ellsss

23yrs she/her

[urfavoritewritersfavoritewriter]

victorias roommate : brendon park x reader

[mcybank]

⋮⟢ drabble: jack abbot’s controversially young gf pranks him!

⋮⟢ note: based on this reel from this supersuper cute request!!! ilurv them they’re so silly + never written Such fluff before so be patient guys

send requests for controversially young gf!reader

you loved doing two things to jack very much: getting him flustered and embarrassing him just slightly in front of other people. you couldn’t help yourself; he took it like a champ each time while the men from your past had hated it. it also ended with you somehow being rewarded for it. it made no sense, but you loved it. you’d once told a home depot worker who tried to lift the other end of plywood that he didn’t have to, your boyfriend is so strong. and he’d looked so annoyed and flustered, but had spent the rest of the day proving to you how strong he was.

you’d once taken the reins on date night and called beforehand to say it was his birthday. you’d also used the money you got from your tips to customize the cake they’d brought out to say ‘happy birthday to the HOTTEST man in world!’ (it wasn’t his birthday! you also didn’t write ‘the’ because they’d charged extra) they’d come out lit and singing and he’d put his hands over his face for a second when he realized they were walking toward him before composing himself again.

he’d then looked at you as they continued singing – sat across the table in the candlelight with your chin in your hand, unbelievably happy – and he’d shaken his head as he read the words. “you really think so?”

“obviously,” you said. and he nodded once, and went back to being sung at. then he thanked every single one of them, getting their names, ears blazing the entire time.

“blow it out,” you’d said, waving a loose palm over the candles.

“s’your cake, angel.”

“it’s your birthday.” then he blew it out, and you asked, “what was your wish?”

“you in my bed tonight.”

“that’s already happening – ”

“i know, right.” he sat back in his chair, thumb dragging along the base of his glass. “m’the luckiest man in the world.”

and because that night had ended so well (the sound he made into your shoulder when you repeated what the cake said, again, into his ear; the box of cake left on the counter he’d begrudgingly brought into bed after tuckering you out), you couldn’t help but want to keep finding ways to keep doing it to him.

even if it was during a dinner with two of his coworkers who also happened to be his closest friends.

“god, i wish i had some salt and pepper right now,” you said through a groan, setting your little ice cream spoon down.

dana, who was sitting across from you, let out a small chuckle into her drink, eyeing you over the rim of her glass.

jack just assumed you were talking to talk. you did that way too often; every time there was a lull in the conversation (even though your definition of a lull and his were vastly different), you’d supply something that was rarely relevant.

he eyed you briefly from the corner of his gaze, before he placed his focus back on his conversation with robby. “gloria asked me for – ”

you let out another dramatic groan, letting your head tip back in faux frustration before cocking it to the side toward jack, speaking directly at him. “i said, i really wish i had salt and pepper right now.”

jack breathed out a sigh through his nose, as he shifted slightly, palm planting over your thigh under the table, as he ran through a quick list of possibilities of what could possibly be wrong with you.

you clearly weren’t in pain or upset. so either this was a genuine craving, which was fixable, or it was one of your Things, which wasn’t fixable but jack found it was worth sticking around for.

“want a dish to go with that, baby?” he asked, raising a brow, turning toward you at last. his thumb swept over your thigh once.

jack watched you as the corner of your lip kicked up, wrapping the end of your hair around your finger. “that is the dish.”

jack’s gaze dropped to your cup of ice cream as he furrowed his brows. “i didn’t know that,” he muttered.

“s’my favourite,” you said, dragging your spoon slowly through what was left of the ice cream. “some people don’t like the salt and pepper.”

“don’t i know it,” he said, huffing and shaking his head, “people have gotta learn to season their – ”

he had one forearm on the table, sleeve rolled to the elbow, glass loose in his other hand.

“i really, really like salt and pepper,” you interrupted, and jack’s head snapped in your direction, brows going almost up to his hairline at your fucking tone.

usually, that tone was reserved for when you told him how good he was making you feel, how much you never wanted him to stop, his name in the sentence somewhere. it usually happened early in the mornings right after he got off work, your mouth an inch off his ear and his body entirely at your mercy.

the tips of his ears heated up and went pink at the onslaught of memories. his palm tightened on your thigh, questioning and also a little bit of something else that was entirely inappropriate at a group dinner. he felt like you’d just deployed a mating call, which was crazy. right?

“i’ll get you – salt. and pepper?” he said, clearing his throat halfway through, already turned toward the chrome caddy at the center of the table.

he rose immediately – one hand flat on the tablecloth, chair legs stuttering back – reaching two slightly-trembling fingers for the pepper mill.

your fist closed in his hair before he could get there, gathering a curl at the back of his head, winding your knuckles once. then, you gently (but with enough force that he let out a wounded “oh”) reeled him down until his butt planted into the chair.

“angel, whoa –!” he let out. his palm reached out over to your shoulder, fingers splaying wide to stabilize himself, despite the fact that you were the cause of it in the first place.

“got some,” you’d say sweetly, tugging the strands back gently so his neck tipped backwards slightly, like you were showing off a prize. which, you supposed, you were.

jack’s chin came up to lean into your hold, throating baring, as he retreated his other hand from the pepper shaker.

he made a sound low in his throat, eyeing everyone and their faces in his line-of-sight as the apples of his cheeks tinted. “i don’t know what’s happening,” he said through gritted teeth.

dana snorted into her drink, shaking her head in amusement. “yeah, but you like it, dont’cha?” she clicked her tongue. “salt and pepper.”

jack’s eyes flicked over to you then, as though realizing that he was being made fun of. “this some joke about me being old?”

“joke about how i love it,” you corrected, saccharine sweet smile playing on your lips as you tugged on his curls softly again.

“pfft.” he took his face out from under your grip, looking down at his lap. “well, i know that,” he murmured.

“your first run with salt and pepper, sweetheart?” dana asked you, still chuckling at the sight of jack.

“and last,” jack said, brows rising. he sat back, arm going along the top of your chair, thumb finding the ball of your shoulder, suddenly radiant with himself.

you jutted your thumb out in jack’s direction, nodding sincerely. “what he said.”

he tutted softly, pinching his eyes shut for a moment. then he leaned, mouth going to the shell of your ear, as he said, “you keep doing things like that.” he pressed a thumb into your shoulder. “you’ll have salt and no pepper by next week.”

when he pulled back, you snorted, forcing yourself into pretending you hadn’t just felt his voice go all the way down your spine. “you promise?”

the corner of his mouth went up at that, then he nodded slowly. so utterly happy to be there, while robby groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“we are right here,” robby said.

dana, on the other hand, smiled. “leave them. it’s sweet.”

you leaned into his side, and he tipped his head down towards yours, and pressed his mouth once to your hair.

“happy now?” he murmured. “you got me. now eat up. gotta get us home.”

[lovepollution]

jack abbot + emojis

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

problem solver // jack abbot

in which jack gives you unsolicited advice on vibrators and how to use them.

genre: smut!! 18+ mdni!!!

(a/n: can't sleep, feeling weird. deciding to write to get my mind off things. sorry it's kinda filthy lol what can i say.)

You were running on four hours of sleep and weeks of agonizing physical frustration. So yes, technically, sitting in the breakroom with a tab open to a high rated silicone toy review page wasn't ideal workplace decorum. But you were on your break. Off the clock, tired, frustrated, and researching every available avenue to make something happen.

"That one’s no good."

You froze, every muscle locking up. You slowly turned around to see Jack leaning over, eyeing your phone screen.

Before you could scramble to lock your phone or throw it across the room, Jack gave a casual, unbothered shrug and walked right out the door.

The rest of the night was psychological torture. Back on the floor, Jack acting like he said nothing. Not a smirk. Not a lingering look. Nothing. By the time you clocked out, you were convinced you’d hallucinated the entire breakroom encounter.

…

Two glasses of wine later back at your apartment, unwinding on the couch and feeling comfortably tipsy, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Jack: I can make some good recommendations for you.

You snorted into your glass, staring at the screen. The wine gave you a reckless surge of courage, and your thumbs moved before your brain could filter them.

You: you gonna show me how to use it?

His reply came back within seconds.

Jack: Yeah. My place tomorrow?

…

So that’s how you were here. On Jack Abbot’s lap, writhing as his thumb guided a small, buzzy, impossibly effective vibrating bullet directly against your center. His hand was around your hip, holding you steady while his hard length pressed hot against you through the fabric of his sweatpants.

"Told you the other one was overrated." he murmured against your neck, his voice raspy.

You let out a breath, hands clutching his shoulders as you rolled your hips into his palm.

"That good?" Jack said into your skin, tightening his grip on your hip as you squirmed against him. "Need you to come all over my lap, sweetheart."

[loulouxox]

a woman has never been so lucky ..god irish and sexy at 50 AND big what the fuck do we do

[iwritefanficx]

The wife guy - Jack Abbot

Being Jack Abbot’s wife and he is a massive wife guy.

- Jack likes to let me people know he’s married

- will always refer to you as his wife any chance he gets

- conversation with Robby who knows you by name he will still say “my wife said” and Robby will just reply “you mean y/n” “no my wife”

- “gotta check with the wife” to any plans people want to make with him

- “the wife made me my lunch”

- “how is y/n?” Dana would ask “my wife is just fine”

- patient flirting with him “I don’t think my wife would he to happy about this”

- Robby being invited round for dinner and saying “hi Jack’s wife” as a joke

- you rolling your eyes at Robby’s joke knowing that Jack is 100% a wife guy

- “the new residents actually do think your name might just be my wife” Robby laughs “I have to remind him you have a name”

- “my wife sent me a photo of a cat, we’re not getting a cat but my wife wants one so we probably will get a cat”

- visiting Jack at the ED and Shen shouting “oh it’s my wife” and Jack giving him a dirty look

- you bringing in baked goods for everyone and signing the paper “Jack’s wife”

- interns telling Jack how behind the times he is and how he’s taking away your identity by just calling you his wife and not by your name

- you ensuring him that you love it and you are so proud to be his wife

- he’s just smitten for you and is so proud to wear a ring meaning that you are his and he is yours.

[petalsforjoy]

His Favorite Part. || Jack Abbot

Summary: Jack Abbot loves his days off work...because he gets to spend it all day with you. SMUT. SMUTTTTT. MDNI.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female!Reader. Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: Smut.

Jack Abbot loved his days off. Not because he was able to sleep as long as he wanted, or because he could have a proper homemade meal. Those were nice perks, yes, but they weren't the reason he looked forward to them. He loved his days off because he got to fuck you every chance he wanted.

8:00 am:

He fucks you first thing in the morning. You’d wake up lying on your side while he’s spooning you. One arm wrapped around your waist. When you feel his hard cock press up against your ass. His hips thrust against your ass, pushing his hard cock against you. You bite your lip to silence a moan. But he hears you anyway; he doesn’t waste time as he hooks his thumb on the waistband of your cotton shorts, pulling them down. His middle and ring finger spread your wet folds open. He inserts both his middle and ring finger. Testing how wet and ready you were for his heavy, thick cock. He tugs his boxers halfway down, pulls you closer so your back hits his chest completely. The head of his cock between your ass, as he adjusts himself and enters you slowly, he groans into your ear. His head is in the crook of your neck, taking in the way you smell to keep him grounded. He loses control of his pace, picking up. The room gets filled with sounds of his thighs hitting your ass. He doesn't care that he’s always waking up the neighbors downstairs.

10:00 am:

He fucks you while you’re preparing breakfast. He watches as you cook in nothing but his shirt. He leans against the counter as he watches his shirt fall off one of your shoulders. You're humming a song while flipping pancakes, unaware of his predatory gaze. He moves off the counter and walks behind you. He turns you over to face him, hugging you softly. His lips touch your neck immediately, hands traveling from your waist to your ass, cupping them. He picks you up without warning, setting you on the counter in front of him. He kneels in front of you in an instant, pulling your shirt up and bringing you to sit closer to the edge. His hands move to your thighs, and he adjusts your legs so they’re on his shoulders. He dips his head down and straight to your pussy. His tongue licks your pussy in a line first, just to taste you. He moves closer against your pussy as he starts sucking your clit. He holds your trembling thighs. His tongue sets a gurgling rhythm. He feels your hand tug his hair; you feel the vibration of his groan against your clit. He doesn’t care that the pancake is now burnt.

3:00 pm:

He fucks because you make the best tomato soup with grilled cheese for lunch. He watches as you make him a plate and set it down in front of him. He looked at you with so much awe that blood ran straight through his cock. Because you’re perfect. Because he loves you. He pats his lap, and you gladly sit down. He kisses your lips softly at first, but the moment you grind on his hard cock, the kiss becomes sloppy and wet. He didn’t need to break the kiss to pull your panties to the side and free his cock. He entered you slowly, trying to remember the way your tight pussy feels. His head falls back as you ride him. He doesn't care that his lunch is now cold.

5:00 pm:

He fucks you while a movie plays. He couldn’t help it; his head was lying on your lap while you ran your hand through his hair. He didn’t even notice his cock getting hard from how good and relaxed you were making him feel. He moans softly, his warm breath hitting your bare thighs. He closes his eyes softly, feeling your free hand move down his chest. He whimpers quietly as your hand reaches the waistband of his boxers. His hips buck as you grab his cock, stroking him. Your thumb runs over his tip. He becomes needy and impatient; he guides you down on the couch. He doesn’t care that he's missing the plot twist in the movie.

7:00 pm:

He fucks you before you’re about to cook dinner. He sees you bending over to grab something out of the bottom cabinet. He moves behind you, sets his hands on your thighs, bringing you closer to your ass hitting his thighs. He whispers into your ear, his voice rough and low. His big arms hug you tightly. He kisses your neck, taking a step forward so the front of your thighs hit the cold cabinets and your waist pressed against the counter. Your hands on the counter, and you gasp as you feel his hard cock enter you without warning. He doesn't care that now he has to order takeout.

10:00 pm:

He fucks before you go to sleep. Your head pushed up against the mattress. He slaps your ass, making your back arch even more. Your chest on the mattress, ass in the air while he fucks you. The sound of skin slapping against each other. His pace is hard and rough as he pounds into your pussy. He loves seeing your face pushed against the mattress, hair all over your face, while you scream his name. He doesn’t care that the bed is loud, squeaking, and scraping against the floor.

2:00 am:

He wakes up in the middle of the night cock hard pressed up against you. He whispers into your ear, pleading and whiny. You couldn’t help it; you needed to help him. He watches your sleepy body move on top of him. He watches you in the dark; the only light is coming through the small gap in the curtains. The moonlight hits your body. His gaze fixed on you as you took off your shirt-his shirt. He helped you remove your panties. He could see the determination to please him. He admired every movement as you positioned yourself on him. Once your wet slick pussy took in his cock, you began moving. It was a slow grinding movement. His hands on your hips helped you keep the pace. He pushed his head back on the pillow, eyes closed and focused on the feeling of your pussy clenching around his cock. Taking in the feeling of you riding him. He groans softly, feeling your cold hands grab onto his chest. You quicken the pace. He could only focus on the way you felt, the way you sounded, the way you looked. You were all that consumed his mind. When he came, he moaned so loudly. He doesn’t care that it’s the middle of the night.

​

Yeah, he loves his days off work…your neighbors not so much

[evancelinewrites]

almost home

jack abbot x reader | one-shot | writing masterlist | also on AO3

summary: Jack Abbot should be asleep after a long night shift. Instead, he’s alone in bed, missing you, scrolling through the photos you’ve sent him and waiting for you to finally come home.

notes: My first Jack Abbot fic!! I really just wanted to write about Jack Abbot being horny, tbh. Took a small break from writing about Pope Cody to give y’all this one-shot. Enjoy!! 🫶

warnings: 18+, MDNI, explicit masturbation smut, sexting and fantasy smut told from Jack’s POV, established relationship, age gap, attending/resident relationship, sexting, intimate photos, male masturbation, dirty talk, oral sex fantasies, vaginal sex fantasies, orgasm, creampie fantasy, pet names (sweetheart and baby), jack being very down bad for you, horny!Jack Abbot, porn with plot

word count: 2.5k

divider by: @/cursed-carmine

Please do not translate, repost, redistribute, or adapt this story on any platform without my explicit permission. Reblogs are welcome and encouraged!

almost home

Jack should’ve been asleep.

He’d left PTMC nearly an hour ago after Robby took over the trauma they’d worked through shift change. You’d stayed behind to finish the note, update the family and wait on a consultant who’d stopped answering at the exact point everyone needed him.

Twenty minutes, you’d told Jack.

He checked the time again.

Fifty-one had passed.

Jack lay against the pillows shirtless, wearing loose pyjama pants, his prosthetic resting beside the bed. He’d showered, set his alarm and done everything he usually did after nights. His body was tired enough for sleep. His head wasn’t interested.

Your side of the bed was empty.

It wasn’t really yours. This was still his apartment, though you stayed often enough for the distinction to matter less than it used to. A few of your things had found places there, and Jack liked having them around. Waking with your knee across his thigh and your hand tucked under his shirt had become familiar. So had your weight beside him after work, warm enough for his body to settle.

He reached across the mattress and rested his palm where your waist usually ended up. The sheets were cool. “Come home, baby,” he muttered.

His phone was charging on the nightstand. Jack unplugged it and opened your messages.

Your last text sat at the bottom of the thread.

you: twenty minutes. swear. 🙏

He’d reacted with a thumbs-down.

You hadn’t answered since.

jack: Still there?

The message delivered without a reply.

Jack leaned back and scrolled upward instead. Most of the thread was ordinary. Groceries. Shift changes. A photo of a takeout menu with three items circled and pick one before I lose the will to live written beneath it. 

Farther back was a picture of you asleep on his couch in his black sweater. He’d taken it after trying twice to wake you for bed. Your cheek was pressed into the cushion, one sleeve pulled over your hand and your legs tucked under you.

You’d accused him the next morning of keeping evidence. He’d told you it was insurance.

The next photo was from dinner a few weeks ago. You sat across from him with your chin resting in your palm, looking over the rim of your wineglass. He remembered your foot pressed against his beneath the table and the way you’d caught him staring.

“What do you want?” you’d asked.

“Nothing.”

You hadn’t believed him.

He hadn’t been lying. He already had you. Your things mixed with his. Your voice in his apartment after years of coming home to silence and pretending he preferred it. Sometimes Jack still looked at you and couldn’t quite believe how easily you’d become part of his life.

Then came the photos meant only for him.

The first showed the hem of your dress lifted over your thighs. The next was taken in his shower, one hand covering your breast while water ran down your stomach. Another showed your thighs spread across his sheets with your underwear pulled aside.

Jack shifted against the pillows.

His cock had started thickening beneath his pants, though the wanting had begun before that. It had been there when he reached across the bed and found cold sheets. There when he saw the photo of you asleep in his sweater and remembered carrying you from the couch because you’d refused to wake properly.

He opened another photo.

You were kneeling between his thighs, looking up at him with your lips swollen and wet. Jack had taken the photo himself, one hand tangled in your hair while his thumb rested along your jaw. The lower half of his cock was visible beside your cheek.

He remembered the heat of your mouth. The slow drag of your tongue beneath him and the way your fingers tightened around the base of his cock when he pushed deeper. You’d watched his face while you took him, pleased whenever his control slipped enough for you to hear it.

His cock pressed harder against the fabric.

“Jesus, sweetheart.”

Jack lowered his phone and rubbed his palm over himself through his pants. The pressure helped for two slow strokes before it made the ache sharper.

His phone buzzed against his stomach.

you: still here 😭

Another message followed.

you: finishing my last note

jack: You said twenty minutes.

you: i was young and optimistic

jack: Come home.

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and returned.

you: miss me? 😉

Jack looked at the photo still open on his screen.

jack: You know I do.

He sent the photo back to you.

Jack could picture you at the workstation with your phone held low beneath the desk, smiling down at his answer while pretending to finish your note.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

you: dr. abbot…

jack: Still works.

Jack slipped his hand beneath his waistband. His fingers closed around his cock, fully hard now and already damp at the tip.

He stroked himself slowly, thumb spreading the moisture over the head before drawing down again. His eyes stayed on the photo. Your mouth near his cock. Your face turned up towards him. The trust in the way you knelt between his legs and let him hold your hair.

Your next message arrived with a picture.

Jack opened it.

You were in an empty call room, scrub top lifted enough to show your stomach and the lower edge of your bra. Your scrub pants were loosened, your hand visibly inside your underwear.

His grip tightened.

“Fuck.”

jack: Take another one.

you: greedy 😈

jack: Show me.

The next photo showed more. Your fingers disappeared beneath your underwear, wrist angled between your thighs. He could see the pressure of your hand against yourself beneath the fabric.

Jack pushed his pants lower over his hips. His cock rested thick against his stomach, flushed darker towards the head. He wrapped his hand around himself again and stroked slowly enough to feel each drag of his palm.

you: what are you doing?

Jack glanced down at his fist.

jack: Thinking about you.

you: what about me?

His hand moved from base to tip, firmer now. He could’ve given you something brief and made you wait until you came home. He was tired, hard and alone in a bed where he’d grown used to having you within reach.

He wanted you to know.

jack: Your legs around me.

He sent another before you replied.

jack: How you taste after I’ve already made you come.

His grip tightened at the head of his cock.

jack: How tight your pussy gets when I’m all the way inside you.

The typing bubble disappeared.

Jack closed his eyes and pictured you underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips, hands gripping his shoulders while he pushed inside you. He knew the first tight hold of your body around him and how you softened once he kissed you and gave you time to take him.

He knew how his cock looked inside you.

He’d watched himself draw back, wet from you, before pushing deep again until his hips pressed against yours. He’d held your thighs open and watched your pussy stretch around him. He knew the tight clench he felt whenever his thumb found your clit and how much stronger it became once you got close.

His phone buzzed.

you: I want you inside me when I get home

Jack read it twice.

His hips lifted into his hand.

jack: Yeah?

you: want you to fuck me until I’m screaming your name

jack: You will be.

Jack liked you loud.

He could hear it too easily. Your voice filling the bedroom while he fucked you harder, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh. You’d beg him not to stop once he had you close. Your nails would drag over his back while your pussy squeezed his cock, trying to hold every inch.

you: promise? 😏

Jack slowed his hand. The thought of you reading his answer with your fingers still between your thighs made his cock pulse against his palm.

jack: Come home and find out, sweetheart.

you: tell me what you’d do

Jack let his head rest against the pillow. His control had already started to go. He could feel it in the uneven pull of his hand and the tension building low in his stomach.

The thought of getting his mouth on you made his cock throb in his fist.

Jack loved opening you with his thumbs and seeing how wet you’d already become for him. He’d drag his tongue slowly through your pussy first, tasting you before his lips closed around your clit.

“Fuck, baby…”

His hand tightened as he pictured sucking you gently, then harder when your hips started moving beneath him. You never stayed still for long. Your fingers would slide into his hair and your body would chase each pull of his mouth, hips lifting as he kept your clit between his lips.

He liked how quickly you stopped trying to control it. The small movements becoming needier, your pussy pressing against his mouth while he held your thighs open and took everything you gave him.

Jack would push his tongue inside you and feel your body tighten around it. You’d roll your hips against his face, chasing the pressure while your hand pulled at his hair.

He’d go back to your clit before you could say anything, sucking until your thighs trembled against his shoulders. Hearing you come for him made him harder, but tasting it got to him just as badly. The first rush against his tongue. Your hips pushing into his mouth. Your voice breaking around his name.

He’d keep licking you through it, slower once you became sensitive, until you tried to pull away.

Jack wanted inside you. He wanted the stretch of your pussy around his cock and the way you clenched when he fucked you deep.

He wanted his mouth on you just as badly. Your body open beneath him. Your hips moving against his tongue. Your taste still on his lips when he climbed over you.

He typed with his free hand.

jack: I’d put my mouth on you until you came.

you: jack…

jack: Then I’d make you come again on my cock.

Your reply came quickly.

you: i need you so bad

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner.

jack: Go finish your note.

you: you started this 😒

jack: And I’ll finish it when you get here.

He opened your photo again, his eyes returning to your hand inside your underwear. You were still at work, touching yourself because he’d asked what you were doing and refused to let the conversation stay innocent.

He imagined you walking into the bedroom already wet from everything he’d said, impatient and flushed from the drive. He’d get you onto your back before you finished telling him how badly you needed him.

His hand moved faster, the muscles in his stomach tightening as his hips began meeting his fist. He pictured your taste still on his tongue when he climbed over you and pushed inside.

His strokes grew rougher. He saw your face beneath him, lips parted while his cock filled you. He’d watch himself disappear into your pussy, then draw back slowly enough for both of you to feel it before driving deep again.

Your legs would be tight around his waist while he fucked you harder, your voice breaking every time he pushed deep. He imagined his thumb on your clit and the first hard clench of your pussy around him when you came, your body pulling him deeper while he kept moving through it.

Jack’s rhythm broke. “Fuck…”

He thought about coming inside you.

The first thick pulse filling you while he held himself deep. Another following as your pussy tightened around his cock. He’d stay buried inside you through the last of it, forehead pressed against yours while your hands held onto his shoulders.

Then he’d move again.

Slow, shallow thrusts while his come gathered around his cock. He’d watch it slip out whenever he pulled back, then push into you again while more ran down between your thighs.

His fist tightened as he imagined his cock coated in you and his come, disappearing inside you again while your thighs stayed open for him.

“Gonna fill you,” Jack muttered. His voice broke around the next curse. “Fuck… sweetheart.”

His hips drove into his fist as he came, the first streak spilling hot over his hand and stomach. Jack kept stroking himself through it, jaw tight while your name left him in a rough, low sound. Another pulse followed, then another, his cock twitching in his palm as his pace finally slowed.

He stayed against the pillows with his eyes closed, chest rising hard.

His phone buzzed near his hip.

you: leaving now 🥳

Jack looked down at the mess across his stomach and reached for the tissues on the nightstand. He cleaned himself, pulled his pants back over his hips and plugged his phone into the charger.

jack: Drive safe, baby.

You sent a heart.

He stared at it with his thumb hovering over the screen.

jack: Come straight to the bedroom when you get here.

you: thought you were going to sleep

jack: Changed my mind.

Your drive took twenty-three minutes when traffic was light.

Jack knew because he checked the time twice, then gave up pretending he wasn’t waiting. His body felt heavy from the shift, but every time he pictured you coming through the door in the same scrubs from the photo, his cock stirred again.

The front door opened, followed by your footsteps through the apartment. You appeared in the bedroom doorway with your bag over one shoulder, hair still pulled back from work. You looked exhausted until you found him awake against the pillows.

Your eyes moved over the messy sheets. “Thought you took care of yourself.”

Jack pulled the blankets back. “Come here.”

You dropped your bag near the door and climbed onto the mattress. He caught your waist before you could settle beside him and pulled you across his lap, kissing you hard enough to make you brace a hand against his chest.

You smiled against his mouth when you felt him hardening beneath you. “Already?”

His hand slipped beneath your top and closed around your breast through your bra. Your hips shifted over him, and Jack’s jaw tightened. “You touched yourself before you left,” he said.

“So did you.”

“Wasn’t the same.”

“No?”

Jack brought your mouth back to his, tongue pushing between your lips while he held you at the hip. When he broke the kiss, he kept you close enough for your mouth to brush his when you spoke.

“Spent half the wait thinking about my mouth on you,” he said.

“And the other half?”

“Fucking you.”

Your hand moved down and pressed over his cock through his pants. Jack groaned under his breath. Your fingers caught the hem of your top, but Jack stopped you and took hold of it himself. “Let me.”

He pulled it over your head, dropped it beside the bed and brought your mouth back to his. You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You really missed me.”

Jack ran his hand slowly over your side, palm settling at your waist where it belonged. “Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.”

His eyes lowered to your pants as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband.

“Now, take these off.”

[shadeofpeach]

Olive theory

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!doctor!reader Warnings: fluff, established relationship. The Olive Theory is a relationship concept suggesting a couple is perfectly matched if one person loves olives and the other hates them. This dynamic creates ideal balance, as the "olive hater" can simply give all their olives to their partner.

orange peel theory (Andrew Pope cody) Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.

The late night shift had finally reached a temporary lull. You were leaning against the nurse's station, your forehead against the cold plastic of a clipboard, when a paper bag fell onto the counter next to you.

"Blessing from the day shift," Jack's voice pulled you out of your dissociative state. "Someone’s family sent in a tray of gourmet sandwiches before they left. I managed to snag a couple before the residents tore through them like locusts."

You straightened and looked at your boyfriend.

"If there’s olives on whatever you brought me, I might actually cry, I can smell them from here," you mumbled, rubbing your temples.

"I know your picky no-no, beautiful," Jack chuckled, unwrapping one of the foil parcels and handing it over to you. "Eat up. We’ve probably got ten minutes before the next wave comes in."

You didn't hesitate. Starving and desperate for a burst of energy, you took a generous bite.

For about two seconds, it was glorious. Then, your teeth hit something briny and distinct.

Your jaw froze midway through chewing. A instant look of betrayal washed over your face. Nose scrunched, lips curled in absolute disgust, you slowly pushed the sandwich away from your mouth, looking at it like it had just insulted your entire existence.

Jack, who had been about to take a bite of his own sandwich, stopped dead in his tracks. He took one look at your horrified expression and immediately realized what had happened.

"Oh no, no, no," Jack said, quickly swapping the sandwich out of your hand with his own untouched one. "Wait, baby, I'm sorry, that’s mine! Give me that."

"I'm gonna die," you cried, dramatically grabbing a cup of water to wash away the awful flavor. "Why would anyone put tapenade on a sandwich? Horrible."

"No, it’s delicious," Jack replied calmly, already taking a contented bite of his sandwich you had just discarded without an ounce of hesitation. "That was meant for me. That one," he pointed to the package now sitting in front of you, "is plain turkey, cheese, extra mustard, zero olives. I mixed up the wrappers."

You inspected the replacement sandwich with suspicion, peeling back the top layer of bread to check and smell it before cautiously taking a bite. Perfect.

You let out a sigh. "You know, they say in an ideal couple, one person loves olives and the other hates them. That way, the universe stays in balance."

Jack swallowed with a thoughtful smirk.

He looked at you with cuteness.

"Yeah?" he asked softly. "So my willing sacrifice of eating all your discarded garnishes makes me the perfect boyfriend?"

"It’s literally in the job description, baby," you said, taking another bite. "I supply the picky eating, you supply the trash can stomach."

"I don't know whether to be offended or proud," Jack joked, reaching out to wipe some mustard from the corner of your mouth. "Just keep that in mind next time you try to steal my fries."

"Never, picky means stealing all your fries." you smiled, leaning into his touch for a brief moment.

"Is it good? he asked as he watched you.

"It's perfect. My boyfriend and a olive-free sandwich, all I needed for my little break."

"See? No tragic olive encounters on my watch," he murmured, stepping a little closer so his body blocked you from the sight of anyone walking around.

He leaned down, cupping your cheek with one warm hand to pull you into a soft peck. But the second your lips met his, your eyes flew open.

You shoved gently at his chest, pulling back with a look of utter horror. "Go away," you squealed in a hushed whisper, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You taste like tapenade."

Jack burst into a low laugh, his eyes twinkling with pure mischief. "Oh, come on. It’s an acquired taste," he teased, approaching you as if he wanted to give you an even more passionate kiss. "Give your boyfriend some love."

"No! Jack Abbot!"

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

[rosefiammotta]

say you'll remember me

pairing: michael "robby" robinavitch + john carter x reader synopsis: to marry into the Carter estate was every young woman's desire. there was the obvious choice; naive and young physician john carter who had been raised under his grandmother's thumb and brought up into society properly. then there was the eldest; michael, who went by his late mother's last name to honor her, robinavitch. the eldest was a tempest storm and consumed by the life of a physician, never making time to marry and having a reputation that proceeds him. what happens when you, a young and newly taught seamstress, move into the small town of Wildeverie and meet the two brothers who quickly become consumed by the desire of your affections? rating: 18+ mdni, no use of y/n, slowburn, innacurate regency era, questionable family relations, we gotta get cool with a whole lotta stuff real quick note: yeah this is a self-indulgent brother fantasy ngl

chapter one - coming soon...

[ceriseangels]

this is my super bowl

[se7entyrell]

50 ways to leave your lover. (6k followers celebration fic!)

(michael 'robby' robinavitch x ex-wife!reader)

The four times Robby tries to win you back after your divorce, and the one time he finally manages to lock it all down.

warnings: 18+, mdni! explicit sexual content, ex-husband!robby, robby's done some work pre-sabbatical in this universe, doesn't follow pitt s2 timelines, age gap (34/52), robby sleeps with his medical student (what's new?) oral (f receiving), protected sex, ditching dates for your ex-husband w/c: 5k

main masterlist // robby masterlist

Number one. Eighteen months post-divorce. The Abbot-Mohan wedding.

Stupid Jack Abbot.

Were it not his wedding day today, you'd seriously consider wringing his neck. The only thing stopping you is the prospect of widowing Samira after three hours of marriage.

Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.

This, you were prepared for.

Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.

Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.

It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.

He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."

There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.

The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.

At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.

"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.

"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."

And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.

*****

Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.

Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.

Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.

"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.

"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."

"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?

"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."

Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.

Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.

"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."

This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"

"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."

Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."

"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.

You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.

Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.

You still have some sense.

Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.

The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.

Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.

Your shopping list for next week.

Not how warm he feels against you.

The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.

Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.

You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.

The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.

*****

"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.

"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."

"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.

"Yeah? How?"

"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.

He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.

"Need a hand?"

He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."

Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.

Truly.

The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.

Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.

Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.

"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."

Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.

He's gotta find a way to change that.

Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.

After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.

That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.

A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.

Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.

By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.

At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.

All things you can do in your sleep.

But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.

He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”

You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.

Uh oh.

This is bad.

Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.

You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”

“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”

“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.

You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.

He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”

There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”

“Always, sweetheart.”

You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.

Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.

“And don't call me sweetheart.”

You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”

“We're not holding hands.”

Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.

A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.

“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”

The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”

“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”

Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.

Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.

“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”

“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”

“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.

He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”

"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.

"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."

You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."

"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"

It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."

The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.

"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.

"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."

"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.

He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."

Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.

Apparently, you and Robby text now.

You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.

Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.

He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).

Currently?

He's fixing your busted boiler.

You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.

Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.

He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.

All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.

That means he's furious.

Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.

When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."

You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"

You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"

"What? No!"

"Why not? Thought we were being honest."

It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.

His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.

You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.

In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.

The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.

The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.

The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.

Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.

After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.

While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.

His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.

It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."

He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."

That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.

He's practically inescapable.

He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."

"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.

But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.

There are many words that would end this right now.

Stop. No. Don't.

And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.

Then an O.

Two B's.

And a Y.

He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.

Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.

The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.

You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.

You look up from the sink. "Hey."

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.

"Long day?"

"Mhm."

You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.

"You want me to plate up dinner?"

"If you want."

It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."

"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.

"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."

"I can't."

"You mean you won't."

"Stop!"

Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.

"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"

Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”

Robby's face falls.

“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”

He folds his hands together.

"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."

"You stopped talking to me."

"I know."

"You stopped letting me in."

"I know."

Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"

"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.

But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."

"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."

Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.

Robby. 22:01. Just got back to town What are you up to?

You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.

Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.

He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.

Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-

No. You can't let yourself think like that.

You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.

He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.

Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.

Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.

To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.

You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.

It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.

But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.

So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?

"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.

"Hm?"

"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."

Shit.

Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.

You. 22:04. I'm on a date, actually

"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.

If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.

Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.

Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.

Robby. 22:05. When will you be done? I'll come and pick you up. Miss my girl.

A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.

You never have been.

Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.

Robby would double that, at least.

You. 22:21. ...Not your girl But you can pick me up around 11.

You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.

The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."

"A... dermatology emergency?"

"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."

Another lie.

You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.

“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.

"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"

"If he knew you were my ex, probably."

Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.

"You ready?"

You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.

*****

Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.

There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.

You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.

Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.

“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”

He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.

Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.

Not that you can't have seen other people.

You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.

Like nothing ever went wrong.

Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.

You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"

"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."

"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."

Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.

“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."

Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."

"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."

You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.

This version of Robby still has bad days.

Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.

The difference is that he always comes back.

And he lets you help.

Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.

But Robby had been right.

There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.

Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."

"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.

"Marry me. Again."

"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"

He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."

A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."

His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"

You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."

taglist: @generation-zero @thatgirljayy @cerberus101 @storylover1211 @bucckbrnes @arigoldsblog @seikamuzu @natashamea18 @tismpeaks @sleepybabes16 @nerdgirljen @ghostgirlwrites @justagirlandherstories @takethistoheartxxx @kaycov09 @diasnohibng @hawh25 @cats-coffeeandbooks @teenage-iridescence @a-sleepy-golden-storm @arian-directioner @ozwriterchick @evysian @liliana-rose1 @mayemperess @obsessed-fan-alert @pedrohoe04 @iqr-x @coffeeblackandcomfortablynumb @adriburgs26 @yiiiikesmish @moon-saints @fortjackson @secretgardens-inmymind @brxtnxy @arikimii @ughyna @mivanda @karebears-klub @tojis-little-brat @serrendiipty @kitkatrina @zoeautumspage @emmilynsblog @bbvoice @h0ngh0ngh0ng @kidd3ath @madstxo @sunnliqht @p-polaroid

[cafe-velour]

Retail Therapy (Courtesy of Jack Abbot)

summary: Jack Abbot has one very expensive habit: Spoiling his girlfriend.

𝒘 — Jack Abbot & Fem! Reader ⟢ ( 1k-ish ) proofread. age gap. (not mentioned, but r is like 25-30.) established relationship. fluff.

Dior, Miu Miu, Tom Ford, Chanel, and Prada are all brands that have somehow invaded your bedroom. Perfumes stacked neatly on a sterling silver stand on your dresser. Charlotte Tilbury palettes on your vanity, and Tiffany diamonds sparkling on your jewelry tray.

Despite your best efforts to tell him you really don’t need any of it, Jack Abbot buys you quite literally everything you show the tiniest amount of interest in.

It isn’t that you can’t afford it, you absolutely can. Years of medical school and brutal residency shifts had earned you a salary you were more than proud of, which made Jack’s habit of paying for everything simultaneously frustrating and endearing.

It started small. You’d pause a second too long in front of a perfume display, eyes widening at the price tag as you muttered something about how insane it was. The bottle would appear on your bathroom counter the next morning.

You’d complain that your work tote was falling apart. Three days later, a brand new leather one arrived at your apartment with your initials hand-stitched on the side in dainty gold thread.

You’d compliment a necklace in passing, and somehow Cartier already knew your address.

At first it was sweet. Then it became excessive. Which is why you now have enough designer items in your home to pay off someone’s mortgage.

And somehow… that still wasn’t enough for him.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

You’re standing in the Sephora checkout line, fully intent on spoiling yourself for once. Jack stands close by your side, seemingly distracted by his phone, squinting down at a text from Robby. You make a mental note to increase the font size later when he isn’t looking.

As the person in front of you finishes, you see his hand slip into his pocket out of the corner of your eye, reaching for his wallet.

“Jack,” you huff quietly, no real heat behind it.

“Hm?”

“Put your wallet away. I told you, I’m paying.”

He glances up from the screen, expression perfectly innocent. “Why?”

You turn to face him fully, arms crossed. “Because these are my things. I can buy my own makeup, Jack. You’ve already bought me three things today.”

His eyebrow lifts just slightly, that calm, steady doctor look settling over his features. He steps closer until his chest brushes your shoulder, voice low and warm against your ear.

“I like taking care of my girl. Why wouldn’t I?”

The cashier is smiling politely, pretending not to listen. Your cheeks are hot, fairly certain that they’re tinted a faint shade of red.

“Jack,” you warn, softer this time.

“You gonna stand here and argue with me, baby?” His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate. “Or are you gonna let me pay?”

You exhale a defeated laugh, cheeks burning.

A small, satisfied smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

He slides his card into the reader before you can make any move to protest again. While the cashier rings everything up, his arm stays looped around your waist, holding you close like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

The drive home is quiet at first, city lights sliding across the windshield. You keep glancing down at the heavy Sephora bag in your lap, then over at him.

“You promised you’d let me pay today” you say, gently poking his arm.

Jack’s hand leaves the gear shift to rest on your thigh instead, squeezing gently.

“I said I’d try,” he corrects, voice low with amusement. “There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re ridiculous. We’re both doctors, y’know? I don’t need you dropping half your salary on me every time we leave the house.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing back and forth over your leg as he drives.

“You work harder than anyone I know,” he says finally. “Longer hours than me sometimes. You come home exhausted and still make time for us. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. It makes me feel good. Like I’m doing something right.”

Your chest flickers with undeniable warmth. You reach down and lace your fingers with his. “You do plenty right, Jack. You don’t have to buy me half of Sephora to prove it.”

“I know.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road. “But I want to. And I like seeing my baby have pretty things.”

The words settle warm and heavy in your stomach. Your eyes are soft as you study the side of his face.

・・・۶ৎ・・・

Back at your apartment, Jack carries the bags inside like they weigh nothing. You kick off your shoes and start unpacking the new products on your vanity, admiring the sleek packaging.

He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, focused look that always makes your heart feel 10 pounds heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease, fighting off a genuine smile.

“Can’t help it.” He pushes off the doorframe and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. “You happy?”

You lean back into his chest. “Yes. Thank you… even though you have no self-control.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrates low and warm against your neck. “Good.”

You turn in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “But next time, I’m paying. I will hear no arguments.”

Jack hums, pretending to consider it. “We’ll see.”

“Jack.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ll behave.”

You narrow your eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

・・・۶ৎ・・・

Forty minutes later you’re curled up on the couch together when your phone buzzes. A notification from the jewelry store you’d walked past earlier on the way to Sephora.

Order confirmed. Your custom initial pendant will be ready for pickup tomorrow.

You sit up slowly, staring at the screen, then turn to look at him.

Jack doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just pulls you back against his chest with a lazy grin, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.

“You said you’d behave,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“I did behave,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “For a whole forty minutes. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

[shadeofpeach]

Twin's muffins

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!wife!reader x twins!toddlers Warnings: stressed toddler, crying, fluff, domestic, exhaustion, implied intimacy. Summary: After making a mountain of muffins, the family treats night shift before facing a tearful kinder drop off. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Twins power 🐻

A/N: Where I live some kindergarten are in schools, that's why I wrote kinder and school as the same place. Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes. 🎀 based on this request 🎀 more dad!abbot fics

You were wrapping up some work in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. Jack was halfway through his night shift. And you had finally managed to get the twins tucked in and asleep by nine.

Or so you thought.

The bedroom door creaked open. You looked up from your screen to see Lily. Her eyes were half closed and her hair was a wild nest. When she shuffled closer to your bed, you noticed her bottom lip trembling.

"Lily?" you murmured, setting the laptop aside. "What’s wrong, baby? You're supposed to be fast asleep."

Instead of climbing in for a cuddle, Lily buried her face into the side of your mattress, a muffled sob escaping her. "I- I fogot, Mama."

"Forgot what, princess?" You shifted, gently smoothing down her messy hair.

She lifted her tear streaked face, her big eyes wide with anxiety. "F-For 'morrow! Is Friday and my tun for snack day. My brain is loud cause I forgot tell you!"

The panic in her voice was heartbreaking. To your four year old baby, forgetting a classroom promise felt like the end of the world.

"Oh, come here," you said softly, scooping her up into your arms and pulling her onto the bed with you. She clung to your neck, her body shaking anxiously. "What did you want to bring?"

"Muffins!" Lily wailed into your shoulder. "But the stores are closed!"

"It’s okay, princess," you murmured, pulling back to wipe the tears from her cheek. "We can make them."

Lily blinked, hiccuping. "Now? But it’s sleep time."

"Yes but we have a kitchen and I think we have everything we need," you smiled at her. "We can work something out."

The anxiety on her face instantly melted.

She nodded rapidly. "With the sweet chips!"

A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen. Lily was perched on a barstool, her chin resting in her hands as she watched you rummage through the pantry.

You managed to find a bag of flour, sugar, vanilla extract, eggs, baking powder.

"Perfect," you said. "We’ve got muffins covered. We can start and you mix while I look for the chocolate chips."

Before you could pull out the mixing bowl, steps came from the entryway of the kitchen.

You turned to see Luca standing by the doorframe. He was wearing his matching star pajamas, dragging his stuffed animal, a plush dog, by one leg along the floor. His eyes were heavy with sleep.

"Hi, you," you said softly, walking over to kneel in front of him. "What’s wrong, bug? Why are you awake?"

He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and blinked up at you. "Can't sleep," he mumbled softly with sleep. He glanced over at Lily on the stool, then looked back at you. "Was alone."

Your heart completely melted.

Ever since they were babies, they had slept in the same room. The moment Lily’s side of the room went empty, Luca’s woke up because his other half was missing.

"Oh, buddy," you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. He immediately buried his face into your neck, his plush dog trapped between you.

"Let's make muffins, Lu!" Lily called out from her stool, her voice was... pretty loud and excited.

Luca tightened his grip on your shirt and gave a slow nod against your shoulder.

"Looks like the whole team is awake," you whispered, kissing his temple. "Let's make some muffins."

-

"Alright, my little bakers," you said, setting the large glass mixing bowl on the counter. "Luca, you’re in charge of the recipe card. Lily, you’re on pouring duty."

You pulled up a second stool so Luca could sit right next to his sister. He sat up straight, holding his stuffed dog under one arm while proping up the handwritten recipe card with his free hand.

He couldn't actually read words yet, but he knew numbers and forms perfectly, tracing the bold numbers with his index finger.

"Two cups of this," Luca read aloud, adopting a very professional voice that sounded exactly like Jack.

"Of flour" you said behind him, knowing the receipt perfectly.

Lily grabbed the plastic measuring cup, scooping it into the flour canister. "Two!" she echoed, dumping the powder into the bowl.

"Now the sugar," you indicated to them. "Then put the baking powder."

"One cup." Luca commanded.

While the twins were focused on their highly official assembly line, you turned around, hunting for the bag of chocolate chips. "Where did this man hide the sweet ones..." you muttered to yourself.

"Wait, it's-" Luca screamed then whispered "Uh-oh."

In parent language, uh-oh spoken in that specific tone was an universal code for: disaster.

You turned around. Lily was holding the baking powder container completely upside down over the bowl.

"She put all of it," Luca reported, his eyes wide as he looked from the bowl to you.

"I wanted make sure it was enough," Lily explained, her bottom lip poking out as she realized she might have made a mistake.

You stared at them and shook your head with a smile. If you baked it like this, the muffins would probably explode in the oven.

"It's okay, baby," you said, stepping back over and pulling the container from her small hands. "We just have to fix it now."

For the next twenty minutes, the baking session turned into a science experiment. To balance out the amount of baking powder, you had to double measures, crack more eggs, and pour more milk.

Luca went from reading the numbers to counting how many scoops you were adding to save the muffins. By the time the batter was finally balanced, you had enough batter to feed an army.

Later, the sweet aroma of vanilla filled the kitchen. The clock now read 11:50 PM.

Golden and chips muffins sat cooling across the counter. There were easily three dozen of them, far too many to bring to kindergarten.

Both toddlers were blinking slowly against the lights, looking exhausted.

"Look how many you two made." you said, wiping flour off Lily’s cheek.

"Lot of muffins!" Luca mumbled-screamed.

"We can't take all of them, you're only 15 on your class," you smiled, looking at the muffins. But then, an idea struck you. "Hey, what if we do something special tomorrow morning? We could take some these to daddy's work."

Lily’s eyes instantly brightened. "To Daddy’s work?"

"Exactly," you nodded. "I bet daddy and the nurses are going to be super hungry after their shift. We can drop off a big breakfast for them before we head to school."

"Muffins for Daddy!" Luca chimed, he liked the idea of taking care of his dad.

"Yeah! Muffins!" Lily cheered softly, clapping her hands.

"Alright," you wrapped your arms around both of them and kissing the tops of their heads. "But now both of you need to get back to bed and get some sleep. It's pretty late."

Luca grabbed Lily’s hand and they run back to their room, ready to dream about the surprise they had waiting for Jack.

When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, it felt entirely too soon. By 7:15 AM, the three of you were walking through the doors of the ER.

The twins were a funny contrast of sleep and excitement.

Lily was fiercely clutching a bakery box, walking by your side. Luca, on the other hand, had completely lost the battle to his late bedtime. He was dead to the world, his arms wrapped around your neck as you carried him.

The ER was in that moment where the night shift was exhausted and the day shift was just starting to trickle in.

"Well, look who it is," a familiar voice called out.

Dana was by the central desk. Her eyes crinkled with a smile as she took in the sight of you carrying a sleepy Luca and an anxious Lily beside you.

"Don't tell me Dr. Abbot forgot his keys again," Dana teased quietly, walking to greet you.

"Luckily no," you laughed, shifting Luca’s weight on your hip. "We had a midnight baking emergency and thought we'd bring muffins to the staff."

"We made chips muffins!" Lily announced loudly as she held the box up like a trophy. "For Daddy and nurses!"

Dana’s jaw dropped as she peeked inside the box. "Oh, you are an absolute angel. You just saved the whole department."

"Daddy here?" Lily asked, looking around the room.

"He’s wrapping up in the breakroom," Dana whispered, winking at her. "Why don't you go surprise him? I'll take this box and make sure we don't eat them all before he gets one."

Lily proudly handed over the box to Dana, then reached up to tug on the hem of your shirt. "Luca, wake up, let's find daddy!"

"I think Luca is staying right here, sweetpea," you whispered, kissing the top of your son's head as he let out a tiny yawn against your neck. "Go ahead. Lead the way."

Lily didn’t need to be told twice. She took off and you followed her. She stopped outside the staff breakroom, pushing the door open with both hands.

Jack was sitting at the table, staring blankly at a half-empty cup of coffee. He had already changed his scrubs, so maybe he just needed something to drink before going home.

"Daddy!" Lily squeaked, ignoring all hospital volume rules.

Jack snapped his head up. "Princess?"

Lily sprinted across the room and threw herself against him. Jack chuckled, scooping her up into his lap and pulling her tight against his chest. "What are you doing here, mh? Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for school?"

"We made muffins!" Lily beamed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Lot of them! For snack day!"

"Is that so?" Jack looked up, his eyes locking onto yours as you stepped in. Luca stirred against you and rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist before he blinked them open. He spotted his dad with sleepy smile.

"Hi, Dad," Luca mumbled and reached out one arm toward his father.

"Hey there, buddy," Jack murmured softly.

Holding Lily in his arm, Jack stood up and walked over to you. He pressed a kiss to Luca’s cheek, making the little boy giggle.

Then, Jack shifted his gaze to you.

He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a slow peck, his free hand coming up to gently cup the back of your neck.

"You baked at midnight?" Jack whispered against your lips, his thumb tracing your jawline.

"This miss forgot to tell me it was her snack day turn," you said leaning into his touch. "And we had an uh-oh with the baking powder, so we bring some of them before dropping off."

"You have to eat one! Right now!" Lily interrupted, breaking the romantic bubble you and Jack had just settled into.

"Alright, alright. Let's go see if they left any for me." Jack said and the four of you walked back toward the central nurse's station.

The box of muffins was already open on the counter.

"Dana! Muffins!" Lily called out.

Dana looked up from the computer, a half eaten muffin in her hand. "Abbot, your daughter is an absolute culinary queen. These are better than the cafeteria's by a mile."

"Heard we have muffins this morning." Robby walked in to start his shift.

"Uncle Robby!" Lily squeaked. To the twins, Robby wasn't just one of Jack's colleagues; he was Uncle Robby.

"Well, good morning to my favourite princess," Robby grinned "What’s in the box?"

"Muffins!" Lily explained proudly, leaning out from Jack's grip so far that Jack had to tighten his hold on her overalls. "Made lot of them, snack day!"

"No way," Robby gasped. "Did you bake these all by yourself?"

"Mama and Luca helped," Lily conceded, nodding toward you.

"And she did a lot of pouring," Jack added dryly, catching your eye with a smirk as he reached into the box and pulled out a muffin.

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully while his daughter watched him anxiously, waiting for the final verdict.

Jack’s eyes went wide. "Oh, wow, babygirl, this is the best muffin I have ever had in my entire life."

"Yeah! Muffins!" Lily clapped her hands in absolute delight.

Robby grabbed one for himself, taking a bite and humming in approval. "Mmm, absolutely elite. Hey," Robby shifted his attention, leaning over slightly to look at the quiet bundle in your arms. "Are you hiding from me, Lulu?"

Luca, who usually loved wrestling with Robby, was feeling shy. He peeked out with one eye, his cheek still pressed flat against your shoulder and tightened his little arms around your neck.

"He's a little tired today, Robby," you explained softly, shifting Luca's weight and rubbing his back. "He was the official recipe reader."

"Ah, the brains of the operation, I get it," Robby smiled gently, reaching out to give Luca's small foot a playful squeeze. "You did a good job, boy."

Jack took one last bite of his muffin and dusted the crumbs off his hands before turning to Dana. "I'm officially signing off. If anything catches fire in the next hours, call someone else."

"Go home, Abbot," Dana smiled, waving him off. "You've earned it."

-

After searching for his bag, Jack reached into his pockets, looking around the parking lot. "Where did you park your car?"

"Actually, I didn't drive. We took an Uber here."

Jack stopped in his tracks. "An Uber? Why?"

"Because I knew your shift was ending right about now," you explained softly. "And I wanted us to drop the toddlers off. Maybe you'd want to be there to see Lily hand over her muffins."

He looked at you, his heart visibly swelling. "You really are the love of my life, you know that?"

The drive to the kindergarten was calm. But the peace didn't last. The moment the car engine cut out in the school drop off line, the reality of the late night caught up.

The sight of the colorful playground completely revived Lily, who scrambled out of her seat, eager to show off her muffins. But for Luca, it was too much. As Jack unbuckled him and lifted him out of the car, Luca’s face crumpled.

The exhaustion hit him all at once.

"No," Luca whimpered, his voice instantly cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. "No school, Daddy. I want to sleep."

"Oh, buddy," Jack murmured, he picked him up, holding him tight against his chest as he walked toward the doors. "I know you're tired, Lu. But you're going to have so much fun with your friends today."

"No, my eyes hurt," Luca sobbed softly, tears soaking into the collar of Jack's shirt. He reached out blindly for you, his tiny hand trembling. "Mama... please."

You stepped in, your heart breaking as you took his hand. You pressed a warm kiss to his palm. "I know, my sweet boy. But Miss Honey is going to let you take a long nap at quiet time, okay? I promise."

Miss Honey walked towards you, her face softening with sympathy as she saw Luca's face, though she smiled brightly when Lily proudly held up the massive box. "Oh, Lily, these smell absolutely delicious!"

"We made them!" Lily said proudly.

"I see, sweety. Morning to you too Luca, are you tired? I have your soft pillow waiting just for you for nap time."

Luca let out a shuddering sniffle, unlocking his arms from Jack's neck.

"My blue one? With the stars?"

"Yes, that one."

Jack kissed his son on the forehead as he lowered him to the ground. "You hear her? Your favourite one. Be a big boy, alright? Daddy will be waiting right here to pick you up later."

Luca gave a nod, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt as he took Miss Honey's hand. Lily immediately grabbed his other hand, guiding him gently into the school.

You walked back to the car in silence, the echo of Luca's quiet cries still lingering in the air. You stared out the passenger window, watching the kindergarten entrance fade from view as Jack pulled out into the street. Your heart ached, the image of your little boy’s tear-streaked face replaying in a loop.

Jack caught the shift in your posture immediately. He kept one hand on the steering wheel, reaching with the other to take yours.

"Hey," he said softly. "Talk to me, beautiful. You’ve got that look on your face."

"I feel terrible," you admitted. "Leaving him like that when he was crying… it breaks my heart. He has such a hard time during the day when he doesn't get enough sleep."

Jack gave your hand a comforting squeeze. "Miss Honey is great with him. He’ll be asleep before nap time even starts. Why is he so tired? Did Lily wake him up for making the muffins?"

"No, she didn't. She was really quiet. He woke up completely on his own because he realized her bed was empty."

Jack glanced over at you curiously. "Really?"

"Yeah," you nodded, leaning your head back against the headrest. "He came looking so lost, and the first thing he said was, 'Was alone.' It’s that twin thing again. It’s like his internal radar alarms him the second she leaves the room. He just... he relies so much on his sister. I worry sometimes that he depends on her too much."

Jack listened quietly. He pulled the car up to a red light and turned his head to look at you fully.

"Sweetheart," Jack murmured. "They’ve been sharing a space since they were in the womb. It’s not a bad thing that he relies on her. Didn't you see them at the door? The second he nodded, Lily took his hand. He protects her and she grounds him. They look out for each other." He paused to smile at you. "He is always so aware of her. Think about it." Jack chuckled. "He’s basically our security guard for our troublemaker princess. We should be thanking him."

You laughed thinking of how Luca always take care of Lily when she is up to something. "A four-year-old security guard who works for muffins?"

"Exactly. The perfect one," Jack grinned.

The light turned green, and he rolled the car forward, keeping his grip on your hand firm.

"You did good, Mama," Jack whispered, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. "No more worrying. We have a date with our bed."

"Deal," you looked over at him as he steered the car toward your home. "You have such a happy face when it's my day off," you teased softly.

"Of course I do. It means I don't have to share you with anyone else for the next hours."

"Oh, is that it? You just want me all to yourself?"

"Absolutely," Jack murmured, he smoothly guided the car into your driveway and cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the vehicle making the space feel intimate.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned fully in his seat, leaning to trap you against your headrest. His eyes darkened as they traced your face, a deeply affectionate but thoroughly pervy grin spreading across his face.

"The kids are at kinder until four," he whispered, his hand cupping the back of your neck. "Which means no interruptions, no tiny feet running into the bedroom and no toddler emergencies. I have very specific unprofessional plans for how we're spending the first hours of our date, beautiful."

You let out a shy laugh as you reached up to tangle your fingers in his wild hair. "Dr. Abbot, are you taking advantage of your exhausted wife?"

"One hundred percent," he grinned, leaning down kiss you deeply. "Let's get inside before I decide the backseat is perfect enough." he whispered against your mouth.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

[wannabespacesmuggler]

DO NOT DISTURB ➵ J. ABBOT

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Jack Abbot's relaxing day off takes a turn for the worse when he hears his phone ring. After all, his phone is on do not disturb and there's only one person that he's allowed to interrupt his peace — you. Even worse, your voice isn't the first thing he hears when he picks up.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Warnings: f!reader, violence against healthcare workers, language, mentions of bodily harm, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries sustained at the workplace, use of the word 'assault', Jack Abbot's dead wife mentioned, description of a drunk driving accident, Frank Langdon catches some strays, use of the nickname 'sweetheart', use of the nickname 'slugger', no use of y/n, mutual pining, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5.5k

Author's Note: Yo — so I'm still alive. I have been stuck in The Pitt for awhile now. This one has been sitting unfinished in my drafts for a hot second. I also have a Robby fic sitting in there that I desperately need to finish. Those two men have truly bewitched me. Anyways, hope y'all are ready to be stuck in The Pitt with me for the time being. Hope you guys enjoy this one!

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

“Motherfucker!”

You angrily hit the coffee maker that has been causing the entire emergency department trouble for the majority of today’s shift. Langdon had watched you struggle earlier this morning before swooping in to fix the problem with a swift hit to the side of the machine and an off hand comment about having the ‘magic touch’. So, you imitate his actions now — hoping another dose of caffeine will help get you through the last couple hours of your shift. The machine stops its incessant beeping just as it had hours ago, but instead of brewing a fresh cup of mediocre coffee, the interactive screen goes completely black. 

Great. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath. If Jack were here, he’d miraculously show up beside you with a latte in hand. You don’t know how he does it, but the man just knows exactly what you need and when you need it — you’ve taken to calling it his ‘sixth sense’. In reality, that’s Jack — observant and steadfast. 

You miss the night shift.

It’s not that you dislike the day shift. In fact, you happily accepted Dana’s request for your help covering for Donnie during his paternity leave. In Robby’s words: they needed another nurse practitioner on the day shift and there’s only one that he trusts. A part of you thinks that it was just flattery to get you to come to the light side, but deep down you know that Robby only knows how to speak honestly. Lena wasn’t necessarily happy to let her best help switch shifts for an extended period of time, but she also knows that the ED is a team — sure the staff is split between day shift and night shift, but things only run smoothly when the shifts help each other out. 

Jack wasn’t too keen on the idea. 

He couldn’t stop you of course — Lena is your supervisor, not him. But that didn’t stop him from voicing his concerns. Jack Abbot has always been protective of his nightcrawlers, but there was something verging on possessive in the way he told Robby that this is simply a temporary arrangement after he realized he couldn’t change your mind. 

“Should I call Ahmad to escort the caffeine criminal off the premises or do you have a handle on the situation?”

Robby’s voice breaks through your thoughts. You let out a sigh before turning to face the day shift’s senior attending. His expression, usually threaded with deep exhaustion and stoicism, is teetering on the edge of playfulness while a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“Y’know what, Robinavitch? We never had this problem when we had the old machine. Mr. Coffee only had three buttons and never betrayed me.”

Robby lets out a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but the closest he’ll get to one this late into his shift. Gloria had decided to get the department a fancy new coffee maker that makes individual cups instead of a full pot a few weeks ago to celebrate improved patient satisfaction scores. What was meant to be a gesture of goodwill from upstairs has become the staff’s worst nightmare.

“You sound like Jack.”

You roll your eyes, but you also know no one has been more upset about this change than the night shift’s senior attending. Robby has always brought his own coffee from home, but Jack has been relying on the emergency department’s supply of shitty coffee for the entirety of his career at PTMC. You’d asked him about it once when you first started working together and he’d revealed under fluorescent lights that there was something comforting about the way it reminded him of the coffee rations he’d receive during his deployments. 

“Have you talked to Jack recently?”

Robby attempts to sound nonchalant; however, you know him better than that. You’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s worse than the night shift nurses. Always needing to be in the know about everything and everyone. He swears that it’s because he’s the senior attending, so it’s his responsibility to keep an eye and ear on all of his staff. But Jack isn’t like that. He’s always been reserved and professional during shifts, always keeping his staff at a distance so he doesn’t get too attached — everyone except for you. In between cups of coffee and rooftop conversations, you managed to slip through the cracks of that cool, steely exterior.

“We talk during handover, but that’s not exactly the same as working a twelve hour shift with someone. Why? Anything I should be concerned about?”

Robby’s lips pull into a tight smile at your response, but anxiety finds its place in your chest. During handoff about a week ago, Mateo had pulled you aside to ask if you had any idea what was going on with Jack. Your brow furrowed as Mateo filled you in about Jack’s sudden change in demeanor with his staff — the once calm and collected attending has been increasingly impatient and scattered. You’d reassured Mateo that it was probably just stress related since Jack hadn’t had a day off in months — and even then he spent his rare off-call moments volunteering as a SWAT medic. You figured that Jack had finally hit a wall and was running on fumes, but Robby’s words were now making you second your assumptions.

“Nothing of concern, just looking out for you and Jack.”

Robby has this tone that makes it seem like he knows more about your relationship with Jack Abbot than you do. You know about his history with the night shift’s senior attending physician, but Robby hasn’t been there for the close calls at three o’clock in the morning when Jack puts his complete trust in your hands without a second thought. He hasn’t been there for the nights that seem to drag on for days when it seems like the sun will never rise again. He hasn’t been there for the hushed conversations in stairwells when the night feels darkest and the only comfort to be found in PTMC is in each other’s presence. 

It’s not a bond built on flirtation — God knows, Jack Abbot flirts with everyone. And does that make you a little jealous? Maybe. And were you hoping that the distance created due to being on day shift for a few weeks would help you create some boundaries with the man? Possibly. But here you are, still infuriatingly infatuated with a man you have absolutely no chance with. 

“I can assure you there’s no Jack and I.”

“Mhm.”

That damn tone again. You want to smack that smug look right off of his stupid face, but before you get the chance to fire back a commotion outside abruptly ends your conversation. The two of you move in tandem, Robby holding the door to the break room open as you duck under his arm before surveying the scene. Your eyes immediately widen as you spot Langdon attempting to keep two infuriated men on their separate gurneys as they yell over each other. He meets your eyes before moving his gaze to Robby, relief flooding his features.

“A little help here?”

You and Robby share a brief, knowing look before dividing and conquering the situation. Robby steps in, wheeling one of the men away while you follow after Landgon who is moving with the other. 

“What’s the story here?”

You have to shout over the man’s incessant yelling, but Langdon ducks his head down slightly as he navigates the gurney through the ED to hear you better in the chaos. From not too far away, you hear Robby yell for Whitaker to take over his unruly patient so he can go find Ahmad for back up. Langdon’s shoulder bumping into yours pulls your attention back to your own situation.

“Bar argument gone ugly.”

The man laying on the gurney is bleeding profusely from lacerations on his forehead, but is cognescent enough to keep loudly threatening the other patient that came in with him. You manage to get a closer look at his wounds once Langdon locks the gurney in place and through the deep crimson you see little, semi-translucent pieces of debris. Your brow furrows as the light catches one of the pieces.

“Is that glass?”

Langdon nods before meeting your eyes with a crooked smile plastered on his face. 

“Beer bottle to the head. Told you it got ugly.”

You let out a breath before gloving up with Langdon. As the two of you attempt to assess his injuries the man begins to fight you both off, pushing your hands away before either of you can start getting control of the bleeding. You pull back hoping to get the man’s attention so that Langdon can start giving him the care he needs. 

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to calm down so that we can take a look at your injuries. Can you tell me your name?”

Finally, the man’s eyes land on you but they are filled with nothing but unbridled fury. You fight off the urge to take a step back from the situation and, instead, stand your ground. 

“What I need is to get my hands on that son of a bitch who tried to fucking kill me. Can you help me with that?”

You raise both of your hands as the man fights off Langdon once again. He gives you an exasperated look as his shoulders slump in annoyance. 

“I can not, this is a hospital not a fighting ring. What I can help you with is getting your bleeding under control and taking that glass out of your head before you get a nasty infection. How’s that sound?”

Your tone is stern but gentle as you attempt to talk the patient down. For a moment, his face softens in understanding and you almost let out a sigh of relief after having gotten through to him, but then Whitaker’s voice tears through the moment.

“I’ve got a runner, incoming!”

“Oh, shit.”

Langdon’s tone makes your heart rate spike, but before you get a chance to turn towards the commotion Whitaker’s very angry patient shoves you into the wall.

“We need some help in here! You good?”

Langdon’s worried eyes are locked on you as he tries to keep the two patients from tearing each other apart. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you had managed to stay on your feet which saved you from any additional trauma. After catching your breath, you leap in to help restrain the patient who just assaulted you.

“Sir, please. We need you to calm down!”

Your words fall on deaf ears as he continues to lunge at your patient who is now being held back by Langdon. What a fucking mess. You haven’t had a situation like this since last year’s Fourth of July night shift when two drunken men came into the E.D. after one of them practically eviscerated his buddy’s legs after shooting off a firework directly at him. Your eyes desperately meet Langdon’s, hoping he’s in the same boat as you, and he gives you a similar look of bewilderment.

“Whitaker! Ahmad! Anyone!”

Langdon’s voice is strained as the man in his arms struggles against his hold. You’re using all of your strength to pull Whitaker’s patient away from your own, but he’s got at least a foot and a hundred pounds on you. Keeping him restrained is taking all of your strength. Finally, Whitaker’s shoes squeak as he slides into the room.

“Woah, what can I do?”

Langdon gives him a ludicrous look before his eyes land on you.

“Give them a hand, will ya?”

Whitaker immediately jumps in to help you. You were hoping the additional body could help even the odds with these men; however, they seem to be getting more violent by the minute. The man in your grasp reels back and shoves Whitaker, who stumbles back. Now with only you holding him back, he takes this as a chance to take a swing on Langdon. 

“Absolutely not!”

You grab his arm and pull back before he can land a punch. The man lets out a desperate, angry cry and swings his arm back hard. His elbow connects with your nose with a loud crack. The room explodes further than you thought was possible as you spit out the blood draining into your mouth due to the blow. The searing hot pain blooming across your face blinds your vision. 

Fuck, that hurt. 

You blink once, then twice — your eyes finally adjusting to the damage. Your patient has seemingly settled down enough to be left alone, while Langdon has your assailant in a chokehold as Whitaker tries to pin his arms behind his back. 

“What the hell is going on in h—?”

Robby’s words die in his throat once his eyes land on you. His face twists into concern for a brief, fleeting moment before a dangerous rage washes over his hardened features.

“Knock it off before I knock you out.”

Robby’s voice is ice cold and it suddenly pauses the entire room. The only noise filling your ears is everyone’s heavy breathing. Robby lets everyone cool down for a moment before barking out orders.

“Ahmad, get this man out of here. Whitaker, take over the patient who didn’t attack one of our nurses. Langdon, with me.”

Everyone complies instantly and you let out a relieved sigh as the tension in the room finally dissipates. Robby makes his way to you in two large strides with Langdon behind him. He drops his head to meet your eyes which have regained their comforting warmth.

“How you doing, Slugger?”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.”

Robby raises a brow as you spit more blood on to the floor, narrowly missing his sneaker. Langdon gives you a similar incredulous look. Obviously, your attempts to brush off their concern have fallen on deaf ears. Great. Two hours from shift change and now you’re a patient. 

This day can’t get any worse. 

Robby takes another step forward and carefully places a hand on your chin and gently tilts your head up toward the ceiling. You grimace immediately at the bright, fluorescent lights above you.

“You’ve got two black eyes, a broken nose, and you’re bleeding all over the floor. This isn’t nothing.”

His voice is surprisingly gentle and his features soften into a look you can only describe as brotherly concern. You sigh defeatedly, squeezing your eyes shut as the adrenaline in your body begins to subside giving way to an invasive and persistent shooting pain in your head. Robby’s hands find your shoulders — you aren’t sure if the physical contact is meant to provide you comfort or a precaution in case you pass out. Either way, you appreciate the way his delicate hold grounds you back into this moment.

“I’m going to have Langdon take you to an empty room and do a full exam. Okay?”

You open your eyes again and nod at his question. Robby’s posture relaxes slightly, obviously relieved that you didn’t stubbornly push back against his orders. He rubs your shoulders reassuringly for a moment before speaking again.

“We’re going to have to document all of this. Dana is dealing with a situation in chairs, but I’ll have her come find you when she’s done.”

You nod again, pursing your lips together into a straight line. You don’t love the idea of making a big deal out of this, but you also know that violence against health care professionals is at an all time high. The last thing this department needs is you trying to push this under the rug. Finally, Robby releases his hold on your shoulders and allows Langdon to step in.

Robby runs both his hands through his hair as he watches Langdon lead you towards a room at the back of the ED. He moves towards the hub in the center of the large room, gripping the countertop as he allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts. This is a nightmare. He needs to call Gloria about the situation that just happened. There’s  a stack of paperwork that needs to be filled out. Someone has to alert the authorities. And worst of all, he needs to call Abbot.

Hopefully, the asshole that assaulted you will be off the premises before the night shift attending rips through the emergency department. Not because he cares for the wellbeing of your assailant — more so that he doesn’t necessarily want to bail his best friend out of jail tonight. Robby sighs as he digs his phone out of his pocket. He finds Jack’s contact easily in his favorites and presses the speaker to his ear. To his surprise, the call immediately goes to voicemail. Robby knows that Jack has the day off; however, he’s always easy to reach — especially if you’re on shift. So, he dials the number again and presses the phone to his ear. But just like before, he is once again met with Jack’s voice apologizing for missing the call. That’s odd. His brow furrows, but before he can think about his friend’s odd behavior further he’s distracted by a concerned voice behind him. 

“I heard about what happened. Dana’s almost done in chairs. How can I help?”

Robby turns to look at Perlah who is currently trying to catch her breath from her obvious sprint over to him.

“Do you know who their emergency contact is?”

If he can’t get ahold of Jack, he might as well let your other loved ones know what happened. Perlah side steps the attending and logs in to one of the computers on the other side of the counter. It only takes a couple seconds to pull up your digital file and a smile spreads across the nurse’s features as she spots the name listed.

“Abbot.”

Of course he is.

“I can’t get a hold of him.”

Perlah’s expression reflects his own confusion for a moment until she remembers a conversation she had with you in the break room earlier this morning. 

“He’s gone fishing.”

Robby’s eyes shoot to his hairline as a laugh bubbles in his chest. He attempts to picture his friend in a boat by himself on the river with a fishing rod in his hand, but his mind cannot seem to compute that absolutely ludicrous concept.

“Abbot is fishing?”

“Apparently they convinced Abbot to actually take a day off, put his phone on do not disturb, and find a hobby that doesn’t involve getting shot at.”

Robby’s eyes drift to the room he watched Langdon escort you to as he attempts to wrap his head around the information he was just given. Jack Abbot is fishing on his rare day off because you asked him to find a hobby that doesn’t involve putting himself in harm’s way — and he listened. He wants to be impressed, but instead he’s just annoyed at the two of you — he’s fucking tired of watching the two of you dance around your feelings for one another. He looks down at his phone again, still confused at how his paranoid best friend could actually relax when he’s unreachable while you’re still on the clock.

Oh. 

The realization hits him like a slap to the face and he looks up at Perlah who is still anxiously waiting for the attending to start barking out orders. 

“Do you think you can manage to get their phone?”

Perlah frowns for a moment, confused by his question. And then her face lights up as she comes to the same realization as the attending standing in front of her. A smile pulls at her lips as she nods at Robby’s request.

“I think I can manage that.”

Jack Abbot enters the emergency department like a hurricane — his presence immediately disrupting the fragile peace they’ve managed to establish since your assault. Robby meets him at the door, stopping him before he can cause any unnecessary damage. 

“Where is she?”

Robby frowns. Abbot’s voice is lacking its usual warmth — in its place is a fiery, impatient intensity. 

“Let’s just cool down for a second. She’s alright — getting checked out by Langdon as we speak. Okay, Jack?”

Abbot’s brown eyes darken at Robby’s words. His posture stiffens and he’s suddenly aware that he’s no longer looking at his best friend. No, the man standing before him is a devoted soldier with one mission and God help anyone who gets in his way — he certainly isn’t dumb enough to stand between the two of you. 

“Exam room 11.”

Abbot brushes past Robby without another word and marches toward the back of the emergency department. He finally feels like he can breathe again as he enters the doorway and watches Langdon press an icepack to your nose. You flinch away from him and Frank lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You are a horrible patient.”

“Well, you’re a horrible nurse. You have to be gentle.”

Abbot leans against the doorframe, his body relaxing now that he’s heard the sound of your voice. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips at your defiance. Eventually, Langdon pulls the icepack away from your face and his blood runs cold as he gets a look at your injuries. It takes every ounce of what’s left of his self control to stay put, instead of forcing Robby to let him know who did this to you.

“I’ve got it from here, Langdon. You can get back to work.”

Both of your heads snap towards the attending standing in the doorway, but Jack’s eyes never leave yours. He watches as your expression shifts from confusion to relief before taking a few steps into the small exam room.

“Hey, Abbot. I’m actually almost done here. The rest of the exam will only take a minute.”

Jack finally regards the other man in the room, but his demeanor shifts to annoyance as Langdon continues to occupy your personal space — as he watches another man’s fingers glide gently over your cheek while he’s standing right there. The sight makes him sick to his stomach as a pervasive, ugly feeling claws at his chest.

“Langdon. Out. Now.”

Langdon’s movements suddenly still and the room immediately feels too small for the three of you. Luckily, the resident does what Jack says and exits the room without sparing you a second glance. Jack’s cold demeanor melts as soon as he hears the door close behind Langdon. 

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Jack’s voice fills the room and you finally feel safe. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you hear his boots take careful, calculated footsteps move towards you. This is a dream — it must be. Jack’s fishing today, unreachable until after your shift ends. But then he’s standing in front of you, invading your personal space in a way that’s so undeniably him. You finally look up, meeting his piercing gaze and you swear his jaw ticks slightly as he takes in the full extent of your injuries. 

“It looks worse than it is.”

It’s a lie, but all you want is to smooth out the worried creases on his forehead. Jack tilts his head slightly at your words — considering them for a moment. His hands move slowly allowing you time to pull away, but you let him cradle your face with a tenderness that feels misplaced in this environment. His thumb gently brushes under your eye, where deep purple bruising has made its temporary home, and you flinch away from his touch before he even makes it to the worst of your injuries. Jack pulls his hands away from you and you involuntarily frown — a smirk plays at the corner of his lips as he watches the way you chase his touch. 

“Do me a favor?”

You nod at his question — not fully trusting your voice at this moment. Jack bows his head slightly, meeting you eye to eye. His gaze is a raging wildfire of emotions. It’s a stark contrast to his calm demeanor and steady hands.

“Don’t lie to me.”

You roll your eyes at this as he stands to his full height again. His hands find their way back to you again, settling on your knees as he begins assessing your injuries further. You lean in closer to him without even thinking about it — it’s like Jack Abbot is the sun and you’re simply a planet trapped in his orbit.  

“How are you here?”

Jack’s brows knit together at your question, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His thumb absentmindedly rubs gentle, grounding circles against your scrubs as his gaze trails over every visible wound on your face. 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re supposed to be fishing.”

His face scrunches at your words, but he doesn’t stop his careful assessment of your condition.

“I got a call.”

“Your phone was on do not disturb — you were unreachable.”

“To everyone other than you.”

Your breath catches in your chest at his words. He says it nonchalantly, but the significance of that statement lands harder than the elbow you took to the face. You’re the only person that Jack would let interrupt his day off. Hell, you’re the only reason he took a day off to begin with. 

“But how… Perlah.”

Jack’s head tilts as he watches you put the pieces together. Not too long after Langdon got you into the exam room, Perlah found the two of you. She helped Langdon with the exam for a few minutes before cursing that her phone had died before she made an important call. You had offered her your own, thinking nothing of the interaction. But now you understand exactly what transpired when Perlah left with your cell. 

“Yeah, scared me half to death when it wasn’t your voice on the other end.”

Your frown deepens at that. You can only imagine the fear that clawed its way back into Jack’s chest — can only imagine the unwanted memories it brought up. Your eyes glance down at his left hand, where a silver wedding band permanently resides. You remember the morning on the roof when Jack finally told you about his late wife after a particularly difficult shift. The two of you had lost a young woman whose vehicle had been struck by a drunk driver. You watched Jack go above and beyond for the woman in a way you’d never seen before. And you noticed the way his entire demeanor shifted once he had to call it after an hour of compressions. Jack slipped out of the ED the moment that the day shift showed up and you followed after once you completed handoff. You found Jack on the edge of the roof — not surprising on any other day, but a concerning visual after what you just witnessed that night. He knew you’d find him — you always do. And as you took your usual place, leaning your elbows against the railing right behind him, he finally opened up about the worst day he’s ever experienced. You listened as he told you about how his wife was in an accident. How she was dead on impact and EMS found her phone on the scene. How Jack was her only emergency contact. How he despises that the last time his wife called him he never even got to hear her voice. How he knows he’s your emergency contact. How his heart can’t go through that again. 

“I’m sorry, Jack. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry about me on your day off.”

Jack’s brow furrows at your words.

“Sweetheart, all I do when I’m not with you is worry.”

You both let that sentence linger in the room for a few moments. Jack continues to trace shapes into your shrubs as you attempt to calm your nerves as you realize how intimate this conversation feels. Finally, Jack breaks the silence.

“Can you just come back to the night shift so I can stop freaking out every time my phone rings throughout the day?”

You almost smile at that.

“Donnie comes back in two weeks.”

You mean for that to be comforting; however, this only makes Jack’s body stiffen in response. His head drops as he lets out a long sigh.

“Two weeks is too long.”

“You’re not my boss, Jack.”

Jack pulls his hands away and you watch as he runs them through his short, grey curls. He looks exhausted — and you suddenly feel guilty that his relaxing day off has turned into this. 

“You’re right, but sweetheart, I can’t do this without you anymore.”

A part of you wants to throttle him because of that nickname and how easily it falls off his lips — how it’ll only feel right when it’s his voice saying it to you. 

“Do what?”

Jack looks at you and his face twists into confusion as he realizes your question is genuine.

“Get through the fucking night.”

A beat passes. You desperately want to just say yes. It’s what you want isn’t it? Returning to the night shift — returning to him. But that’s also the problem. What is this? You thought your switch to day shift would give you some sort of explanation, but your time away has only made you more confused. Would it actually just be easier if the two of you only saw each other during handoff? No domestic moments between cups of coffee, no more mornings spent side-by-side on the rooftop, no more stolen, fleeting touches as he passes you on your way to the hub. You know what you are to Robby — to everyone on day shift. It’s simple. But with Jack — it’s never been simple and maybe that’s the problem.

“What if I want to stay on the day shift?”

Jack recoils like you just threw a punch at him. Guilt claws up your throat as you watch his face fall. It’s a lie — you know that it is. You love everything about the night shift, but you also don’t know how much longer you can keep playing this game with Jack before you simply fall apart. 

“Why would you want that?”

“Because at least I know where I stand with everyone here.”

Jack’s brow furrows — you hate that it’s cute. That everything about him draws you in.

“You don’t know where you stand with me?”

You shake your head and he scoffs — the sound is surprisingly cold. He looks at you, brow pinched into a scowl. And then he realizes that you’re serious. Your expression is nothing but unashamed honesty and his head cocks to the side at that. Do you really think he’s been stringing you along this entire time? That this has all been meaningless flirtation? That you mean nothing to him?

He takes a step forward, slotting himself between your knees. Your breath catches as he reaches up and gently cradles your face. His touch is different than before — all professionalism has been cast aside and is now replaced with his overwhelming adoration. Without thinking your fingers grab the hem of his black t-shirt. He smiles as he feels you nervously pick at a loose stitch before he ducks his head and his lips finally meet your own. Your grip on his t-shirt tightens as he moves his hands through your hair. Now this is a dream. The kiss is soft and restrained — you know he’s holding back due to your injuries. The last thing he wants to do is hurt you. Jack pulls away too soon for your liking, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he places his forehead against yours. 

“Sweetheart, I’ve been yours since the minute you walked through the fucking door.”

You bite your lip as you attempt to hold back the giddy grin that begs to spread itself across your face. 

“You never said anything.”

Jack pulls away at that, not far — just enough to get a good look at you. The look on his face is incredulous — like it’s absurd you don’t know that his entire life revolves around you at this point.

“I thought I made myself abundantly clear.”

You laugh at that and Jack steals a kiss from your lips just because he can.

“I take it Robby gave you the rest of the day off?”

You nod, smiling as you feel Jack thread his fingers through yours.

“He told me to go home after Langdon finished my exam — who you should apologize to.”

Jack’s jaw clenches slightly as his brow furrows. 

“Him being here was unnecessary.”

You watch him for a moment, trying to understand what happened between the two men that never seemed to have any sort of animosity prior to today. And then your hand tightens around Jack’s as you realize what happened.

“You were jealous.”

Jack rolls his eyes.

“I have no reason to be jealous.”

You raise a brow at his statement. He’s not wrong — he has no reason to be jealous of Frank Langdon, but you know the resident somehow got under his skin. He may be able to maintain his facade of nonchalance to the rest of his staff, but you see right through him.

“What makes you so confident?”

“Because Langdon isn’t the one taking you home right now, is he?”

[depsidase]

[rr-after-dark]

"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader

Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.

Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)

Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture

Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!

Word Count: 11.6k

You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.

It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.

Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.

“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”

You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.

While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”

There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.

Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”

Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”

Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”

“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”

She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”

“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”

“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”

“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”

Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”

When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.

A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.

You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”

“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”

His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”

As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”

Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”

You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”

As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”

“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”

That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.

Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.

Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”

“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”

Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”

He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”

Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”

“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”

“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”

They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”

Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?

“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”

You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”

“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”

From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”

Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”

At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”

“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”

Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”

“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”

She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”

Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”

Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”

Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”

Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”

It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.

All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.

When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”

But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”

Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”

“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”

Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”

He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”

“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”

“What’d you say?”

Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”

“Very tactful.”

You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”

Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”

Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”

“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”

You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”

“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”

The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.

When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”

You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”

His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”

Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”

“Yeah, but you’re cool.”

He chuckles, “I’m cool?”

“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”

“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”

“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”

Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”

You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”

“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”

Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”

“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”

You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”

“I can see that.”

You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”

“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.

“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”

He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”

You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”

He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”

Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”

Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”

You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.

After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”

“Am I?”

“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”

“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”

“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”

Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”

The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”

The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.

With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”

His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.

Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”

It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”

“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”

And, god, is that sexy.

You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.

Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.

After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”

You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.

You eat lunch together.

You talk.

You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.

It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.

Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.

He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.

Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest.  With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”

His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”

Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”

“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”

You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”

His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”

That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”

“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”

You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”

“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”

“Sorry again for-”

“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”

“Then thanks.”

“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”

“I can tell.”

As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.

That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.

It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.

The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”

Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”

“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining” 

Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”

Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”

Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”

Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”

When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”

The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…

When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.

You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.

After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”

He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”

“So what was all the yelling for?”

Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”

A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”

Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”

All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”

With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”

“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”

Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”

“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”

“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”

“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m begging you.”

You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”

For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”

That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”

A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”

“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”

“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”

Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”

Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”

You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”

“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”

It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”

“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”

“I have the whole weekend.”

Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”

“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”

“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”

“Ten.”

“Pick me up at 9:30.”

“I could take you to breakfast first.”

“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”

“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”

“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”

Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.

He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”

You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.

Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”

Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”

“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”

“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”

He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”

“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”

“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”

“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.

Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.

When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.

“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”

“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”

Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.

When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”

With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”

His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”

You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.

By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”

He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”

He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.

“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”

You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”

He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”

Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”

“Yup, absolutely.”

You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”

He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”

You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”

“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”

You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”

Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”

It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”

You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”

“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”

Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.

Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1 

Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”

Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”

“Okay, but what if I-”

Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”

You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.

Then it finally starts to get good.

Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.

It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.

Possessive.

The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him. 

When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.

Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”

“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”

He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”

“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”

You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”

“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”

“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”

He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”

“Now that makes me feel sexy.”

“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”

As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does.

All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.

With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.

“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”

You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”

And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.

Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”

“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”

[prettydaisygirl]

I don’t see enough PTMC Secretary!Reader fics, so I’d love some Brendon Park x Secretary!Reader fluff/meet-cute type fic

hi!! thank you so much for requesting <3 I actually love this one a lot so i'm excited haha, hope you enjoy!

dr. brendon park x secretary!reader who needs to know who he is ✿ 1.5k words

summary: no one will tell you anything about the handsome doctor you saw on the ER floor. turns out they don't have to.

cw: fem!reader, secretary!reader, implied sunshine!reader, reader is implied to be newer at the PTMC, everyone wants to protect reader

the pitt masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

“Woah.” The word leaves your lips involuntarily, pressed from your lungs with something akin to awe. You move a little to the left, escaping from the bar on the window that was obstructing your view. 

The doctor you’re watching is stunning. You feel like he’s walked right out of one of your late night fantasies and into the real world. 

“Who is that?” You ask, your voice suspiciously thin like you’re out of breath. Lupe looks up at you, then follows your gaze. Her lips purse and she shakes her head. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Your brows furrow, eyes meeting hers before glancing back to the ER floor, only to see that the doctor has vanished. 

“I was just asking a question.” You try innocently, taking a seat in your chair again. “I haven’t seen him before.” 

“It’s probably better if you didn’t.” Lupe assures you before she turns back to her monitor with no further explanation. 

You turn your head back one more time, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You sulk back into your chair, shoulders slumped in defeat, and move on. Well, as much as you can while his silhouette and sharp jawline stay etched in your mind like a wine stain in carpet. 

By your next shift, after a night of dreams haunted by a tall, broad, handsome stranger, you decide to go on a hunt for more information despite Lupe’s warning. 

You don’t get far before you run into another obstacle. Setting down your coffee at your desk, you slip through the door into the ER and approach the nurse’s stand. Dana looks up at you over her glasses, a chart in her hand that’s forgotten as you approach. 

“What’s goin’ on?” She asks, smacking her gum. You run your hands over the counter, nails tapping against the flat top as you try to piece together your question.

“There was a doctor down here yesterday that I’d never seen before.” You play innocent, though there’s something in Dana’s gaze that makes you think she can see right through you. You try not to fold immediately. “I just think it’s a good idea that I know everyone’s name…”

Dana is silent for a long moment before she places the chart down in front of her. She leans back in her chair, taking a long breath, before she sighs and leans toward you again.

“Listen, kid.” The tone of her voice immediately dampens your enthusiasm. She continues, her eyes having an almost motherly gaze when she looks at you over the nurse’s station counter. “I know who you’re askin’ about. I also know that Lupe already told you askin’ after him is a bad idea. And I’m going to reiterate that for you. He’s not nice, he’d eat you alive.”

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your shoulders curving in on yourself. You wish you could disappear into the floor. Had they talked about you? Did Lupe tell her you’d been watching him? Does everyone know? 

By the time you meet Dana’s gaze again, there’s a pitying smile on her lips. She stands, picking up her chart with one hand and patting one of yours with her other. “It’s better if you drop it.” 

But you couldn’t drop it. You found your eyes drifting on more than one occasion toward the emergency room floor, tracing for any familiar details that might suggest your the doctor had returned. He lingered in your dreams, imbedding himself in every fantasy. You didn’t even know his name but you’d imagined him doing things to you that would make anyone else blush if you said them out loud. 

You decide to try one last resort. You know you can’t ask any of the doctors, mostly because they’re too frantic and fast-paced for you to have any chance to. But nurses… nurses are fair game, especially ones who have been nice to you since you started working in the ER. 

You arrive early, another iced coffee clenched in your hand as you wait like a predator stalking prey. You watch some of the night shift leave, some of the day shift doctors arriving before dawn to take their place. Your victim arrives shortly, and you scramble to exit your car at the same time she does, jogging to reach her side as you shout her name to get her attention.

“Princess!”

She looks up with wide eyes, but then her lips turn up in a smile with only a hint of confusion beneath it. “Hi!”

“I have a question for you.” You say, keeping in step with her as the two of you approach the building. You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you continue, “There was a doctor down here the other day. I’ve never seen him before, and I was wondering-”

“Oh no.” Princess shakes her head, holding up a finger in your direction, “I was told explicitly not to tell you anything about a certain evil orthopedic surgeon that you seem to have your eye on.”

Orthopedics. Well, that’s more information than you’ve gotten out of anyone else. You conveniently ignore the other adjective she’d used to describe him. 

You try to push for more, “Not even his name?” 

“Not from me.” She shakes her head again, lifting her fingers to mime zipping her lips closed. You groan in defeat, but you still hold the door open for her as you walk in. 

You keep your eyes peeled for him, this handsome doctor who has somehow wedged his way between the folds of your brain. But as shifts pass by, days and days of them, you lose hope. Maybe he was just visiting, and that’s why no one wanted to tell you anything? Or had other women like you fallen into the same trap and gotten burned, and that’s why no one had entertained you, even for a moment? 

Your brain goes around and around, shifting between fantasies of the mysterious man and disappointment that you’d probably never see him again. 

And then, one early Saturday morning, fate decided to intervene. 

You’re off work surprisingly, not trapped between white walls or engulfed in the scent of antiseptic. You’re enjoying a nice walk, breathing in the fresh air, and splurge a little with a stop at your favorite coffee shop halfway across town. 

You’re waiting at the counter for your order to come out, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Your ears perk up when you hear one of the baristas call out your coffee order, placing in on the counter. You make a mad dash through the small crowd of people also waiting, your hand clasping around the cup. You give a quick ‘thanks!’ to the staff working behind the counter, beginning to lift the straw to your mouth for a drink. 

A throat clears behind you. “I believe that’s mine.” 

You turn, and to your horror… it’s him. The doctor from the ER, the one who has been present in every fantasy and every dream you’ve had since you first saw him. You’re gaping at him, mouth slightly parted like a fish, and a look of annoyance crosses his face. 

“That’s my coffee.” He says again, and some part of your brain must finally reset and work because next you’re practically shoving it into his hand. 

“Sorry!” You tell him, trying to put on an apologetic face while simultaneously urging your heart to slow down. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t give you a smile, doesn’t give you any kind of acknowledgment at all. Instead, he begins to turn away. 

You can’t let him escape again, you think. Not without at least knowing who he is. 

“Hey,” You take a step forward to get his attention again, but it doesn’t work. So instead, you just blurt out, “Do you work at the PTMC?”

This does make him pause. He turns back toward you, his eyes more narrowed but less annoyed this time when they meet yours. 

“I do.” He says. He gives you a once-over, his head tilting just the slightest bit to the side. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You tell him with a nod. Your mouth opens for you to speak again, though you aren’t able to get anything out before the barista is calling out your order. The exact same as his.

No wonder you’d gotten them confused.

His eyebrows raise, eyes glancing back at the counter where your coffee sits. “You have a good taste in coffee.” He gives you a nod, and you feel like you won a battle. He doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave, and the giddiness of the interaction has you on a high that almost makes you feel like you don’t need a coffee after all.

It’s not until later that you realize you still never learned his name. 

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© prettydaisygirl