!!! you may remember me as alycosworld, or just aly. i go by dex now, welcome to dexvegas! my tumblr used to be spamton themed 3 years ago, it's not anymore (i still love that lil guy). i used to write for bnha and genshin quite poorly (but that's what people knew me for!) pretty much all my old posts are still up except i redid my request info page and deleted my old pinned post to replace it with this one.
i'm in the process of reviving this blog after some life changes, so don't mind the changing colours and themes and fonts. honestly just wanted to get back into writing and have a place to put all my thoughts (which you'll find under #dex.rants from now on). hope you enjoy!!
please never let my titles give you any indication as to what's in the fic i promise the writing is better than whatever dog shit i use as a title dont judge a book by its cover type shift
Your boyfriend finds out about your crush on the Dark Knight and he can't let it go.
cw: jealous bruce, reader gets drunk, cheating but not actually u cheat on bruce w batman...it all works out in the end I swear 🤞, ooc bruce? he says more than one sentence responses and he's a little jokey which some people may think is ooc but I think it fits, ending kinda rushed
note: i had another idea that was quite similar to this but kind of different may write it may not we'll see. actually had another bruce x reader draft that I started and then this hit me...and that one is also semi similar. 10/10 originality guys. also never actually made a fake imessage before what a hassle that was. im an android and ms owner so
...
The pillows are being fluffed. You've readjusted the throw blankets. Your sheets have been changed. All the dishes are clean. The pantry is stocked. You broke out a new tablecloth for the dining table. The lights are dimmed. The rug has been straightened. Your plants have been watered.
Everything is perfect for Bruce to come over tonight.
You haven't been dating billionaire playboy Brucie Wayne very long, still a little pleasantly confused as to how you got yourself in a position to be called his partner. You've often spent evenings at his place, the grand Manor he modestly calls home, but somehow, in the busyness of both of your lives (and perhaps due in part to your embarrassment over how wealthy he is and how average your place is) Bruce has never been over. All that changes today. A showing of The Outlaw Josey Wales awaits you - Bruce's turn to pick - along with an expensive bottle of bourbon to hopefully make up for the lack of generational wealth your apartment exudes.
The doorbell finally rings and you eagerly open the door. The sight of your newfound partner greets you, in a fitted black sweater and pleated grey slacks, boots already coming off as you let him in. He holds a lush bouquet of carnations and begonias as he pulls you into a sweet kiss, the scent of his cologne mixing with that of the flowers.
"Hi," he settles on with a smile, soft and low as he pulls away from your lips.
"Hey," you smile back, pressing another kiss to his jaw before he's holding the bouquet between your bodies. "You didn't have to get me flowers, Bruce..."
"Alfred said it'd be impolite to not get you a housewarming gift. Duke and Cass said the diamond necklace I was eyeing was overkill..." he grins lopsidedly, leaning in for another kiss as you laugh.
"Please, no diamond necklaces, you don't have to go through the trouble. Anyway, aren't housewarming gifts supposed to be for the house?" you tilt your head slightly, dodging his lips to talk.
"A Meissen vase, then," he suggests, still leaning in.
You avoid his kiss again, "Bruce, I don't even know what Meissen is-"
"A German porcelain manufacturer- stop talking," he muses lowly, before pressing a more insistent kiss to your lips again. He draws out the moment, pressing kisses to your cheek and then your jaw.
"Okay- okay, I get it, you're happy to be here. You're like Ace," you chuckle softly, half-heartedly pushing him away with a hand on his shoulder.
Bruce's expression sours, "I'm not a dog." He straightens up a little, hands still on you as he looks around the open living room and dining area. "You have a beautiful home."
"Thank you," you nod, "it's no Wayne Manor, but-"
"It's perfect," he cuts you off firmly, softening a little as he looks at you, "I know I joked about the expensive gifts, but I don't want my wealth to become a divider between us. Your apartment is more than enough," he pauses, "...I can appreciate the normalcy of it. Wayne Manor can get to be too much."
You smile a little, reassured, "...as long as you're comfortable."
"I am."
"Good."
You take the next moment to grab the TV remote and get the movie up, and Bruce watches for a moment before his voice makes you pause, "...you're not going to give me a tour?"
You blink from the TV screen to him, "You want a tour?"
He shrugs, "I'm interested in your space."
Slowly, you put the remote down and step back over to him, "...this is the living room," you point to your dining table, "that's where I eat."
"Riveting."
"You asked!"
"Is emotion too much to ask for? Maybe an anecdote?"
"Ugh..."
Bruce folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot, raising an eyebrow, "...I gave you the history of Wayne Manor, all the dents and cracks in the walls courtesy of the kids- I showed you where Damian's cow lives..."
"Alrught, fine, I'll entertain you," you roll your eyes. You tell him that you've slept in your bathtub and it's quite comfortable, so long as you have a pillow. You dive into the details of how you stole your parents CD player (you had the most CDs before you moved out, it was your right). You start a spiel about how you argued with an old man for the rug in your home office.
Bruce is enraptured by it all, by you letting him into your life piece by piece. He's deliberately avoided researching you in depth just so he can ascertain the little details about you on his own, hearing them from your lips (he also knows it's wrong to cyberstalk your partner. Very wrong. He definitely did not have to be told that by Babs of all people).
But it's in your bedroom where Bruce's focus falters. Not because of anything less than appropriate, he's not the type to get excited just because he's in someone's bedroom. It's your bed that fascinates him. Specifically, the pillows and plushies on it. There's an old bunny rabbit and one shaped like a star.
And then there's Batman.
Well, Bruce can hardly call the mess of polyester on your bed Batman. It doesn't have his impeccable physique- instead, the poor imitation of his alter ego is a large cylinder of soft fabric with little bat ears and his cowl, four tiny, disproportionate nubs for his limbs, his body clad in his blue and grey suit, yellow utility belt sewn and black bat symbol embroidered in.
Bruce picks up the rotund mimicry of his fearsome hero persona and he can feel how soft it is. Up close, it smells of your shampoo and lotion, and there isn't a stain or blemish on it, but the label is worn and fraying, indicating just how well-loved it is.
"Oh. You like him?" you ask casually.
Bruce pauses for a long moment, unsure of how to answer. He decides on a tentative, "...'him'?"
"Yeah. Batman," you naturally fall back into feeding him little stories about yourself, "a friend got him for my birthday a few years ago."
"Why?" Bruce asks slowly.
You shrug, "well, it's a bit of a gag gift. I've had a celebrity crush on Batman for ages."
"You what," Bruce's expression buffers.
You blink, "oh, c'mon, you're not jealous, are you? It's a celebrity crush, I've never actually met him."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, "Batman isn't a celebrity."
"Yeah, but he's famous," you take the plushie from his hands and wrap your arms around it, giving it a soft squeeze, "they make merch of him. He show up on the news. And...he's handsome."
Bruce's eyes widen a little, his ego swelling with the more you reveal about your crush on Batman, "You can't see his face."
You scoff like he's stupid, "You can see the bottom half of it. And, I don't need to- you can hear his voice in clips, you can see his body, you can see how he moves, how he acts- that's enough to have a crush. Way more than enough," you shrug, "he's a superhero. People have crushes on Wonder Woman and Superman and-"
"That's different. They embody truth and hope, they're ideal people saving the world, of course people become infatuated with the idea of them," Bruce reasons.
You blink, "Batman is justice. He saves Gotham all the time, and the world with the Justice League- he's a hero. He's the city's hero. It's the same. Batman is our hero. So many people admire him, I'm sure some of those people also crush on him, me included."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, soaking in your words. It's touching, so incredibly reassuring, to hear someone talk about him like that, even when they don't know he's Batman. The burden of choice weighs heavy on his shoulders each day he goes out in that cape and cowl, and to think that you admire him, think of him as your hero, the city's defender, and even have innocent feelings for him, an attraction to his nobility and altruism, to the point of sleeping with his cuddly resemblance- it warms something in him. It also stirs some pride in him, that you could fall for him either way- if you knew he was Batman.
He doesn't forget about that moment. Not as you keep showing him around. Not when you finally get to the couch and watch the movie. Not when he has to leave and he's out on patrol as the hero you like so much. Not for weeks after that.
That's when Bruce decides to do something out of his comfort zone. Something a little dubious, even. He doesn't consult the kids or Alfred on this one, he knows it's probably a strange and unusual idea, but he can't stop thinking about it. Which is why Batman ends up in the alley next to the bar you're singing inside, your friends rallied up for a karaoke night, buzzed and content as all friends should be on a night out.
You told him you'd be out, even sent a few fun photos and flirty texts to him during your night, a video of your friends' missed high notes with you giggling behind the camera. And now he's waiting outside like a creep. He's starting to realize this is probably not an idea he should've executed when you finally step out of the bar, you and your friends saying goodbye on the street, getting picked up by partners and housemates or calling rides as you hug and wave them off. You make your way down the sidewalk and before Bruce can truly consider the implications of doing this, he's silently stepping out of the alley, right in front of you.
Not Bruce, but Batman.
You gasp and jump a little before your eyes widen in awe, "Batman?"
He doesn't nod, doesn't move for a moment, before gritting out in that low tone, "You shouldn't be going home alone at this hour, especially not drunk."
You blink, "I'm not drunk..."
"You've been drinking."
"How do you know?"
Batman stays silent for that one, the white slits in his mask staring straight through you. You acquiesce, "I don't live far."
"I won't let you get hurt," he ignores your words, opening the passenger door of the Batmobile.
You find yourself nodding before you can really think it through, a slightly dopey smile on your face.
Batman carefully guides you inside before settling into the driver's seat and pulling out of the alleyway, heading down to your apartment automatically. He drives in silence before briefly glancing at you and the dreamy stare you're giving him, "something wrong?"
"I can't believe I'm getting dropped home by Batman..." you whisper with a floaty laugh.
Bruce feels his heart squeeze at the sound of you, sounding so awed and admiring, but he maintains his composure, replying, "you're a fan?"
You nod with hum, "Mhm."
He doesn't respond, driving in silence the rest of the way. He doesn't stop right in front of your apartment, instead stopping in a dark alleyway nearby.
You frown softly, "What are we...?"
"I can't be seen near your apartment. For your safety," he lies.
Your intoxicated brain takes it, "Right. Okay, well, it's just there so I'll walk-"
"Wait."
You turn back to him, seatbelt unbuckled, and blink, waiting for him to continue. Your face flushes when he leans over the console.
Batman stares at you through those white lenses for a while, "I appreciate your support of me. What I do."
It's a clumsy, awkward, out of place statement from a superhero. Your brows furrow in confusion but you nod, "Oh, uhm...'kay..."
He leans in closer and your face burns. "I mean it," he mutters lowly.
You nod, but move back a little, "I- I have a boyfriend," you whisper, but your eyes flickering down to his lips betray you. You feel guilt and shame curl in your gut, but somehow it's quelled with a silent reassurance. Your mind fills with Bruce, but it melds with the image of the Bat in front of you, and the longstanding admiration and attraction you've had for the masked hero.
You swear you see his lip quirk up a little, not cruelly, just amused, "he won't mind. I need all the encouragement I can get."
In your tipsy haze, you find yourself nodding, but only press a kiss to his cheek, not wanting to betray your beloved, adored partner.
Batman looks so soft after the kiss, despite most of his face being covered. He lets out a soft sigh of your name, and recognition stirs up in you at his voice. He smells like something familiar too, under the scent of metal and rain. You swear you've felt his skin somewhere before, under your lips in just the same way.
"Thanks, Batman," you say softly, and he nods as you get out of the car.
You make your way down the sidewalk and fumble with your keys, heading up to your apartment door and crashing onto the couch, fiddling with your bag for your phone. You frantically open up your texts and tap on Bruce's contact, typing your confession at lightning speed.
You stare at Bruce's response for a long moment, your brain too muddled from alcohol and kissing a superhero and texting your billionaire boyfriend about said kiss. You read his last response over and over before burying your face in the throw pillows. You must be imagining things. You'll answer in the morning.
the motivation to write fics is strong but tis overshadowed by the need to practice essay writing for the gamsat would anyone like to perchance read and critique my gamsat essays between now and my next fic (hopefully a bruce wayne x reader)?
All the ways you've seen Brendon Park, and the way you realize he sees you.
cw: canon typical medical talk (possibly inaccurate but i tried!), like one horny joke statement
note: ik pittsburgh is in the states and all but i'm not bothered enough to figure out the intricacies of an american hospital. everything in here is either based on terminology and colloquialism from the show, or it's from my experience as a student nurse in australia. soz! also ?ooc park? he only had like 2 mins of screen time nothing's really ooc with that time frame tbh i get to make it up. not sure if this is that romantic, but i think it's cute even if it's not super lovey. also made up a bunch of characters bc we spend the whole show in the er idk who tf is in the or. garcia and shamsi make a brief appearance (being nosy)
...
Focus is an integral part of your job as a circulating nurse. Instrument prep, vitals monitoring, perioperative charting; it's all second-nature to you now. Muscle memory has forced you to keep your eyes on every hand in the room, ready to red card a break in the sterile field. But focus? In a quiet room where all you can hear is the steady beep of telemetry, the voices of the surgeons and scrub tech, the deafening silent questions in the eyes of interns and students, focus is hard to achieve. Yes, you're filling out the peri-op note as you go, and yes, you're busy making sure your hands do what the gloved ones cannot- but focus is still not easy. You're only human, thoughts break through. You've got a great lunch to look forward to in two hours, and you're really glad you got new shoes because your old ones used to squeak embarrassingly loud, and has Dr. Park always looked that good under harsh lighting?
Why, yes. He has. You know this because you've seen him under all kinds of lighting.
You and the chief attending orthopedic surgeon of PTMC have a long history- not that he's noticed, of course. It's not the kind of history with shared laughter and tender moments, or even one with distaste and scorn. It's a quiet, subtle, professional one. He's worked at the hospital eight years now, never moving since he was an intern. Eight years ago, you were in your final year of nursing school, your last clinical placement done in this very hospital, on a paediatric ward.
That was your first encounter. The little boy in bed ten with an olecranon fracture that had been casted too tight by the plaster tech earlier that day, causing paresthesia, numbness, and mild swelling. You'd done a set of neurovascular obs and rated his pain, letting your preceptor know before she uttered the words, "Why don't we give the ortho team a call? You wanna do it?"
And suddenly you were seeing Brendon Park's name on the medical officer list, under attending physician Dr Holliday's team, as the intern on call, first point of contact. You remember how you did your best to deliver a clear, quick handover, reminding him which patient this was, how his pain was, that your neurovascular obs were already documented, and emphasizing that you were a student nurse.
Normally, when you called a patient's treating team, they acknowledged you, asked to clarify with your preceptor. Not Brendon. He hadn't been quite as sharp back then, but still direct and unyielding. He must've been new too, it was a day in August, you believed. He'd probably only had M.D. after his name for a month. His response came clipped through the phone, "I'll be down in ten." Your preceptor gave you a dry, disbelieving look, but it was wiped off when Brendon actually showed up in ten minutes.
He didn't gel his hair back then, and he didn't have a thousand-yard stare that made people want to retreat to the morgue for more warmth. He casted a brief glance at you, eyes dropping to your name badge, and then walked straight into bed bay ten, pulling back the curtain with a brief introduction. Before he started, he poked his head back out and looked at you, saying nothing.
You blinked back, "Uh...everything okay?"
He let you freeze under his stare for a little longer, "Is he your patient?"
"Well- I'm working with...uh...Sarah, she's just with another patient, but- but yeah, he's part of my patient load this shift-" you quickly got out, not flustered, not afraid, just confused about where the question was going and how you should answer.
Brendon cut you off curtly, "You're not going to observe your own patient while I assess?" He said it like he was baffled you wouldn't grab at every learning opportunity possible.
You blinked before wordlessly stepping over and smiling at the little boy, who smiled back. Brendon began his assessment and then turned to you, "Ever seen a cast be put on?"
You paused and blinked, "Just once..."
"Know what you need?"
"I think so- like, padding and plaster and-"
"I'm not quizzing you, I'm asking. Six West is the ortho ward, go raid the supply closet. If you get stuck, tell someone it's an olecranon fracture and I'm doing a backslab." You were off as soon as he finished, returning with everything he needed (and a little more, because you panicked. He only raised an eyebrow and continued, letting you watch as he reapplied the cast in near silence).
You didn't see Brendon again until a few months into your grad year in PACU. It was nearing the end of your shift and you'd been checking drains and dressings for general surgery and urology patients all day, with one CABG in the middle just to throw you off. Bones were the least of your worries.
That is until he came into PACU with a patient, post-osteotomy. You were just finishing with the lovely old man who'd been a delight post-partial nephrectomy, when Brendon stepped in, escorting a young woman, asleep in her hospital bed, right into bay thirteen next to you. He didn't even look at you, "You have thirteen?"
You quickly whirled around and nodded, "Yeah, who've we got?"
He ran through a handover as the orderly kicked the bed brakes into place at the center of the bay. A twenty-four year old woman, had a distal femoral osteotomy to realign the left knee after a bad childhood fracture healed wrong, be sure to check the notes from March 2019. EWS of 1 on the ward and in theatre for a slightly low temperature, but normal for the patient, asymptomatic. All other vitals within normal limits. No complications during the surgery but she does have schizophrenia-
"Wait, what?" You blurted out in your haze of intaking Brendon's low, clinical tone.
Brendon raised an eyebrow, voice a little sharper, "I said no perioperative complications but she has schizophrenia in her history-"
You let out something between a groan and a pleading whine.
He narrowed his eyes. "Something wrong?"
"No- no, she just- is she on an antipsychotic? Was she off them prior to the surgery?"
"She-" Brendon stopped himself, because...he wasn't sure. He quickly flipped around the piece of paper in his hands, scribbles all over in poor handwriting (just typical), before glancing at the computer next to you, already grabbing his badge from the reel on his waist pocket, "can I tap in?"
With a quick sidestep, you were backed up against the railing of wholesome post-partial nephrectomy man's bed, and Brendon was bullying his linebacker frame into the gap between you and Miss DFO.
You'd never really described a person's body as linebacker before. Bronzed-up body-building show pony, yes, but Brendon wasn't quite there. He was pale, after all.
His card was swiped at the terminal like the broke resident silently drowning in loans he was, only instead of a declining card or the sound of more money going to an institution that could buy a small country, his mere username and password was inputted. He quickly opened up the patient's notes and clicked through a few of them before landing on a psychiatry team consult. There it was, right at the end in the plan, 'cease clozapine 200mg BD 12hrs pre-op. Restart when nil airway concerns + sedation score=0'. Brendon glanced at you, "There you go, she's been off it twelve hours since we started."
Without thinking, your hand grabbed the mouse and looked around, checking the eMAR, "...her surgery was delayed."
Brendon scoffed, "Look, the OR has been packed, what do you expect us to-"
"No, no, I don't mean that. I mean..." you hover your mouse over the last recorded administration of clozapine, two days ago. With a quick count, a little over forty-seven hours ago, "...the ward nurses must've ceased it for her scheduled time and then didn't give it when her surgery was pushed back." You glanced at Brendon, eyebrows drawn together slightly, "...is clozapine the one you have to retitrate after forty-eight hours ceased, or is that olanzapine?"
Brendon caught on and sighed, "...it's clozapine."
You let out another groan, "Ugh, I'll check with the ward to make sure they didn't give it and just didn't document, and then I'll call psych. There's no way I can give her that clozapine in the next forty minutes," you sighed, glancing at the patient, still blissfully asleep. You glanced at Brendon, "thank you for telling me."
Brendon looked surprised to be thanked, but he supposed a mistake would cost you your registration, "I had to, anyway. Good catch," he paused a moment before tacking your name on at the end, and then quickly turning away and walking off.
One of your colleagues, Matt, looked over from bed seventeen once the doors to the OR were shut behind Brendon, "You see him a lot since you start? Didn't think he'd know your name- no offense. He hardly knows mine, I've been on ortho and in PACU for years."
You shrugged, "Oh- it's- I dunno, we met once when I was a student, but I doubt he remembers that. Probably just read my badge." you said, turning back to your new patient.
But the truth is, Brendon did remember. It wasn't some quiet crush over years and years, it wasn't pining and yearning for someone he hardly saw- it was just...notice. Brendon had a fantastic memory, had to in his line of work, and he appreciated competence and a willingness to learn. A voice unafraid to be curious and to advocate. It wasn't unique to you, but it wasn't as prevalent as one would think in healthcare. Sometimes, it didn't even come easy to Brendon himself. PACU suited you, he thought, far more than ward nursing in paeds when he saw you last.
That's how your encounters with Brendon were for a while, sparse and sporadic, with professionalism and a single-minded focus on getting the job done. Not a bad mindset on the peri-op floor, though he could learn to be a little less brusque. His attending, Dr Holliday, was the jolliest little old man, all smiles and smaller than most of his orthopedic colleagues, though still sharper and stronger than all of them where it counted. Perhaps he could take after him. Though, most of Holliday's team took after his right-hand senior resident Dr De Silva, with eyes that could make a perfect incision with her gaze alone, and arms that were indistinguishable from those of a 20th-century circus strongman.
Perhaps that's where Brendon got it from. Over the years, you'd see him a few times, interact with him even fewer, and every time he looked a little harsher, sounded a little more curt, moved a little more decisively. Park the Shark was uttered as a joke by some employee everyone said was definitely not them, and then became more of a warning than a moniker.
It was around that time you went from PACU to scrub and scout nursing. You'd been around. Had your fill of five-minutely vitals and having to actually count respiratory rates lest the patient's care is transferred to the grim reaper. It was time for something more. As Aaron Burr apparently once said, you wanted to be in the room where it happens.
Steep learning curve aside, you did well, and for that most of the surgeons were pretty good to you. You even briefly dated a nice otolaryngologist. Sure, there were a few sharp comments, a few quick decisions, even a couple of raised voices, but it happens. Under the pressure, the lights, the sound of a heartbeat that might stop if you mess up, you understood where that sharpness could come from. Even if sometimes it was a little overkill, a little uncalled for, you could forgive. And more importantly, you could learn.
And that brings you back here, to the ORIF happening a metre away, to the retractor kindly opening someone's lower leg for you to peek in as you type in names and details and give another glance at beautiful normotension and sinus rhythm on the least interesting yet most important TV show ever. You've worked with Brendon quite a few times in the last few years, not having seen much of him in your initial foray into theatre, but now quite comfortable with him. He was gruff, he was mean, and he was the boss now, but you knew him to be great and you knew him to care about his patients. Even if he didn't seem like a good team player, with all the snark or the glare that could turn a med student back into the art kid they were in high school, he was able to cooperate, so long as he approved. So long as it was safe and best practice. If everyone around him was an idiot? Well, then they deserved what was coming.
This particular surgery hasn't been difficult, just a simple ORIF with a couple extra considerations and precautions because the woman on the table has type II Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. A medical student is watching, only an MS3 on his second rotation, where his first was palliative care. In addition to him, Brendon's latest bright-eyed intern is there to strictly listen to his orders and help only when asked.
You're busy typing when Brendon's voice cuts through, "Ramos. Light." The med student snaps to attention, reaching a hand up to the light to move it. You quickly lock eyes with him and shake your head before he can touch the handle with the sterile cover, and make a motion to move it from the top. He freezes and then swiftly moves his hand to above the light to awkwardly push it around a little. You point your fingers this way and that to guide him to where you expect Brendon wants it. Once he does, you shoot student doctor Ramos a warm smile and a thumbs up and he gives you a grateful look.
The warmth dissipates when Brendon speaks again, his back to you from where he's operating. This time, it's your name. Just your name. You snap straight up. "Yes?"
Brendon pauses for a long moment, letting you stew as you wonder what he wants to say, the same confusion you felt when you called him to the paeds ward as a student washing over you. He finally lets out, "Student doctor Ramos isn't a child, he can move a light by himself. If he needs your help to do it, he can get out of my OR."
You quickly lie, "I didn't help him. I didn't even say anything."
He doesn't turn around, still working, "The window is a reflective surface, I saw you. Don't lie."
You glance at the window straight ahead, in Brendon's clear view, and sigh knowing he caught you playing charades with his student. You mutter under your breath, "I'm circulating, it's my job to make sure no one breaks sterile field, I wasn't babying him."
"I heard that." Brendon replies without missing a beat.
You stiffen and then sigh, tone a little petulant, "Sorry, Dr. Park, won't happen again."
You can't see his mouth under the surgical mask, but you swear you see one side of his face raise ever so slightly in the window's reflection.
Must be a trick of the light.
After the surgery, you're at a computer making sure all the documentation is complete and correct while Brendon is in PACU down the hall giving handover. His student comes up to you as you're looking everything over, "Hey, uh- just wanted to say thanks for making sure I didn't mess up. And sorry- I didn't mean for Dr Park to get upset with you..." Ramos trails off, unsure and anxious as ever.
You look away from the computer and at him, "Oh, that's okay. Like I told him, it's my job to make sure. You're a student, it's fine to need reminding of those things, I know attendings that still forget. They're focused on other things, it's all good," you smile, before adding on, "and, don't mind Dr Park, he's a good surgeon. He just does weird stares and pauses and all to unsettle everyone. I think he just picked it up off his senior resident back in the day because she scared the shit out of him. He's not that tough," you shrugg.
You're not sure why Ramos' eyes slowly get more fearful when you were trying to reassure him. You're not sure why his mouth opens like he wants to dispute that. You're not sure why his eyes aren't really focused on you anymore-
"Is that so?"
Once again, tension shoots through you.
The voice didn't come from Ramos, or anyone nearby. It came from Brendon, who's now standing oddly close to your back. How he'd snuck up on you with such a towering frame and clogs that squeaked, you'd never know.
You don't dare turn around, "Dr. Park-"
"Look at me when you're talking to me, this isn't the OR." He shoots back immediately.
A little patronizing, you think. A little hot too, your brain supplies unhelpfully. That definitely says more about you than Brendon. Since working more closely with him, he'd grown from an on and off specimen with a nice jaw and ass to ogle, to a genuine crush. It only got worse. You don't fumble over yourself and plead for a shot, but at inappropriate times, your mind blanks and feeds you lines more suited to a (sometimes raunchy) rom-com than a medical documentary. Your own metaphorical intracranial hemorrhage, only growing and causing a bit of mild romantic delirium. Brendon isn't a neurosurgeon so he can't fix it. Well, he probably can, but it's not his specialty. You assume he's smart enough to. He walks like it's heavy: his brain and something else.
Right, you still haven't said anything. The heavy comment isn't one that needs to grace anyone's ears, let alone his. You finally land on, "Dr. Park, I didn't realize you were back from PACU."
No shit. You wouldn't have said that to Ramos (who ran as soon as Park showed up) if you had realized.
Brendon seems to have the same thought, as indicated by the narrowing of his eyes, but he doesn't vocalize it. Instead, he goes with, "After working with you for eight years, you think I'm intentionally unsettling and that I copied my personality from Dr De Silva?" He raises an eyebrow at you. You don't notice the slight quirk of his lip betraying amusement and teasing, stuck on something else he said.
"Eight years?" you blurt out with a blink.
It causes Brendon to blink too, "...yes...?"
He sounds more unsure that you've ever seen him.
He continues, "You- we met on the paeds ward, when you were a student-"
"You remember that?!" your words come out loud enough that Dr Garcia and Dr Shamsi hear you from not too far away. Garcia just raises an eyebrow at Brendon and glances back at a CT scan on a tablet, while Shamsi narrows her eyes and shrinks behind a clipboard to hide how she looks over once. Twice. Thrice.
Brendon looks at them but doesn't bother with any words or a glare, too focused on you, "Yes, I remember."
"You didn't know me!" you lower your voice a little, but it still has that undercurrent of surprise and incredulity.
"Yes, I did. You told me your name on the phone. You watched me redo that kid's cast." Brendon speaks plainly, before his eyes soften a little, eyebrows pulling together slightly like a marginally scolded puppy. It's not enough of a change in expression to warrant any grand exclamations of disbelief, but enough to make you question exactly what the emotion before you is, like an inkblot test, if Hermann Rorschach was a jacked ortho bro, with eyes so blue they'd put you in a code of the same colour. He finally adds quietly, "...do you not remember me from then?"
Your eyes widen at the almost hopeful question and you scramble to respond, "No- no, of course I do, I...I remember when I saw you. Obviously." You're not sure why you're so dodgy about it, when you definitely remember him. Perhaps not every interaction between then and your time in his ORs as of late, but you do remember.
"Good," he falters slightly, awkward in his delivery. Who says "good" to that? He continues, "good, as in, you're a good fr- nurse. A good nurse." he clears his throat once, "and you're- that's been evident, over the years. I'd hope you think the same of me, after all this time, even if I am unsettling and inspired by Dr De Silva, to you," he pauses, "...I didn't think anyone remembered her, she wasn't here long before she transferred to Presby."
Oh. Oh. That's what this was about. You've seen Brendon go from intern to chief attending orthopedic surgeon, even from afar. You've seen a lot of surgeons, but Brendon is one you've observed periodically since he started. Since his hair wasn't gelled and his tone wasn't so firm and he had a little more curiosity in his eyes. Since he had to copy his senior resident to fabricate a little respect. Since he was a keen intern redoing casts himself instead of just ordering to call the plaster tech and putting in a note, showing his eagerness not with a big smile and wide eyes, but quietly undertaking every task he could until he knew it all well enough to run orthopedic surgery the way Dr Holliday did.
You've witnessed all that from slowly accumulating consults and handovers and his name going from needing cosigning on notes, to the one who cosigns. From orders put in more specifically and plans becoming more meticulous. And sure, other nurses had probably witnessed him grow too, perhaps even more than you back then, but then you entered his territory. Worked with him a couple times a week, understanding how he worked and that he wasn't all bad. Brendon can't say anyone he works with today remembers his residency, let alone his intern year.
But you did, even if only bits and pieces of it, because those small parts were enough to tell a story with a man like Brendon Park. Above all, he respected you, in every role you worked since you were that student on the phone in paeds.
You knew him, and he valued you.
A smile works its way onto your face, soft and warm like it was for Ramos, the kind of reassurance you give when you coach grad nurses through subcutaneous infusions and help med students guess their glove size. Brendon was far older, far more experienced, but somehow you saw that intern in him, despite the way time had aged him.
"I do think the same of you, Dr. Park," you utter simply.
He blinks, not expecting the response so clearly. Perhaps that closed loop communication was affecting your everyday vernacular. He can't judge, he does the same on the phone with his mother. The sentiment is what makes his mouth curve ever so slightly, before he speaks lowly, "You can call me Brendon." Your eyes widen a little and you nod before he continues, already stepping past you, that cold surgeon mask slipping back, "be sure to round up Ramos and Richards for the TKR at two. I'm going for lunch. You should too."
Your mouth works faster than your mind, "with you?"
He's still walking away, but you see his head dip in a nod. You quickly glance at Rachel at the desk and she mouths 'go after him!', shooting you a thumbs up. You quickly tap out of the computer you're logged into and step quickly after him, "I'm coming, Dr Park-"
"Brendon," he corrects, glancing at you as he slows his legs and you fall into step beside him.
You nod, face a little warm. You notice his ears are too, a pretty pink flush, as you reply, "right. Brendon."
You know, an interesting tumblr transformation that's happened gradually, and which I've seen no one talk about: ask-culture has essentially dropped off to nothing.
By which I mean, asks used to be WAY more of the tumblr economy. They used to be more common to send, and receive, and see. They were integral to the collaborative, forum-like behavior of old tumblr communities, not even to speak on the HUGE number of ask-blogs that used to exist to only be interacted with in ask-form.
I'm not saying this in a vying-for-attention way but instead in an observational way: I used to get way way more asks in like 2015, even with a fraction of my follower count. I wonder if it's due to the homogenization of social media sites? There's a lot more of this divide between "content creator" and "consumer" instead of just a bunch of peer blogs who would talk to each other. "Asks" aren't really a thing on twitter, are they? And as I understand it, the closest thing to an "ask" on instagram or tiktok would be a creator screenshotting some comment and responding to it in a new reel or video or whatever those content mediums are. Are asks just too tumblr-specific? Is that aspect of the site culture dying out as more and more people converge to using all their social media sites in the same way?
it's probably from assholes making asks a minefield of trolling/harassment for years with no real blocking ability, which turned people off from allowing asks on their blogs so as a whole the site moved away from it
but now that we do have better blocking, we should try to revive it.
Okay question: do you take oc requests if not that is fine with me if yes then let me know
okay if you mean like your oc x reader then id need a lot of info, but I probably could. if you mean like a character I write for x your oc then no, not exactly. if you give me a couple details about your oc, for example a specific body type or personality trait then yes (I've done some pretty self/oc insert-y requests)! but I don't insert names and stuff, I will use y/n or a blank.
Yeah, sure, seeing new things is helpful as a fantasy writer. But. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that exposure to new things is the same as traveling. You know what else exposes you to new things? The internet. Documentaries. Books. Freaking Youtube. So when you’re bored of cats and cooking tutorials, go on an adventure!
You wanna write create some fantasy creatures but don’t know where to start? Go check out some videos The Weird Creatures Earth has Had.
Want some inspiration for your Super Evil Villain’s Villanous Deeds?
Or maybe you want some weird locations to kick start your Fantasy World Terraforming?
Or maybe you need knowledge of bunches of historical places and cities and cultures?
But maybe you’re basing fantasy on the modern world?
Okay but lets say you want to start from the same inspiration as GRRM? (and part two!)
That’s just the stuff I could quickly grab. Things I’m subscribed to, that I know offhand. There is So. Much. Stuff. Online.
The best thing about the internet is that it means its not just the fortunate sons that get to learn, and explore and imagine and write. We get to see stories from all over the place, from all sorts of people, who bring All Kinds of New Ideas.
characters: Michael Demiurgos and Lucifer Morningstar
Use of love and partner towards reader
{this is all fluff and reader is reffered to as y/n with gender neutral pronouns (they them) i like to include all audiences in my work, also posted on Wattpad under the username PoodlesinmyNoodles, let me know if i missed anything i should mention up here and please, Enjoy!}
y/n woke up from their peaceful sleep wearing their boyfriend, Michael’s, turtleneck sweater. It was oversized on the smaller person, their much taller boyfriend loved seeing them in his sweaters, whenever Michael saw y/n wearing one of his sweaters he would become extremely bashful and red in the face, y/n loved the sight of him all blushy.
As y/n started to wake up they noticed the gentle pitter-patter of the rain, they looked out the window to the right of the bed, on the other side of Michael, and saw the rain, it wasn’t quite a gentle sprinkle, it was a bit rougher than a sprinkle, but not quite pouring rain. y/n yawned and stretched, being mindful of Michael’s sleeping form next to them. y/n lay there and admired how peaceful he looked while asleep, he looked so calm, his normally tensed-up features relaxed. y/n had a soft smile on their face and wondered if it would be worth it to risk waking up Michael just to get closer to his warmth. That’s when y/n realized the chill in the air, their nose was colder than usual and they felt sleep trying to pull them back in, y/n decided to risk it and snuggled into their boyfriend’s side, their nose warming almost immediately. Michael shifted and turned over, facing y/n, and wrapped them in his warm arms, one thing that always differentiated Michael from his twin was how warm he was. His twin Lucifer, also known as Samael or Sammy, was normally on the colder side when it came to body temperature. The warmth provided by Michael fully pulled y/n back into the comforting peace of sleep.
y/n stirred and awoke due to the movement of their boyfriend next to them, they made a whiny noise before huffing and opening their eyes to see their boyfriend’s beautiful brown eyes sleepily gazing into their own (eye color) eyes, Michael smiled softly upon noticing y/n’s gaze and leaned in to give his partner a peck on the tip of their nose, y/n scrunched their nose up and closed their eyes, when Michael pulled away, y/n opened their eyes again and looked at Michael as he muttered a ‘mornin, love’ to y/n, they smiled and replied back “morning, how did you sleep?” after y/n snuggled their head under Michaels, digging their nose into their love’s neck and giving it a gentle peck there. It was silent for a moment before Michael replied to his love’s question, “I slept well, thank you. What about you?” y/n was quiet for a moment before replying, enjoying the peace, “that’s good, *YAWN* I always sleep well when I’ve got you to cuddle into.” they heard Michael let out a little chuckle at y/n’s wording and replied with “That’s sweet, I’m actually able to sleep peacefully next to you.” y/n moved his head away from underneath Michael’s and looked at his face, y/n always thought that Michael looked handsome, even if Michael thought he didn’t deserve all of this love he got, it still made him smile and feel wanted. After a few more moments of silence, y/n leaned in towards the right side of Michael’s face and kissed the rough patch of skin that is their boyfriend’s scar, which stemmed from the middle of his forehead down past the right side of his nose and ending in the middle of his right cheek, down closer to his lips, and just under his nose was where y/n kissed. When y/n pulled away and looked back at Michael, they noticed the small blush that flew over his cheeks.
After who knows how long the pair have been awake, just looking at eachother lovingly, sharing kisses, and talking very little in the peace of their room and in each other. That said peace was interrupted by none other than Lucifer, he barged into their room, Michael groaned at his brother’s intrusion. “Wakey wakey you two, it’s almost noon,” Lucifer said, reaching to pull y/n out of bed. Michael reacted before anyone could realize and suddenly y/n was wrapped in a flurry of dark feathers, Michael’s wings had engulfed y/n to keep him from his brother’s grasp. y/n looked back to their boyfriend and the look in his eyes was dangerous and aimed at Lucifer, “Right, you know what, you guys can just stay in bed as long as you want!” and with that Lucifer swiftly left the room, leaving y/n and Michael back to the peaceful quietness of their shared bedroom. Michael calmed down but never retracted his wings, y/n was basking in the feather-light touches coming from his wings and enjoying the strangely comforting sensation, “I don’t want to get up, but you have to be hungry by now, especially if it’s almost noon,” Michael said, starting to rise from his position on the bed, y/n stopped him from moving any further and said, “I can wait a little longer.” With that, Michael returned to lying down and continued to smother y/n with his feathers.
