.
You've been avoiding her—to some extent—and you already know she isn't going to be happy about it.
So, you take small steps, unlock the car, and place the bags in the back before shuffling into the passenger seat.
It rings twice before she answers. She's at her kitchen table, staring at you with narrowed eyes. "Nice of you to finally talk to me."
You wince. "I know."
"You know?" she repeats. "That's all I get?"
You offer her a tentative smile.
She takes a bite of her bread, chewing while continuing to glare at you. Then her mouth twitches. "So?"
A large smile spreads across your face, and you nod.
She lets out a triumphant squeal. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"
You laugh at her enthusiasm.
"This is the best news ever!"
You roll your eyes. "Okay, calm down. It's not that big a deal."
"Oh, it is."
"No, it isn't."
"It absolutely is," she says. "I've spent months watching you idiots ruin things for yourselves. It's finally over!"
You shake your head, but her glee is infectious.
"Tell me everything," she demands.
You tell her about the awkward car ride, meeting Jeremy and Warren, the fight, and making up. By the time you're done, Olivia's been grinning so hard her breakfast has gone cold.
"And then we..." you shrug, biting back a grin.
Her eyes widen. "No way! How was it?"
"So good."
Her jaw drops. "Yeah?"
You nod.
She leans back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased. "Good. You deserve nothing less."
"Hey, I'm sorry for being such a mess these past months. You've been there through everything, and I'm so lucky to have you in my life. Thank you."
She waves you off. "No need to be sappy. You'd do the same."
"How's it looking on your end?"
She groans.
"What about Robby?"
"That wasn't really anything—just a kiss." She shrugs. "And I mean, I'm here, and he's in Pittsburgh, so..."
You suck your teeth in disappointment.
Her face sours. "Damn it."
"What?"
"I just remembered that I owe him twenty bucks. I thought Jack was going to confess first," she groans. "Should've trusted that my meddling skills were better than Robby's."
You laugh. "With betting like that, you're practically part of the Pitt crew already. Maybe you should consider moving? It solves two problems."
"Two?"
"Robby, of course," you grin, "and I don't have to miss you."
"Hm," she huffs. "Not sure about the first one..."
Movement catches your eyes before you can argue further. Jack's making his way across the parking lot, and without thinking, you sit up a little straighter.
"Oh, gross."
"Hey, be nice!" you chuckle. "Jack's coming."
"I gathered," she says. "Have fun. I'm expecting to be the godmother." She winks exaggeratedly.
"Love you." You roll your eyes and hit the end button.
Weeks slip by in that sweet, honeymoon-like bliss.
Surprisingly little has changed since you started properly dating. Jack still brings you breakfast, watches your terrible shows without complaints, and washes your scrubs. The only thing that's really changed is that he's finally shown you just how affectionate he is.
You wake up wrapped in his arms most mornings. He always seems to need a hand on you somewhere: your waist while you're cooking, your fingers while you're out walking, your ankle draped across his lap while you read on the couch.
Right now, though, his hands are firmly around your thighs, keeping them spread apart.
"Jack," you plead softly.
"What?" he hums, his voice warm with amusement as he deliberately lingers just out of reach. He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You let out a frustrated whine, wriggling your hips. His hold tightens, keeping you firmly in place.
He chuckles. "What do you want, sweet girl?" He brushes another kiss along the inside of your thigh, just a little higher than the one before. Then another, until his nose brushes the soaked pink fabric. "This?"
You shake your head.
"No?" He kisses the edge of your underwear, close enough that it sends a shiver up your spine. "Maybe this?"
You squirm again. "Jack, please."
He clicks his tongue, his dark gaze finding yours. "I know you can do better than that, sweetheart."
Heat creeps into your cheeks, your chest rising fast. His thumb brushes the corner of your underwear, staring at the wet material with a scorched gaze.
You gasp when he presses his thumb directly against your clit. "Please touch me."
"I already am," he says, amusement flickering across his face. His thumb leaves you again, stroking lazily across your hip instead.
You huff in annoyance, finally relenting. "Please touch my pussy."
"Oh, why didn't you just say that?" He grins. "With my fingers or my mouth?"
Head hazy with lust and impatience, all you say is: "Please."
Thankfully, Jack takes pity on you. He pulls the fabric aside, then descends on you. He licks broad stripes, groaning in appreciation when he gets your sweet taste on his tongue.
"Fuck. I'll never get sick of doing this."
You moan loudly, your fingers gripping his hair.
"You taste so good," he murmurs. "Doing so good for me."
He alternates between soft kisses, slow licks, and gentle sucks until the sensation becomes almost unbearable. All you can do is try to hold on, fingers gripping his hair, shoulders, arms—whatever you can get hold of.
It takes an embarrassingly short time for you to crash over the edge.
When you finally manage to climb back to yourself, Jack is looking up at you, his chin glistening and a thoroughly smug smile on his face.
"Better?"
You roll your eyes and swat his shoulder. His hand finds your chin as he crowds over you, pressing you into the mattress.
"I asked you a question."
You suck in a breath, staring into his eyes. "Yes."
"Good." He lets go of your chin and smirks when you push at his chest. He follows, letting you shove him down onto the bed. You swing a leg over him, and his hands find your waist automatically, helping situate you on top of him.
"Fuck," he swears as you sink down on him. Your mouth crashes into his as you slowly begin moving. Jack lets you set the pace for a moment before his hips snap up, setting a faster pace.
"Jack," you moan into his ear. His fingers grip your waist as he captures your mouth again. He comes with a drawn-out sound that reverberates in your chest. You let yourself sink against him, forehead resting against his shoulder.
His hands remain on your waist long after the moment has passed, thumbs absentmindedly stroking slow circles against your skin as the two of you catch your breath.
Neither of you says anything for a while. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath you. Eventually, one of his hands slips up your back, his fingers combing gently through your hair. "Hey."
You smile into his shoulder. "Hey."
"Better?" he asks again, quieter this time.
You nod against him before lifting your head just enough to meet his eyes. "Much."
He grins, satisfied.
You trace lazy circles across the side of his arm. "You were incredibly annoying, though."
A laugh rumbles through his chest. "You complaining?"
You pinch his skin lightly. He catches your wrist, turning your hand over to press a kiss into your palm.
"You'll survive."
"I don't know," you sigh dramatically. "I may never recover."
He bites your hand lightly. "I'll take excellent care of you."
"Hm," you huff.
"I was planning on starting with water."
That earns him a genuine laugh. You lean down to kiss him again, slow and unhurried. He hums softly into the kiss. When you finally pull away, neither of you moves very far.
"I love you," he says softly.
You smile, brushing your nose against his. "I love you, too."
His arms tighten around your waist just a fraction before he sighs. "Now..." His eyebrows lift. "Go pee. I'll get you some water. Then we can cuddle again."
"Doctor's orders?"
"Absolutely."
You roll your eyes fondly as you climb off him, stealing one last quick kiss before you do. "I suppose I'd better listen to the professional."
He watches you climb off the bed with an unmistakably pleased expression. "You usually don't."
You glance back over your shoulder. "I make exceptions if my doctor's handsome."
"I think I'm gonna throw up." Parker slumps against the counter, staring blankly into the distance.
Shen spins around in his chair. "Maggots guy?"
"God, no." Parker's seen her fair share of disgusting things. Maggots don't even register anymore. "Abbot and Trouble in the supply room."
Lena snorts from her right. "Weren't you the one begging them to make up?"
"I was." Parker sighs. "But there are some things I never needed to witness."
Shen's eyebrows shoot up. "Hold on. They weren't...?"
"No!" Parker cuts him off before he can finish. She might need to bleach her eyes, but she's not letting that rumour start. "They were just making out."
"Oh." Lena pushes her glasses onto her head. "Then what's the problem?"
Parker just stares at her. "…His hand was on her ass."
There's a beat of silence before Lily, who's been quietly working at her computer, looks up. "I think you've been single for too long."
"I'm not that single."
"Not by choice," Shen says between obnoxiously loud slurps of his iced coffee.
Parker glares at him. "And I suppose you're drowning in admirers?"
He grins. "I don't kiss and tell."
"You don't kiss, period."
"Ouch." He clutches a hand to his chest, then grins as he takes another sip.
"The point," Parker continues, rubbing her temples, "is that I have to work with them. I don't want every room I walk into to be a potential traumatic experience."
"You're so dramatic," Lily says with a grin. She stands and gives Parker's shoulder a sympathetic pat. "Hit me up if you want to come on a double date sometime. My boyfriend has some cute friends."
Parker groans.
"Just be grateful," Lena says. "At least they're happy."
"They can be happy," Parker mutters. "Just... preferably behind a locked door."
"Good luck telling Abbot that," Shen says.
Parker drops her forehead onto the counter with a muffled groan.
"What are you doing?" Jack pauses in the doorway to the guest bedroom, still in his scrubs.
You peek out from the closet, sending him a smile. "Thought I'd clear out this room. Get rid of some old stuff and move the rest into our closet."
He looks around. Half the shelves are empty, and there are piles of clothes on the bed. Textbooks cover most of the desk alongside notebooks, loose papers, and other things you'd shoved in the drawers weeks ago.
"I keep forgetting I have things in here," you say. "And it isn't my room anymore, so I'm making space for your stuff, too."
"You don't have to," he says, pressing a kiss to your head. You shrug, grabbing another piece of clothing.
Jack wanders over to the desk, picking up one of the medical textbooks. "Are you keeping these or giving them away?"
"I'll give them away after my oral boards." You throw a dress onto the bed. "I figured some of the residents could use them. Med school's expensive enough."
"That's kind."
You shrug and toss another item onto the bed.
Jack continues sorting through the clutter, smiling at old photographs and forgotten receipts before unfolding a document. "What's this?"
He knows exactly what it is. The divorce papers that had haunted him for weeks with your signature sitting dry at the bottom of the page.
You look over. "Oh."
For a moment, Jack says nothing. "I can put them back if—"
You walk over, take the papers from his hand, and tear them cleanly down the middle. Then again. You drop the pieces into the nearby trash bin.
Jack blinks. "You sure?"
You glance at the bin, then back at him. "I thought I'd gotten rid of it already." A small smile tugs at your lips. "I don't need it anymore."
You lean up to kiss his cheek before returning to the closet. "So," you say over your shoulder, "should I donate this sweater or keep it?"
Jack doesn't answer immediately. His eyes drift to the trash bin.
"Jack?"
He looks up. You stand in the middle of the room that had once been yours with things that will find their place elsewhere in your shared bedroom.
He lets out a slow breath. "Keep."
During the next few weeks, Jack can't stop thinking about the divorce papers or how easily you had ripped them apart. It takes a situation at work for him to realise why.
Cyclist vs. vehicle. A pelvic fracture and a head wound that needed immediate attention. You had both snapped into action, dividing the work between you and taking control of the trauma room.
"Dr. Abbot, here—" a new nurse had called out, and Jack's head had snapped up. But it wasn't him she was talking to—it was you. He'd seen the nurse's face flush, but you'd answered before he'd even finished turning toward you. There'd been no indication that it had bothered you at all.
You had just responded like it was your name.
It hit him a couple of hours later. You had shown him just how much you wanted him. He had to make it clear to you that he wanted the same.
Things hadn't been done right the first time. A glitch. Rings bought out of necessity. And that was that. No romance at all.
You deserve a proper proposal—a real wedding. Something you can actually tell the others about in detail instead of repeating the same brief lie you'd been telling for months: that it had been a simple affair, that he'd proposed at home.
Jack wants to make the story real.
He buys a ring. A simple but flashy one. Then he spends days waiting for the right moment.
The opportunity comes when he's sitting on the couch waiting to pick you up from work. The entire drive is spent in a nervous haze, the box pressing insistently against his thigh.
He makes coffee as you head for the shower, so his hands have something to do. As it brews, he straightens the sugar bowl, then the coffee tin, then realises he's already done it twice.
You pad down the hallway, dripping water onto the floor from your still-wet hair. "What are you doing?" You watch him with narrowed eyes as you turn to the cabinet.
"Nothing?"
You huff, but decide to let it go, standing on your tiptoes to grab a mug. "Do you wanna go sit outside and eat—" your sentence cuts off when you spin back around.
Jack's on his knee, keeping it steady despite his prosthetic. He holds out the box.
Your mug slips from your fingers onto the counter with a soft click. "Jack?"
A shaky breath leaves him which almost turns into a laugh.
"What are you doing?"
"I think you know."
A watery laugh escapes you. "Is this—? Are you—?"
"Yeah," he chuckles breathily. "So do I get to say my speech," he teases gently, "or are you going to interrupt me the whole time?"
You press a hand over your mouth and nod.
His fingers tremble slightly against the box. "I've been thinking about us. About how we started."
Your hand tightens over your mouth.
"I wouldn't change it. Not really. If that stupid glitch hadn't happened... if Robby hadn't been stuck at work that day..." He shakes his head. "I would've never been lucky enough to have you to come home to every night."
You blink rapidly.
"The best thing that ever happened to me started as an accident." His voice grows quieter. "But I don't want our story to be that we got married by accident. I want it to be that somewhere along the way, after lots of dumb decisions—"
You laugh softly.
"Somewhere along the way, we fell in love. I want you to know that I choose to be with you. I choose you. Every day. And I want you to know that."
A tear trails down your cheek.
"So... Sweetheart. Trouble." He laughs softly, shaking the box lightly. "Will you marry me?"
You drop to your knees in front of him, laughing and crying all at once as you throw your arms around his neck. "Yes!" The word comes out broken by tears. "Yes, of course, I'll marry you. Again."
Jack buries his face against your shoulder, his whole body shaking with relieved laughter.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your cheeks damp with tears and your smile somehow brighter than anything he's ever seen.
"The ring," you remind him softly.
He lets out another breathless laugh. "Right."
The velvet box is still in his hand. You hold out your left hand without him asking. It trembles. A laugh escapes you when you notice his hand isn't any steadier.
"I've had a stressful morning," he murmurs. Carefully, he takes your hand. His thumb brushes once across your knuckles before he slides the ring free from its box. This time, there isn't a clerk handing it to him.
Just the two of you.
He guides the ring onto your finger slowly. It slides into place perfectly.
You stare down at your hand, tilting it to catch the light. He stares, too.
It sits just above the first ring that made you husband and wife. This one doesn't replace it—it gives it the beginning it always deserved.
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against your knuckles before looking back up at you. "I love you," he says.
"I love you, too."
He chooses you. You choose him.
a/n: did anyone catch the pink fabric reference?? :DDD
andrew pope cody who's self conscious about his dick because it's uncircumcised. who gets nervous about anyone seeing it for the first time. always feels this need to explain first, to grab their wrist before they shove their hand down his pants. i was born on a farm. there wasn't time. i don't know, my mom didn't think it was important. and like, he's more than used to it by this point. he's a 40-something year old man who's lived with his uncircumcised penis for just as long; he doesn't know what the alternative would even feel like. he just knows it's unusual, statistically, to be an american man with a dick that looks like his.
sometimes women in oceanside are weird about it. sometimes more or less so taken aback, surprised with an experience they've never had and didn't necessarily want to begin with. and while it usually just makes them pause, rather than reconsider completely, it does make him a little tired after a while of the same old song and dance. of getting to know someone and falling into bed and the usual disclaimer, the 'my dick is a little different, i hope that's okay’ content warning. having to prepare for whatever happens with their face, the unguarded expression that quickly slips behind closed doors, shutters the way polite women know how to with their eyes and their mouth. pretending, being nice. that's almost worse, he thinks, than if they were just plain mean about it.
it finally reaches a breaking point and so he just decides to add the information to his dating profile.
andrew, 43, uncircumcised.
and yeah, it kind of makes him feel like he's a prized hog being weighed at the county fair. but he also doesn't know what else to do, tired of trying to ease into it, to hold the words like delicate eggshells in his hands, hoping they don't shatter and make a mess all over the floor.
he's surprised, when he wakes up the next morning to a message from an account he's never seen before. a profile of a young woman, younger than he's usually interested in and out of his set distance range. still in california, but up north, near santa barbara. you only have one photo of yourself, standing at the base of the eiffel tower, hair half-blown into your eyes and smiling, a bright toothy grin that seems to take up half your face. the other three photos are of a border collie with a lolling pink tongue and curious disposition, its head cocked to the side. the description is rather short too. all it says is your name and one line: i like dogs.
you: hi andrew, 43, uncircumcised. is that your full name? :)
andrew blinks down at the message, then he looks at the photo again, at the big smile, the dog. he types a response.
andrew: no
it doesn’t take very long for him to get one in return, phone buzzing in his hand.
you: no?
he types out another response.
andrew: it’s my first name, my age, and my dick.
his phone buzzes in his hand almost immediately. he looks down at his screen.
you: lucky me :)
you: can i see it?
his brow furrows.
andrew: see what?
you: your dick, silly
andrew regards the messages for a moment. then types back,
andrew: why?
you: just curious to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of you :)
slow warmth spreads up his chest, his neck, settling in his cheeks. he rubs at his face, sitting up a little straighter against the wall.
andrew: i’m not hard
his phone vibrates a few times as you message him.
you: oh that’s okay
you: can i still see it?
you: i really want to
you: pretty please, andrew
andrew stares down at the influx of messages, like maybe they will clarify into something else. something that’s not a rather insistent request from a stranger to see his soft penis. did women even like that sort of thing?
the messages stare back up at him, unchanged. unmoving. unmistakable.
andrew doesn't send nudes. to tell the truth, he doesn't think he's sent a photo of himself to anyone, ever. any part of him. what's up on his profile is all he's shared. a picture of him at the beach. one of him surfing. an old photo deran took years ago of him and craig wrestling in the living room at smurf's. a hand on his skateboard.
he looks at the photo in your profile again, the one of you, not the dog. your arms are stretched out wide, the lights of the eiffel tower twinkling behind you, like get a load of this. you look happy, content. young.
he slips a hand below his waistband, cups his balls and tries to imagine you standing in front of him instead, at the edge of his bed, maybe. that same pretty face but a softer smile, arms at your sides. a sweet voice he makes up to say a version of the same words, ‘pretty please, andrew. can i see it?’
yeah, okay.
he closes his eyes, inhaling, a small tug of pleasure in his belly, warming him from the inside. it makes his dick plump up just a tad against his thigh.
in his fantasy, you’re climbing onto the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress and then the other. you're wearing the same dress as in the photo and he can see the curve of your breasts as you start to crawl. crawling up the bed, between his legs. this look on your face like you want nothing more than to see what he’s hiding beneath his waistband.
andrew lets go of his phone and slips his other hand into his shorts, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. not jerking it, not yet, just holding it, just letting the warmth from his palm bleed through. it feels good, feels familiar. the same as it has since he was thirteen.
you’re close enough now that your head is between his knees. you’re lowering yourself down, tummy to mattress and crossing your ankles behind you like in one of those teeny-bop shows julia always had on tv when they were kids. no magazine though, just a coy smile as you prop your chin in your hand, draw a light finger over the inside of his left knee.
‘show me?’ you ask, voice still just as sweet as the first time and it makes his stomach swoop, his dick twitch a little in his hand.
maybe he's secretly a pervert and he just never knew it. a sick desire lain dormant until a woman half his age messaged him on a dating app and asked, apropos of nothing, to see his uncircumcised penis.
andrew tugs the waistband of his shorts down, lets it bunch up under his balls, the elastic pushing them up, showing them off to you, showing you everything really. the hand, the back of his bruised knuckles, the soft but warm length slowly filling out in his palm. eager beneath your gaze as you smile at him, roll your bottom lip between your teeth.
‘yeah,’ you murmur, cute, wet tongue peeking out, and drag your eyes along his dick, like you’re filing a memory for later.
andrew’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his dick and balls at the same time, his mouth dropping open a little. he’s filling out now, properly, thickening up as more blood rushes south, giving him shape, definition. enough so that he thinks he can risk it, the photo.
he picks up his phone again, sparing one last glance at your profile before he opens the camera app and tries to snap a photo at a flattering angle. it takes a couple tries. the first few are too blurry. the next has a shadow of his phone cast over half of it. the last one isn’t too bad, well-lit, soft morning sun streaming in through the windows and making sure you can see the whole thing. his dick, his hand, the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt's been rucked up.
he sends it off before he can second guess himself or the decision. and then he sits there, dick slowly softening against his thigh as the nerves eat away at him. one minute, two.
fuck, what if you hate it? what if it’s the ugliest cock you’ve ever seen? shit, he shouldn’t have sent it. shouldn’t have bothered at all. he should delete it. maybe if he deletes it fast enough you won’t have time to see it. he’ll have spared you the horrible experience completely. he’ll delete it and then he’ll delete his entire account right after.
he picks up his phone right as it buzzes in his hand. it buzzes and then it buzzes again, and again, and again and again.
swallowing his trepidation, andrew swipes open the dating app.
you: oh fuck
you: oh fuck you’re so pretty
you: like i knew you’d be pretty but seeing it is totally different
you: i knew you’d be a big boy. big like the rest of you, yeah?
you: god it’s probably heavy when you walk
andrew stares down at his phone, a burning warmth beginning to spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. his entire body feels electrified, like his skin is one second away from sparking from the heat.
another message comes through.
you: fuck, andrew. i’m really wet
he closes his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. you’re wet. you’re wet just from seeing a photo of his half-hard cock. saliva pools in his mouth. he grinds his teeth together.
he picks up his phone.
andrew: for real?
you: yeah, for real
you: you wanna see?
he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, rolls his hips up into it.
andrew: yes
then remembering his manners, he says,
andrew: please
a minute goes by, during which andrew grips his phone in his right hand and rocks into his left. stares at the photo of you, at the messages calling his dick pretty. then his phone buzzes again and it’s not a photo you’ve sent at all. it’s a video file.
he presses play with his thumb so fast and so hard, it makes a tapping noise.
the video starts to play. a little shaky at first, like the camera (phone?) is unsteady in your hand and then it focuses, a low-lit grainy view pointing down between bare thighs, soft and spread open just enough to fit your hand. he can hear your breathing, a little fast, as you slide two fingers up and down your wet slit. he can’t see your pussy too well like this, but he can hear it, when you move the camera close enough, can hear the slick sounds it makes when you rub yourself, over your clit, he thinks, as you let slip a quiet, soft moan. the video abruptly ends.
andrew plays it again. then again. he clicks the volume button all the way up to try and catch that moan at the end, presses the speaker against his ear and pretends you’re moaning with your mouth pressed against his neck while he’s filling you up. fitting the head of his cock against your entrance and guiding you slowly down with a hand on your soft waist. the fantasy is so good. you sound so good.
he types out a message, left hand fisted around his cock, squeezing tight.
andrew: you have the sweetest voice
then,
andrew: i want to hear you say my name
when you don’t immediately respond, he thinks maybe he’s pushed too far. then another video file comes through.
the camera is balanced on your tummy this time, a straight forward view of your knees raised, hand snug between your thighs. you must be lying down now. andrew watches, ears and eyes focused to catch every single detail. you moan again as your hand moves and it takes a second for him to realize you must be fucking yourself with your fingers.
shit. andrew slowly drags his hand up and down his cock in time with your breathing.
‘andrew,’ the voice on the video suddenly murmurs, almost a whine, and he nearly dents his phone with how hard he squeezes it. ‘andrew, please.’
andrew, please.
oh fucking hell, andrew thinks, spitting in his palm and jerking himself a little faster. sweetest voice, all breathy and needy saying his name. he doesn’t even know you. a stranger messaging him from almost 200 miles away, soft and pretty and, for some reason, begging for his cock.
he flips open the camera app again, taking his own short video. fucking his fully hard dick into his hand, foreskin pulled back to show how wet and pink he’s become. he sends it over.
andrew: you’re driving me crazy
you message back almost immediately.
you: oh my god
you: oh my god fuck
you: need to feelyou inside me
you: youd stretch me out so god
you: pleasjcr nbe ver had a dick so big
the messages are full of typos, like you’re too distracted to pay attention, too busy fucking your pussy with your fingers, maybe close to release. andrew grunts, dick kicking up in his hand. he’s imagining you squirming in his lap, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out, ‘so big, so big andrew, fuck oh my god.’
andrew: you gonna cum?
andrew: i want to hear you cum
andrew grabs the bottle of lotion off his nightstand while he waits for your response. he depresses some into his hand, warming it, then spreads it all over his dick. his bites his lip at the sensation. slick, wet. he can almost pretend it’s your pussy.
his phone buzzes. fuck. a new video file. andrew squeezes the base of his dick to keep himself from shooting off too early. just the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in that video has his head going fuzzy. he swallows and presses play.
you’ve set the camera up across the room. must have, on some type of surface. a dresser, maybe. it’s facing the bed. he can see you from the waist down and thinks you’re fully naked. because you’re kneeling upright and all he can see is gorgeous, soft skin.
god, he wants to touch you, he wants to know what sounds you’ll make when he runs his hands over your stomach, your thighs. he wants to shove his head between them and lap at your pretty cunt until you’re pushing him back with both hands, overstimulated and sensitive.
a quick, and deeply selfish thought runs through him: disappointment that he can’t see your tits like this, and then the thought is immediately diverted when he sees what’s in your hand.
a dildo. a rather life-like one from what he can tell from his vantage point across the room. thick, mushroom tip and a pair of silicone balls at the bottom. not as thick as him, of course, but still impressive. andrew hates it immediately. he’s gonna throw it out the first second he gets. when he meets you for real, in person. he’s gonna throw out all your toys and fill you up with his cock instead. let you use his dick whenever you want. every day, every hour if that's what you need.
you’re balancing the stupid thing on a pillow, flat base held still as you slowly sink down.
oh fuck, he thinks, fisting his cock, watching your pussy swallow it whole.
you whine as you begin to shift your hips back and forth, grinding on it like it’s real, like it’s him, your stomach muscles tensing as you move.
andrew makes sure to time his hand perfectly in tempo as you grind. this is what you would look like if he was there with you. shaky, trembling legs and desperate noises, except his hands would be all over you. he’d make sure to cover every inch of skin.
‘andrew,’ you moan, and your voice is just as a sweet as the last video. ‘fuck, you feel so good.’
yeah, fuck. he’s gonna lay you out on your bed and use your soft thighs as earmuffs. he’s gonna stretch out your cunt so slow on his dick that you're begging him to move, hips tilted up as you whine. he’s gonna watch your tits bounce and your eyes roll back and your mouth drop open and he's gonna give you absolutely everything you ask for. he’s gonna make sure no one ever compares.
‘ohh,’ you cry, slipping your free hand between your legs to rub at your clit. ‘i need it, i need it, i need it.’
‘yeah,’ andrew says, aloud, even though you can’t hear him. ‘yeah, fuck, you do.’
andrew groans, fucking his fist, pleasure coursing through him as he watches you spasm and shake around the dildo, whining and grinding your way through your orgasm. he shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine coming inside you as you do, filling you up and feeling it all slide back out, getting his lap all messy when he lifts you up in his arms.
he paints his own chest with his cum, thick, steady ropes of it as stars burst behind his eyelids. he lies there, half lying, half sitting up against the wall, panting for a full minute until his heart rate slows.
jesus christ, he can't remember the last time he came that hard. he takes a photo of the mess and sends it back to you.
you: wowie
you: any chance you're open to long distance?
andrew is already pulling on real pants and grabbing his keys.
hello i think that whitaker and santos absolutely take in the random stray cat outside their apartment and then she’s pregnant ???? now they have a litter of six kittens to find homes for
₍^. .^₎⟆
-princess takes one
-amy takes one to become a barn cat
-cassie takes one for harrison
-they convince robby to take one (the cats name is maverick and abbot is then convinced to also get one named goose) his cat son and cat niece become his reason for living
-somehow park hears about them and he approaches whitaker for one to give to his wife, dennis is terrified throughout the entire interaction
-it goes like this:
park goes down into the ED after his shift in normal clothes having changed out of his scrubs, with a duffle bag in his hand and his stanley engraved with a shark in the other (a gift from ortho department secret santa)
“i heard you guys have kittens. i want the nicest one for my wife.” he then pulls out two hundred dollar bills from his wallets.
“you can drop it off at my house this weekend if you aren’t working.”
the entire time whitaker is so scared. his face is wide eyed and he finds himself just nodding dumbly when the money in thrusted into his hand right before park stalked off so he couldn’t refuse the money
he forces santos to go with him to drop off the cat (he literally got invited to shark invested waters. who knows how mean his wife is)
-they meet parks wife ?? he has a soul ? his wife is the nicest lady they’ve ever met omg
-she feeds them dinner (everything from scratch), they find out she works from home so she wanted a pet but a dog was too rambunctious for her. They notice that parks spacious house is beautifully decorated with whimsical decor, like mismatched frames of the parks smiling back at them on the wall, a large bookshelf and vinyl collection on the wall, and lots and lots of unopened kitten toys
-she is very excited to meet the kitten and asks if they’ve already named her, she wants to respect continuity of care
-they say they haven’t because they were worried that they would get to attached to the kittens if they were named they already cried on the way because they’ll missed the kittens
-THEY SAW PARK THE SHARK SMILE at his wife playing with the kitten but a smile nonetheless
-parks wife notices that they’re reluctant to leave, she asks them if they want to visit the kitten, and assures them that they are more then welcome to come over anytime.
-they look over at park and he’s nodding his head and encouraging them to come visit whenever they like ??
and that’s the story of how trinity and dennis become a part of the park family and even have a picture with a mismatched frame on the wall
Another thing: Brendon never used his Ninja blender. He only got it when he moved into his house a few years ago because it seemed like an important thing to have (when he made his pre-workout drinks, he would just shake them in the bottle).
But Emma. Well, she was all over the machine. She loved smoothies but never made them at home because her mom used their blender for cooking, and anything Emma tried to make came out garlic-flavored. And when Brendon realized that smoothies were the way to Emma's heart, he went to Whole Foods and bought two packets of every frozen fruit.
Then she started to fret about overstepping because she would make a smoothie each time she visited him.
"You could make five smoothies a day, and I wouldn't care. In fact, it would make me happy," he told her one day.
And, four months later, when she moved in for good, the Ninja was permanently unearthed from the back corner of his cabinet with a new home on the counter.
⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day Two): Honeybee ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park
summary: you take park to the farmers market for day two of your ‘to do list’ (wc: 1.4k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: corny fluff. grumpy x sunshine duo. mutual crushing. park is down BAD. you guys are touchy feely in this. it’s just pure cheese. reader likes pink.
Park hadn’t ever taken time out of his elaborate schedule of reparations to the musculoskeletal system on the poor souls of Pittsburgh, to frolic between pop-up gazebos that had local grown produce and craft beer coming out of its ears.
His downtime was, to be quite frank, still work. Park would allocate his free time to observing online lectures, assessments, case studies and then doing it all in reverse. If he wasn’t elbow-deep in work related things, he was taking a shot of dry protein powder and spending the rest of the sunlight hours lifting heavy weights in the gym—anything to prevent his brain from switching off.
When he had read the note you inputted in his calendar app for the closest Saturday either of you had away from the doors of the PTMC, he turned his extensive research skills toward studying the ins and outs of a regular Farmers Market.
The Bloomfield Saturday Market on Liberty Street. To be exact.
Now, Park was well aware that he wasn’t just emptying out some short-term knowledge on bones and ligaments to replace it for Farmers Market wisdom; for his own personal interest. No, that was far from the category of Brendon Park’s interests. It was solely because you had expressed a keen interest in keeping the local community alive.
It almost meant that Park was quick to catch on that he was satisfied with the idea of doing, well, anything for someone like you. (This including the Pilates class that had him limping around the Orthopaedics floor for a few days.)
You met him at the entrance to the lot that the market was being held in on Liberty Street, in an outfit that conjured up a subtle expression out of Park in the form of a harsh gulp that made his adam’s apple bob.
Park slow blinks at you, like some docile cat. “I could have picked you up,” he says as you approach him with a windswept look from the walk, “If I had your number. Which, I still don’t.”
“Hello to you too, Shark.” you retort sarcastically, “Plus, what would lesson be learnt if I just handed my digits over?”
“You spend ten hours on your feet at work, and you still prefer to walk to Liberty Street?” Park asks lowly, glazing over your jab, and walks at your leisurely pace.
You chuckle lightly, “I don’t need you to take me for a ride, Sharky.” you spare him a glance, “I’m rather independent in that aspect of my life.”
(He didn’t doubt that. Innuendo insinuated or not.)
The two of you walk into the lot of the Farmers Market that had already begun a handful of hours earlier, where you give a handful of facts about the Bloomfield Market in its entirety, and Park listens intently—the softness he spares for you never extending past you to the smiley attendees on the friendlier side of the spectrum.
Even with the stark contrast, between the PTMC, where Park felt the weight of being a renowned Ortho surgeon fall upon the expanse of his broad shoulders and the Farmers Market that replaced the high-paced clinical environment for a slow-tempo, sensory enriched stroll; it was you at the core of it all, that had Park’s whole, undivided attention.
You spoke for the both of you, which Park liked, even if he was willing to dust off the conversational skills to engage with you. Hands waving with little regard to spacial awareness, you brought a newfound radiance to the already good-weathered day as you peered at each stall in passing.
“Did you want something in particular?” Park asks when you pause at a stall that advertised their heirloom vegetables.
“Actually, yes.” you smile politely at the owner of the stall, “I want to get some honey.”
“Honey?” Park repeats as he scans the visible stalls for any sign of golden coloured mason jars.
You straighten up with a glint in your eye, “It’s a little soon to be handing out terms of endearment, Sharky.” you painfully tease, “You don’t even know my favourite colour.”
“It’s pink.” (The pink water bottle and pink crocs at work made that obvious.)
“Cheat.” you respond.
Park lets a short breath of a laugh escape past his—usually—tight-lipped expression. That was also part of you that Brendon Park had grown fond of over the initial months of giving you the time of day, was the fact that you were so easy to disarm that exterior made up of concrete and bad moods.
You flash a bright smile at the sound of his low chuckle, your insides fluttering. Without much thought, you smooth the palm of your hand around his veiny forearm and curl your fingers around until you’ve latched onto him.
Park doesn’t even flinch. His head still on a swivel to locate a honey stall, he gives a small tug to bring you closer to his side as you weave through the oncoming foot traffic.
(So, physical touch was not off the menu!)
Eventually, you find the stall of beekeepers selling honey that you had in mind set on—you even let Park take the victory of locating it, just to stroke his attentive ego. The stall is half empty due to popular demand of the variety of unprocessed comb honey, soft set or even honey mustard.
As you greet the vendors, Park smooths a hand across the small of your back and bends to mumble in your ear that he will be back momentarily; his sights set far off in the distance. Which is great, you think, with Brendon Park’s reputation of being a razor-sharp toothed workaholic, taking an interest in a stall within a social event that was far from where anyone within the PTMC would plant him…it made your heart swell that something captures his interest.
He returns a couple of minutes later as you’re wrapping up the process of buying some honey from the beekeeper passionate about his trade. Park stops your purse from leaving your tote bag, “I’ve got it.”
“Don’t be silly.” you wave him off, which earns you a deadpan glare. “Alright, fine. Pay for my honey.”
Park does exactly that, because that was part of intentions even coming on this recreational event with you. Amidst the fun of the fully booked calendar app, and the Cat and Mouse game you were enforcing in order for Park to syringe out your phone number; he was still in the mindset to impress you at any given moment.
Brendon Park wanted you. Bad.
A couple of inexpensive—to him, anyway—pots of honey was no skin off his nose, and he could see from his peripheral that you were smiling.
That was what it was all about. That fucking smile.
“Thank you for that,” you turn to Park after taking the bag of honey from the vendor. “Did you find something to buy?”
Park nods, “Yeah. Here—” he moves the arm that had been concealing a bouquet of vibrant flowers wrapped in brown paper. He gets a little nervous, which is a rarity. “—The lady helped me pick them. She said they’re zinnias, snapdragons and celosias, if you like any of them. All of them are in season right now. Colourful.” he adds at the end to tie up his flower fact-induced word vomit.
(Oh, boy. He was seriously exceeding all expectations.)
You blink at the pink and orange bouquet, “You picked them?” your voice wavers with endearment.
“Of course.” Park says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Part of you almost kisses his face silly in the middle of the Bloomfield Market. You go for the latter of pressing a kiss to his cheek—which you’re almost convinced Park moved a couple of inches so it captured the corner of his lips instead. Taking the bouquet from Park, you admire the flowers up close as he guides you towards more stalls with his hand planted against your back again.
For safety purposes, incase you lose each other. Not for the personal benefit of just…being able to touch you. Obviously.
You let out a gasp, “Oh shit!”
“What?” Park’s head snaps down to look at you.
“There’s a honeybee in my flowers!” you point to it excitedly with your finger, as it collects pollen. “You know they’re a sign of good fortune?”
Park hums, “That would be correct.” he draws circles in your back with his thumb as he speaks, “I’m feeling pretty fortunate right now.”
⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day One): Drop Dead ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park
summary: it’s day one of the ‘to do list’ to get your number back: park does pilates. (wc: 1.0k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: humour. pilates princess!reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates class (no exercise mentioned bc i have never done it before) park is self-assured that pilates is a walk in the park. (1) new nickname added to the roster.
Brendon Park prided himself on almost always being correct on a wide array of topics. This stretched from his prestigious work as an Orthopaedic surgeon, to personal opinions on subjects that didn’t always bleed into his work—despite it being his whole life.
His knowledge was sought after in a place like the PTMC. Park the Shark was a household name in one of the many hospitals dotted around Pittsburgh, purely down to his learned expertise on human anatomy.
So, it came from left field when he had been utterly wrong about Pilates.
Being a man of honour—and a slight incline to do whatever you wanted him to do—Park managed to upkeep his promise to arrive at the Pilates studio you had punched into his calendar the afternoon prior, when he had sauntered into the Pitt with the hopes of a second chance at your number; only to be met with a ‘to do’ list for the week that could be seen as squeamish to a man of his repertoire.
At this point, parked in a half empty car park in the tightest underwear he could find in his scrummage of his neatly organised underwear drawer, and a loose pair of basketball shorts paired with a basic white tee that was more for your visual pleasure—and the hopes to cut the ‘to do’ list in half by selling his body—Brendon Park wasn’t even doing this for the love of the game.
He was doing it for you.
Plus, how hard could Pilates truly be?
It looked like some light and fluffy fairy-bullshit to someone like Park the Shark, who lifted weights so heavy that his eyes would be bloodshot by the end of the intense workout. Besides, he watched a handful of Instagram reels of the intended workout he was subjecting himself to, and it was safe to say; Park snorted.
You met him outside the front of the building, and Park came to two conclusions as you gleefully bounded up to him.
1.) He’d never lose you in a crowd because you had enough keychains on your car keys to make your own version of jingly sirens. And, 2.) Your ass looked even better in a Pilates outfit than the usual scrubs attire you adorned when he saw you.
You gave him a warm look, “I said you don’t have to whore yourself out for my phone number, Shark.” fingers point to the t-shirt clinging to his carved muscles, “This is slutty. I love it.”
“I don’t think I’ll accept that compliment.” Park responds coolly, even with his heart thumping against his chest with all this personal time he was getting with you. He doesn’t say much more until you’ve entered the building, “What is the duration of this class?” he asks once you’ve walked past the door he held open for you.
“About an hour?” you think, “It’s pretty hardcore. We can get coffee after, they’ve got their own station—sort of a life saver.”
“Uh-huh.” Park says, border-lining sarcastic and it makes you lift a brow in response.
You smile at another attendee before speaking again, “Am I sensing some mockery, Sharky?” you look up at him easily towering over you as you walk, “Because I’d dial it down, riiight about now.” you lilt.
“I’m not mocking your hobby, sweetheart,” Park defends honestly. The last thing he wanted was for you to think he’d ever scrape the barrel of humour and throw a negative connotation over an activity you enjoyed—however, it didn’t prevent him from believing there was zero requirement for a caffeine hit after a fluffy workout.
You approach the room the class was being held in. Dimly lit with an ambient sunset lamp that created a pretty, soft glow of an orange hue on the back wall; Park, naturally, takes up the rear as you saunter in to disrupt the serenity with your fifty keychains.
(Holy shit. Was he perverse in thinking he would like to walk behind you forever?)
You throw a radiant smile over your shoulder, “Alright. Let’s see if you are calling me sweetheart after this.”
Park scoffs, “I’m just stating that, for someone like me, this can’t be hard.”
Wrong.
Brendon Park had met his match in that Pilates class.
His shirt was saturated from exertion, and he quickly came to the realisation that wearing a white t-shirt was simply premature naivety that he just…wouldn’t sweat that much in an hour. The cotton fabric clung to his muscles and was less white and more his shade of nude. The hair that had been in its usual style—something he took longer to do in the mirror this morning—was completely undone; curls beginning to coil from the dampness at his scalp.
The Pilates instructor seemingly decided that, that particular class would be rendered to severe, military style punishment that had Brendon Park’s body folded in ways that had him thinking that his sturdy bones may snap.
He had read somewhere; not to eat before class. So, he did anyway. (And, regretted the 6AM eggs and protein shake instantaneously.)
The worst part? You weren’t suffering near as much as he was.
Sweat beaded your hairline, and your chest did rise and fall at a quicker pace than a leisurely stroll would have done; it was just that you weren’t doubled over on the bright pink matt you had brought along.
“I’d pat your back,” you start when Park cements his forehead to his borrowed matt from the class, “But, you’re next level sweaty. No offence.”
Park slowly raises from his spot, eyes scrunching shut from the ache in his torso. He peels one eye open to stare at you, “How do you still look that beautiful?” he asks in a sharp tone, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe at his drenched face.
Your eyes drop to his exposed flesh and then back up before he notices, “It’s a burden. Truly.”
“Fuck, sweetheart.” Park huffs out and drops his head back.
Stomach erupting with warmth at the nickname, you grin, “What?”
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