flawssy-227

Mostly reblogs and a sprinkle of writing. 29. #flawssy fic recs

[flawssy-227]

Thrills Are Cheap & Love is Divine | Andrew 'Pope' Cody x f!reader

pairing: Andrew & female reader (Craig's friend)

tw: reader is implied to be sexually abused by a parental figure. similar to Renn's backstory if you've seen season 4. nothing super specific or detailed in the fic, but if this is triggering for you, pls protect yourself!!

summary: you run away from home at 18, knowing that anything, even sleeping on the beach and accepting ham sandwiches from Craig, is better than what you're used to. but when Andrew offers you his old bedroom, a life you never thought was possible seems on the horizon

an: I gave readers step father a very Irish sounding last name but this would not be readers last name lol

wc: 9k+

warnings: 18+, tw for implied abuse towards reader, bad parents, reader blames herself for her trauma (Andrew fixes it), reader is 18, Andrew is 26ish, canon typical drug use, violence, and content, smut, protected p in v and other things :)

graphics by: @strangergraphics

Pope notices it first. He hasn’t lived at Smurf’s house for a couple of years now, but he’s there often enough to notice that his middle brother is sneaking out late every night after family dinners. At first, he assumed it was just Craig being Craig, sneaking out to go to some girl’s house or a party or to get high in that part of Oceanside most people would avoid. He assumed that addictive gene that consumes so much of Craig’s personality must have come from his mother’s side of the family. It definitely skipped him and so far appeared to have missed Deran, but he was keeping an eye on Craig. He didn’t want him to fall into the same fate as Julia. 

But he quickly realizes Craig’s not just going to some party or hanging out with a random chick, no, because Craig is making sloppily put together ham and cheese sandwiches that are cut down the middle, much to Pope’s disdain, and putting Smurf’s apple pie in a plastic container. He’s grabbing blankets and bottles of water. He’s leaving just before midnight and only coming back early enough to take Deran to the beach to surf.

It only takes about four nights until Pope is standing at the gate to the Cody house, standing sentinel and waiting for Craig. The curiosity is driving him wild, and he smirks to himself when he sees Craig practically jump out of his skin when he sees his brother waiting for him.

“Christ man, what the hell are you doing out here?” Craig asks, voice breathy after being scared half to death.

Pope has his arms crossed and sets a hardened stare on Craig. “What are you doing?” he asks instead of answering.

Craig shuffles awkwardly on his feet, fighting a losing battle with the blankets and water and food he’s planning on taking with him to the beach. He sighs.

“You remember my friend?” he asks his big brother, adding your name and a description to jog Pope’s memory. “She’s been livin’ on the beach.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking of you. “Her dad’s a cop, right?”

At that, Craig sucks his teeth and looks pointedly away from Pope, kicking an invisible pebble on the ground. “Stepdad.”

“Right,” Pope nods, imagining you crumbling under the pressure of 8 o’clock curfews and being forcefully dragged to church on Sundays. “So, she ran away?”

Craig nods solemnly. “Look man, I gotta go. I promised her I’d bring her another blanket and it’s getting pretty late.”

Pope stares at his brother for another beat, his hazel eyes darkening slightly at the late hour. He nods once and lifts up his hand that was holding his car keys. “Well, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

It doesn’t take Craig and Andrew much convincing for you to hop in Andrew’s old pickup and take him up on his offer to sleep in his old bedroom.

“I’ve got my own place,” he told you, crouching down to your height. You were certain you looked disgusting after only half-bathing in the cramped public beach bathroom for the past few nights. He had approached you like you were a feral cat; slowly lowering down to your eye level, speaking softly as if you were going to screech and run away. You had only met Andrew a handful of times but it struck you as majorly out of character for him. “So I never really use my room. It’s all yours, if you want it.”

Once you're in the back of the truck, ham sandwich half eaten, you flick Craig’s ear from the back seat. “Hey asshole, why didn’t you tell me you had an empty room?”

“Hey!” he snaps at you, grabbing your finger that was by his ear in what could have easily turned into a harsher grip. “I’ve kept you fed these past few days, haven’t I?”

You roll your eyes at him. You were grateful, he knew that.

Craig Cody had randomly become a close friend after you’d been paired together in a ninth grade science project. He had done absolutely nothing and you were admittedly horrible at science, so you had both failed. Your mother had screamed at you that night when you showed her the giant red ‘F’ on a rubric she had to sign. She was never so angry, when you were younger. But she also didn’t drink that much until she had married your step-father, just years prior. It had just been the two of you for so long, and you hated disappointing her, but you really hated when she took her frustrations out on you. The tears that fell down your face were unavoidable and you practically bolted to your room and cried into your bed.

That was the first night your step-father had laid in bed next to you. For comfort, he told you, before he pressed a kiss to your lips.

After that, you found yourself hanging around Craig. He skipped school more often than not and was usually at least a little high, but you felt safe with him. And when you told him about what was happening at home, he opened his arms to you and wrapped you tight. You had pretty much been inseparable since.

Andrew’s stolid tone broke you out of your reverie. “Why’d you run away from home anyway?”

Your eyes snapped to Craig’s in the side mirror for a moment before you looked away and sat all the way back in the rear seats. It was a question you should have expected. What eighteen year old with a perfectly good home and two perfectly adequate parents leaves to start living on the beach?

“Step-dads a dick,” you tell him, muttering under your breath.

He nods, looking at your downcast eyes in the rearview mirror. You had been a bit more smiley just moments before. He figured it was a touchy subject. “Been there,” he added, feeling something tighten in his chest when you looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror and softening your frown just slightly.

“Baby,” Smurf looked up at you, sickeningly sweet voice grabbing your attention. “Go take these cups outside for me, and ask the boys if they want anything to eat before the guests get here.”

You nodded at her, offering a smile to show you didn’t mind being ordered around. She was a different type of mother than you were used to. Overbearing with her boys despite not really caring what they got up to at the same time. She was constantly on Craig, needing to know where he was going and who he was with, but when he dropped out of high school last year, you remember him telling you that his mom didn’t even blink at the news. 

She was also affectionate. The first time you saw Smurf kiss Craig on the lips you froze. Once she left the room, you pulled Craig aside and asked if he was okay. “We can both leave,” you told him, voice tinged with fear at what you had just witnessed.

He grabbed your hands and looked down at you, face frowning. “Nah, it’s not like that,” he told you, shaking his head. “She’s just, loving. She’s always done that, but it’s not…”

He hesitated, not finishing the sentence. “Like me,” you finished for him. Smurf kissed her kids on the lips, but it wasn’t like what your step-father did to you.

Since then, you tried not to judge. She seemed to like you enough, though there was definitely something cold in her gaze most of the time, just hidden beneath an easy smile.

“Hey,” you called to Baz after you put the cups behind the bar. “Hungry? I can fix you a plate.”

You ignored the way his eyes looked you up and down, lingering at your chest. “Yeah? I could eat,” he replied, tongue darting over his bottom lip as he pointedly looked at your body and not your face.

You crossed your arms and scoffed. “Yeah, I’m not on the menu, dude.” You walked away from him, middle finger in the air much to Deran’s amusement. Andrew was sitting on a pool chair, black sunglasses on, watching the interaction. “What about you? Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got that square bologna, I can make you a sandwich.”

His lenses were dark enough that you couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel the heat of his heavy stare on you. A moment of quiet passed between you two before he spoke up, breath nearly stuttering. “You don’t have to do that,” he told you, that dry tone that seemed so typical in his voice.

“Do what?”

“Serve us. Like you’re a maid or something.”

You shrugged at that, looking away from his dark lenses to the concrete beside the pool. “Your mom asked,” you stated plainly. “And she’s letting me stay here for free, no questions asked. If she wants me to clean up sometimes or help set up for a party, I really don’t mind.”

You felt the heat of his stare even though you were still looking away from him. 

“I never said thanks, by the way,” you offered. You can faintly see his eyebrows raise up slightly in question, as if asking for what? “I know it was you who told Craig I could have your room. And I really don’t know how many more nights I had left in me sleeping at the beach,” you shuddered at the thought. “I just was desperate to get out, you know? And you both really saved me.” You finish speaking with a shrug and a smile. You’re just about to turn and walk back into the house when he finally speaks up.

“If you need anything at all, you let me know, alright?"

You nod at him, fighting the smile that’s forcing its way to your lips.

You’ve never seen a Cody party in full swing until now and well, it’s something. There’s probably a hundred half naked people walking in and out of the house, dripping pool water on Smurf’s formerly pristine floor, eating and drinking and smoking and snorting whatever she has lying around. Somehow, she seems to not care at all.

Craig and Renn are snorting coke off of her couch, Baz is bracketed by two women who had not left his side all night, Deran was jumping from the roof to the pool every five minutes and Smurf was lounging in her chair with sunglasses on and a caftan as if she was the queen of California herself. It was fun, in a way, but it didn’t take you long before you were feeling just a bit overwhelmed. 

You made it down the hall to your temporary room and opened the door, seeing a figure sitting on your bed. It took you half a second to realize it was Andrew.

“Oh,” you gasped. “Sorry, I just needed to get away from the noise, do you mind?”

Andrew shrugged at you, a beer in his hand that he took a long sip from. “It’s your room,” he told you plainly.

You grinned. “Well, it’s yours, but I appreciate you letting me borrow it.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

You looked at him again. His tone was so level, so matter of fact that you couldn’t argue with him even if you wanted to. He was so different from Craig. Where Craig was emotional and dramatic, Andrew was stoic and steady. His energy was different, but you liked it. You liked how quiet he was even when everyone else was loud. You liked that he didn’t waste words on saying things he didn’t mean. You liked that when he looked at you, he was really looking at you, deep knowing looks that you swore peered into your soul. It wasn’t something you were used to.

You sat down on the bed, giving Andrew a good amount of space between you two. When you laid down on your back and looked up at the ceiling, you were surprised to see him looking down at you.

“I have a job interview tomorrow,” you told him, not exactly sure why you felt the need to share this fact. “I could use a ride, if you aren’t busy,” you added, quietly.

You weren’t exactly sure why you were feeling so nervous asking him for a favor. Since you had met him, he had taken a bit of a savior role in your life; making sure you had a roof over your head, making sure you felt welcome in his mother’s house, constantly asking after you to see if you needed absolutely anything. It was more than you ever had.

You were still looking at each other, him towering over you, his bulky build making you feel blanketed in a comforting heat. Your mouth went dry when you realized you had been in this exact situation before, laying on the bed while another man, a man who was less kind, less attentive, stared down at you. A man who took what didn’t belong to him, what you weren’t offering up, before you were old enough to understand what was happening. 

You blinked away from his gaze and sat up, eyes focusing away from him as blood roared in your ears.

Andrew shifted his weight from side to side on the bed, still fully focused on you but frowning at the sudden cold air that rushed in between you. He didn’t understand what happened to make you suddenly avoid his gaze.

“I’ll take you,” Andrew muttered from next to the bed, speaking to the back of your head. He meant it; he’d do whatever he needed for you.

Andrew sat in his old pickup outside of the grocery store. The windows were rolled down and he was beginning to see faint beads of sweat on his forearm. You were taking forever. You were interviewing to be a cashier at a grocery store, how many questions could they really ask you? He had half a mind to go in and check on you, but that would be a little weird, he figured. You had been so warm and open with him until last night, where you suddenly froze and avoided eye contact, but then today, you were back to normal, smiling that smile he had become a little bit obsessed with and meeting his intense stare with no qualms. And you looked perfect—a flouncy little dress that skimmed right above your knees and denim jacket on your arms.

He hadn’t seen you in anything that was outwardly feminine in the short time he had gotten to know you. Usually you were running around in denim shorts and what he suspected were some of Craig’s old t-shirts. You were always beautiful, shockingly so, but that dress made Andrew feel things he wasn’t sure he was allowed to feel.

Your bright smile across the parking lot grabbed his attention. You were practically skipping, and it made his heart beat extra fast.

“He hired me on the spot!” you squealed, opening the passenger door and climbing in to face him. “It’s only going to be two days a week but I’m so excited,” you told him, cheeks practically reaching your eyes with how wide you were smiling. “I’ve never had my own money before.” You sighed that last part quietly. It wasn’t just a grocery store job, it was your entire future, starting right now.

Andrew smiled at you. It was something small that most people probably wouldn’t even realize was a smile, but he was starting to realize he was doing that a lot in your presence. You were easy to smile at. “I’m happy for you,” he told you, voice sincere and steady.

“Thanks for driving me,” you responded softly, your smile a little less wide but still taking up space. 

“I told you to stop thanking me.”

Your breath hitched as you stared at him. His arms flexed with a sheen that made something inside you turn molten. His hazel eyes were always so all consuming when he looked at you, but right now, as always, his stare didn’t make you feel anything but safe.

“Stop doing nice things for me and I’ll stop thanking you,” you told him, voice rasping. 

His breath caught as he peered at you, eyes looking between yours and down to your lips, a move so subtle you weren’t sure if it was real or in your head.

“I don’t think I’ll stop,” he bluntly replied. It was curt and to the point, the way he always spoke but there was a layer of softness there that made you melt.

“Okay, Andrew,” you whispered back. 

And that was that.

Smurf threw another party a week later. You weren’t super clear on the details of how Janine Cody made her money, but you knew she didn’t leave the house every day to step into an office. You heard the odd conversation when you were walking from the bathroom to Andrew’s old room at night and you had seen a mountain of cash on the kitchen island when you woke up extra early to go for a walk one time. Craig had said things over the years at school and you had heard the rumours, even from your stepdad when he was yelling at you years ago for befriending Craig. But you figured it was none of your business.

You realized how little it mattered to you, if the Cody’s were criminals. They didn’t seem like bad guys. After all, they took you in, housed you and fed you. They made you feel safe when your own family did not. So you didn’t mind helping with a party to celebrate the success of whatever job they just pulled.

It had been days since you had seen Andrew. He took you to grab ice cream after the success of your interview, and you sat on a picnic table with him, looking at the waves cresting on the shore, talking mindlessly about everything. You loved Craig; he was genuinely your best friend. But Andrew, spending time with him felt different. He was quickly taking a place in your life that was unexplainable and irreplaceable. He made you feel cared for and looked after. This was the longest you had gone without seeing him since you moved in. You were really beginning to miss him.

You were turning in the floor length mirror in Andrew’s old room, looking at yourself from all angles in your new dress. You had only worked your first two days at the grocery store, and it would be another week before you got a pay check, but you could not help yourself from buying the short sundress from a thrift store on the way home last night. You had seen the way Andrew looked at you when he drove you to your interview. You would do anything to have him look at you like that again.

“You look nice,” Craig told you from the door. You whipped your head around at him, heat crawling up your neck at the compliment. 

“Thanks.”

“You dressin’ up for someone in particular?” 

The question was innocent enough, but you found yourself avoiding his eye contact.

“I don’t…” you let your voice trail off as you braved a look in his direction. “I don’t know,” you finished. “I’ve never really done this before.” This. Liked someone. Dressed up for them. Flirted.

Craig nodded, walking further into your room and sitting on the edge of your bed until you joined him. He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and looked down at you. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for something like that? I mean, after everything that happened with Phil—”

That made you tense. “Don’t say his name to me. Ever.”

Craig’s blue eyes widened at your sharp tone. He should have known better than to casually mention your step-father and what you went through. “Right, sorry. I just want you to make sure you’re thinking things through. Being patient. Not feeling pressured.”

You relaxed your shoulders at his concerned tone. “Yeah, okay,” you nodded. “I appreciate that. I just have never really liked anyone,” you laughed dryly. “I don’t know what the protocol is.”

“But you like Pope?” Craig’s voice was laced with disbelief. 

You shrugged. “Yeah. Is that weird for you?”

He looked at you, hand leaving your shoulder to find its way to his lap. “A bit,” he told you honestly. “Pope is… Pope. But he’s respectful, you know? Kind of crazy, but good.” He glanced around his big brother’s room, looking wistfully at some of the photos that still took up space on his old dresser. “He’s one of the best guys I know.”

When you finally saw Andrew arrive at the party, you smiled, and made a beeline straight for him. You were drinking a cup of fruit punch, making a conscious decision to only drink if he was. 

“Finally,” you greeted, smiling widely at him. He looked incredibly good, you couldn’t help but notice. A grey shirt clung to his broad muscles and he wore a black leather jacket on top of it. The curls in his hair looked delectable, and you idly wondered how they would feel underneath your fingertips. “I was hoping you weren’t gonna bail on us tonight.”

Andrew stared at your face for a moment too long without saying anything, before glancing briefly at the short dress you were wearing. His hazel eyes shot back up to yours in what you suspected was pure force of will. 

“Smurf would flip if I missed it,” he offered, voice calm in its typical rigidity.

“Right,” you nodded at him, taking a sip from your cup. “So you only came here for Smurf?” You were teasing him, hoping he would take the bait.

“No. Not only for her.”

You smiled a bit bigger at that. “Good.” You looked down to his hands that were hanging limply at his side. You reached yours out to him. “Wanna come with me to grab a beer?”

It felt like ages had gone by as you watched Andrew glance to your open palm, then back to your face, and then down again, before he finally reached his own hand out to yours, and followed you into his mother’s house.

The party was winding down when you and Andrew made your way to your somewhat shared bedroom. You had nursed your singular beer and forced Andrew’s typical scowl at his mom’s messy partygoers into a look of what you hoped was serenity towards you instead. You decided you really liked him. Your first crush on someone, maybe ever.

He was older than you and Craig—about eight years—making you worried that he wouldn’t see you as a real woman. 

You lit a candle that Smurf had given you earlier in the week. Sandalwood and amber. Then you brushed your slightly clammy hands on your dress while you were still facing away from Andrew, but with the way he watched you, you were certain he still saw the movement.

“So,” you spoke up, willing yourself to face the man you had not stopped thinking about in a month. “Where were you this week?”

He shrugged, peeling off that leather jacket to reveal his veiny forearms. You forced yourself to look away. “Scopin’ out this warehouse for Smurf.” He glanced at you, surprising himself with the ease he revealed sensitive information about his family. “You know what we do?”

You brushed off the question, kicking your sandals off before you sat on the edge of the bed, legs folded under you. “I have an idea,” you replied honestly. “But I don’t really feel like I need to know all the details.” It was the truth. The Cody’s may have done bad things to earn their money, but you truly didn’t feel like they were bad people.

He hummed at that. “You’re trusting.”

You scoffed. “I trust Craig. And I trust you. I wouldn’t consider myself ‘trusting’,” you rebutted.

Andrew sat on the bed next to you, bringing himself more or less to your eye level. His posture was pin straight, but you watched as he slowly settled his tailbone onto the plush fabric of the duvet cover, some of the tension he seemed to always carry melting off of him.

“I trust you, too.”

Your brows rose at that. “Yeah?”

He nodded back at you, body inching a bit closer. “Yeah.”

You looked at his eyes, that same intense stare peering back at you. You allowed yourself an indulgent glance to his lips and you found yourself creeping closer into his orbit. 

“I’m really happy you’re here,” you offered him, voice barely above a whisper. It was the honest truth, though you weren’t sure where you found the confidence to speak to him about your feelings.

“Really?” he questioned, body inching even closer to yours. You could feel the heat radiating off of him and it made you shiver.

Your mouth went dry at the look he was giving you and the gravelly tone of his voice. You didn’t think you could speak, so you just nodded your head instead.

Andrew took another glance at your lips, licking his own in response. He allowed one of his hands to find the bare skin of your knee, leaning into your space until there was hardly any left between you two. “Can I?”

Your lips parted and you sighed in relief. “Yes.”

Andrew’s lips were softer than you expected. Against your own, they felt like firm pillows, moving insistently as he became familiar with your mouth. He was a gentle kisser. For such a stern, and oftentimes severe, young man, you found yourself sighing happily at the delicate way he allowed his lips to move against yours. It was not at all what you were used to.

You instinctively found your hands tracing the veins of his forearms, working your way to his firm biceps, before finally finding their resting place at the strong, developed muscles at his shoulders. His grey t-shirt did nothing to protect him from your wandering hands.

You groaned when he disconnected your lips from his, trailing warm, wet kisses down the side of your neck until he found your collarbone. You gasped at how good it felt, feeling warm coils of want unspooling inside of you at his actions.

“Andrew,” you whimpered out his name, feeling a bit desperate at a particularly cruel nip of your skin, right where your collarbone and clavicle met. “I—”

You weren’t quite sure what you had to say to him. Don’t stop, Andrew. Feels so good, Andrew. I’ve been touched like this before, but it never felt like this— no, you told yourself, don’t go there.

Andrew kept nipping at you, large hands feeling their way around your body in a pattern that made your heart beat faster. You tried to get out of your head so you could enjoy what was happening to you. The guy you were really starting to like, touching you in this all consuming way, making you feel like desire could be a good thing, for once. But you couldn’t beat those thoughts, and it only took about three seconds for Andrew to realize that you were frozen.

He pulled away from you, eyes slightly glazed over as he blinked himself out of his stupor. He still had his hands on your waist, and he allowed himself to draw what he hoped were soothing circles against your dress clad skin.

“Hey,” he called to you, shifting his head to the side to meet your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” your mouth opened and closed like a fish as you tried to find the words to say. You glanced around the room in an attempt to ground yourself. “It’s not—” you cut yourself off again, pressing your lips together in a thin line. “I’m not what you think.”

Andrew blinked at you, restacking his spine to that unnaturally straight position. “What do you mean?”

You gently grabbed his hands and placed them on his thick thighs, far away from you. “You don’t want to do this with me,” you told him, standing up and making your way towards the candle that was still burning. You pretended it was that heat that was making the burning tears you felt gather in your eyes. “I’m not good.”

Andrew stood up, nervous energy replacing whatever longing he was feeling while kissing you. “That’s not true,” he immediately told you, voice sounding more sure than you had ever heard it. His heart felt like it was breaking when he saw you pout at him, eyes shining now with unshed tears.

“If you knew,” you started, voice cracking, “what I’ve done, you wouldn’t look at me like that. You would be disgusted by me.” The tears were falling now in thick rivulets down your cheeks. Andrew watched as they gathered into bigger drops, holding for a moment at your jaw before deciding to let go and fall onto the perfect little dress you were wearing.

He frowned at you. “I would never think that.”

You scoffed, your head hanging heavy as you tried to retain whatever little bit of dignity you had left. “You’re only saying that because you don’t know.”

You knew you were sounding downright petulant, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Andrew shook his head. He knew there was not a single thing you could tell him that you had done that would make him think you weren’t a literal angel sent to this Earth. He was devoted to you, he just realized. After feeling your soft skin against his fingers and your lips against his own, he knew he was obsessed, willing to do whatever he needed to help you and make you happy.

So whatever happened that made you feel like you weren’t good enough for him of all people, well that wouldn’t stand.

“I’m sorry,” you sobbed, voice watery. “I can’t. You need to leave. Y-you can’t.”

He fought the urge to reach for your shaking form, to wipe those tears away and tell you he would hurt whoever made you feel this way. But he realized if he did those things, right now, with the state you were in, that you would probably only close in more on yourself.

“Okay, okay,” he lowly called out from his side of the room. Your eyes were shut tight and he still was a bit alarmed that the gorgeous, giggly girl he had spent all evening talking to was now a crumpled mess leaning against his old dresser. 

You vaguely realized he had called your name. “I’m going to go,” he told you, his heart breaking a bit more at the way your face crumpled at that. “Not because I want to,” he attempted to reassure, “but because I don’t want to scare you.”

He took slow steps as he made his way into your space, the heat radiating off of him made you pop your head up to look him in the eyes. Those hazel pools of warmth softened something inside of you, and Andrew’s frown relaxed a bit when he noticed. He took a risk and reached for your chin between his thumb and index finger, taking an appraising look at the damage from your tears. He felt his heart skip a beat when you didn’t pull away.

“I’m here for you,” he softly told you. “You might not realize how much,” he added, leaving out the I’d do anything for you, that was resting on the tip of his tongue. “But I want you to come to me, with anything. Everything.” 

He leaned down to be eye-level with you, leaving you with a searing look you weren’t quite sure how to interpret just yet. 

You stood there, weight half supported against the dresser, standing in chilly silence until you finally realized you were alone.

Craig was in his own world, tongue shoved down some girls throat while his other hand was under her shirt. He hardly heard his bedroom door creak open, but he was quickly snapped out of his blissful journey to third base when he felt a heavy hand crack on his shoulder and pull him away from his date.

“Ow- hey!” Craig shouted, wondering who the hell was ripping him away from getting laid.

His face fell slightly when he met the angry, pinched look Pope was giving him.

“I need to talk to you,” Pope practically snarled.

Craig wasn’t quite sure what was going on with his brother, but that look never bode well.

“Hey, uh, sweetheart,” he called to the confused girl on his bed. “Can you give us a second?”

The girl scoffed and muttered asshole under her breath. Pope stared at her until Craig’s bedroom door closed.

“What?” Craig whined. “What the fuck is so important that you had to come in here, all Pope like and scare my girl away, huh?”

“Your girl?” Pope responded, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “What’s her name?”

They both knew Craig had no clue. 

“Man whatever. What the fuck is it?”

Pope gestured to your bedroom. “What the hell happened to her?”

Craig sighed, jaw ticking as he thought about you. “Listen man, it’s not my story to tell.”

Pope huffed at that. “I was just with her and she flipped out. Had a full freakout on me.” His face is still in that habitual scowl he can never seem to relax away from, but the softness in his tone did not go unnoticed by his brother. 

“She okay?”

He hesitated. “I don’t really know.”

Craig sighed, settling back onto his bed, taking a pull from his beer. His big brother would find out anyway. “It’s her stepdad, man.”

That made him tense. “The cop?”

Craig scoffed, something disbelieving in the sound. “Yeah. The cop. The sickest motherfucker out of all them.”

Pope felt his fingers twitch at his sides. A million horrible things popped into his brain. But there was one that was worse than the rest, and judging by the way Craig picked at the label on his beer to avoid eye contact, he had a feeling that was the case.

“She told her mom. Like a year ago. The bitch didn’t believe her.” Craig shook his head in disbelief. “She was just living there, Pope. For years. While he fuckin’—” he sighed out something heavy and let his head hang. “She went to a detective, too,” he added quietly. “They protected him.”

Andrew was silent, rage bubbling under his skin. The thought of anything like that happening to you, for years, while you asked for help, made him furious.

“What’s his name?” It was a question, but the way he said it, Craig knew exactly what was about to happen.

“Phil. McGetrick.”

Pope nodded, just once. Then he stood up and walked out of Craig’s room, leaving him in total silence.

Two weeks later you were back bagging groceries on a late Thursday afternoon. You had seen Andrew, here and there around the house, but you didn’t have the nerve to speak to him. Instead, every time he entered a room, you left it, and every time he said hi in that perfectly earnest way of his, avoiding his mossy green eyes looking at you all doe-like, muttering a quick response and scurrying away.

You had never panicked like that before. And in front of Andrew of all people, right when you were about to experience sex for the first time with someone you liked, well that was just embarrassing. 

Craig attempted to speak to you about it, but you shoved him out of your room. 

“Please, don’t,” you groaned. “It’s embarrassing enough I was going to do that with you brother,” you sighed, clutching your head. “But I refuse to talk to you about sex.”

He smirked and mimed zipping his lips. You’d called him a dork.

And outside of avoiding Andrew every chance you could, things were feeling back to normal. Your manager offered you a few extra hours and you were looking into getting your GED over the summer. Maybe you could find a roommate and ease yourself away from the Cody orbit, if only to not embarrass yourself again.

You were finding a rhythm, bagging groceries, smiling at overtired mom’s, laughing at the bad jokes from Dave, the cashier you were working with, and counting down the time until your fifteen minute break. And then you saw her.

Your mother had bloodshot eyes and looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her lips were bitten raw and her normally manicured nails were bitten into little stubs. You were so angry with her; a part of you hated her. But she was your mom and seeing her like this worried you immediately. 

“Mom?” you gasped, stepping away from the line. “What’s wrong?” You led her outside, away from Dave and all of your other coworkers.

She shook out her hands, bringing a palm to her mouth to muffle her cries. “It’s Phil,” she sobbed. “He’s dead.”

Hearing those words stunned you. That man, the disgusting, abusive, pedophile you’d been forced to endure for all those years—dead. You weren’t sure how to feel.

“How?” you rasped out.

“Murdered,” she practically shrieked. “In our home,” she continued, speaking emotionally, gesturing with her hands as she described the last week and all of her grief. How her soulmate had died. “Honey,” she grabbed your attention. “I need you to come home. Please,” she begged.

You cocked your head to the side. “Home? I’ve been homeless for the last two months thanks to you!” It wasn’t totally accurate, but you had been homeless before Andrew offered you his old bedroom.

Your mother frowned, eyes trailing up and down your body. “You look like you’re well fed and clean, honey, I’m not convinced you’re homeless.” Whatever sympathetic tone she had earlier, the one filled with grief over her piece of shit husband, was now gone, replaced with the cool judgement you were used to.

You shook your head at her in disbelief. “Some people took me in. People who cared that I was sleeping on the beach without food or clean water,” you snapped at her. “Not that you would know,” you tacked on, brows raising. “You haven’t even tried to get in touch with me.”

It was her turn to shake her head at you. “My God, everything is always about you. Your father is dead, and it’s your own fault you ran off—”

“That man was not and has never been my father. He was a disgusting pig that you let abuse me for years!” you shouted, not worried about the looks you were receiving from shoppers leaving the store.

“You have to stop telling these lies,” your mom replied coolly. “Phil was a good man,” her voice cracked on his name. “And I don’t know which one of your low life friends you told those stories to, but I know you had something to do with his murder.”

You blinked at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You watched as she dug through her purse, a poorly made fake designer bag she had been desperate to get her hands on a few years ago in an effort to fit in with the wealthier group of Oceanside moms. She handed you a crime scene photo. “You tell me that this was not your doing.”

The photo was gruesome. Phil’s dead body was lying in a puddle of his own blood. There were ligature marks on his wrists, signs of a struggle, you figured, and there was a pool of blood by his groin, just below the edge of the photo. You could only hope that beyond where the photo cut off, his manhood was completely mutilated. You smiled against your will.

“I had nothing to do with that. But I can tell you what,” you spoke to your mom, voice calm amidst the frenzied look on her face. “What he got was less than he deserved.” You gripped the photo harder.

Your mom blinked at you, obviously bewildered by your lack of care about her soulmate. 

“I didn’t raise you to be this way,” she gasped out, crocodile tears forming in her eyes. “Cruel and heartless. How dare you—”

“How dare you?” you questioned. “I told you, a year ago, what he was doing to me, what he had been doing. And you knew. There’s no way you didn’t know,” your voice finally broke, recalling how awful that conversation had gone. “And you blamed me. Your child.” You fought back the tears that were trying to escape. You wouldn’t let them.

You shook your head and let out a dry laugh. “I’m glad you came here and told me that piece of shit is dead,” you announced. “And thanks for the memento,” you added, smirking at her shocked face as you waved the crime scene photo in the air, before sliding it in your back pocket. 

You turned away from your mother, the biggest disappointment you had ever endured in your life and walked back to the automatic doors in front of the grocery store. For a moment, you hesitated, shifting your weight from side to side, before you turned back around and met her weary eyes one final time.

“Don’t ever bother me again.”

And then you left.

Texting Andrew to pick you up from work was a no brainer. Your manager and most of your coworkers had seen the interaction from inside the bagging area at the store, and he’d just offered you a sympathetic look and a ‘Go home, kid,’ before everyone went back to business as usual.

He was there in less than fifteen minutes. You honestly wondered what he did some days, with the way he seemed to be always available when you needed him.

The old, but well taken care of, pickup truck pulling up in front of the loading zone at the store made you smile as you made a beeline for it. You didn’t let your grin fall as you hopped into the passenger side and pulled his face in towards yours, placing a searing kiss to his lips.

Andrew wavered for a moment, before reaching his hands to the pack of your head, pressing your lips even deeper to his, savoring what he had been missing for weeks.

“Hi,” you giggled when you finally pulled away from him. Your foreheads were still touching and it was almost comical how his eyes looked at you from this close.

“Hi,” he rasped out, breaths stuttering as he wondered what exactly got into you.

“Will you take me to your place?” you whispered to him, biting your bottom lip at the implication.

Andrew pulled away from you, just slightly, to get a better look at your face. He was trying to find an ounce of doubt, of fear, of guilt, of something other than the desire he was seeing. He couldn’t.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, leaning back in to press one more kiss to his lips. “Positive.”

Andrew’s condo was exactly what you envisioned. It was small, with real wood floors, and simple taupe furniture. It had a great view of the beach and his cream curtains let in the perfect amount of late afternoon light. And it was clean, like, really clean.

“Cute place,” you commented, looking around before you dropped your purse by the door and kicked your shoes off. 

You made your way to his couch, legs folding under you in that way Andrew wasn’t quite sure was comfortable but you seemed to always do. You looked like you were at home, and that made his heart beat a little bit faster.

You dug in your back pocket and fished out the crime scene photo.

“My mom paid me a visit today,” you told him, watching the way he tensed. “My stepdad was murdered,” you concluded, dryly.

Andrew sat to face you, peering down at the photo you placed on his coffee table. “Looks gruesome.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. The prick deserved worse.”

He hummed in agreement until you looked at him, inching a bit closer to his face.

“Did… did Craig tell you?”

Andrew nodded at you, watching the way your fingers twitched in your lap. “Yeah, he did. After that night,” he added, referencing your panic attack. “I was worried.”

You felt yourself relax just a bit at his words. “And last week, when you and Craig missed family dinner…” you let your voice trail off with the implication. “You were—” you gestured vaguely to the photo.

“Yes.” Andrew immediately cut you off, not allowing you to voice what you had clearly figured out before you texted him. “When I told you I would be here for you, for whatever you needed, I meant that,” he added, voice gravelly as he held your gaze. “Do I scare you?” He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know.

“No,” you immediately shook your head. “God, this is the most anyone’s ever done for me,” you rasped, eyes brimming with tears. “Shit, I feel like I’m always crying around you.”

Andrew delicately ran his thumbs under each of your eyes to wipe away your tears. You let out a little sigh at the action and reached for his hands, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Thank you,” you told him. “Nobody has ever wanted to protect me.”

“I’ll always do it.” His response was immediate, and you were forced to believe him.

“Yeah?” you questioned anyway.

“Yeah.”

You weren’t sure if you leaned in first or if Andrew did, but before you could think twice, your lips were back on his. This time, when he clutched your waist tightly and you gasped into his mouth, he pressed his tongue against yours, creating a delicious mix of wet sounds and tingling that travelled down your spine.

“Andrew,” you moaned out his name, gasping again when his lips trailed to your ear, placing a quick nip there.

“Hmm,” he questioned, feeling somewhat consumed by the feeling of your skin under his.

“Take me to your bedroom?” you asked, voice hitching slightly.

He pulled away from you, searching your eyes for something before settling back on the couch, hands leaving your body, much to your chagrin.

“We don’t have to.”

You shook your head. “I really want to,” you breathed, reaching for his hands again. 

“Last time, you kinda freaked out,” he bluntly reminded you.

You huffed. “I know. I’m sorry. I was just a little overwhelmed.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for that. Not ever.”

You nodded. “Thank you,” you murmured, kissing the side of his lips. “I’ve never been able to choose,” you whispered. “And I choose you, if you’ll have me.”

Andrew shivered against you and the soft way you pressed against his body. “You—you’ll tell me if you want to stop, okay?” he insisted. “And if you like something, too,” he added a bit more shyly. “Just tell me everything.”

You giggled, feeling the excitement in his pants. “Okay, yes,” you practically squealed, kissing his lips. “Please.”

And so he grabbed your hands, shot you a stern look that you saw right through, and walked you to his bedroom.

The same taupe furniture had made its way here, and you were not quite sure if you had ever seen a bed made more perfectly. Every corner was tucked in, the sheets were unwrinkled, and his pillows were fluffed like they were staged for a display at a home goods store. You awkwardly stood at the foot of the bed, sock clad feet shifting as Andrew considered you from the doorway. You held your breath when he walked to you, hands toying with the collar of your work shirt.

“You’ll tell me how you’re feeling, alright?”

You nodded. “Promise.”

He undressed you slowly, making quick work of your three-button polo before he clasped the hem and pulled it off of you. You smiled when he licked his lips at the image of you in your bra. Then, he made his way down to your khaki pants, coming to a kneel as he unbuttoned them and slid down your zipper, softly tugging them past your butt until you stepped out of them. You kicked your socks off yourself.

Andrew placed a kiss between your belly button and the hem of your cotton panties, and sighed out in relief.

“I’m gonna take these off,” he told you, dark eyes looking up to you as you nodded in approval.

“Okay.”

You were half mortified to have him down there, taking in your scent after a long day on your feet and seeing the not so subtle wet patch at the gusset of your underwear. But Andrew was in heaven.

He had been dreaming about what you might smell like, taste like. Being here, so close to your center was pure heaven. He watched as you stepped out of your panties, jaw ticking at the slick he could see on the inside.

“Lay down for me, sweetheart,” he rasped out from the floor. You followed his orders so diligently, letting yourself fall back to the bed while you watched him undress.

You’d seen him at the pool, shirtless with swim trunks on. His torso was shockingly muscular, with broad pecs and the faint definition of a six pack. He looked like he could have been sculpted by Michelangelo and watching him pull down his jeans to reveal tight, black boxer briefs made your mouth go dry. You blinked at him.

Normally, if a woman looked at Andrew this way, he would start to feel a bit shy, maybe even insecure. But your wanton desire made him feel confident.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice tinged with something indecent.

You attempted to imperceptibly rub your thighs together, but Andrew saw everything. “God,” you groaned. “It’s not fair how good you look.”

That made him smile—something private, and just for you.

“You look better,” he immediately responded. “Can I touch you?” he asked, letting his hand trail against your thighs.

“Yes.”

His molten gaze held yours as he climbed in between your thighs, parting them like Moses, as he pressed hot kisses everywhere but where you were leaking.

“Andrew,” you moaned. “Please do something,” you couldn’t help but whine.

And your dutiful man pressed a firm kiss right against your aching clit. He didn’t waste anymore time as he dove in, spreading your lower lips with his tongue as he made a journey from your clit, to your hole and then back again. You’d never felt anything like it.

Between moans of his name and the wet squelching sounds you were making, Andrew knew he was making you feel good.

“I,” you hesitated, letting out another unabashed moan at the feeling. “I think…” 

You couldn’t finish your thought because his lips found their way back to your clit and he sucked, hard, giving you your very first orgasm. You shook at the way he hummed into you, gently thrusting against his bed sheets at the way you’re writhing underneath him.

“Andrew,” you called out, gently pressing his head away from your core. “I can’t.” It’s halfhearted; both your attempt to push him away and the way you cry for him to do so, but he finds it in himself to stop. He would always stop if you asked.

You’re still trying to catch your breath as he trails kisses up your body, working his way back to your face.

“Feel good?”

You laugh in disbelief. “Really, really good. I didn’t know you could do that,” you tack on, shyly, attempting to avoid his eyes. The way he grips your chin in his hands is so delicate, like you were made of porcelain, and the way he looks at you holds nothing but longing and pure respect.

“Do you wanna keep going?”

You smile, completely gone for this man. “Yeah, I do. Thank you for asking.”

It’s quiet, the way you add that on, but Andrew knows just how much weight it holds.

He slides down his boxers, a rosy blush creeping up the sides of his neck when he sees you looking at his hardened length. You sit up to take off your bra, and he quickly grabs your hands before you can. 

“Whatever you’re feeling, I want you to tell me, okay? Don’t hold back on me, sweetheart.”

You nod, biting your lip at the overwhelming feeling of gratitude you’re feeling. Andrew takes your bra off himself, relishing in the small shiver you make when you feel his hands unhook the tight band. He brushes his knuckles against your breasts, making your nipples pebble at the action.

You arch your back to press your chest closer to him, an invitation. “You can, um, touch them more. If you want.” You swear you can feel your face flame at the words.

But Andrew is nothing but devoted, relishing your breasts with the same care he shows everything he values. Taking each nipple into his fingers, toying with them until they reach sharp peaks. Spending time with each one in his perfect mouth while he fondles the other breast so it’s not left out. You’re quickly becoming a moaning mess at his ministrations.

“I’m ready,” you moan to him, reaching towards his leaking cock. You feel bad that you haven’t paid him much attention, but he seemed pleased to be tasting every part of your body. It would’ve been cruel to take that away from him, you figure.

There’s a brief moment of what you think may be hesitation as he considers the gravity of what’s about to happen, but you watch as it’s washed away, replaced by that private, happy look you saw earlier today.

He quickly rolls a condom over his length and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll actually fit. But you’re a leaky faucet at this point.

You grasp at his freckled shoulders as Andrew climbs over you, telling you once again that he wants to hear you, to use your voice, to tell him how you’re feeling. You nod, lips parting in a gasp as soon as you feel the head of his cock breach your entrance.

“Oh,” you whimper out, brows furrowing at the feeling of being stretched out by him. You’re still leaking, and you can feel cool rivulets of your release running down your bum to the sheets under you. It doesn’t take much for him to fully enter you.

You clench him tighter when he pulls both of your legs snug against his body, caging him in as he builds up a steady rhythm, carving out a decent sized Andrew shaped hole in your body that could never be replaced by someone else.

“Feel so good,” he manages to rasp out. 

You pathetically lift your head up to meet your lips to his, craving him in every way, shape and form. All you can think is Andrew, Andrew, Andrew. You want his breath to be shared with yours in between kisses, you want his forehead to keep pressing against your own as he thrusts inside of you, and you want to know what he looks like when he cums.

The pleasure he’s bringing you is almost too much to bear, and you can’t help but run your fingers through the curls on his head. The sounds coming from your actions are filling the rooms—wet schlick schlick schlick sounds from where you are joined and the coiling tension in your core is reaching a crescendo that is quickly consuming you in the best way.

You bite your lip at a particularly firm thrust as Andrew practically growls at the feeling.

“Come with me,” you plead to him, only half understanding what you’re really asking for. “So close,” you mutter.

“Fuck,” he grits out, sweat beading across his hairline as he continues to plunge deeper into you.

When he rubs his calloused thumb against your clit, you absolutely lose it.

It’s a feeling you can’t quite explain. You feel your walls clench tightly around his throbbing length, an uncontrollable mewl escaping from your lips at the feeling. Blood is rushing through your ears as he keeps pummeling inside of you, wild moans of pure, unbridled ecstasy are the only noise you’re able to make out. You clutch tightly at his biceps and it’s the only thing you can do to ground yourself as he finishes himself, before falling into a boneless heap on top of you.

You’re spent, and you both spend a few moments catching your breath, attempting to let the bliss of your late afternoon actions subside.

Andrew gives you a soft look, brushing a bead of sweat away from your hairline delicately before he gives you a quick kiss. You try not to show your discomfort as he rolls away from you and slides out of your center. 

There’s a few more moments of silence, just the quiet sounds of your shared heavy breaths in the room and the faint call of seagulls from beyond the condo. It’s nice to lay with him.

“Was it,” Andrew breaks the silence, clearing his throat as you look at him. “You know, like, okay?”

While you aren’t quite sure what good sex is, you are certain you just had it with him. “Better than okay,” you reply easily. You turn to face him, scooching yourself closer to his broad body. “I really enjoyed it,” you added softly. 

“Cool,” he adds.

His boyish tone makes you laugh. It’s nice to know that under those hulking muscles and that near permanent scowl, there’s a soft, gentle guy, just wanting to make you happy.

“I really like you,” you comment, closing your eyes and snuggling closer to him.

It nearly makes his brain short circuit, and he holds his breath for a moment, waiting for you to cruelly pop your eyes open and laugh at him or tell him it was all a joke. But you don’t.

You’re already half asleep, winded from everything you had just gotten up to. His quiet, raspy voice is faint when he speaks next. “You’ve got no idea,” he tells you in the quiet of the room.

And that soft kiss he presses to your hair while you start to doze? Well, that just makes you smile.

taglist: @person-005 @momdancingtomcr @intermittentacademic @tubby23 @loftilyviolentthunder @neversleepingever @brandycorso66 @noitnotchappellroan @cowboylover2000

[flawssy-227]

I've been trying to figure out where I know Samantha Morton from during all this press for The Odyssey, and I really couldn't put my finger on it. And THEN I just realized she was the most horrifying villain of The Walking Dead. Omg.

[pearlessance]

warnings: +18 mdni, sex worker!fem reader, religious themes/guilt, dubcon (on account of being paid to have sex but reader gives explicit consent multiple times), porn no plot (so spoiler free!), dry humping, heavy petting, nipple sucking, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, begging, praise, a little bit of intimidation, size difference, finger sucking, ormund fucks you on a desk, clit stimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected piv, creampie, breeding kink towards the end, might be ooc because this is the first time i've ever written for him, lightly edited! wc: 1.8k

thinking about pious ormund hightower and whore!reader who is so fucking pretty that she immediately becomes this man's kryptonite.

you're first presented to him as a gift. delivered to his bed chamber late one night by some castellan who'd gotten him all wrong, an offer to find common ground.

but ormund isn't an indulgent or lustful man. he honors the seven and resists his impulses. he'll be married one day, after all. he doesn't want to disrespect his future wife by sullying himself before he's even met her.

but you are...gods. the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. and ormund is well traveled, has seen all matter of beautiful women before and has never looked twice.

but the moment he lifts his eyes from the scrolls on his borrowed desk, he feels his resistance waver.

and, yeah. he knows he should send you away. should tell his guards to take you elsewhere, should give you a golden dragon for your troubles and tell you to buy yourself a nice gown or a good meal.

he should do the right thing. the godly thing. but then you come near him smelling of honeysuckle and ambrosia and every godforsaken tempting thing in all the seven kingdoms, and ormund is done for.

at first, you only sit in his lap and kiss his cheeks. and he tells himself it's fine, you know? it's not like you're really doing anything wrong. just worshipping a man you'd been paid to make feel good. and it does make him feel good, your soft lips against his skin.

but then he lets himself touch you.

slow at first. a hand on your thigh—over your dress. albeit a thin barrier of lace and silk, but a barrier still. and then he drags his knuckles down the back of your smooth neck, stroking the sweat-slick hair that clings to your nape.

you thread your own fingers through his curls, mouth drifting lower to lay kisses over his pulse. you're good at what you do, he realizes quickly. because before he can even register what's happening, you're turning fully to staddle his hips and hiking your dress up your legs.

he can feel you, even through his trousers. the heat that emits from between your thighs, the wetness, the desire. it makes him feel dizzy. drunk, even.

you give a tentative roll of your hips over his bulge and his head falls back, knocking lightly against the top of the mahogany chair. it's too much, and he knows it, and there's a thought in the back of his head as you create a delicious rhythm that he might be damned for this.

but he's too far gone now, that iron grip on his control slipping through his fingers like smoke. he can only feel the remnants of it like a thick humidity, can hardly remember those life-long teachings of the faith.

when your fingers unbuckle the iron buttons of his doublet, he lets you. doesn't push you away like he should when you push it over his shoulders and down his strong biceps, either.

you're so soft. tracing his scars with eager hands, still humping his clothed cock like you're the most desperate girl he's ever seen. he tugs roughly at the tie at the back of your dress, the fabric over your chest falling away with little resistance.

his big hands come to cup your breasts, massaging the supple flesh, calloused thumbs stroking over the peaks of your nipples. his mouth waters at the sight of you, bare and free and open, all for him.

his for the taking.

his for the feasting.

ormund leans forward and suckles your tit into his mouth, tongue demanding as it flicks across your nipple. he kisses his way across your sternum to the other, sucking and biting, unable to stop himself from making some sort of claim on you despite being fully away you're not his to claim.

he's not an indulgent man, no. but greedy? well...that's another matter.

your breath is warm against the shell of his ear as you say, "i want you inside me."

he should say no. he knows that.

but then you say, "please, ser."

and gods. what's a man to do? deny a pretty woman? deny the prettiest woman?

ormund doesn't have the strength. not when you beg so beautifully.

"get up," he says.

you do without a moment's hesitation. perfect girl. obedient girl.

ormund stands to his feet and crowds your space until you have to take a step back. one, and then another, and another. he tilts his head and smiles with a wolfish grin until your back hits the edge of the desk.

he sees it there, for a fleeting moment—the fear in your eyes. but you don't have to be afraid, not of him. he's a godly man, don't you know? he would never hurt a woman, let alone one like you.

gently, he lifts his hand to your face and strokes the back of his knuckles over the curve of your cheek. "do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

the fear subsides, and ormund traces the shape of your sweet mouth with the pad of his thumb.

"if it weren't for coin, would you still want this? and don't lie, girl."

he watches as your pupils dilate. you nod, slowly at first, but then again with more certainty. "yes."

"good." he presses his thumb past your lips, feeling the soft wetness of your tongue and she sharpness of your teeth. you hollow out your cheeks, staring up at him through your lashes the whole time.

a moan escapes him at the sight of you. pretty and sinful and irresistible all the same. he lets you suck his thumb for a few precious moments, committing the feeling of your warm mouth to memory.

but the moment his desire for you grows impossibly more suffocating, he brackets an arm around you and lifts you onto the desk. ormund pushes your shoulders back and pulls your dress up right over the ravens he'd been writing moments before you'd stepped foot into his space, ink likely still drying.

you lift your legs; the heels of your feet hooked right at the edge. ormund gorges himself on the sight of you; bare and spread wide for him, beautiful and womanly and so very wet.

with one hand, the knight undoes his belt. and with the other, he strokes a finger through the seam of your cunt. finds your clit and circles it carefully, delighting in the way your eyes flutter closed and a hum leaves your lips.

his cock is aching now. throbbing in his hand as he pulls it from his breeches and strokes it desperately.

this would be enough to finish him, he knows. a firm grip around the base of his cock and the most mouth-watering sight before him. an interactive display of indulgence.

it should be enough.

and yet it is not.

ormund brings his hand, wet now with your arousal, to his lips. he inhales deeply, taking the scent of you deep into his lungs, before he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks the taste of you off of it.

he makes space for himself between your spread thighs and watches curiously as you prop yourself up on your elbows. "i want to watch it go in," you admit sheepishly.

there's a tone of innocence in your voice that has him trembling with need. it makes him feel...powerful, almost. like you're at his mercy.

and maybe you are.

ormund knows he shouldn't like the feeling, but he does. and he's already gone this far, and so he grips the back of your neck hard and pulls you forward, abdomen curling to get a better view.

he lines himself up at your entrance, coating the tip of his cock in your slick, and then slides in deep.

the thought crosses his mind that you feel like heaven.

tight and wet, a kind of worship in it's own right.

ormund fucks you hard. tugs at your hair and slams his hips against yours with reckless abandon. kisses your cervix with the tip of his big cock, stretching you wide.

he doesn't kiss you, because it's too intimate.

but his lips hover over yours, breathing in your moans, swallowing up your exhalation. ormund thinks you're beautiful as you are, but when your eyes are wide and you're all filled up with him?

gods.

it's something else entirely. makes him throb inside of you, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds you upright. "you're perfect," he says, and means it. doesn't throw the word around lightly.

but it's true.

ormund circles your clit with his free hand after gathering spit from his own mouth for ease of friction. he smears his saliva over your cunt, slapping his fingers against you slit, twice gently, and then once sharp.

but he soothes the ache quickly, shushing your whining with a steady pressure against your swollen clit.

he spreads his fingers and slides them down, two on each side of his cock that still pistons into your opening. sweat begins to bead along his hairline. "tell me you want me," he murmurs, voice low and thready.

"i want you," you say.

and it satisfies him, but then you keep going and his knees grow weak.

"want you to—to defile me. feels so good. so—so good inside of me, please. don't stop. please don't stop. i want to be your woman. i'll do anything, my lord. anything, please."

there's a part of him that doesn't believe it. ormund tells himself you're being paid to say these things. that it's about the gold and not about him.

but you beg so beautifully and he thinks that yeah, he might want that, too.

might want to keep you at his bedside for his own twisted pleasure. for his own relief. his pet. his plaything.

his woman.

your cunt squeezes tight around him, and your knuckles around the edge of the desk blanch as you hold tight. "oh, gods."

he groans, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, and then empties himself deep inside of you. fills you up and doesn't stop his thrusts. his cock twitches and becomes coated with your release and his.

he doesn't slow his pace until your muscles go slack, until the oversensitivity becomes borderline painful.

carefully, he releases his hold on you and lays you back against the desk, a small smile forming on your pretty face. a look of pure bliss, provided by his touch alone.

ormund gently pulls himself out of you, and watches as the sticky white mess of his cum spills out of you. he gathers it with his fingers and pushes it back in, thumb stroking lightly over your clit.

it's wrong, and he knows it, but he hopes that it sticks. hopes that one day your belly will be rounded with his baby, and he'll have no choice but to marry you. to raise you up from a girl in a brothel to a lady of his house. a hightower.

ormund hopes he'll get to keep you.

ormund also hopes the gods might forgive him.

[masterlist][AO3]

[flawssy-227]

I CANNOT like this man😭😭😭 but this was so so good

[flawssy-227]

I am Ormund Hightower screaming cunt over and over again.

[se7entyrell]

can we aee more of vp Jack abbot and political secretary reader please?

*she's chief of staff but yes lmao - this is from their prequel fic i'm working on

“Senator Abbot,” You nod, bringing the champagne glass to your lips. “Or do you prefer Doctor? Or Colonel? There’s too much to choose from.”

Robby wanders off, getting caught up in conversation with another donor, leaving you and Jack to size each other up.

“Just Jack is fine for you,” He replies, tossing you an easy smile. He bites his lip, and you can tell immediately it's to stop a pet name from slipping out.

Sweetheart.

Honey.

Darling.

You wonder what kind of man Jack Abbot is. What it would feel like if he called you–

You need to stop. While not exactly your direct superior, getting involved with him would be the fastest way to lose your job, and place in politics entirely. He obviously feels the same, if he's refraining the way he is.

Unfortunately, that makes you like him more.

You arch an eyebrow. "Yeah? Is that a privilege you grant all the Robinavitch camp?"

Jack's answer is immediate. "God no. To them I'm Senator Colonel Doctor Abbot. It's gotta be all three or they get a written warning, so you should consider yourself lucky."

[flawssy-227]

Scandal af I need a million words of this💞

[deerfawnn]

i want you to stay

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother. content warnings: fem!reader, mention of how pope gets mistreated by everyone else in his life, mention of drugs + alcohol, they share a bed, too many mentions of smurf, they're kind of loneliest guy in the world x loneliest girl in the world a/n: hai my lovelies! this is me introducing bambi reader to you!!!! the link leads to a pinterest board, which i'm still working on, but i hope you like her as much as i do. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 4.4k

No one was exactly sure why you were friends with Craig. Not even Craig, but he liked you. And though he tried his best to get you into his bed, it never worked. And god, he tried. Annoyingly so. Your resolve never wavered, standing with not being interested in Craig whatsoever.

At every party he threw, you were the girl hiding in the living room or in the kitchen. Anywhere where strange, drunk and high, people couldn't talk to you. It was almost impossible to find you, yet you also seemed to never go home, instead deciding to remain at the loud party surrounded by people you didn't like.

It was strange for Pope to watch you, know that you feel the same things he did, but do nothing.

You had every right to disappear, leave this haunted house, go back to your own.

Instead, he'd find you in the living room, remote in hand. You'd usually shoot him a sweet, knowing smile, aware that he was feeling just as uneasy as you did. Not fond of any loud noise, or drunk people. And he wished he had the courage to ask you if you wanted to leave the house with him, if you wanted to just drive around, sit at the beach and watch the waves.

But he'd always turn on his heels and go back outside and hate himself for it.

If he asked you to sit with him, you probably wouldn't even bother him, wouldn't try and force him to drink alcohol or get high like everyone else. You probably wouldn't even talk to him, knowing he liked his silence. He always regretted not asking you the moment the smell of beer hit his nose, and the moment water splashed onto his clothes, while people laughed around him. It made him feel lonely and different.

Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.

You were just there.

And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.

There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.

It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.

Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.

Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.

He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.

His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.

The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.

Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.

It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.

Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.

There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.

When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.

Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.

Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.

Things like this made him doubt everything.

Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.

But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)

Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.

Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.

He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.

But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.

The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.

You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.

He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.

You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.

You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.

"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.

You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"

Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.

You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.

The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.

Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.

He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.

No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.

"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.

"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.

Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.

Stupid.

He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.

"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.

Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.

People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.

Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.

A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.

He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.

"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.

"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.

He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.

You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."

"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."

You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"

Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.

To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.

You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?

You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.

Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.

You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.

You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.

"Is that yours?"

Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."

"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.

Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."

In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.

You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"

"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.

You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.

You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.

"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.

No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.

His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."

"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.

Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.

Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.

You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.

You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.

Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.

"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.

"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.

You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.

He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.

Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared than anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.

He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.

He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.

You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.

He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.

He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.

You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.

"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.

"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."

"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."

Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.

"Thanks for dinner tonight."

Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.

He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"

"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."

Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.

They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.

But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.

He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.

"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.

People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.

The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.

He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.

He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.

"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.

You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.

Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.

Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."

"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.

As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.

Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.

Maybe next time he'd be the courageous one and ask you to stay.

[flawssy-227]

Just yes!

[jussanother]

[flawssy-227]

My summer semester is almost over🗣️🗣️🗣️

I just have to teach myself every muscle, cranial nerve, and pass my finals.

Then I can (hopefully) finally, get back to writing.

[flawssy-227]

The way I met the nerdy white guy with glasses who works with his hands and has an incredibly large cock, enjoys being dominant, cares about consent, thinks I'm hot and is promising the fulfill some of my deepest kinks.

What could go wrong???

[strangelure]

What do you think goes through Adrians head while having sex with you?

man, i wonder what peacemaker is doing

[romanticpursuit]

What if Andrew Cody actually doesn’t like it rough?

In nearly every Pope Cody fan fiction, he comes home from a job — mad, red with anger — and in need of someone to take it out on. Reader is there, and is always being used to make him better. He’ll pull their hair, jackhammer, slap and bite and tug. And there’s nothing wrong with that! I love those fics down.

But I’ve been thinking after I saw a Tumblr post saying Andrew would not want to be dominant. He wouldn’t want to be called 'daddy' and wouldn’t want to be rough. Especially after being in positions where girls have asked him to 'use them.'

So what if Andrew Cody actually comes home, furious and heaving, but instead of pushing reader onto the bed and fucking out his anger, he’ll ask for them to be soft with him? He would enter the room they share, gently grab their face with trembling hands, and ask them to ride him. Maybe he’d want them to tug his hair, or paw at his chest. But he wouldn’t flip them over and have his way, or pounding into them. His way in these scenarios is whining, begging reader to fuck him. He likes it when they’re either on top, or when they’re tucked into his chest and he’s pushing into them from the back. In this spooning position, he’ll probably cradle their face in his hot hands and just maybe have them suck his thumb.

And he’ll probably enjoy it if they call him "Andrew" in a soothing tone.

Correct me if this sounds off. But I definitely agree that he’s like this.

[flawssy-227]

Oh I love. Absolutely eat those rougher fics up but I agree that might not be what he needs, especially if he's feeling vulnerable. I miss my baby💕

[rr-after-dark]

Hooked - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.

Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare

Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical

A/N:  that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic

Word Count: 14.2k

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

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[flawssy-227]

This was actually phenomenal!!!! Every single bit from the flirting, to the description of his crush, the angst, the makeup and the smut! 10/10

[thelightofday]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 — b. park ᥫ᭡

summary: an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection.

contents: 18+ minors DNI fm reader, no use of y/n, power imbalance (nurse reader/attending ortho surgeon), unspecified age gap, mentions of head trauma/concussions/medical procedures, jack abbot using pet names, swearing, drinking, oral (f/m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, reader has a praise kink, use of the pet name ‘bunny’, slight choking, reader is fairly nondescript besides mentions of having long-ish hair. nasty and self indulgent bc i need that big mean man!!

wc: 7.6k

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼

a/n— this is not yet proofread, please excuse any typos pls!

You were almost certain this wasn’t the right hallway.

Realization crept in somewhere between the identical looking beige walls and the third “Authorized Personnel Only” sign you’d passed in the last two minutes. Everything looked the same. Same floors, same lights. Directional signs all ran together, and suddenly your head was spinning.

You’d been working at PTMC for right at a year, but venturing out of the ED was rare. Each time you had to do it ended up the same— an extra ten minutes added onto whatever trip you were taking because you got lost. You were far more familiar with small, rural hospitals.

Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest with every hurried step, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek. A familiar nervous habit. It didn’t help that it was nearing four in the morning and the familar buzz of caffeine in your system from the energy drink you’d chugged thirty minutes prior had you moving a little faster than normal. You were jittery and starting to panic a little and oh! Familar double doors came into view and you immediately thanked your lucky stars you hadn’t had to ask anyone for help to get back to the ED, shoulders dropping as you visibly relaxed.

Picking up your pace, you nervously tugged at your badge reel. Surely Abbot was about to send out a search party for you if you didn’t return in the next five minutes.

Hurrying through the wooden double doors, you turned down yet another corridor, finally familiar with where you were. Your eyes fell to your feet for just a moment. Only one more door until—

WHAM!

You’d been walking too fast to hear the click of the handle, or register the large stairwell door swinging open.

You only feel the sudden, stinging impact of metal meeting your head, followed by a delightfully ungraceful stumble backward that somehow manages to be both dramatic and deeply humiliating. You’re on your ass in less than a second, your right hand flying to your face as a string of profanities spew from your chapped lips.

“Jesus Christ.” A familar voice mumbles, and then he’s on his knees next to you, tugging to pull your hand away from your face to check for bleeding. “You alright?” He asks, voice tense. Park.

Certainly there were other people you’d have rather hit you with a large metal door than him. But it wasn’t everyday that something brought the six-foot-something ortho surgeon to his knees.

You blink hard, trying to orient yourself through the pain, your ears suddenly ringing. “Do I look alright?” You hiss, snatching your wrist from him, hot tears suddenly threatening to fall. You manage to meet his eyes, his expression emotionless as usual. Lacking any visible concern or regret.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, actually.” He replies sarcastically, gripping a shoulder to steady you as you sway a little. And admittedly, you are a little more dizzy than you’d like to be because this could definitely be a concussion or intracranial hemorrhage or—

“Hey.” Park’s voice cuts through your racing internal monologue and fuck you’re annoyed. He’s painfully aware of the panic in your squinted eyes and the way you’re growing paler, cheeks burning red from embarrassment. “Can you stand up? You need to get checked out.”

“Yes, I can stand up.” The words come out harsher than you mean them to, and as big and bad as you sound, your actions unfortunately don’t hold their end of the bargain. You’re slow to fully stand, clumsily swaying as you smack a hand against the wall for leverage. And there’s the nausea.

“Alright, up you go.” Park huffs, sweeping you into his arms in a quick motion, surprisingly not earning any protest from you— only a pained sound. “Don’t even think about vomiting on me.” He says quickly, carrying you with ease through the short corridor until a door opens and you’re met with the familiar sounds of the ED.

You slump against his broad chest, the beaming fluorescent lights only making you feel sicker. That and the strong smell of antiseptic.

Park is desensitized to the looks of fear he usually gets when he marches into the ED for a consult. But these— the ones he receives when he enters with a nurse in his arms.. were very different.

“What the fuck?” Abbot calls, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he rushes over to Park. “What happened?”

“She walked into the door I was opening— smacked her head pretty hard.” Park grumbles, clearly unamused. He’s still cradling you, his expression almost cracking when you sniffle, clearly in a lot of pain.

“What the hell, hun?” Abbot taps your leg but you avoid his eyes, stuck somewhere between pure embarrassment and searing pain. “Let’s get her to a room.”

So, Park follows, avoiding the many eyes on him as he carries you with ease through the bustling ED.

As soon as you’re sat on the stretcher, you whine. “I feel sick.”

“Okay, okay.” Jack’s voice is soothing as he reaches for a emesis bag, handing it to you quickly before he snaps a pair of gloves on. Your heavy eyes meet his own as he leans over you, fingers prodding at the growing bump on your forehead. “She lose consciousness?” He asks Park who’s leaned against a nearby wall looking annoyingly nonchalant as he mumbles a quick ‘nope’.

Jack reaches for his penlight, retrieving it from his shirt pocket in a quick motion. “Let’s see those eyes, sweets.” The nickname settles deep in your stomach, nearly making you smile a little. You wince at the bright light, following his instruction as he raises a finger and urges you to follow it with your eyes. He shakes his head after, dropping the light back into his pocket as he looks at you. “Pupils are a little sluggish. I don’t like that.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you a head CT, yeah? Make sure nothing is happening that we can’t see.”

You groan, letting your head fall back onto the stretcher, and regretting it immediately when pain shoots through your skull.

“I’m gonna handle this consult real quick.” Park speaks up, starting for the door. “Let me know how she does.”

Jack nods, sitting on the edge of the stretcher as the monotone surgeon exits the room. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Park is gone, then back at you with a goofy look on his face.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see him walk into my ED with one of my nurses in his arms.” Jack chuckles, and you muster a weak laugh that turns into more of a whimper.

“I hate him.”

Jack smiles. “He means well. And I don’t think you hate him.. You don’t look at him like you hate him...”

“Jack, don’t.” You huff. “He seemed more inconvenienced than worried.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just Park.” Jack pats your shoulder, sympathetic.

The next few hours blur together. Between the steady pounding in your head and the way you keep replaying the painfully embarrassing accident in your head, it’s hard to focus on anything. It’s nearing shift change when your head CT results finally return, and thankfully Abbot says you’re all clear. No fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. Just a gnarly bruise forming on the right side of your forehead— and on your ego too, probably.

All is well for a while. You’re accepting the day off tomorrow that Jack mentions you’ll have out of precaution. The embarrassment eventually starts to ease, along with the pain. You’re waiting to be discharged, curled up on the stretcher when you hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. You almost flinch because you know it’s Park. It’s almost as if he sensed your moment of peace and had set out determined to ruin it.

You meet his eyes, and when he doesn’t talk you give him a look that says ‘I’m waiting’..

He steps closer, letting the door close. “CT clear?”

“Yeah.” You mutter, turning towards him a little. “Thankfully you didn’t give me a brain bleed.”

You notice the way his jaw clenches. “I could’ve left you on the floor you know. Walked away.” He seethes. “I’m not responsible for you not watching where you’re going.”

Rolling your eyes, you fake a smile. “Thank you for saving me in my time of need Dr. Park.”

“Everytime I’ve seen you down here you’ve always been so cheerful. Interesting to see your true colors now.” He nods, returning the sarcastic smile. And you think it’s the first time you’ve seen any sort of expression besides a blank stare from him.

You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just having a bad night.”

“And you’re taking it out on me?” He asks, leaning up against the wall.

“Coming from the person who is constantly a dick during consults.” You retort.

Thankfully, Abbot entering the room ends your playful pissing match. He’s holding a few papers, and raises a brow at the sight of the two of you clearly having some sort of moment. “Right— you ready to go?”

You start to slowly sit up. “Dying to.”

“Well, you two be safe and I’ll be texting you to check in.” Jack says, pointing a finger at you.

You blink. “You two?”

“Park is taking you home right? He offered.” Jack smiles a little. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you drive with a possible concussion, sweets.”

Something bubbles up in your chest. It’s not anger, but rather something you can’t exactly put your finger on. You close your eyes for a second, looking up at Park next with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “You were too busy fussing at me— I didn’t get the chance to mention it.”

“I can take an uber.” You protest, shaking your head.

“Let me take you home.” He sounds annoyed, but then again— that seems to be his normal. “It’s the least I can do since apparently I intentionally hit you with the door, right?”

And you unfortunately laugh a little at that. The sound eats Park alive, and he’s suddenly mentally cursing himself at the feeling. He’d always seen you. Noticed you more than the other nurses or residents. Not only were you clearly quite a bit younger than him, but you were bubbly— a stark contrast to himself. You seemed fearless, and maybe that alone intrigued him a little. Though, having only spoken to you a handful of times, he didn’t truly know you. And he didn’t expect that to change.

So, at the sight of you climbing into his SUV, he’s interested. Observant. You take in your surroundings, straight faced as your eyes rake over the spotless interior of his Porsche Cayenne. He hands you his phone without a word, clearly wanting you to put in your address.

You glance at him after, smiling a little when you hand it back to him. “This is somehow exactly what I pictured you driving.”

“Yeah?” He looks both ways as he turns a corner in the parking garage.

“Mhm.” You hum, eyeing his side profile before you turn your gaze forward.

“How are you feeling now?” He eyes you for a second next, and you’re genuinely surprised the typically cold surgeon is making small talk. You’d pictured a silent drive, uncomfortable even. But then again, he was probably just asking questions out of pity.

“Better.” You confirm, voice soft. “Head still hurts a little but that’s to be expected I guess.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you weren’t paying attention and I opened the door fast.” Park says, and is he smirking a little?

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re such an ass.”

“So they say.” He half-smiles, long fingers moving to flip the turn signal. Your eyes shamelessly rake along his hands. His livelihood. Large and thick. Prominent veins on top. You blink, averting your eyes back to the road yet again and leaning your head on the headrest.

“Thank you for driving me.” You speak up, following a few moments of silence, your apartment building coming into view.

“Where should I park?” He asks, slowing the car. Your hands are busy gathering your belongings, and you don’t even look his way when you mutter “You can just stop at the front, I’ll get out there.”

“Where should I park for a few hours, genius.” He corrects, meeting your eyes.

You shoot him a confused look. “Hours?”

“I’m not leaving you alone with a concussion.”

“Possible concussion.” You correct, just wanting to be in your bed already. “I probably don’t even have one and I’m fine. You don’t have to stay. Plus I have very nosey roommates.”

“Abbot told me not to leave you alone.” Park stares at you blankly, convinced he’s going to win this. He’s pulled the car to the curb now, one hand still on the steering wheel.

Fucking Jack Abbot— he absolutely did this shit on purpose.

You sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”

“Either you let me stay, or you go pack a bag and you come stay with me.” He commands, and you’re about to bust a fucking blood vessel.

“Okay, okay.” You huff. “You can’t stay here. We don’t have an extra bed and someone’s crashing on our couch for the weekend.”

“So go pack a bag.” He says simply, shooing you. “Do I need to walk you up?”

“I’ve got it.” You grumble, carefully climbing out of the car and hoisting your bag over your shoulder, trying not to slam the door even though you’d love to right now.

It isn’t until you’re in the elevator that you fish your phone from your pocket, cursing into the empty space as you type a message to none other than Abbot.

You: Why did you tell this man not to let me stay alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HATE YOUUUU

He replies almost immediately.

Jack: Well that’s easy. Because you don’t need to stay alone 🙂

You: I think I’m gonna block you 🤭

Jack: Have fun sweets!

It was well past seven in the morning now, and closing in on seventeen hours that you’d been awake. Not to mention the head trauma. You had minimal energy left and you weren’t gonna spend it arguing with Park. You’d get a few hours of sleep and then he’d take you to pick up your car. It seemed manageable.

And so, you watched with sleepy eyes a half hour later as his black SUV pulled into the driveway of a large brick house, nestled in a quaint neighborhood outside of the city. You could tell he was just as tired, both of you silent as he parked in the garage.

You followed him in without a word, watching him toss his keys in a nearby basket. His home was modern, but cozy. Exquisitely neat. Nothing looked out of place. It even smelled clean. You glanced around, impressed.

“I’ll show you the guest bedroom.” Park said lowly, words laced with exhaustion.

You nodded simply, following him up a flight of stairs.

“Bathroom is here.” He pointed, still walking. “There’s clean towels on the rack and some of my sister’s products in the cabinet you can use if you want or need to. Spare toothbrush in the drawer— Oh, and Tylenol too. If you need anything else just let me know. And if you don’t feel good, call me.” As he finishes, he swings open the door to a large spare room.

“Thank you.” You smile politely, offering him a small nod.

He acknowledges you with a hum, heading down the hallway, itching to get out of his scrubs.

You decide on a quick shower, hoping the steaming water will relax your aching muscles. And then, you’re crawling into cool linen sheets, sighing at the feeling of the soft mattress. It’s not your bed, but boy is it doing the job. Such a good job in fact, that you don’t even recall drifting off.

When you come to hours later, the sound of distant thunder greets you, gloomy skies allowing a slight darkness to fall over the room, rain tapping softly against a nearby window. Then, you smell coffee. You stretch a little, wincing when your forehead brushes against the pillow, a reminder of what you’re sure has turned into a nasty bruise. Your bare feet meet the cool hardwood as you stand up, tugging on some leggings before heading to the bathroom.

Crossing the hallway, you immediately head for a mirror, and audibly groan when you flick the light on and catch a glimpse of your head. Bruised indeed. A nasty purple and yellow bruise at that, one that thankfully wasn’t too large but was absolutely noticeable. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you begin to pad down the stairs. And there was Park, looking much more presentable than yourself, on the couch with some sort of medical journal because ofcourse he reads those. A pair of dark glasses perched on his perfect nose. He looked edible. So painfully domestic.

You can’t help the nervousness that blooms in you when he looks up, eyes following you as you walk towards the opposite end of the sectional he’s seated on.

“Sleep good?” He asks, eyes locking onto your bruise.

“Feel like I just woke up from a coma.” You chuckle. “So yeah.”

“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He inquires next, sitting his book down.

“No, Dr. Park.” You hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel fine. Just sore.”

“Fair enough.” He nods, moving to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna cook dinner. You okay with pasta?”

You just look at him for a moment. “And when are you going to take my back to my car?”

“It’s about to storm pretty heavy. Staying another hour or two won’t kill you, you know?” He looks back before he disappears into the kitchen. You huff, moving to follow him.

“I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” You say as you breach the doorway, voice wary. His kitchen is beautiful, one you could only dream of cooking in. Gorgeous marble countertops and dark cabinets. Sparkling appliances.

He plants his large hands on the kitchen counter, looking at you with that look he frequently sports at the hospital. One that typically strikes fear in people. “You are not overstaying your welcome, nor are you bothering me in any way. So can you let me be nice to you?”

You nearly physically recoil. “Not used to you being nice, but I guess I’ll take it.”

He nearly smiles a little at your reply, eyes softening. You can’t help the way your eyes float along his sharp features, then along the broad expanse of his clothed back when he turns toward the refrigerator.

“Glass of wine?” He offers.

“Will that help my alleged concussion?”

You hear him chuckle as he retrieves two crystal stemless wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “You claim you don’t have one, so why do you ask?”

Darn him for being just as much of a smartass as you are and darn you for enjoying it.

You bite at your lip a little, fighting a smile as you watch him place a glass of red wine before you. Settling onto a barstool, you pull the glass closer, humming a quick ‘thank you’.

“You cook often?” And now you’re the one fueling the small talk.

“I try to.” He says, shuffling around to gather ingredients from the fridge, then a pan and some utensils. “It’s one of the few things that keep me sane.”

You laugh a little, taking a swig of the wine, playfully swirling the glass afterward. “And what are the others?”

“Mmm, the gym.” He starts. “Running. Reading. Hitting people with doors…”

And you’re giggling, the sound making something twist deep inside him. He switches on the stove, turning to lean on the counter and watch you afterward. He drinks you in. Your slightly messy hair that dances along your shoulders. Oversized teeshirt, clearly worn for sleep only. Gnarly bruise on your forehead that somehow you make look good. It’s different here. Out of scrubs. Out of a bustling hospital. He’s never gotten the chance to truly look at you, and he’s starting to hate the way you fit in so effortlessly in his kitchen. In his house.

“I like seeing you like this.” You admit sheepishly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Almost as if you’d read his mind.

He blinks, crossing his arms. “Like what?”

“Not so mean.” You chuckle. “Relaxed. Making jokes. Trying not to smile even though you want to.”

“Maybe I like everyone thinking I’m mean.” He teases in return.

You lick your lips after taking another swig, and he can’t help but notice. “Seems like you’re just misunderstood.”

Park shrugs, smiling a little as he turns back to the stove, trying to silently convince himself that you aren’t having any effect on him. Because fuck, you’re cute. You’re clever and funny and so easy to talk to.

You keep talking, feeding your want to know more about the mysterious surgeon. And it doesn’t stop there. The conversation flows through dinner and beyond. When you’re watching him wash dishes (ones he wouldn’t let you help with because you’re a guest..) and when you take to the couch afterward. When he learns you’re afraid of storms because you jump at a crack of thunder, despite how loose you feel from the wine.

Before you know it, it’s totally dark outside and you’re still talking. The bottle of wine is long gone, and you’re purely giddy. It had been too long since you’d opened up to someone the way you did with him. Your roommates weren’t much for talking, usually retreating to their rooms as soon as they arrrived. To be fair, you’d met them in a ‘searching for Pittsburgh roommates’ group on Facebook and nobody bothered to really get to know each other. You’d spent so much time alone recently that you were shocked how euphoric it felt to simply hang out with someone. Park the Shark of all people, at that. The two of you were an unlikely combo, yet surprisingly had a lot in common.

Once you’d covered work, college, family, siblings, hobbies, etcetera— you retreat to the bathroom, slightly buzzed and accepting the fact that Park hadn’t mentioned anything else about taking you home. Likely due to the storm and he obviously wasn’t going to drink and drive now.

So, when you return to the living room to all the lights dimmed and the sounds of hockey flowing from the tv, you sit closer to him without a second thought. After all, your view was better there— or atleast you told yourself that. He doesn’t mention it, but he notices the way you’ve inched closer, sprawled out next to him now, reaching for a nearby throw blanket.

And for the first time in a while, he’s truly content.

Content enough to fall asleep apparently. The long hours of shift work that frequently rotate are a pain, and Park has mastered the art of falling asleep just about anywhere. But he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep infront of the tv. When he opens his eyes he starts to stretch, mind in a sleepy haze. The TV is still playing Pens highlights, even though the game is long over. Rain is still falling outside. And you— you’re curled up next to him, head resting on his leg. Chest rising and falling every few seconds, mouth partially open. He blinks, just watching you for a moment, reaching a hand out without thinking to push some hair from your face. That alone makes you stir. You’ve always been a light sleeper.

You twitch, breathing in as your eyes blink open. It registers quickly, the way your head is resting on the soft material of his sweatpants. Sucking in a breath, you move to start sitting up, hand flying to where your head is aching. Likely from where you’d been laying on your bruise.

“You okay?” Park asks, sitting up and adjusting his shirt.

“Yeah.” You breathe. “Sorry, I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Stop apologizing.” He chastises. “I don’t either.”

Tapping at his phone, his eyes are met with the time. 1:47.

“Want to get in bed?” He doesn’t mean the way it sounds like an invitation.

You rub your legs together, still cozy beneath the blanket. “I’m comfy.” You groan. It’s a weak protest, but not a lie. You can’t help the way you shamelessly itch to lean back into him, and for once you don’t fight yourself. Without a word he lifts his arm, accepting your presence as you curl into his side. He kicks his feet up and leans his head back, something happening in his chest at the feel of you pressed against him. Fuck.

Letting out a long relaxed breath, you look up at him, eyes meeting his jawline and neck, then locking with his own when he moves to look down at you. Your stomach flips, heat ripping through you at the proximity of his face to yours. Then his eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know. You know he wants to kiss you. Everything feels heavier, especially the way his hand rests on your back, fingers starting to trace over the soft fabric of your teeshirt.

Neither of you dare speak a word, eyes saying everything that needs to be said. Park watches your tongue peek out to wet your lips, and he immediately starts to move in, giving you ample time to pull away even though he’s sure you won’t. And when you grab at his shirt, moving in a little yourself, he seals the deal.

Your lips meet, pressing firmly together, neither of you in any rush. Just taking in the feeling. Inching closer, you don’t dare pull away. His hand moves to slide against your jaw, holding firm as your lips leisurely move with his. When his tongue slides against yours you can’t help the way your thighs press together. You let out a small whine into his mouth, one that does not go unnoticed. Infact, the oh so pretty sound starts playing on a loop in Park’s head and he’s a goner.

He hadn’t dreamt of stopping until you moved to climb into his lap. Raising a hand, he pulls back to look at you.

“We shouldn’t.” He says softly, his rational side taking over.

But then, you’re pressing a kiss to his jaw. Then another. One leg sliding along his lap as you climb onto him.

“But do you want to?” You breathe.

He swallows. “You know I want to.”

“So yeah, we probably shouldn’t— but what if we want to?” You say softly, pressing yet another feather soft kiss to the spot right blow his ear. He groans a little, moving a hand to gently grab at the back of your neck and pull your lips back to his.

The way you move together is effortless, but growing increasingly messy. Teeth starting to clash. Tongues fighting. And when you roll your hips against his, the noise he lets out against your lips is sinful. Breaking apart, he runs his hands through the hair on the side of your head.

“You’re trouble.” His voice is deep, taunting. “Grinding against me all needy, huh?” Lips dancing along your ear as he speaks. Chills roll over you, heart fluttering. You move your hips against his lap again, relishing in the way his hands fly to your sides, your lips meeting yet again. The feeling of him hard beneath you only spurs you on, whimpering into his mouth when your clothed core slides directly over the length of him through his sweats.

“Shit.” He spits, deep voice floating around you. “You’re determined, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna torture you a little.” You purr, forehead pressing to his, careful to avoid your bruise. “As payback.”

“This isn’t the same kind of pain, baby.” He chuckles. “You should be focused on your head injury, not me.”

“Can you stop being responsible Park for twenty minutes?” You look at him, that sweet little smile doing a number on him.

“Which Park do you want right now then?” He teases, shifting beneath you, painfully hard.

“The one that fucks me.”

He’s nearly choking at your words, tangling his hand in your hair and yanking your head back in response. “Used to getting what you want, aren’t you? Stubborn little fucking brat.”

You mewl at his harsh words, eyes fluttering when he drags his teeth along your throat, hot lips leaving wet kisses along the sensitive skin. He’s so much stronger and bigger, hands ghosting wherever they touch, keeping you right where he wants you. Watching you as you helplessly grind over him again. He grips your hair tighter. “Use your words or we’re done here.”

“Want you, please.”

“Want me how?”

You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. “Want you to touch me.”

“M’ already touching you, baby.” He reminds you, so fucking annoying.

You grunt, frustrated, and he releases his tight grip on your hair. Returning to his waiting gaze, your eyes are soft, lips plush and swollen from his kiss. “Want you to make me cum.” You say next, voice timid. “Please.”

He pushes some hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” His tone is laced with faux pity, almost mocking. Hips steady as you continue to rock against him, your breaths unsteady.

“I think you can cum like this.” He counters, grip tight on your waist. Neither of you had yet to shed any clothing, and you didn’t mind. He was right, the friction was delicious. “Think you can, baby? Think you can cum from rubbing that pussy against me?”

You clench around nothing, heat bubbling in your chest as you whine. “Just want you.” And you’re begging so pretty, calm little voice filling his ears, thick with want. Before you can form a coherent thought, you’re being lifted. Park’s hands cradle the underside of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around him as he starts to venture toward the stairs. Your arms snake around his neck, giggling a little as he stumbles around a table.

Moments later when you’re being gently sat on the edge of his bed, you can’t help but glance around at his room. Neat and spacious. Black out curtains. Dark comforter beneath you. It’s so him. His familiar scent dances around you, your eyes floating up to watch him yank at his shirt.

“Lay back.” He instructs with ease, so used to being in charge. Spitting commands and watching everyone obey. You want to playfully object just to see where it gets you, but you listen instead, and his long fingers are gripping at the waistband of your leggings. He makes quick work of dragging them off, sighing in defeat at the sight of your simple grey panties, the obvious dark patch of wetness on the crotch mocking him.

“You wet from just a little teasing, bunny?” Between the tone of his voice and the pet name that came out of nowhere, you think you might actually pass out. He taps at your knee, urging you to spread your legs. Warm hands slide along your thighs and you watch him settle onto his knees on the floor, yanking you with ease until your ass is right at the edge of his bed. The look in his eyes is sharp enough to kill, eyes cloudy with pure lust. Jaw tight in concentration as he runs a finger along the damp crotch of your panties. You hiss and whine at the contact, hips raising to chase his touch.

“Please.” You whimper, begging. “Want your mouth.”

“There she is.” He praises, satisfied with your communication. It takes no further persuasion, and he’s working to drag your panties down your legs, revealing you to him fully.

“Fucking perfect pussy.” He growls, pressing a kiss to your pubic bone. “Pretty little thing. You’re so pretty.”

“Park.” You plea, barely able to stay up on your elbows to watch his motions. Body weak with need.

“Brendon.” He corrects immediately, hot tongue flattening to lick a thick stripe up your pussy, and your head falls back. The sound that leaves you goes straight to his cock. So do the ones after it. He’s skilled in more ways than one, clearly. Experienced. You’re blissed out from his mouth alone, fingers gripping at the comforter beneath you. He watches your every movement, working with delicate precision, and it’s been so long that you’re embarrassingly close already. He can sense it by your breathing and movements, deciding to push his middle finger into you with ease. One finger shortly turns into two and your mouth is hanging open, eyes closed. When you start to squirm, he holds you down by your waist, mouth still working and two fingers plunging deep, curling up to hit the spot that nearly has you in tears.

“Ohmygodddd.” You mewl, reaching to claw at his forearm that’s pinning your hips to the bed, but he moves it to intertwine your fingers. It’s thoughtful, the way he tends to you. “S’ so good Bren.” The words leave you in a choked sob and his response is a long, deep hum against your pussy— and you’re done. Breath hitching, you wiggle a little, legs starting to shake as you helplessly dangle over the edge and he knows. Somehow he can read you. Sense exactly what you need. His fingers curl once more, oh so deep, and you’re crashing beneath him, a high pitched squeal leaving you and he’s totally entranced. Working like a starved man and not daring to stop as he drinks in the way you look when you fall apart. All by his doing. He swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, actually.

And when you’re trying to push him away because it’s all too much, he presses a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh before he moves to stand up. You watch him in awe, and if you weren’t completely at his mercy before you definitely are now.

He laughs at little at your blissed out face as you eye him. “What?” He asks.

“I hate you.” You murmur. And it’s a lie, you both know it. A playful lie you’re just throwing around because how fucking dare he be so good at everything. Good looking and polite and considerate and talented. It’s not fair. Nothing about it is fair.

“You don’t hate me.” He smiles— a true smile as he starts to work at his sweatpants. You don’t try to tease any further, and he watches as you move to kneel infront of him, your hands moving to stop his. Then you continue his work, yanking at the stretchy material and leaving him in his dark briefs. You nearly salivate at the outline of his hard length through the material. That’s gonna hurt. The thought is there and gone, because you’re tugging them down next, eyes meeting his thick cock. He watches intently, teeth gnawing at the inside of his bottom lip as your much smaller hand wraps around the base of him. You press a kiss to the underside of the tip, eyes locked on his as you lick a stripe up the side teasingly.

He shakes his head a little because you’ve got him right where you want him and he knows it. When you take him into your mouth he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest and only spurring you on. You wanted to make him do it over and over again. A large hand brushes over the side of your face as you take him to your limit, starting to gag against him. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, moving to tangle his fingers into your hair again. Holding your hair up, he lets you work at your own pace, one that has him weak in the knees and muttering curses.

You’re relentless, taking him slow and deep until tears are brimming in your eyes and spit is starting to trickle down your chin. It’s a fucking sight. And he’s committed it to his memory forever, though a mental picture would never do the real thing justice. He pulls you off, admiring the string of spit that draws from your mouth that still connects you to his cock.

Up until now, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how soft he was being. The Park you’d shamelessly thought about more than a few times was far from a gentle lover. Though, your thoughts are interrupted by a rough manhandle that nearly has you squealing. He tosses you back onto the center of his bed, watching you bounce a little— and when he crawls over you next, he’s making quick work of your teeshirt that he wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t taken off of you yet.

The sight of your tits has his head spinning. Every part of you he’s gotten to see is perfect to him. He works his palm against one before pinching at the pebbled nipple. You writhe beneath him, so whiny. “Want you to fuck me, Bren.”

“You’re fucking bad.” He moves to growl in your ear, kissing at the lobe. “Dirty little fucking mouth on you. Took my cock so well, didn’t you?”

You nod a little, suddenly bashful at his praise. Pulling his face to yours, you kiss him. It’s rushed and messy, but you don’t mind a bit. Your manicured nails move to claw at Park’s biceps, and he hums against your mouth at the contact. When he pulls away, he just looks at you for a second, totally bare beneath him. Before you realize, he’s leaning down to your forehead to press a soft kiss to the dark purple bruise there.

Then, he’s adjusting himself between your legs, smacking the length of himself teasingly against your wetness. You just watch, gnawing at your lip when he lines up at your entrance. “Please be gentle.” You mumble out quickly, already wincing in preparation. His brain short circuits for half a second, and he silently curses himself for being too drunk on you to reach for a condom, but he trusts you and god— he wants to feel it all without any barrier.

“M’ not gonna hurt you, baby.” He promises. “You can take it.”

He starts to push in, aided by how soaked you were for him. You’re gripping at his arms, tense and eyes clamped shut at the stretch. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to your cheek. “That’s it, let me in.” You pulse around him at his words, leaning into his touch. He peppers your cheek and jaw with kisses as he continues to push in, slowly coming to a stop when he’s fully inside. It’s so fucking much you think you might just fall apart right then and there. Deep. Full.

“Mmm— there we go.” He coos, moving up again to admire the way you wrap around him when he slowly pulls out almost fully and then sheathes himself back inside.

You squirm, moans and whimpers flowing freely. “Fuckfuckfuck, s’ so big.”

“Yeah?” He presses his palms to the backside of your thighs, urging them higher until your knees are nearly up against your chest. “Taking it so well. I knew you would.” When he starts truly fucking into you, you’re a whining mess, fingers tangling into his comforter for leverage. He watches your hair scatter around you, painting the prettiest picture of you beneath him.

“Talk to me, baby.” He mumbles, urging you yet again to use your words but you’re so fucked out already you can hardly think.

“Feels so fucking good.” You cry, voice sounding pathetic.

“Yeah it does, bunny. You feel so good. Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking me like this.”

You never want him to stop talking. He speaks so eloquently. Fucking filthy and you’re obsessed.

His hips rock into yours at a devastating pace, a large hand reaching up to hold your throat. He presses gently, experimental almost, not enough to fully constrict your airway. Your eyes are lidded, blinking slow and he notices the tears in your eyes. He moves his hand to soothe against your cheek, worried for only a second until you offer him a weak smile to ease the concern on his face. And something about you feeling so good that you’re about to cry nearly makes him explode.

He lets go of your legs, feeling the warmth of your skin when you wrap them around his waist. Moving to kiss you, his hips continue to smack against you, the sounds of your wetness putting on a show. Your nails dig pretty little crescent moons into his large biceps, and you clench around him as you start to shatter. “Gonna cum on my cock, sweet baby? Huh?”

Your eyes nearly roll back in your head, his pace quickening when you nod, clinging to him. “Bren—”

“I know, bunny. I know.” He coos, smoothing your hair back. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

You arch against him, body feeling like it’s suddenly shattered into a million tiny pieces. Hot tears rolling down the side of your face as you let out a long, broken whine. Vision blurring and hands clawing.

“There it is.” He drawls his words out, tone full of praise and admiration as he continues to slam into you, chasing his own high that’s burning through the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, Good fucking girl.”

You’re wrecked, absolutely spent as you cling to him, pulling him in for a long kiss, tongues thrashing.

“Where—” He starts to mumble, the rhythm of his thrusts growing messy.

You cut him off immediately, whimpering against his lips. “Inside.” You breathe. “Inside please, I’m on the pill.”

He groans, letting you hold him as he offers one more particularly hard thrust before he stills, fully burying himself deep inside, the warmth of him filling you. The sound he makes is otherworldly, a broken sounding growl. “Fuck, baby.” He whispers, staying buried in you as you both fight for air.

He lays there for a moment, skin sticking to your own. Breathing ragged. Then he presses one more sweet kiss to your lips before he slowly removes himself, exhaustion filling him as he heads for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a damp rag. And he cleans you softly, the sight of it tugging at your heart. It’s so simple but it means so much.

“Go pee.” He nudges you next, the command swimming around your head.

With weak knees, you ease up and follow him into the bathroom.

You freshen up alongside him, neither of you speaking but rather finding comfort in each others presence alone.

And when you’re wrapped up in him again moments later, legs brushing along his as you settle beneath the cool sheets, you’re smiling. Smiling up at him, as sweet as honey.

“You alright?” He checks, hoping your head wasn’t bothering you again.

“I’m fine.” You assure him. “In fact, I think you healed me.”

“Oh, whatever.” He chuckles, pulling you closer.

It’s four days later when you see Park again. This time though, he’s marching into the ED for a consult. You were standing at the nurses station, and manage to spare him a quick glance before he disappears into Trauma 2. You’d spoken everyday, mostly by text. He’d promised to cook you dinner tonight, as it was the last day of a 3 day stretch. A proper date, he called it. He’d brought up a fancy steakhouse downtown, but you’d much rather watch him cook and share a glass of wine in his kitchen. Just be alone with him. He gladly agreed, assuring you that the day would go by quickly. That however, had not been the case.

The ED had been slammed, and though that usually makes for a quick day, maybe the anticipation eating at you had turned it into the opposite.

You speak briefly to Dana about the patient in South 16 that you’d just finished up suturing, and when you turn to round the counter again to check on another patient, you’re face to face with Park.

He’s sporting his typical intimidating demeanor, but you see right through it. For the sake of the rumor mill you know the ED can be, you offer him only a quick casual smile. “How’s your head?” He asks, voice low. And ofcourse, his extended presence has already conjured a few questioning glances.

“It’s fine.” You squeak. “Bruise looks more nasty than ever, though.” His eyes meet the mark, and it’s definitely gnarly. Yellowing and splotchy. But that’s normal for healing.

“It’ll get better.” He hums, his lips threatening to turn up into a smile but he fights it. One hand reaches up to tug playfully at the end of your messy braid, and then he’s turning to head back toward the elevators, leaving you biting your lip— cheeks rosy.

You blink, snapping back to reality and noticing far too many eyes on you as you start to walk towards your next patient in Central 14. Heart pounding in your chest as you scurry out of sight.

Dana stands still, having seen the entire exchange, and she’s nearly shook to her core. Surely not… She hadn’t worked with you much, as you were usually on nights, but she would’ve heard about this right? The infamous, brooding Park— and a sweet little ED nurse?

Robby slaps a hand against her shoulder, making her jump a little.

“I might be mistaken.” He starts, eyeing Dana. “But I think someone tamed the Shark.”

[flawssy-227]

I absolutely loved this!! The way you wrote Brendan is so fun and adorable. And the smut🫣

[j4ckr4bbits]

the moral quandary of wanting to block ppl who i think are using ai to write fic so i don't see them in the tags vs the hope that they'll realise that writing is actually a skill that you can improve over time with practice and you don't have to post bangers right from the get go

you're allowed to post things and have them flop! you're allowed to make grammatical errors and have your sentences be clunky and awkward! i'd much rather read a messily written fic with a clear human voice and personality behind it than see:

"That landed."

"It's not X. Not Y. It's Z."

"He didn't X. Not at first."

"one devastating thrust"

"You can feel every ridge, every vein" (besides the fact that this is an AI tell because of how often this specific phrase is used, no human would ever describe a penis as having ridges????)

or sex sounds being described as "wet and obscene" (specifically only ever these two words together)

using AI is lazy and it's a waste of your time and ideas. people who actually write fic can always tell. if you can think up horny concepts in your head and feed them to AI then you also have the capacity to write out those concepts yourself and post them. you're literally doing yourself a disservice by choosing not to develop a skill

AND you're not slick for going through the AI slop and replacing the em dashes with - or : or whatever 😭 it gives me second hand embarrassment when people think em dashes are the only AI tell and the rest of their fic is riddled with them. just write it out yourself!!!

[taknbythewind]

soft and sweet

pairing: dad!jack abbot x mom!reader

summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and to show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jack is already itching for another…

wc: 1.3k

warnings: jack and reader are parents, robby flirts with reader (hardly), reader works at ptmc but no job specified, uhh thats it i think? its just fluff hehehe

summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jacks already itching for another…

a/n: dad!jack you will always be famous. if anyone wants to see more of this little family lmk :3 (still trying to decide on names for the babies…)

Jack hears you before he sees you, his ears perking up at the familiar sound of your laugh floating through the chaos of the ED. Any other time it would make his own smile spread across his face, but now it makes his brows pinch together as he makes his way towards the sound.

You’re supposed to be at home, resting. Sure it’s been a few weeks since the baby was born, but at the very least you should be as far away from work as possible.

He rounds a corner and finally catches sight of you, along with all three of his children. The baby carrier at your feet is empty, and his eyes search the small crowd of coworkers gathered around his family and find his youngest in Lena’s arms, who’s smiling down at the newborn.

As he walks up to you from behind, his arm is already reaching toward you before he’s even close enough to touch. His gentle and familiar hand on your shoulder has you turning to him with a dazzling smile, and he momentarily forgets his worries when a face that beautiful is grinning at him so lovingly.

“Hiya, handsome,” you greet, pouting your lips for a kiss. He’s quick to give you what you want, always is, and presses his lips to yours. Something you normally rarely allow him to do when you’re both in the Pitt.

“Baby, what’re you doing here?” he cuts straight to the chase. He looks and sees his son and daughter talking animatedly to a kneeling Mateo behind the counter.

“We just wanted to come say ‘hi’ to everyone and take you to breakfast,”

“It’s so early, you should be in bed,” he frets. It’s past 7:00, the scheduled end of his shift. If he had to guess he’d say it’s closer to 8:00, a few last minute traumas delaying shift change. You roll your eyes—not without fondness—and let out a huff.

“Jack, I’m fine,” you insist, a hand on his chest that he immediately covers with his own, “I wanted to get out of the house. I was going stir crazy,” you whisper the last part.

He opens his mouth to argue, to say you still don’t need to come into your place of work when you’re supposed to be relaxing, but Lena’s voice cuts him off.

“How dare you try and hide this cuteness from us, Abbot,” she’s glaring at him over his child in her arms.

It’s Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, “Kid was just in the hospital 2 months ago, figured he didn’t need to be back anytime soon,” he grumbled.

But he can’t deny the soaring in his chest as he takes in his growing family. You are so amazing, and he’s grateful everyday and tells you plenty, but seeing you here and all his kids happy and healthy with this new addition, it’s hard not to feel an overwhelming appreciation.

“Woah, it’s raining Abbots!” Robby’s voice joins the crowd. Your daughter turns and runs toward him and he squats down to scoop her into his arms before standing again.

“Uncle Robby!” She cheers. He grins at her, walking up to where you and Jack lean against the countertop with her on his hip.

“Hi sweetie,” he coos, “have you been good for your mommy?” he winks at you and you huff a dry laugh.

“Don’t start with me, Robby.” you chastise.

“Yeah, don’t.” Jack glares at him and Robby just raises his free hand in surrender.

Lena passes the baby back to you, all the surrounding nurses cooing at him as he fusses at the movement.

“Looks like Abbot’s got another mini me,” Lena smiles.

Jack’s chest swells with pride, glancing at his eldest son who’s a spitting image of a young him; auburn curls and a goofy smile. He thinks it’s too soon to tell who the baby looks more like—you or him—but he has to admit his genes are strong, a twinge of red even showing in your daughter's hair when it catches the sun.

“He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?” He says with a smug smile.

“That’s the last thing we all need; more Jack’s.” Robby teases.

“‘m making the world a better place,” he says gallantly.

He leans down and picks up the carrier, placing it on the counter for you. You give him a grateful smile, transferring your youngest smoothly and buckling him in.

“Mommy, I’m hungry,” your oldest son says softly, looking up at you.

“Okay, my baby,” You coo and brush his hair back, hand coming around to cup his cheek gently, thumb caressing freckled skin, “We’ll go as soon as daddy’s finished,”

“Oh, daddy’s finished,” Robby says, passing your daughter into Jack’s arms, who goes happily.

Jack takes her without a second thought, but his brow pinches, “Robby we still gotta finish handoffs.”

The taller man just shrugs, “I think we got it covered. Go have breakfast with your family.” He claps Jack on the back once.

You gasp in exaggerated excitement, “Say ‘thank you Uncle Robby,’” you tickle your daughter’s tummy who giggles in her father’s arms.

“Thank you, Uncle Robby!” your son, daughter, and Jack chant in unison. Robby offers your son his fist, who bumps it with his own tiny one, and then grabs a tablet from the counter.

He’s already walking towards the first patient room as he calls over his shoulder to you, “Now get out of here, you’re supposed to be anywhere but here.”

Jack gives you a look that says told you so and you narrow your eyes at him.

Your son lifts his arms up to you and Jack doesn’t even give you a second to think about bending down to pick him up—doctor’ orders (him)—before he’s scooping him into his free arm. Your daughter giggles at the jostling, Jack settling a kid on either hip. They’re both still small enough to carry at once, but he knows it’s only a matter of time until his son is too big to be carried. He’ll savor it as long as he can—and start lifting heavier weights to prolong that time, which he’s sure you’ll enjoy. Two for one special, he thinks.

“Got him, baby?” Jack asks. You nod as you pick up the carrier, waving goodbye to all your coworkers who have already scattered around the busy ED back to work.

“Who’s ready for breakfast?” He looks between his two oldest as you all make your way towards the car, the kids shouting in agreement, “Me too, I’m starving. What took you guys so long to come rescue me?” he teases.

The sound of his kids' laughter ringing in his ears fills him with an indescribable warmth. As you all walk through the parking lot, the early morning sun shining bright on your glowing face that’s flashing him your stunning smile, Jack can’t help but fall deeper in love with you.

He thinks for a moment it’s a secret mercy his kids take after him and not you because there’s no way he’d ever deny them a thing if it was your eyes pouting at him. He shakes the thought away—cause who is he kidding? he can’t deny them now; it wouldn’t make a difference.

Still, he can’t help wondering if maybe the next one will be your mini me, and he can’t wait to find out.

You look back at him and squint your eyes at him in suspicion, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He asks suavely, lower lip drawn between his teeth and you straight up laugh at him. It’s a ridiculous question—he knows that—because he only tells nearly every waking moment.

“Wipe that look off your face, Abbot. Maybe wait till this kid can lift his head on his own before you start thinking that,” you scold, but he sees right through you.

He only scoffs in exaggerated indignation.

You know him so well…

[flawssy-227]

Oh to be Jack Abbot's wife and mother of his kids… this was so cute and sweet!

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

love me again // jack abbot pt. 3

you wake up in a hospital room at ptmc and you have no idea how you got there or why. but when your night shift attending comes bursting in the room all frazzled and worried, things get even more confusing. especially when he's saying he's your husband.

genre: jack abbot x nurse!reader, lover to stranger to ??? it's amnesia!!, 18+ smut, mdni, nsfw (just Jack having to take care of himself because he's feeling a lot of things at the moment, multi-part

word count: 3600

(a/n: can yall let me know if you'd like daily updates or weekly? I've got a large portion written, but don't want to overwhelm!! thanks for all the kind words !)

part 4

Jack was fine. Everything was fine. 

When the doctor cleared you to go home, he rushed to get the house in order. Things were a mess, rightfully so, every waking moment was spent at your side at the hospital. And honestly he didn’t think you’d give him shit for it. You didn’t know how you used to get on his ass about leaving a butter knife teetering on the edge of the kitchen sink. He’d always claimed he would be back to use it. And you were always right, when he inevitably didn’t. 

You were in the passenger seat of his car now, looking out the window watching the parking garage go past as you spiraled your way down it. 

"You don't have to do the thing." you said, without turning from the window.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you use a very careful and quiet voice when talking to me." You glanced at him sideways. "I'm not going to break."

He was aware that he was doing it and had been modulating every word and every movement like he was defusing something delicate. He couldn't entirely stop. Marriage had given him an encyclopedic knowledge of exactly how much you could handle and in what quantities, and that knowledge was currently running headlong into the fact that you had no idea he had it.

"Almost home." he said driving on the route you always took home.

He took a glance your way and watched as your eyes scrunched up. Mind searching for that home he was talking about. “I don't know where we live."

It was a good house, you'd found it one year into their marriage, had spent three weeks arguing about it the way you argued about most things, which was thoroughly and ultimately arriving at the same conclusion from opposite directions. You had loved the garden. Jack had loved the kitchen and you bought it for both reasons.

He pulled into the driveway and cut the engine and sat for a moment. You were looking at the house through the windshield trying to recognize something that wasn't offering itself up. "It's nice." you said finally.

"You picked the paint color." he said, and then immediately wondered if that was the right thing to say. Too much. Too pointed. He needed to stop narrating her own life back at you.

But you almost smiled. "Did I?"

"You made me hold up seventeen samples in different lights. Over three days."

You looked at the soft grey blue of the front door, the warm white of the siding as you got out of the car. He followed you up the front path and unlocked the door, and you stepped inside, and he watched you stop.

The house was full of you. 

That was the only way he'd ever been able to think about it. You had a truly alarming number of throw pillows and strong feelings about where the couch should face and a small army of plants that lived on the kitchen windowsill.

You touched things as you walked through the front entryway. The frame on the hall table, the first vacation. A photo you'd taken of him squinting into the sun that he'd complained about and you'd framed anyway. The chalkboard on the kitchen wall covered in your handwriting, grocery lists and reminder notes. The row of plants on the sill, each in a different pot, each clearly thriving under someone's committed attention.

You picked up a small succulent in a yellow pot, turned it over in your hands and set it back.

This was hard. 

This was something else. This was watching someone walk through a room full of evidence of who they were and find it all equally foreign.

You stopped at the chalkboard and read. “This is my handwriting. I wrote this. "Do not under any circumstances park in the spot next to the blue dumpster or Gary will lose his mind.'" You turned to look at him. "Who's Gary?"

Despite everything, he felt the corner of his mouth move. "The dry cleaning guy.”

"And I know our dry cleaning guy on a first name basis?"

"You know Gary's whole situation. He told you about his daughter's recital once and you've asked about her every time since.”

You stared at him. "Seems like a lot to know for some dry cleaning."

"You know something about everyone that you meet." he said. "It's..you do that. You always have."

You looked back at the chalkboard, finally letting yourself smile and Jack’s heart twisted. That smile that he fell so deeply in love with. That smile that makes him want to reach out and envelop you in a hug that he’s been wanting to give since he saw you in that trauma bay. 

You turned to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest.  "Where do I sleep?" 

Well, with me.

He wanted to say it so badly. He’d been sleeping like shit. Needing to feel you against him to get even a wink of good enough sleep. 

But it would be too much too soon. "Upstairs." he said. "I'll show you."

He took you up and opened the door at the end of the hall and watched you take it in. Your shared room, it was impossible to tell where his things ended and yours began. 

You stood in the doorway for a long moment. "Where is the guest room?"

Something broke in his chest and he didn’t know how much he had left to break, but kept his face even. "Across the hall."

You looked at him "I'll take that one." 

“I don’t mind taking the guest room. Neuro said maybe sleeping in a familiar environment might help..” But his voice slowly trailed off. He watched you starting to fiddle with your necklace, a habit he’d become all too familiar with and understood as you were feeling anxious. “Or, okay, yeah the guest room is great.” 

He got you towels and showed you where the extra blankets lived and which shower knob was a little funny and how you had to twist too many times to get it to run hot. You listened to all of it and thanked him like a polite houseguest, which was terrible and he hadn't anticipated how much it would be.

At the door to the guest room you paused. "Jack?" 

It was the first time you'd used his name. His actual name, not Doctor. He wasn't prepared for it and he wasn't sure he could have been.

You looked at him for a moment, searching for something. "Thank you. For..all of this. I know it's not.." You rubbed at your eyes and Jack could see tears pricking at them. "I know this isn't how it's supposed to be."

His hands were on fire. He wanted to reach out and run them up your arms. Wanted to wipe away the tears. “It’s okay. I am here for you. Know that.” 

You held his gaze and nodded once and went inside, the door closed quietly behind you.

He stood there in the hallway for longer than was strictly necessary and then he went across the hall to the room and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the space beside him.

He'd slept alone for years, before you, and it had never bothered him the way it did in this moment, which was probably the point. The difference between not knowing what you were missing and knowing exactly.

He reached over and turned off your bedside lamp and lay back, staring at the ceiling.

He thought about the very beginning of the two of you. When he started to take on this idea that you were going to be more of a presence in his life than he’s planned for.  

This specific memory of you in a trauma bay calling him out in front of four people and then meeting him in the hallway afterwards with a coffee and the most unimpressed expression he'd ever seen on another human being, saying that patient needed you to actually listen and you know that, and him standing there thinking holy shit. who are you?

Like he'd been waiting for you without knowing it.

He was going to have to do this very carefully. He was going to have to be patient in a way that did not come naturally to him and he was going to have to do it without any of the shortcuts that came from three years of accumulated trust.

...

The guest room has a window that faces east. You discover this at 6:04 a.m. on your first morning in the house you apparently own, when the sun comes through blinding you. You lie there for a moment with your arm over your eyes and then you lie there for a while longer because there is nowhere you have to be and that is a weird feeling.

You are on medical leave for two weeks. The neurologist was very clear about this. You are also, you remember in the next breath, in a stranger's house.

Except it isn't. That's the thing you keep running into but its odd. This guest room you're lying in is decorated in colors you would have picked and you know this because you recognize your own taste even when you don't recognize the choices.

You sit up and your head protests. You're going to have to do that with more care from now on. The smell of coffee is coming from downstairs and your body has apparently decided that this is your first adventure of the day.

You find the bathroom and your things are in it.  Your shampoo, your brand of face wash, a toothbrush. You think about Jack Abbot moving through this bathroom with your shampoo in his hands and the thought is so strange. 

When you go downstairs, he is already in the kitchen. 

This should not be a surprising sentence given that it is his kitchen, but the version of Jack that exists in your memory does not overlap onto this one in any useful way. This version is in grey sweatpants and a worn t shirt and he is standing at the counter with his back to you making coffee.

He doesn't hear you come in. Or he does and he doesn't want to startle you. You're not sure which.

He opens the cabinet to the left of the machine and reaches for the second shelf without looking, and gets your mug. You know it's your mug because it's slightly chipped on the rim and green and has a small frog on it that is wearing a raincoat, and it is not the kind of mug that would belong to the Jack you know.

He fills it and puts exactly the right amount of creamer in it. He just pours and stops at precisely the point your brain says yep.

When he turns around, his eyes go from you to the mug and he crosses the kitchen, holds it out, and you take it and you look down at it for a moment. "You know how I take it." 

“Very much so.” He smiles at you and you can’t help feel a warmth rush through you.

It’s a thrill seeing Dr. Abbot smile. Something, well now that you think about it, he never offered up to anyone at PTMC. You had made a bet with John one time to see if you could make him laugh and never succeeded. And even though you couldn’t remember the exact moment where your relationship changed from just an attending to romantic, you think if he in any way smiled at you like that, it would have been then. 

He leans against the counter and drinks his own cup and looks out the kitchen window at the garden. You walk up next to him and peer out. It’s the garden of someone who actually tends to it diligently. Beds along the fence, something climbing the far wall, a small table and two chairs on a stone patio that look used rather than staged.

"Did I do that?" you say. "The garden?"

"Yours and the garden's mutual agreement, mostly. It does what it wants. You negotiate."

"Do you garden?"

"I pull things when you tell me to pull them."

You take your first sip of coffee and it is perfect. You look at the garden and think about a version of yourself that grows things, that negotiates with soil and weather and it feels true in the way everything in this house feels true. Slightly out of reach but recognizable, like a word on the tip of your tongue.

"I want to go back to work." you say. You can feel yourself grasping for some sense of normalcy. Nursing is what you know. You’re good at it and you desperately need something good right now. 

Jack is quiet for a moment. "They said two weeks."

"I can't." you stop to find the best words. "I need something that's mine. That's the same. The hospital is the same. My hands know what to do there even if my head is.." you gesture vaguely. "I need that."

“I’ll make some calls.” The way he’s looking at you hurts. You know it’s killing him.

Was this your usual routine? Would you have been in his arms by now? 

"Thank you."

He nods and turns back to the window. "I'll make some breakfast. Eggs okay?"

You blink. "You cook?"

He looks at you and laughs a little. "You were very surprised the first time too."

You sit down at the kitchen table. Your spot, you assume, is the chair facing the window, because it has the best view of the garden and that is clearly important to you. And you watch Jack make eggs in sweatpants in the kitchen of the house you share, and you drink your perfect coffee. And all you can think is whoever I used to be, she’s a lucky girl. 

...

The day after that is the same, and different. He works. You don't, yet. You learn the house room by room. You find a bookshelf in the living room where his books and yours are completely integrated, alphabetized together without apparent concern for ownership, and you stand in front of it for a long time. 

You find a drawer in the kitchen that is inexplicably full of takeout menus and twist ties and a single AA battery and one very small notebook with the words do not throw away on the cover that turns out to be a log of every plant in the garden including their names.

There's a small rosemary bush called Pip.

When Jack comes home from his shift he looks tired. When he comes into the kitchen, he stops when he sees you perched on the island, plant book in hand.

"Hi." he says. After a moment, "How was your day?"

"I read about Pip." You waved the book towards him

His expression is fond. "He's doing well." he says carefully. "I water Pip sometimes when you've been called to do a morning shift."

You stare at him and think about the version of this man who haunts your actual memories. Closed off, impersonal, half a degree below cold and then you think about a man who waters a rosemary bush for you. And calls it by it’s government name you’ve given it.

"I'm not.." you stop. "It's not that I think you're lying. About any of it. I can see that this is real, I can see that everywhere in this house. I just.."

"You don't have to explain it." he says.

"I just need to arrive there myself." you say. "On my own. I can't be told about it, I have to find it. Does that make sense?"

He is quiet for a moment. "Yes. That makes a lot of sense."

You smile up at him then and you watch as he takes a catalogue of your face. He’s still standing across the room, but you can see as his eyes slowly move from your face, down. Over your body, down to your legs that are more exposed than you wanted them to be, but apparently all you own is small pajama shorts. 

You can’t help the heat that blooms across your face. And for a moment you are both stood there, staring at each other. You feel a tug, a pull in his direction, but he’s still your attending to you.

You clear your throat. “TIme for bed, goodnight.” And you quickly walk past him, brushing him just slightly on your way towards the stairs. 

...

Jack stood in the kitchen for a full minute after he heard the guest room door close.

The way you'd looked up at him with that almost smile still warm on your face, and then your eyes had gone somewhere they hadn't meant to go, and his had too, and the air in the kitchen had changed into something he recognized and had no business recognizing right now.

He turned the cold water on at the kitchen tap and drank a glass of it standing over the sink.

The problem was that three years of marriage had left him with a detailed and vivid knowledge of his wife that did not simply switch off because you'd forgotten it. He knew the way you looked in low light. He knew the sound you made when something surprised you. He knew in great detail, what it was like to reach for you in the dark and have you reach back.

He put the glass down and pressed his hands flat on the counter.

You'd been standing there in those pajama shorts and you'd smiled at him, and for few seconds he'd forgotten every resolution he'd made to help you get better. The image wouldn’t leave him. It stayed burned in the back of his eyelids, a dull ache presently settling low in his hips.

He sat in his chair in the shower for a long time with the water colder than was strictly pleasant and tried to think about literally anything else, which was not a strategy that was working.

His brain, unimpressed with his attempts at discipline, served up the memory he least needed right now with the cruelty of an organ that had no stake in his personal conduct.

He had not been, prior to you, someone who moved quickly toward anything that required vulnerability. He'd had a therapist once who described him as relationally avoidant and considered this both accurate and an understatement, and he hadn't argued the point.

And then there had been you, appearing in his life. By the time you’d gotten married he'd been half in love with you for two years anyways. So, the first time you had sex, it had been the best night of his life, which he recognized was a significant claim and stood by it. 

Because of you.

He reached down, his fingers wrapping around himself, slick with soap and the water that he now turned back to hot. The first touch made his breath hitch, his thumb tracing the heavy, leaking length of him as he began a slow stroke. He closed his eyes and he wasn’t in the shower anymore. He was back in your bedroom at your apartment.

That first time. 

He remembered the exact sound you made when he first pushed your thighs back. That soft catch of air in your throat. He remembered the friction, the overwhelming warmth of you wrapping tight around him and the way you’d looked up at him, completely undone. 

Jack’s grip tightened, his pace quickening as his hand moved in a hard rhythm. He arched his back into the spray, his teeth gritting as the friction built. 

He remembered you laughing when you’d awkwardly shifted and lost footing on the edge of the mattress and the sheer intimacy of it had shattered whatever restraint he had left. You’d pulled him down by the shoulders, your slick skin sliding against his, anchoring him. 

“Fuck.” he choked out into the steam.

The recollection of your tightness, of the desperate way you had clung to him, drove him over the edge. He fisted himself with a relentless speed.

He buried his forehead against the wet tile, his hips snapping forward blindly against his own palm as the tension coiled into something explosive.

He was completely trapped in the memory of you, matching the rhythm of his hand to your phantom gasps, until the pressure broke and he boiled over. His body shuddering violently as he spent himself against the tile. 

He turned the water off and sat there for a while. He could want her and not show it. He'd been doing that for the better part of what felt like forever before they got together.

He was going to be so unrelentingly patient that it would probably annoy him in retrospect.

He dried off and got into bed and listened to the house settle and thought about the way her shoulder had felt against his arm for a brief second in the kitchen.

Get it together, Abbot

taglist: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @essie1876 @sir-thisisadndserver @givemethemaknaes16 @tlc3802 @reviewsandreadathons-blog @estellahhh @peaches-1515 @sturns55 @saralovesjoelmiller @kneelforloki @locaalolaa @agent616-declassified @renegadebirch @uhhhhokayyyyy @lacy1986 @generation-zero @lovehadlovelost @seikamuzu @lanadelrey10 @fangirlcentral1 @iloveclarkent

[flawssy-227]

I love the way you described the house and the little ways Jack truly knows her🥲 so bittersweet

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

love me again // jack abbot pt. 2

you wake up in a hospital room at ptmc and you have no idea how you got there or why. but when your night shift attending comes bursting in the room all frazzled and worried, things get even more confusing. especially when he's saying he's your husband.

genre: jack abbot x nurse!reader, lover to stranger to ??? it's amnesia!!, 18+ eventual smut, multi-part, john shen best friend because i cannot stop writing him i love him so much mwah

word count: 1470

(a/n: :))))) not sure if there will be a regular schedule for this one but plz enjoy!!! also just a psa, if you ask to be added to the taglist in a reblog, there's a chance i wont see it! so be sure to comment if you'd like to be added!!)

part 1 // part 3

Jack was elbow deep in a chest lac when his phone buzzed in his pocket, which was not unusual. He was good at ignoring things. It was arguably his best skill.

But then it buzzed again. And again. 

Before he could answer, John appeared at the door. "Abbot, Y/N was brought in. Trauma bay two. Car accident."

He didn't remember crossing the ER.  What he remembered very clearly was the moment he pushed through the door.

You were on the table and there were four people around you and the monitor above your head was doing things he didn't like. He looked at your face and his hands started shaking.

"Abbot." Ellis was in his peripheral vision with an expression that was both sympathetic and immovable. "You need to step out."

"I'm fine."

"Jack."

He knew that she was right, that he was categorically not fine, that the first rule was you did not treat family because family made your hands shake and shaking hands made mistakes and mistakes were..

"What are her vitals?" he said. His voice came out wrong. Too tight.

He was aware, distantly, that his breathing was growing more labored. In and out quickly. A pace that he never let himself get to in life, not anymore, much less in here. 

"She's stable." Ellis said again, slower. "We have her. But you cannot be in here. You know you cannot be in here."

He stood in the hallway outside the trauma bay for the most terrifying forty minutes of his life. And when they came to tell him you were okay, it wasn’t without a “but..” and if his world wasn’t already crumbling around him, this would have done it. 

"Retrograde amnesia." he said.

"Possibly. Neuro will have a better picture once she's finished the assessment. It may be temporary. Trauma induced amnesia often resolves on its own, it could be hours, days.." John passed him a coffee cup. 

He stood and drank it and ran the math. Five years ago, you were a second year nurse. You knew him. A version of himself he did not particularly like in retrospect. The one who had not yet learned, slowly and against his will and mostly because of you, that existing in proximity to other people did not have to feel like pulling teeth. 

When he walked to your room, he stood outside of the door for a moment with his hand on the frame.

You were in there not knowing years of this life you’d built together. The first time you'd called him by his first name, the argument about the thermostat that had somehow ended with both of you laughing, the morning you'd looked at him over coffee and said I think I might be in love with you. 

You did not know his hands, or his voice at 2 a.m., or the fact that he had driven forty minutes out of his way for three weeks to find a coffee place that did the exact cold brew you liked. You did not know any of the things that mattered.

All of it, just. Gone.

And he was about to walk in and be a stranger.

When you said okay in that small, stunned voice when you found out that Jack was in fact not just an attending that was worried about you, he almost said a lot of things that he didn't have the right to say yet.

Instead he said, "I'll get the doctor."

In the hallway, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and thought, Fine. From the beginning then.

He had done it once. He could do it again.

...

“The memories themselves may not be gone, it's more accurate to say the retrieval pathway has been disrupted by the trauma. Many patients recover fully. Some recover partially. The timeline varies." The neurologist stood at the edge of your bed. Warm smile, and sympathetic eyes. You couldn’t help the way your eyes slid over to the window that looked out into the hall. Jack was standing outside with his back to you. 

"And in the meantime?" you said.

"In the meantime," she says "you live your life. Familiar environments, familiar people, familiar routines. These are all helpful. We don't recommend forcing it."

You look at the ring on your left hand.

Familiar people. 

The doctor follows your gaze. "Your husband has been fully briefed. He's aware that this will require patience."

…

The face that appears in the doorway later is not, thank god, Dr. Abbot.

John Shen has been your best friend since approximately your third week at PTMC, a fact established when you both realized you both had the same favorite movie (Scott Pilgrim) and the same dislike in foods (fennel, yuck.)

He was amazing and wonderful and you were so glad to see him except he was currently, doing an extraordinarily bad job of keeping his face under control.

"Don't." you say.

"I haven't said anything." He crosses the room and pulls up the chair and sits in it backwards, arms folded over the top rail. "How's your head?"

"Functional. Confused." You pause, hands reaching to fiddle with the ring. "Is it true?"

He turns it on you now, full watt smile. "Is what true?" Even with an injury, he'd still find ways to tease you.

"Don't make me say it."

"I really think you should say it."

You press your lips together. "Is Dr. Abbot my husband?"

"Yeah," he says. "He is."

You finish twisting it around and look back at him. "That's insane."

"Little bit."

You laugh and it surprises you. Comes out before you mean it to, pulls at something near your ribs. John smiles at it.

"I need proof." you say.

He's already pulling out his phone. The first photo he shows you is from what appears to be some kind of department gathering. A rooftop somewhere, summer, everyone slightly rumpled. You and Jack are standing at the edge of the group and he has his arm around your shoulders and you are laughing at something with your whole body and he is looking at you.

Not at the camera. At you, so private and unguarded that you feel immediately as though you have walked in on something you weren't supposed to see.

John swiped and there is a photo from what must be the wedding and the thing that gets you is how natural it looks. How much it looks like the obvious conclusion to something. Like anyone who knew you both would look at this and say of course, yes, inevitably.

You study your own face in the photo and you look like the happiest you’ve ever been. 

"He's got more on his phone." John says quietly. "A lot more."

"What is he like?" you ask. "Actually. I know the version of him I know, but that's clearly not.." you gesture at the wedding photo still on John's phone.

John leans back, considering. "Still himself." he says finally. "Still intense. Still not exactly the warmest guy in any given room. But you?" he pauses. "You changed him somehow. I don't fully know how to explain it.”

You look at the door again.

"The version of him you remember," John says, like he can hear you thinking, "was working very hard at something with you. You just didn't know what yet." 

You look at the ring again. Rub your thumb over it. You look at the wedding photo one more time. At your own face, laughing, leaning into a man whose eyes haven't left you for a second.

"I'm going home with him." you say.

John doesn't look surprised. He looks, if anything, like this is the answer he expected. "Yeah?"

The door opens before you can respond, and Jack comes in, slightly less disheveled than before, holding two cups of coffee. He sees John and then his eyes come to you.

"Is one of those for me?" you say.

Something in his expression unknots, just slightly. "It's bad coffee." he says. "The good machine is broken."

"I've had the bad coffee. I've worked here two years." Then your mind catches up to itself. Remembering. “Or, I guess five?” 

He brings it to you and John stands, stretches, claps Jack once on the shoulder and heads for the door. “I’ll check on you tomorrow!” 

Jack sits next to you and the awkward silence ensues. But to his credit the coffee is, as advertised, terrible.

You still drink the whole thing.

taglist: @thegirlwhowaited5everok @essie1876 @sir-thisisadndserver @givemethemaknaes16 @tlc3802 @reviewsandreadathons-blog @estellahhh @peaches-1515 @sturns55

[flawssy-227]

I love this far! I'm glad she has John as a friend. I can't wait to read how her and Jack are at home💘