summary: as a fourth year resident in the Obstetrics department at PTMC, and the wife of jack abbot, calls down to the ER almost always brighten your day. certified wife guy jack abbot loves to see his girl in action.
content warnings: MDNI! graphic descriptions of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, a lil angst, husband jack abbot banter and fluff with his favorite person, you ;)
word count: 3.3k
authors note: just a little something that popped into my mind rewatching that season 2 case. pretty medical heavy but drop a comment if you enjoyed :)
“Hey, Dr. Abbot,” Medic Nguyen says, pulling out the heavily pregnant woman on the gurney from the back of the rig, “this is Judith Lastrade, 36 weeks pregnant with two days of headache, now a 10 out of 10 with blurred vision. BP 174/120, heart rate 92. No relief with fentanyl.”
“Judith, I'm Dr. Abbot,” Jack says calmly, “any weakness in your arms or legs?”
“No, no. Is this a stroke?” She says, resting her hand on her stomach.
“We need to check for everything,” Jack says, pushing her gurney into the ER with Robby and the medics.
“Where are you doing your prenatal care?” Robby asks.
“Nowhere.” Judith says, firm and defensive. “It's a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”
“Uh, ok,” Jack says, exchanging a charged glance with Robby as they push her into trauma two. “Mateo, Nazely, Henderson, with me. Lena, call up to OB, ask for-”
“I know who to ask for,” Lena says, smiling, phone already to her ear.
“CTG is on,” Mateo says, adjusting the strap on Judith's belly.
“CTG?” Judith says, looking up at him.
“Cardiotocography. Measures the baby's heart rate and checks for contractions.” Jack says, crouching forward, reading the stats on the machine, “fetal heart rate 128. Normal range, Nazely?”
“110 to 160,” Nazley says.
“So the baby's OK?” Judith says.
“Right now, yes.” Henderson says, “128 is reassuring,”
“Your next move, Crus?” Jack asks.
“20 of labetalol, IV push over two minutes,” Crus says, pulling the meds from the nearby drawer.
“Uh, what's happening?” Judith asks, the monitors beeping rhythmically in the background.
“You have a condition called preeclampsia,” Nazley offers gently.
“And how did it happen?” Judith says, voice laced with worry.
“Uh, nobody really knows, actually,” Jack says, looking out the glass doors towards the hub, wondering where you are, “it affects about 10% of the pregnancies. High blood pressure, headaches, protein in the urine, and swollen ankles.”
“Ok, well, it's a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care,” Judith says,
“Then why are you here?” Robby says, no concern in his voice.
“I just need to get rid of this headache,” she says, tears starting to well in her eyes,
“Well, if we don't lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium, there can be problems.” Abbot says gentler, trying to correct Robby’s harsh tone.
“Like what?” Judith sniffs.
“Seizures, bleeding, even death, for you and the baby,” Crus says.
“Oh, my God,” Judith cries.
“Robby,” Dana says, poking her head in the room, “need you in trauma one,”
“OK,” Robby says, following Dana out of the room, “you good?”
“Yeah, I'm good. I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won't. Maybe one eye.” Jack clicks his tongue as he winks at Judith.
“Jesus, Jack, she’s already pregnant,” you say, a cheeky smile on your face as you push through the back door of the trauma room. His whole face lights up as you walk into the room, your jade green scrubs hugging your hips just the way he likes. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out to you and squeezing your waist.
“She’s the other Dr. Abbot?” Nazley says under her breath to Crus, “she’s so much younger than him,”
“Yeah,” Crus murmurs back but you and Jack don’t hear them, the two of you in your own world for a moment, “they kinda don’t give a fuck,”
“Hey,” Jack says, his voice dropping to something much softer. He’s in awe of how beautiful you look under the harsh fluorescences of the ER.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile, shaking your head, rubbing in the purell on your hands. The little group of nurses and doctors gather around you. You nod hello to Crus and Mateo, pausing on Nazely, “I don’t think we’ve gotten to work together yet,” you hold out your hand to her introducing yourself.
“Nazley Toomarian, intern,” she says, “I- I just started tonight,”
“Jesus and they put you on the night shift?” You turn to Jack, “free her.”
“I didn’t assign her to the night shift,” Jack holds his hands up in self defense.
“Well, it’s really nice to meet you Dr. Toomarian,” you say, “you’ve got a good teacher here,” you wink at Jack.
“You’re not biased or anything,” Jack smiles.
“Not at all,” you roll your eyes playfully, “whaddya got for me?”
“This is Judith. G1, P0 with no prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension,” Nazley says, standing up a little straighter as she speaks to you, before turning back to Judith, “How's the headache?”
“Still a 10,” Judith moans.
“More fentanyl?” Crus asks.
“Yep,” Abbot says, trying to suppress the smile that wants to form on his face now that you’re in the room. He leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “missed you,”
“Jack, you saw me two hours ago,” you smile, "remember? We carpooled from our house?”
“BP's good,” Crus says, eyes on the monitor, “another fifty,”
Your eyes linger on Jack as he beams at you while you walk over to the patient's bedside.
“Hi Judith,” you say softly, “I’m Dr. Abbot from OB,”
“I thought he was Dr. Abbot,” Judith looks towards Jack.
“He is. I- uh- am too,” you smile at her, “we’re married,”
“Oh,” Judith sighs, “that’s nice. That you get to work together I mean. Do you have kids?”
“No,” you say, and you don’t have to turn your head to see that Jack has walked up next to you, to feel the tension radiating off Jack at her question. Thankfully Crus intervenes before Jack boils over.
“Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.” Crus says, handing you the wand and gel.
“No, no, no.” Judith wraps her arms around her stomach, “ultrasound can harm the baby.”
“Not true.” Jack says curtly.
“I understand that you feel scared but not doing the ultrasound can end up harming you and the baby,” you say gently, “I want to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Ok,” Judith huffs, dropping her arm, “just do it as fast as you can,”
“Why no prenatal care, Judith?” You say, no judgment in your voice, squirting the gel on her stomach.
“I wanted a free birth,” she says defensively, “no doctors, no hospital, no medicine.”
“Mm,” Jack says from beside you, “you have a midwife? A birth doula?”
“No, I don't need one,” Judith says, as you drag the wand over her belly, “women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, clearly getting irritated, “with an infant mortality rate of 30% for most of those thousands of years,”
“You know Judith,” you say, cutting off your husband, speaking softly while keeping your eyes on the screen, “for a lot of those years birthing was a community event. Women relied on midwives and the other women in their lives to help them during childbirth.”
“What is this good cop bad cop?” Judith moans.
“I know this isn’t how you envisioned it,” you say, turning to her, “but there are a lot of people here who are more than happy to help you, if you’d let us.”
“Dr. Abbot is the best doctor in this hospital,” Jack says, feeling his heart swell at the patience and care you’re offering such a difficult patient, “I’d listen to her if I were you,”
“Femur length seven centimeters,” you say to Jack, “37 weeks. I’d induce.”
“What?” Judith says, panicked, “no, no, no. Absolutely not.”
“At 37 weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby,” Jack says firmly, but with a little less bite, “we need to get you upstairs so Dr. Abbot can induce labor to save you and your baby.”
“No.” Judith sits up, shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
You stand, exchanging a knowing look with Jack before walking over to the phone and calling up to the OB department for a room.
“Labs are coming back.” Nazley says, pulling the labs up on the computer, “Hemoglobin 7.5, platelets 40. LFTs are sky high.”
“HELLP syndrome,” Jack shakes his head, looking at the results.
“Hemolytic anemia, elevated liver enzymes, and low platelets,” Crus explains to Nazley.
“They're cleaning a room,” you say, hanging up the phone, “I can bring her up in ten minutes.”
“How you doing, Judith?” Jack says, walking back to her bedside.
“I- I-” Judith’s eyes roll back, her body starts to spasm.
“Oh, she's seizing,” Nazely says.
“Oh, shit,” you say, moving next to Jack, “10 of IV diazepam. Have another 10 ready,”
“With all the movement, we can't get a fetal heartbeat,” Mateo says, checking the CTG.
“Putting on 15 liters by mask. Should we intubate?” Crus asks.
“Hold intubation. Let's try to break this. We don't want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to,” you say to Nazley, explaining your rationale.
“Nazely, what's the diagnosis?” Jack asks.
“Um, with the seizure, now it's eclampsia,” Nazely says.
“Fetal heart rate is about 90,” you shake your head, “way too low,”
“Mom's sats are going down,” Mateo says, his eyes on the monitor.
“Time to tube her?” Crus asks, looking between you and Jack. The two of you stare at each other, seeming to telepathically communicate.
“Set up for it, but wait,” you speak for the pair of you, “another 10 of diazepam. Push 4 grams of Keppra.”
“Pulse ox is 88,” Mateo says, shaking his head.
“Dr. Abbot?” Crus says, looking at Jack, “Intubate?”
But Jack looks at you.
“Let’s do it,” you say.
“Nazely, what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?” Jack says.
“Etomidate and roc,” Nazely offers her best guess.
“Mm, not quite, Dr. Toomarian,” you say, snapping on a pair of gloves, “120 of propofol, 60 of succinylcholine.”
“Why is that, Crus?” Jack says, pulling on his own pair of gloves.
“Propofol for the anti-seizure effect, sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.” Crus says.
“Exactly,” Jack nods.
“Pushing the propofol,” Mateo injects the medication into Judith’s IV.
“Once she's flat for intubation we need to displace the uterus to the left,” you say across the table to Jack.
“Nazely, that's you. Big hug, both arms. Get the baby off the vena cava.” Jack mimes the movement, guiding her.
“What's she had so far?” Shen says, walking in the room.
“30 of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol,” Jack says, eyes on the monitor.
“Damn.” Ellis’ eyes follow Jack's, “What's your next step?”
“Any ideas?” Jack asks the room, “Nazely?”
“Dilantin? Valproate?” Nazely offers.
“Infusion is too long. Push 100 of ketamine. That's had results with refractory status,” you say, nodding at Nazely. She injects the ketamine into the IV and immediately the heart rate picks up, but not as much as you’d like, “little better.”
“Yeah. She should be upstairs with the rest of OB,” Shen shakes his head.
“Best of OB is down here with us,” Jack says, looking at you with adoration. You smile and shake your head at his compliment. The phone in the room rings and Ellis moves to pick it up.
“Ok, got it.” she says, “OB says send her and Dr. Abbot up. They have an OR ready.”
“This one looks like it took a turn for the worse,” Robby says walking into the room, and as if he spoke it into existence, Judith’s heart starts to fail, “fuck. V-fib”!
“Chest compressions, Dr. Toomarian, Charge to 200,” you say, commanding the room, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call the NICU. Start a timer.”
“Charged. Clear.” Mateo says. Everyone raises their hands off Judith and steps back. A shock jolts her body but her heart doesn’t pick up again on its own, “continue compressions!”
“Gown up, baby, it's you and me.” Abbot looks across the table at you and you give your head a little shake at the pet name in this dire circumstance.
“Dr. Toomarian, do you know the four-minute rule?” You ask as Mateo helps you slip on a gown.
“Uh, not sure.” Nazely says, tying Jack’s gown for him.
“Pregnant patient with a viable fetus, you have four minutes after cardiac arrest to save the baby.” You say, sliding your goggles up your nose.
“And the mom,” Jack adds, “we don't call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It's a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”
“But she doesn't want any medical intervention.” Nazley says tepidly.
“Doesn't matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” You say. “OK, charge to 200. One more rhythm check and then Jack and I are gonna cut. Ellis, you and Crus on Mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. OK, hold compressions.”
Everyone steps back, raising their hands off Judith’s limp body.
“Still V-fib.” Crus shakes his head.
“We need to get this baby out right now,” Jack says to you, and you nod, “let’s have eyes on Dr. Abbot, this is a priceless demonstration we’re about to get,”
“Ok, ten blade,” you say, holding out your hand, grateful you’re masked up so the trauma room can’t see you blush. Mateo places the scalpel in your hand.
“First incision is from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis through the skin to the linea alba.” You say, dragging the blade down her belly.
“Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus,” you’re laser focused, making an identical incision on the deeper layer of skin.
“Ellis, gentle traction,” Jack says, pulling back his retractor and she mirrors his movements.
“Ok, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby,” you say, taking the scissors from Mateo, “using scissors to extend superiorly.”
“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.” Jack says, knowing what you need before you have to ask.
“Amniotic fluid looks good,” you say, as it spills out, “give me some fundal pressure.”
“Breech position,” Jack says, as you reach into her uterus.
“Baby's out. It's a girl!” You say, and Jack can hear the smile in your voice. He knows that this is your favorite part, usually much more joyful and with the mother conscious.
“Ok, blue and flaccid. We got mommy, you take baby,” You say to Shen. Everyone works in frantic precision. You pull out the placenta in a smooth motion, getting it all out in one go.
“Hold compressions.” Jack says.
“I got a weak carotid.” Mateo says, and you breathe out in relief.
“No seizure activity on the EEG.” Crus says, eyes on the monitor.
“Ah!” Shen calls from across the room, “Baby girl just scored the winning point! APGAR of 8 is pretty normal.”
“Holy shit,” Dr. Pettyfer, your OB colleague pushes in the room, “what did I miss?
“Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.” Jack says, resting his hands on his hips.
“I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section,” Pettyfer says, looking between you and Jack, “got your text 12 minutes ago.”
“Shit happens fast down here,” Jack shrugs.
“Dr. Abbot did a resuscitative hysterotomy in 36 seconds.” Crus says, awe in his voice.
“Impressive,” Pettyfer crosses his arm, looking down at Judith.
“You’re not gonna ask which one?” Jack says, crossing his arms.
“I don’t have to,” Pettyfer smirks.
“NICU's sending a team down,” Mateo says, hanging up the phone.
“Alright well I can take mom along with my star resident,” Pettyfer nods at you before turning to the ER crew, “you guys are rock stars,”
“We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night,” Jack says, a playful lilt in his voice.
“My god,” you roll your eyes at him, before turning back to Pettyfer, “can I meet you up there in five? I wanna wait for NICU to come get the baby,”
“Yeah, no problem,” Pettyfer says as Crus and Ellis help him roll Judith out of the room, the rest of the ER staff clearing out leaving you and Jack alone. You lock eyes and let out a long, deep breath.
“You were amazing,” Jack says, walking towards you, the tip of his boot bumping against your sneaker.
“I fucking hate anti-vaxx, make america healthy again bullshit people,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jack teases as he moves his arms around your body, holding you against him. You pinch his side and he yells out a little yelp.
“She was scared,” you say, breathing in his smell, “idiots can be scared too, Jack,”
“So true, baby,” he says, rubbing his hand up and down your back, “you were good with her,”
“I was,” you sigh.
“I didn’t like it when she asked if we had kids,” Jack says into your hair.
“She was just scared, looking for a little connection,” you say, pulling back so you can look your husband in the eye, “it’s ok that we’re doing things our own way. We’re allowed to not want kids.”
“I love you so much,” he says, squeezing your hip.
“I love you so much,” you echo.
“Fuck kids,” Jack says.
“Fuck kids,” you say so enthusiastically Jack can’t help but laugh, “...for us though. For other people it’s super important to my livelihood.”
“Right,” Jack nods in mock seriousness. You smile at him, running your hands up his arms, locking your fingers behind his neck.
“I want you all to myself,” you whisper, leaning up, quickly biting his ear lobe. Jack grips down on your waist and lets out a small, soft groan.
“You got me,” he rasps.
“I know,” you smile, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I gotta get back upstairs my love,”
“Ok,” he says, trying not to be so disappointed, especially after getting to spend a little extra time with you.
Jack shoves his hands in his pockets as the pair of you walk towards the elevators, knowing he’d be too tempted to take your hand if he didn’t.
“If I give you constructive feedback will you still love me?” You say, as the pair of you move slowly through the pitt.
“I’ll love you no matter what,” Jack hums.
“You should try to call Nazley Dr. Toomarian,” you say, clasping your hands behind your back, “she just became a doctor. And I know you have your whole fun-attending-night-crawlers thing but… she worked hard to get here and I think it could mean a lot. Especially because the night shift down here is kind of a boys club,”
“We have Ellis!” Jack says.
“Jack…” you stop in front of the elevator giving him a somewhat incredulous look,“Ellis is the head of boys club,”
“Point taken,” he laughs, pausing, letting his eyes run over your face. “Ok. I’ll work on that. Can I give you some constructive feedback?” He pushes the elevator button for you.
“Of course,” you smile. Jack leans towards you, letting his finger brush against the back of your palm, against your wedding band.
“Your ass… looks amazing in those scrubs,” he whispers.
“Jack!” You laugh, as the elevator dings open, starting to walk through the doors.
“Hey,” Jack says in almost a whine, grasping your hand in his.
“What?” You smile.
“No kiss?” He says, his eyes wide and puppy-like.
“We are at work,” you smile, squeezing his hand and he gives you this look like he knows you want to kiss him just as badly. You sigh, “fine. A little one,”
“Just a little one,” Jack says, crinkling his nose, leaning towards you, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You giggle against his mouth, turning your head away.
“That’s all you get,” you smile, pulling away, backing into the elevator.
“I’ll see you later,” Jack says, the tips of his ears red, burying his hands in his pockets.
“Bye, Dr. Abbot,” you say, drawing out his name with a flirty twang.
“Bye Dr. Abbot,” he nods at you with that smoldering look you love so much. You blow him a little kiss before the elevator doors slide shut. He catches it and presses it against his heart. It’s gonna be a long shift.
Brendon Park who actually craves softness in sex. Who doesn’t have much gentle contact with other human beings so when he has it in bed he fucking savors it. Who loves lips on his neck and hands on his back and soft grabs of his muscles.
And you should have seen this coming, really. Now it feels so obvious. Of corse Brendon would be touch starved. A guy with such a hard, cold, rigid life. But you couldn’t imagine it
But now it’s clear as day. Now you see it.
You wrap your arms around his torso and he moans softly in your ear. You kiss along his jaw, his stubbly five o’clock shadow and he shudders. Rub your hands up and down his firm chest and be whispers “baby” like a plea.
He’s actually real sweet in bed, empathetic. When you feel awkward and shy he reassures you softly in low tones, guiding you along. No shame or turn off, just help, just trust. You’re safe, you can be a little awkward with him. This is soecial and intimate.
In the aftermath, then, he doesn’t kick you out and take a boiling shower like you’d expected. He pulls you into his chest- apparently he likes to cuddle face to face- kisses you slow and gentle and no longer sexually charged, strokes your hair, rubs your back. He’s cuddly. And he’s a good cuddler. And it’s been a long time since you’ve been held, so how long has it been for him? So when he holds you close you hold him back closer and stay there. Stay snug.
Park the Shark x ED!fem!resident!reader—in which, you used to work for him in your med student years which earns you the nickname "Shark bait" from your friend Trinity and you come to realize just how true that nickname is.
TW: 18+ MDNI. It's smut, it's sex. Park is soft with only the reader. Reader hates the nickname "pup" that Park uses. But, it's like, just about the sex.
a/n: I cannot get this man out of my head so I had to write this. Hope you guys like it!
“You’re fucking with me right, Robby?” you ask him, hands on your hips as you raise your eyebrows, glancing at the scene before you, the severed leg and the scattered med student holding it. “Park’s on duty? He’s gonna eat these kids alive.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Robby replies and you sigh, rolling your eyes and assessing the scene, smiling once at Trinity whose eyes are narrowing at you, lips curving up of their own accord.
“Yeah, Shark bait, that’s why you’re here. He’ll bite you instead of us,” she replies, her lips fully curved up in that sardonic grin of hers, eyes glimmering with mirth and fire and the anticipation of a fight—the kind of anticipation borne from years of being friends, of learning the other’s mood and fears and irritants. Of becoming an irritant.
“So glad I can be the sacrificial resident today,” you quip, reaching over to the box of gloves, pulling them on and shaking your head, looking between the leg in the bag and the bloody stump attached to a person shaking from the numbed-out pain. “What are we looking at?” And the scattered med student, a new arrival, hesitantly and haltingly explains the story, how the industrial guillotine paper slicer at the person’s work broke off, slicing clean through their leg.
“Should be one Sharkie takes, right Shark bait? I mean, you would know since you worked under him for your med student years,” Trin says, her grin only growing and you roll your eyes at her before assessing the scene, clapping your hands together once.
“He’ll love it and hate all of us. Now, let’s prepare for a Shark Attack,” you reply, lips curving up in a saccharine sweet smile at Trin which she returns with glee. And then you see Robby stiffen and you curse internally before turning to the sliding doors, Dr. Brendan Park standing there, looking way too good in his purple scrubs, eyes locked on you.
“Pup?” he asks you and it does not matter how hot he is because you hate that he calls you that. You’ve hated it since your first shift as a M3 in ortho when he called you that because you listened well and did what he asked. Misogynistic asshole, you think, flicking your gaze to Trinity whose glaring daggers at him, best friend hackles on the rise. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Dr. Park,” you answer, waving one gloved hand and gesturing at the scene of blood and pain and fear behind you. “As an ED R2, I’m sure you understand that we take on traumas…some of which require consults. Like now.” He doesn’t move, still frozen, eyes locked on you and for once, you feel every inch the shark bait Trin calls you.
You hate that you like the way he’s looking at you, that you like him. You have since your first day on ortho, shocked by the man who appeared before you looking like a Greek God come to life dressed in purple scrubs. And you were a goner—until he called you pup. And then you tried to avoid him and his grip, switching to the ED for your residency, switching to your best friend Trinity. Switching to a place that was both safe and dangerous, but safer than himand the things he made he feel and the way he looked at you.
The way he’s looking at you now.
“Dr. Santos,” you call out, flicking your eyebrows up once, telegraphing help and she steps up, beginning to explain the case, her voice dark and threatening yet Park’s eyes never leave you and you can feel your entire body heating up, blood rushing everywhere his gaze looks, a very annoying response because it’s now far too uncomfortable here.
“Reattachment is possible. I’ll get an OR prepped. Scrub up, pup,” he says, eyes on you, only you as if there are no other people in the room but you and him, “you’re going back into the OR.”
“My apologies, Dr. Park,” you tell him, flashing a faux-apologetic smile at him. “I have patients here that I cannot leave, but Dr…” you pause, glancing at the med student’s badge, the name ANDERSON flashing up at you. “…Anderson will be happy to help you.” And then you pull the gloves from your hands with a snap, tossing them into the garbage bin, turning back to Trin. “Karaoke still on for tonight?”
“Duh,” she replies, following you out, her arm looping through yours. “You’ve yet to hear my rendition of ‘Casual’ by Chappell Roan, baby.”
“I live with you, Trin. I have heard your rendition because that’s just you and Yoyo.” You laugh as she slaps your arm before the two of you flash your badges at terminals, sighing and cracking your knuckles.
“Charting,” you two say at the same time, laughing once again so hard that Dana looks back over her shoulder just to check that the two of you are still alive.
And you are. But even through the laughing, you can’t rid your mind of those predator eyes and the way they latched onto you like you were prey—like you were bait.
***
Karaoke night with the Pitt crew was always interesting. It meant that you, Trinity, Dennis, Victoria, Yoyo, McKay (when she could wrangle a babysitter), Mohan (because you insisted she needed a life), Robby and any Night Crew who miraculously had the day off, all showed up at the same bar, booking all the singing slots while getting slammed.
Fun times every Friday.
Except this time wasn’t so fun. Because Park the Shark had heard you ask Trinity about it and somehow managed to figure out the bar and decided to show up. Unfairly because he was even hotter out of his scrubs. And because he was watching you with that look he always had in his eyes, the one that made you question whether you really hated him at all.
“You really are shark bait, Shark bait,” Trin whispers to you, her breath skating along the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think we’d ever see Park the Shark out of PTMC.”
“I feel like we’re about to get eaten!” Dennis calls out as he approaches, a tray laden with shots—two each for him, Trin and Vic and two shot glasses of lemonade for you because you don’t drink.
“Not us, Huckleberry,” Trin says, her gaze tracking the Shark as he moves deeper into the bar, closer to you. “Just Shark bait here. She’s gonna do what Shark bait does…” she trails off, widening her eyes at you as she slams back a tequila shot, smiling once in a poisonously sweet way, “get the bite.” And then she slams back the second shot, departing with a wave of her fingers, her set up on the machine—“Casual” by Chappell Roan.
“Hey, pup,” calls out Park and every nerve in your body is on edge, his voice eliciting that feeling like burning and freezing all at once, both pleasant and painful. Like him. “Yoyo always talks about these nights, thought I might check it out.” And then his body brushes your back as he takes Trin’s recently vacated spot, your body tensing in a way that has nothing to do with hate.
“You know, Vic,” Dennis says, looking at you with wide eyes, “we should move closer to…heckle Santos. Yeah, that’s what we should do.” And the two of them take off after downing their shots, looking back at you with wide WTF eyes before disappearing into the crowd of rowdy, adrenaline junky ER doctors.
“I should follow them,” you say and you start to stand from your chair but Park’s fingers close around your wrist, grip tight but not too tight, just enough to say don’t go.
“Wait a minute, pup,” he says, lips curving up in a grin that has no right to be as hot as it is. No right. “I just got here, why are you fleeing from me?” He looks at you like he cannot look away, like doing so would destroy him and you. Like if he looked away, you would disappear and he can’t have that. The way he looks at you sets a fire in your blood and you hate that it does.
Because you hate him. You think.
Right?
“Don’t call me that!” you snap at the same time as you sink back down into your seat, letting his hand linger on your wrist, heat simply growing in your skin as he shifts his fingers down to lace with yours. “I’m not your fucking pup! I’m a doctor and I deserve respect.”
“I don’t call you that to disrespect you,” he whispers, eyes never once straying from you, your skin heating under his gaze, those eyes so like the predator he was named for, unrelenting and far too hot. “I call you that to remind myself I can’t have you.”
“Can’t have me?” you whisper as the same time that the song, Trinity’s singing punctuates into your head, the lines knee-deep in the passenger and you’re eating me out. Is it casual now?
“You were my med student, I couldn’t do what I wanted to do,” he whispers, the words unusually soft for someone normally so harsh, his words as sharp and deadly as a shark bit.
“What did you want to do? To me, that is?” you ask, tone leading and sultry on purpose, your eyes lingering on his lips and the way his tongue darts out to wet them. The way he suddenly looks nervous underneath your stare, like you’re the predator and he’s the prey.
“I wanted to live up to that nickname you all have for me down in the ER. And I was going to make a move as soon as you came back for your residency but wouldn’t you know…” he pauses, looking at you once again with that stare, the one that’s making you burn, just burn—for him. “You never showed up. I had to find out through Garcia that you switched to the ED. You never even told me, pup.” He’s leaning forwards, his hand coming to rest on your cheek, his eyes no longer staring at you with the predator stare, but with longing, with lust.
And that you understand.
“Maybe I should live up to my nickname now,” you whisper, shifting towards him, your lips just inches from his.
“And what nickname would that be?” You reach your hand forwards, placing it on his knee as the music surrounding you (Dennis’s cracking voice on “Vampire” by Olivio Rodrigo) fades to a simple blur of noise and people, the only thing you can really see and hear before you, the doctor who makes you feel both fire and ice—lust and hate.
“Shark bait,” you whisper, biting your lip just slightly as his pupils expand, black eating away at blue, warming those icy eyes so completely that they resemble the ocean entire.
“I think I’ve been hooked,” he whispers and you’re gone. You’re entirely gone because fuck it you want this man. You want to fuck him just like you did when you were a med student with a dry mouth because no one should look that good in scrubs. And he’s even better in casual clothes.
And god he’ll look even better in nothing.
“I don’t think so,” you whisper, your lips now hovering just a millimetre above his, “see you haven’t taken a biteyet.”
“I’m about to.”
***
That’s what led to here and now, you inside his house, his bedroom, the two of you locked in a kiss that has your toes curling and your thighs tightening together because you need friction, need him. His hands are on your ass, pressing you closer to him and the obvious hardness, the one that rocks against you while his lips move on yours, tongue sliding and gliding along yours in a way that has you moaning and he isn’t even touching you, not really.
He pulls back just slightly, those eyes so dark like the bottom of the ocean where the water is the darkest, the thickest, locked on you with that stare that makes it seem like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him. Oxygen for the drowning man. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” you breathe and then his hands drift from your ass to the hem of your shirt, pulling it off, his lips parting as he groans, the sight of your lacy black bra too much for him to handle and then his lips are on yours, breath hot as he trails kisses down your jaw, your neck, nipping and biting and sucking. Marking.
“So…perfect,” he moans as his hands grip your hips, your thighs parting, just enough for him to grind his clothed cock over your clothed cunt, rocking in a way that has you mewling, hands clawing at his back, his lips finding your chest, mouth playing with your breasts through the lace of your bra, his eyes trained on yours, his face at your chest and the sight is too much, yet not enough.
“I said…yes,” you breathe out, your nails digging in just slightly as his hands trail from your hips up to your back, his fingers unhooking your bra, pulling it from you, his rocking never ceasing, the friction not enough. You need him. Just him, inside you.
Now.
“Let me have this, precious,” he murmurs, his words hot on the valley between your breasts, bra tossed somewhere in the room. You don’t care where.
“I need you,” you whine, your hands tangling in the short strands of his perfectly combed hair that isn’t so perfect now and that’s all you needed to say because now he’s lifting you and setting you ever so gently down on his bed, pulling your skirt and panties off, discarding them and stripping himself of clothes, climbing over you, his body unfairly hot and attention focused solely on you.
“You ready?” he asks you, his voice dark and husky and you nod and then you feel him slide against your entrance and his hips move forwards, inching himself inside so carefully until he’s sheathed, the stretch exquisite and perfect and amazing and omigod it feels like he was made to be there, inside of you.
Especially when he sheathes himself completely inside, just holding there for a moment, his lips on your neck and then he’s pulling back and snapping his hips forwards over and over, every time hitting that spot inside you. The one that has never been hit like this, like it is with him and you think that it is entirely unfair because he’s ruined you for sex with anyone else.
(you also think that may be partly his plan).
“You,” he murmurs against your neck, hips slamming into you, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the room in a way that is both lewd and hot and you never want it to stop. “Are so…fucking perfect.” You clench around him at his words, drawing forth a muttered curse from his lips as he freezes and then your hands—currently resting on his back, digging in a number of crescents—move to his face, pulling him from your neck, until he’s looking at you. Looking at you like he’s a starving man and you are all the nutrients he will ever need.
“Let me be in control,” you whisper and then he’s shifting, hands gripping your hips until he’s flat on the mattress and you’re resting on him. And then you rise just slightly, slamming down onto him, delighting in the way he moans the first time, your hips rocking and slamming in a way that has him tightening his grip on your hips as you bring yourself to your peak, shattering around him, that warm coil in your stomach coming loose around him, the clenching of your walls with your release, pulling his own from him and he lets go with a muted cry, spilling into the condom, his hands holding you in place for just a moment before he moves in a such a fast way that you don’t even know what’s happening, just that you’re on your back and he’s out, pulling the condom off and discarding it before climbing back over you.
“How many rounds, precious?” he asks you and, honestly, him calling you that name is almost enough to have you releasing, but all you do is smile at him, in a saccharine sweet way, your hand coming to rest on his cheek, his hand resting over yours.
“As many rounds as you have left in you, Sharkie.”
Those were dangerous words.
But you delighted in the danger that whole night.
***
“Looks like Shark bait got the bite last night,” Trinity says, her voice echoing through the Pitt as you sit down at one of the terminals, flashing your badge, the chart of your latest patient flashing up and you hold up the finger to her.
“Better than nothing at all,” you reply and you can hear her choked snort as she falls onto the stool beside you, her arm coming over your shoulder as she glances at the chart you’re working on. “There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, you know,” you remind her, hitting her with your elbow and she lets out a breathy laugh.
“Not in this place,” she replies and you can’t deny she’s right at the same time that the mood in the ED shifts, heavy footsteps echoing through the room.
“Dr. Park,” Robby calls out, “didn’t know we had an Ortho consult.”
“You don’t, Robinavitch,” you hear Park say, his voice ever so the Shark that the ER fears, the surgeon who can smell blood. And then you feel him stop behind you, his hand coming down ever so gently to rest on the small of your back. “I have something for you, precious.”
“And what is it?” you ask him, spinning on the stool, his hand sliding with the motion to rest on your waist as he crouches down before you, his one hand holding an iced coffee with a familiar dark blue scrunchie on it.
“A) a coffee,” he says, lips curving up in that gentle, tender smile, eyes looking at you with that look that makes you feel like you are everything that ever was for him, “and B) I have the scrunchie that you left at my place last night.” You accept the coffee from his hand, the scrunchie still around it as you take it off and slip it on his wrist.
“Maybe I left that so I’d have a reason to come back tonight,” you whisper and he simply smiles at you, the one he gave you last night, the one of desire and luck and contentment.
“You don’t need a reason to show up, precious,” he replies and you can feel the blood rush to your face, that heady mix of heat and pleasure in your cheeks and you bite your lip trying to suppress the smile that wants to grow, knowing that every person in the ER is watching and that Ahmad has already probably set up the betting board.
“You’re telling me I can just show up? Do you do this for everyone or just me?” you ask, your voice dropping lower as his hand, the one with the scrunchie on the wrist comes to rest on your cheek.
“Only for you, love,” he whispers, his voice soft and tender. “Only for you.”
And you know right then and there, that you will be showing up a lot. With or without a reason.
Because he wasn’t the one who was hooked. That was you.
“Good,” you whisper and then he’s pressing a soft kiss to your lips, one that lingers throughout the day until you show up at his house, kissing him as soon as he opens the door.
Brendon is working on paperwork for a string of consults he had just finished when a laugh pulls him from his thoughts.
Not just any laugh.
Yours.
He looks up to see you laughing in conversation with Trinity Santos.
He’s immediately captivated by you.
Brendon’s had a crush on you for a few months now but is scared you won’t reciprocate the feelings or give him a chance.
You’re sunshine embodied. You wear your heart on your sleeve and have more empathy in one finger than anyone could have in their entire body.
Then there’s him with a brooding attitude, resting bitch face, and intimidating demeanor that is completely opposite of you.
He sees you look over at him, your smile getting bigger,
You wave at him before saying something to Trinity before making your way over to him.
“Hey shark!” you say while propping your arms on the desk counter.
He can’t help but smile back, completely smitten with you.
“Hey star” he greets while giving you his full attention.
The nickname was specifically picked by Brendon in reference to your bright and glowing personality.
It was special and you loved it.
You loved more than the nickname.
You loved Brendon.
Some of the pitt crew tried encouraging you to say something to him but you couldn’t.
What if I’m annoying?
Does he think I’m ‘too happy’?
What if I don’t look good today?
Would he even feel the same?
Those were just a few thoughts that held you back every day from pursuing your favorite surgeon.
You gently tap his hand as you start to back away.
“If I don’t see you before shift change, have a great day and a good night Brendon.”
“I told you it’s okay to call me Bren, sweetheart,” he raises an eyebrow playfully at you “but I hope you have a great shift too, star.”
Your heart skips a beat from him calling you ‘sweetheart’.
“Thank you Bren. See you when I see you”
Then you hurry away to find Robby for your next line of cases.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You’re currently catching up on charts when you glance over to a room close to you. There’s a patient there, just resting. But something is telling you to go check on them. You’re not sure why but you trust your gut and make your way over.
You pull his chart from the end of the bed
Samuel Kingston, age 57
You close the chart and go to his side.
“Mr. Kingston, I’m a nurse and I just wanted to check and make sure you’re doing alright tonight.”
Mr. Kingston can barely open his eyes. He can barely respond and you notice his shallow but slightly rapid breathing.
“Mr. Kingston? Are you feeling okay?”
You quickly examine his eyes. Unfocused.
You can see sweat start to form on his hairline.
Quickly you take his blood pressure manually.
Fuck. It’s low. Way too low.
You reach for his chart and check his medication doses since being admitted.
The chart states he is on strict blood pressure medication for hypotension.
Then you see the medication doses.
He was supposed to have a dose earlier this morning and the space is blank.
No time administered or an initial to indicate he was checked on.
The resident on his case was Dr. Menton, a newer resident.
You quickly make it to a supply cart and find a bottle of Midodrine. As you start administering it, a voice enters the room.
“Hey Mr. Kingston, It’s Dr. Ment– HEY!”
As you finish the medication dose, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you back and grabs the syringe from you.
“What do you think you’re fucking doing?”
You look at him bewildered.
“What am I doing?” you start “Where the fuck have you been? Mr. Kingston wasn’t given his morning dose of meds for his hypotension. You’re lucky I was even over here. He could have d–”
“What the hell is going on here?” Robby’s voice cuts through the chaos.
You both turn towards the chief attending as he rushes in with another resident on his heels.
“I came in and I–” you’re quickly cut off by Dr. Menton
“I came in, Dr. Robby and found Mr. Kingston suffering symptoms of his hypotension. Whoever was supposed to administer his medication this morning didn’t . Luckily I was just outside to notice him suffering the consequences of that missed dose.”
Menton gestures towards you “your nurse here, gave me attitude and tried telling me how to do my job.”
Your eyes widen in absolute shock.
“What are y-”
“ENOUGH!” Robby shouts as he shakes his head.
“Thank you Dr. Menton for stepping in and helping Mr. Kingston. Star, go find something to do and please show more respect for your resident.”
Dr. Menton glances at you with a smirk and follows Robby out of the room after Mr. Kingston is stabilized.
You stay stuck to your spot and stare at nothing.
Tears start to fill your eyes as your breathing becomes uneven.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Brendon is on his way back to the orthopedic floor, hoping to pass you on his way.
Just as he’s about to turn the corner he hears sniffling.
He stops momentarily to listen closely.
There’s more sniffing followed by muffled crying.
Brendon walks towards the noise and pulls back the curtain to the room it’s coming from.
Who he sees standing there makes his blood run ice cold.
There you are, his star, face wet from tears, eyes red and lips trembling as you silently cry.
“Star…” he can barely get the word out.
You look up and see Brendon.
His face softens at your distressed state as his anger simmers inside.
Whoever did this to you would suffer greatly.
“C’mere sweetheart,” he walks to you and pulls you into his arms.
The gentle gesture makes you cry even harder.
“Shhh star, I’m right here.”
His low and soft tone soothes you and makes you feel safe.
After a few minutes he slowly pulls himself back and lifts your chin to meet his eyes.
“You know you’re not leaving this room without telling me who did this and what happened.”
You huff lightly “I know, Bren” you say in a whisper.
You then spend the next twenty minutes explaining to Brendon what happened with Dr. Menton
As you do, he can’t help but clench his fists and hope he gets the chance to meet Dr. Menton and give him a tip or two about how to not upset his crush favorite nurse.
He wipes a tear from your face as you finish.
“I just wish I had said something and not let him think he could do that shit.”
You say in frustration.
“I know I'm not intimidating but like I could learn to be tough, I think.”
Brendon smiles at you pacing while talking to yourself. You’re definitely not intimidating by a mile. That’s fine with him because he’d prefer to defend your honor and you just stand back and look cute.
But he understands your frustration.
“Okay star, listen,” he grabs your shoulders and turns you towards him.
“You’re gonna find this jackass. When you do, you look him in the eyes and you tell him that shit won’t fly anymore. You might feel scared and that’s okay because you’re standing up for yourself and getting the respect you deserve. I don’t think Dr. jackass will try that shit ever again.”
You tilt your head a little and look up at him with your big sad eyes.
“You think so?”
He smiles wide, “I know so, baby.”
Standing on your tiptoes you kiss Brendon’s cheek “Thank you Bren. You’re the best.”
The touch of your lips on him has his whole body go still but feel on fire.
Yeah, he’s definitely head over heels for you.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
It’s getting close to the end of your shift when you pass a room and you see Dr. Menton looking at some paperwork.
You take a deep breath and walk in.
“Dr. Menton…”
He looks up and immediately rolls his eyes.
“Well if it isn’t miss ‘can’t mind her own business’. What do you want?”.
Your eyebrows furrow at his tone.
“Listen here Menton,” you get in his face “I did my damn job today. Actually no, I did your damn job. You’re lucky Mr. Kingston didn’t die from your negligence. So, as of today, that shit won’t happen again. I won’t tolerate your shit.”
Dr. Menton chuckles in amusement, about to not take you seriously at first but he sees something in his peripheral. Glancing over your shoulder he sees something truly intimidating.
Brendon Park.
Also known as the shark and for good reason.
Getting on his bad side is waiting for a bomb to go off so most people steer clear.
Brendon stands around a corner outside of the room in the distance, arms crossed with a scowl. When he makes eye contact with Brendon, he gives a stare that screams “listen to her or I’ll make you”
Menton’s eyes widen as he looks back to you.
You poke a finger into his chest “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to find Robby and tell him what really happened. You’re going to give me the credit I deserved. And lastly, you’re not going to pull this shit ever again. Not with me and definitely not with anyone else. Are we clear?”
He briefly looks back to where Brendon is. Scowl still in place he starts cracking a few knuckles for emphasis.
Menton nods his head quickly as he looks back to you
“Y-yeah I got it. I’ll go find Robby now and tell him. S-sorry.” He says quickly before leaving the room in a hurry.
Park smirks from his hiding spot at the resident scrambling to hopefully make corrections.
He walks from around the corner and acts as if he didn’t witness a thing.
You smile at how Menton seemed to take you seriously. As you leave the room you see Brendon walking from the hallway.
“Bren!” you call his name
He smiles and makes his way towards you.
“Bren! I did it! I told him to tell Robby the truth and not do that shit again. And I think he got the memo. I can’t believe I did that and he seemed like he genuinely heard me.”
Brendon beams at you with pride “I told you, star. I’m proud of you.”
You smile wide, not knowing you had more help than you were aware of but he wouldn’t ruin your glow.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: none, pure fluff.
Summary: Your skin against his is exactly what Jack needs to wash away a brutal shift.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The quiet of the apartment at seven in the morning was always a blessing after a hard shift. And today was monday. Meaning you didn't have to start your day early. Meaning Jack didn't have to crawl into a cold bed to crash alone; it meant he got you.
Jack walked into the bedroom. The blinds were drawn, keeping the room dark. And there you were, buried beneath a nest of blankets, completely dead to the world.
Sitting on bed, Jack set his prosthetic leg aside, rubbing the residual limb for a brief second and then quickly stripped off his clothes until he was just in his boxers.
The air in the room was cool, but as Jack slid under the duvet, he was instantly met with a radiating heat.
You stirred, letting out a sleepy mumble.
"Jack...?" you breathed, voice raspy with sleep.
"Hey, beautiful," he whispered. "Come here."
You instinctively shifted closer, seeking out his touch.
Jack kissed your cheek and wrapped his arms around you and pulled you flush against him.
You draped an arm over his bare chest, your forehead pressing right against his body.
He rested his chin on the top of your head, his hand slowly tracing the curve of your shoulder and then your back. His thumb brushed over your shoulder blade, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing.
"You're so warm," Jack murmured, his lips brushing against your hair as he smiled. "And so soft. All I need."
After that, his hand slid down to your thigh. His fingers gently squeezed your warm skin, a sigh escaping him as he pulled your leg up and draped it over his hip. He drew you even closer, tucking your body tightly against his, so there was absolutely no space left between you.
You let out a soft hum at the sudden closeness, your fingers lightly curling into his nape, intertwining them with his curls.
"Missed you, handsome," you mumbled sleepy into his neck.
"Missed you too, doll," he whispered back, feeling your body relax heavily against his, leaving caresses on your leg.
He closed his eyes, inhaling your scent and letting his mind completely relax.
With you wrapped securely in his arms, the stress of the shift faded.
Jack had a few precious hours before your alarm would finally go off, and he intended to spend every minute of them right here, holding you.
quick unedited ficlet where park punches robby after he says something sexist to you//1.2k
can i come up on my break? i need a hug :((
Brendon reads your text about thirty seconds after he's finished scrubbing out of his morning surgery. His brow furrows. Yes, you're a very sensitive person -- and doubly so now that you're pregnant. That's one of the things he loves deeply about you. The way you balance out his harsh, sometimes emotionless edges. But it's not like you to interrupt the flow of your workday to seek out his comfort instead of figuring it out on your own. Usually you can do your deep breaths, steady yourself, and keep going, holding on until you're at home to fall apart about whatever upset you. You're as strong as you are soft. Which means something has gone very, very wrong.
>> of course, baby. but you have to tell me what's going on.
i will i promise
You knock gently on his office a few minutes later and step through. Your eyes are watery and pink, your lower lip wobbling, your lips swolen from biting. A mean spark of protectivenes flickers in Brendon's gut as he stands, crosses the small space, and wraps you in his arms right away.
"R- Robby told- He said-"
You take a shaky, long breath to try to stop the tears.
"Take your time, angel," he soothes. He kisses the top of your head and rubs your back. This is the side of Brendon nobody else gets to see, but it's stronger than the surface. "You're safe here with me. I've got you."
You nod into his chest, pressing your cheek to his pec to listen to his steady heartbeat for a minute. When you feel yourself calming down, you whimper out, "I finished this really hard procedure on my own for the first time and I paged him to check my work and sign off and he- he came into the room and looked at the patient and fucking said, 'Don't worry, guys, real doctor's here now' like that's funny. And then- then he checked over my work and he wasn't happy with what I did and he-" You swat tears from your cheeks again, these ones angry and hot. You set your jaw, meet your husband's eyes, and tell him, "When we were leaving the room, I could tell he was still pissed about this disagreement we had this morning over a course of treatment, right? So I'm trying to just get out of his way and let him take it out on someone else. And then he muttered, 'Don't know why I even bother trying to teach you when you're just gonna leave emergency medicine after you have the kid.'"
Rage turns Brendon's blue eyes from summer sky to stormy sea. He rolls his shoulders and attempts to find the zen his therapist has managed to help him access all of two times.
You know that look. It's his 'I'm about to do something stupid' look. So you squeeze his bicep to bring him back to center and assure, "Bren, you don't have to do anything. It's okay."
"No, I do, and it's not," he says, voice tight and controlled. "If this were some one-time thing, maybe. I'd just write him up. But after what you told me about Mohan last week? Fuck no. He's not getting away with that."
Your heart almost bursts with love. When Brendon's protective enough to fight, you have to admit it makes you swoon.
--
"Dr. Robinavitch," Park the Shark shouts as he storms out of the elevator. Every head in a five-mile radius snaps in his direction, bracing for impact. "Have a second for a consult?"
When you sheepishly follow him out of the elevator, Robby knows immediately what this is about. "Look, Shark, I already apologized for-"
Brendon's hand collides with the middle of his chest, hard enough that he staggers back. Continuing to push him toward the staff exit at a brutal pace, Brendon corrects, "I was actually thinking we should talk outside."
And he keeps pushing. Robby has no choice to walk with him, swearing and muttering under his breath with his hands in his hoodie pocket. A handful of doctors and nurses who aren't busy crowd by the open window to watch and you join them, not wanting to be too close when things boil over. Samira stands next to you, her eyes full of questions. She knows that you've vented to Park about Robby's treatment of her more than once.
Robby raises his hands up defensively. "I know I was out of line, okay? It's been a stressful day and-"
"And it hasn't been stressful for her? For everyone else?" Brendon crosses his huge arms across his chest, stance wide and impressive, making six-foot Robbt look like a fifth grader. "This isn't just about my wife. You have created an environment in your department where women are devalued in favor of less effective male coworkers. Langdon goes glassy-eyed when you talk to him in complex sentences and Whitaker's hands still shake when he does sutures, but you have women like my wife and like Mohan who are ten times as capable questioning themselves because of you."
Next to you, Samira grabs your hand and squeezes, her wide eyes trained on the situation.
"Park, calm down," Robby tries, running a hand over the back of his head like he does when he's caught. "I get it. She's pregnant. She's emotional, rightfully so, and she can't-"
Brendon's fist smashes full-force into Robby's cheek, quick and sharp. His wedding ring nicks Robby's skin, a bead of blood falling down like a tear. Everyone around you gasps. Samira's grip on your hand goes bruising. Robby nearly falls on his ass, just barely catching his balance.
Robby winces as he touches the back of his hand to his bleeding cheek. "I probably deserved that."
"Yeah. You did. And you're lucky my wife told me instead of reporting you like you deserve," Brendon spits as he shakes out his fist. "Emotion isn't a weakness in medicine. And you could literally be sued for questioning her judgment because she's pregnant, you fucking asshole." He takes a deep breath and glances at the window, where he catches your gaze and then Samira's, giving you both affirming, respectful nods. Then he turns back to Robby, shoves him on the shoulder, and says, "The next time I hear you've said something like that to a woman in this hospital, I'm dragging you up to HR myself and advocating for you to get fired. And then I'm going to beat the shit out of you. So there better not be a next time."
With his eyes big as saucers while he presses on the wound to stem the bleeding, Robby grunts, "Understood."
Brendon clenches his jaw, clearly wanting to say more but knowing he's already crossed the line. He's perfectly aware that the only reason he won't get flak for this is that people are too scared of him to bother. But they're scared of him because he's right and he doesn't tolerate bullshit. That's the difference between him and Robby. Brendon's students never have to worry about their tone or their appearance or anything superficial when they have the brains and work ethic for surgery. That's all he cares about.
So he cracks his neck, gestures to Robby's rapidly bruising face, and says, "Go inside and put some ice on that. If you have any signs of a sunken cheek, numbness or tingling in the cheek or lip, or swelling that impacts your vision, come up to ortho. I know some good bone specialists. Now get out of my fucking sight."
hey mae!! how are you? i don’t know if this is something you would be interested in writing as i think you’ve done something similar with remus, but i was wondering if you could do a sort of poly!marauders roommate situation where reader is super shy with remus and sirius but has a soft spot for james? thanks for considering haha !
Hi angel, I'm well how are you? Thank you for your request <3
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
roommate!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.2k words
"You're going to get glitter on the table."
"I'll clean it up."
"It never really goes away," says Remus darkly.
Sirius turns his head from the mirror he's propped on the kitchen table, enough glitter flashing in the corners of his eyes to cause a traffic collision. "There's nothing I can do about the fact that the kitchen has better lighting. If you'd like to install a window in the bathroom, be my guest."
Sitting across the table, James' eyebrows go up. "That's not a bad idea."
"The bathroom doesn't have any exterior walls," Remus points out. The pasta he's reheating on the hob sizzles its agreement.
"True…a skylight, maybe?"
"I think our landlord might notice."
James concedes and goes back to watching Sirius work on his makeup fascinatedly. If a bit of glitter does make its way onto the table, he's certainly not tattling. After a while, the click of the lock in the front door diverts his attention.
You open it silently, in the way that only you seem to know how to do (no matter how James tries to avoid waking everyone when he leaves for his morning runs, that thing always squeaks) and step inside on soft feet. James smothers a grin as Remus' head turns in your direction.
You have a tendency to creep through the house like you're hoping you'll go unnoticed. You rarely do, and James feels sort of bad for thinking it's funny when you're thwarted every time.
"Hiya," says James. "Late night at work?"
"Yeah." You glance up, not necessarily looking surprised at having been caught again. (You may be getting used to it.) A smile flickers like light across your lips as you toe off your shoes. "Hi."
"Oi!" Sirius turns around in his chair to face you. James and Remus both wince. Sirius' tone is nothing but friendly, but oi is not a way to win you over. You tense like you're on trial. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Um, nothing important. Why?"
Sirius' excitement grows. "We're going out in a bit. You should come."
"Oh." Your voice quiets, as though making itself small while you crouch to pick up your shoes. "Thanks, but I'm pretty tired."
"It won't really be a big night out," Remus tries in a gentler tone. "We're only going to a bar nearby. We'll be back by midnight."
"Like Cinderella," adds James, trying to get a smile out of you. It works, sort of.
"I think I'm going to stay in," you say apologetically, "but you all have fun."
"Won't be as much fun without you." Sirius pouts.
You press your lips into a good-humored smile, and flee to your room.
Sirius heaves a sigh.
"Shush," Remus chides him, "she'll hear you."
"She never wants to do anything," Sirius whines.
"Maybe because you keep rushing her."
"It's been weeks!"
"She'll warm up eventually," says James, taking care to keep his voice low. "She's just settling in. And maybe bars aren't her scene."
Sirius wrinkles his nose. "Do we have to start a knitting club for her to hang out with us?"
"It could be a fun new hobby."
"You should talk to her," Remus says.
James looks at him, and finds himself being looked at in return. "Me?"
"Ooh, that's a good idea." Sirius leans forward, glitter flashing animatedly. "Get her to go with us tonight."
"Why me?"
"Because she likes you best."
"Wha—not more than any of us!"
"She's more relaxed with you," says Remus matter-of-factly. "Just give it a try, alright?"
James argues the notion of his preferential treatment for a while longer, but ultimately finds himself at your door, knocking politely. "Can I come in?"
There's no answer. After knocking some more and casting a frightened look back towards the kitchen—to which Sirius responds with an insistent shooing motion—James cracks open the door, half expecting you to already be asleep.
You're not. You're still in your work clothes, laying on your bed with earbuds plugging your ears. You take them out when you see James.
"I tried to knock," he apologizes.
"It's okay." You sit up, blinking at him. You look like you're worried you might be in trouble. "What's up?"
"I'm here to make a case," he admits. "Can I come in?"
Wary, you nod.
James steps inside, shutting the door behind him. You shuffle backwards on your bed, making room, though he isn't sure if he should sit. She's more relaxed with you, Remus had said. James doesn't know if that's true, but you do seem more at ease in your own room, your gaze steady on his. He sits on the bed.
"I don't want to pressure you," he starts out. "You don't have to come if you don't want to, but we would like it if you went out with us. Are you really too tired?"
Your shoulder comes up in a half-shrug. "I don't know…it was a long night."
"Like Remus said, we won't be out long. This place is small—it closes at midnight. Sirius will try to get us to go somewhere else after, but we can tell him no."
That smile is back, quick as a struck match. Its warmth lingers in your eyes. "Can we?"
"It's not easy, but it can be done. Remus will champion us."
You look at your lap. James hopes you're thinking about it rather than thinking about how to tell him no. Your fingers tap on your leg.
"We don't even have to stay until close," he bargains. "Give us an hour, and if you want to leave I'll walk you home."
You look startled. "Why do you want me to go so badly?"
"Because—" There's no keeping the earnestness from his voice. "—we want to hang out with you."
You really shy, then. Shoulders drawing in, lashes kissing at the corners. James wants to wrap you up.
"So," he says to rescue you, "an hour?"
"You don't have to walk me home," you murmur.
"Sorry, I'm afraid that part is non-negotiable. I don't mind, though, if it helps."
Your head gives a little shake. James doesn't know if it's directed at him or yourself. "I'm going to need to change."
A grin splits James' face at the realization that he's convinced you. "Take your time," he says. "Sirius is still working on his makeup anyway, and you've only just gotten home from work. We're not in any big hurry."
"Okay." You finally meet his eyes again as he stands to leave, your look sweet. "Thanks, James."
"Thank you," he replies sincerely.
He's smiling gigantically as he steps out into the hallway, closing your door behind him. It gives him away immediately.
Sirius' eyes pop. "Really?"
"Yeah," James whispers, feeling like you as he creeps quietly back to the kitchen. "She's going to be a minute, but she'll come. For an hour, at least."
Sirius pumps his fist in the air. Remus looks smug as he plates up his dinner.
"Told you it'd work," he hums.
Sirius jumps out of his chair to plant a kiss on James' cheek. "You're a legend!"
At Remus' urgent shushing and James' frightened glance toward your doorway, he covers his mouth with both hands, wincing.
hockey remus ?
HOCKEY REMUS???
any scraps are appreciated. ...please
hockey player!Remus Lupin x fem!reader who's on the social media team [1.7k words]
CW: team chaos, Swedish Remus [as per our hockey au's], Remus has a crush, pre-established relationship, crack/comedy
“No.”
“Please.” Your voice is tinny, muffled through the door that Benji Fenwick has barricaded shut behind him after he fled your proximity.
“Cute, and usually works on me as far as pretty girls go, but my answer’s still no.”
Oliver Woods smirks as he zips up his bag. “You’d think she had been chasing you with a gun.”
Fenwick turns to scowl at him. “Fuck off, Woodsy.”
“Is there a reason you’re hiding from the woman with a camera?” Remus asks casually, more focused on dutifully packing his duffel bag post-practice than the antics of his teammates.
“I’m not simply hiding from a woman with a camera, Loops,” he hisses in response. “I’ll have you know, that’s usually a kink of mine.”
Remus groans. “Gross.”
“Fenz, please add to list of things I do not want to know,” Viktor Krum announces gruffly.
Woodsy—in typical Woodsy fashion—steers the conversation back on track. “Okay, so if the woman with a camera isn’t your problem, what is?”
“I cannot be photographed like this,” Fenwick huffs, gesturing animatedly at the fat lip he received at last night’s game. The vain bastard.
“Fenz, please. You’re just as handsome as ever,” you contend through the door.
Fenwick scoffs, shooting the door a disbelieving look. “Well, duh. That was never up for discussion.”
“Where’s Black?” Remus ventures helpfully. “He’s usually all about the social media presence.”
“Team’s entire feed is Black already,” Krum grumbles. “Asshole is pretty, but not that pretty.”
“Fenwick,” you call out.
The player in question eyes the door warily. “Yes?”
Your question echoes like a death toll. “Who else is in there with you?”
With this, the remainder of the locker room freezes; four professional six-plus foot hockey players hold their breath like terrified rabbits in the face of a prowling mountain lion.
“Fenwick,” Woods hisses. “Don’t you fucking-”
“Lupin, Krum, and Woods,” Benji rapid fires, wincing contritely in the face of his three teammates groaning in betrayal.
“Fenwick, you’re off the hook if you open this door right now,” you promise.
“Benji Fenwick, if you open that door-” Remus starts, only to be cut off by Krum.
“I will string you by testicals to rafters, Fenwick.”
“Guys, I love you, you’re my entire world, I would take 83 slapshots to the ribs for all of you-”
“Fenwick…” Remus pleads again.
“-I cannot be photographed like this.”
Benji—in his final act of betrayal—swings the door open and flies out into the hallway behind you, using your smaller frame like a human shield. And while Remus is surprised by the show of restraint from Krum and Woods, there was never any chance that Remus was going to go shoving past you to get to Fenwick.
No matter how badly he wanted to throttle the sod.
“Förbannada skit,” (translation: fucking shithead) Remus curses under his breath, though even he can hear the resignation in his voice.
You have the grace to smile apologetically at the three remaining players, holding your camera up in one hand and the other in a universal sign of surrender. “Any chance one of you is willing to smile for the camera? I’ll be so quick.”
“No. Russians do not do this,” Krum announces, earning him a glance from Woods.
“Russians don’t what? Smile?”
“Da.”
“Woodsy, you’ve got a nice smile,” Remus hedges cautiously, cautious of drawing attention to himself by pointing it in someone else's direction.
“You do,” you agree, flashing a smile in the assistant captain's direction. “But we’ve got lots of the team captains already.”
Woodsy’s smile is victorious.
“Well, then,” he hums happily, offering the last two players in the locker room a smarmy salute. “Lady, gentlemen.”
Krum mutters Russian profanity under his breath as he finishes up in his own stall.
“Just a picture,” you all but beg, and Remus’ traitorous heart squeezes at how desperate you sound.
It doesn’t squeeze enough for him to willingly place himself in front of your camera lens, though.
“Is never just a picture with you, l’vyónak,” (Львёнок: lionet/little lion, lion cub) Krum argues, but his use of a Russian epithet belittles whatever ire he has with you.
That’s the danger of the team's favourite social media team member. While they all make a point of avoiding you like the plague, there’s something about you that has wiggled its way into the heart of every player on the team. You even managed to win over the prickly Russian goalie and the notoriously aloof Remus.
Especially the notoriously aloof Remus.
Perhaps that’s part of the reason he avoids you so resolutely; he doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he’s really quite smitten with you.
Honestly, when you’re not waving a camera or phone in his face, you may very well be his favourite person on the team’s support staff.
And that’s saying a lot, considering that their PT, Lars, has magic fingers and turns Remus into a certified pile of goo twice a week during their therapeutic massages.
“It must be Loops,” Krum decides, earning him a strangled sound of disbelief from Remus.
“Why must it be Loops?”
Krum shrugs as if it’s really quite simple. “Because, Russians do not do this.”
“Russians smile, Krum. You have a lovely smile,” you argue sweetly, and—dammit—even Krum softens.
“Paper, rock, scissors me,” Krum announces.
“I beg your pardon?”
Krum doesn’t bother responding, merely steps up to Remus with one palm raised flat and facing upwards, the other held above it in a fist.
“Paper, rock, scissors. Da? Scissors me, Loops.”
“Never say that again,” Remus tells him emphatically.
“Why won’t scissors me?”
“Krum, please stop asking me to scissor you.”
Remus loses the stand-off with his starting goalie when he’s distracted by your laughter. Dammit, he wishes Swedes didn’t smile either.
“Okay, it all comes down to a game of rock, paper, scissors,” you announce, holding up your damn camera to capture the moment between teammates. Krum was right; it’s never just a picture with you.
Remus—against all his better judgement—mirrors Krum’s posture and does, indeed, play a round of rock, paper, scissors.
He loses when Krum crushes Remus’ scissors with his rock.
“Best two out of three?” Remus all but begs.
“Net,” Krum declines, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding from the room. “Smile for camera like good little Swede.”
“Bye, Viktor!” you call out after him.
Krum replies from some distance down the hall. “Goodbye, Львёнок.”
“I’m really sorry, Lupin.” You sound so apologetic, look even more so when Remus removes his glare from the now empty hallway his teammates have abandoned him in to face you. “I know no one likes to get stuck with me, we can be quick.”
And well, now doesn’t Remus feel like the biggest prick. “I love being stuck with you.”
Too honest, dial it back, Loops.
“It’s that” He points at the camera like it might bite. “that I struggle with.”
You laugh good naturedly at him. “Fair enough. Come sit, we’ll be quick.”
It is not, in fact, quick, because apparently all of Remus’ smiles look like pained grimaces.
“You look like you just ate something sour.”
“I don’t look like anything,” Remus argues.
“Yes you do.”
“This is just my face.”
“Your face is usually nicer than this,” you counter.
“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.”
You laugh and look up from your camera; Remus smiling in victory at eliciting it.
“See! Like that. Why can’t you smile like that for me?”
I did just smile like that for you, Remus thinks grimly. It’s the camera I’m not fond of.
You sigh. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
You hum thoughtfully, scrolling through the viewfinder on your camera. You’re silent for so long that he thinks you’re going to dismiss him before you carry on. “What do you think you’d do for work if you were more athletic?”
Remus pauses, his mind like a record, scratching and skipping and trying desperately to feed the needle back onto the thread.
“What?”
“If you were more athletic,” you repeat, still not looking up. “What do you think you’d be doing? Like, a sport, or something.”
“What sport?” Remus clarifies. “If I was…”
“More athletic,” you confirm.
Remus is staring at you open mouthed, confused as to how he’s not possibly missing something in translation here.
“Can you repeat that?”
You’re still looking down at your camera, but your lips purse as if you’re fighting off a smile.
“What kind of sport would you be playing, or job would you be doing, if you were more athletic?”
“More athletic?” Remus balks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I’m an athlete!”
“Well, yeah, sure.” Sure, you say! Like Remus hasn’t dedicated the majority of his life to perfecting his skill, strength, and body to elite levels. “But like, if you were more.”
Remus lets out a startled laugh, and then you finally look up at him.
Your eyes shine with mirth, silent laughter shaking your shoulders as you smirk triumphantly at Remus.
It’s over for Remus then; he dissolves into delighted laughter which only picks up when you join him.
“Unbelieveable,” Remus huffs with a shake of his head.
“That’s me,” you agree triumphantly, lowering your camera until it hangs from your neck. “That’ll be all.”
You don’t end up showing Remus what you managed to capture of him while you made him question all of his life’s work and choices; the picture you ended up posting on the team’s social media was of him and Krum playing rock, paper, scissors, plus one of Remus throwing his head back in defeat and Krum smirking (though certainly not smiling) triumphantly.
It’s only (much) later that Remus finally sees the picture you took of him that day—one of him laughing at your chirping—used as his contact image on your phone.
He’s glad that’s where it stayed; he looks entirely too love sick for that to be posted onto the team’s account.
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
⭑.ᐟ Expectations (Day Four): Herb Garden ── Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park
summary: it’s day four of the ‘to do list’ and park tags along to help bring your herb garden vision closer to life. (wc: 1.5k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: cont of the ‘expectations’ series. fluff/humour. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader who has park wrapped around her finger. some mild sexual tension and physical touch in this. (1) honeybee mention
“Good morning, my little snuggle muffin.” you chirp with a cheerful bounce in your step as you enter the store; the smell of greenery at the forefront of scents.
Park is impassive toward the newfound nickname, as nothing that comes from your smart little mouth surprises him anymore. The tables turn when he passes you a coffee.
“Morning. This is for you.” his tone is more gravelly from the sleep still evident on his face—yesterday had been a longer shift at the PTMC than anticipated.
You gratefully take the cup drooling with condensation from his grasp, “Thank you, Sharky—Look! The barista drew hearts on the side of my cup. Were you nice to them?” you tease.
“That was me.” Park informs.
“Oh.” your quick-wit falters.
Park drops his gaze to look at you when you fall silent. His lip curls into a satisfying smirk, “Sleep well?”
“Could’ve slept better.” you shrug, dragging a cart toward you with your free hand.
Park takes it from your grasp, “There’s a two-person remedy for that.” he suggests.
“Ooh.” you sing, “So explicit and it’s only 9AM! What kind of girl do you take me for, Sharky?”
“A fun one.”
It was great. Throughout your own…playful stipulations for Park to win back your phone number, his personality—although similar to his workplace one—was revealing to be less two-dimensional and reeking less of that menacing, sardonic tone that he often work within the PTMC. (That side of him also extends further to the poor strangers who shoot a friendly smile in his direction.)
This whole facade was slipping before your eyes, revealing the softened centre you had presumptions about the first time he swam through the ED; shrouding everyone’s semi-egotism with his own.
In addition to this, it also helps your case of getting a free hall pass into Park’s true temperament because he was sorely into you.
You walk at a slow pace, content as you sip at the coffee Park brought you. He leans his weight onto the trolley, slowing his steps to match yours whilst he observes the surroundings like a godforsaken member of the SWAT team.
It had been agreed during the last time Park managed to wrangle some time in between surgeries to show face in the ED, that the next day off would be focusing on your newfound passion for a herb garden. Now, Park had his own queries about it, and you weren’t exactly living in an establishment that was in abundance of space and natural sunlight.
But nevertheless, what you wanted; Park was going to make it happen.
“Do you know what type of herbs you want?” Park asks when you stop in front of the potted herb section.
“Uh…Easy ones.” you mumble and pick up the pot labelled as coriander.
Park angles his body into yours, his head dropping read the pink label. He plucks the pot from your hand, “Coriander is hard to keep alive. Highly sensitive. Short lifespan. If it gets too warm, the flavour of the leaves are ruined.”
(Consider yourself speechless. A rarity.)
“Sharky, are you a green thumb?”
Park chuckles, “I’m Italian.”
“Ah. That’ll do it.” you place the herb back amongst the others. You hum, “What about basil? That’s pretty easy to keep alive, right? The last one I had lasted much longer than I anticipated.”
“Basil will survive.” Park affirms. He tilts his head to inspect the leaves on the stem, “This one is good. Mint will also survive under minimal maintenance. Chives. They’re all pretty hardy.”
You smile widely. (Definitely liking this side of him.)
“Who knew the Ortho Bro had such a keen eye for herbs.” you pat his chest in passing, feeling the muscles tense beneath your palm. You bend over to drop the umpteen pots of herbs into the cart, not missing Park’s wandering eye as he shoots it back up to look at your face. “Eyes up here, Park.”
“Heard.” Park clears his throat, tugging at his bottom lip to conceal the growing smile that was aching to break free.
There were things that Brendon Park wanted to be successful in life doing. The obvious being a top surgeon in Orthopaedics, living a healthy and fulfilling life and to see gray hairs sprout from his scalp; and to be able to kiss you whenever, and however he wanted.
Even if it made other people within the public area flush at the sight.
It wasn’t as if he was plucking this out of thin air. Having been with a handful of women, the guy could spot hungry eyes from across a room. Something you were so eloquently sporting whilst you wrap your lips around the paper straw of your coffee.
Park prays for some respite. Really. The way his mother had raised him was not reflecting at the present moment.
Thankfully, it comes in the form of a distracting task of finding moisture-retentive, fertile soil with organic matter—his words to you. Park keeps you close, occasionally taking his thumb and forefingers to rest on your hips as he guides you down the aisle with the cart abandoned at the end. You allow him the tactile touches, leaning into his touch whilst you bask beneath the glow of his undivided attention.
When he hauls the raised garden planter over his shoulder, you follow him back to the cart with a shit-eating grin.
That was about to become all yours. You know, when you decided to stop stringing him along for entertainment purposes.
His freshly washed hair flops when he lands the smaller scale planter into the cart.
His chest puffs, “Do you have a garden for this?” he asks since he forgot to when you giddily pointed to the cutest planter on the shelf.
“Shared garden. My neighbours are really sweet. They’ll be fine about it.” you tell him in a nonchalant tone before taking hold of the cart to push it. “Take five, big guy.”
“Uh-huh.” Park muses lowly before deciding to be intentional with where he places himself. He cages you in with two muscular arms on either side of you as he helps you push the heavy-weighing cart—his front flush with your back. “Ready to check out?” he asks innocently.
“Yup.”
You’re really struggling to maintain composure. (There’s no way you’d let Park the Shark one-up you with his flirtations.)
You walk like that all the way to the cash register. There’s a handful of customers in front, placing their items on the conveyer belt; so you lean back into Park who cements himself to the spot to allow you to rest.
There’s part of him that wants to press a chaste kiss to the top of your head as you wait. Domestic and for all intents and purposes: a severe public display of affection—in his eyes anyway. Also, not something he should doing without your phone number and an official date set in stone.
Park the Shark was many things…a creep was not one of them.
It’s as if you can sense his overthinking, turning your head and lifting your chin to stare up at him. “Happy?” you query.
“Always with you.”
You hum in content, dropping your head back to stare at the moving queue you were in. Your hand rubs up and down one of the forearms he had still caged you in.
Eventually, you’re able to lift the items for your herb garden onto the conveyer belt. It’s really Park that does all the manual labour of shifting the items from A to B after tells you to just stand and look pretty for him, which was an easy feat for someone like you.
He even gives you a glower when you go to pay. For your own items, nonetheless.
You make it back out into the parking lot, where Park abandons the cart at the front of the shop and decides to show off his extensive workout plan that makes juggling a planter over his shoulder whilst balancing all the herbs you selected in his other hand, a real cinch.
He follows you to your car and you pop the trunk for him.
“You will be rewarded in your next life, Sharky.” you bounce on the balls of your feet as he places the purchased goods into your car.
He stands to full height. “How about this life?”
“Let me sleep on it.” you openly taunt.
“Have you got someone to lift this on the other side?” Park cocks his head when you hesitate to produce an answer, “You’re gonna lift and build this?”
“I’m not weak.” (No, you weren’t. But you 100% could not lift that planter yourself.) “I can ask one of my neighbours for help.”
Park shuts the trunk, “I’m not convinced.”
You pause, and then throw your hands up in defeat. “Fine—” you fish out your car keys, “—Let me stroke your ego for a little while longer. You can come to mine and build it for me.”
“Atta girl.” Park’s answer makes your skin prickle with heat. He gestures to your car, “Lead the way, honeybee. I’ll be right behind you.”
bf!jack who sleeps with both arms around you; one hand covering your heart, the other covering your stomach to protect your organs. protective and a little paranoid even while unconscious.
bf!jack who never lets you pay for anything. gas, food, a beer at the bar, an uber home. all on him. (lowkey ur sugar daddy)
bf!jack who lets you play whatever music you want in the car, but requests to listen to his records back home when sitting around and talking in the living room. he occasionally makes you get up and dance with him, letting you rest on him as he sways the two of you around your kitchen after long shifts and on quiet nights.
bf!jack who prioritizes your pleasure over his in bed, not stopping until you've finished and are pleased with his work.
bf!jack who calls you no matter where you are after getting news of a mass casualty or any car crash, even if he knows it's not your car.
bf!jack who never shuts up about you. ever. robby is so sick and tired of him repeating the same few stories to him over and over and often has to stop him to say "you already told me that one" when jack brings up a story of something you did
bf!jack who says he's far too old to love and care for a dog the way you expect him to and therefore can't get you one, then surprises you with two for your birthday. both mutts from a local shelter that were about to be put down, and he ends up loving them like they're his real children.
bf!jack who finds all your young slang and references hilarious, completely throwing off his coworkers when he accidentally says one at work. javadi is determined to meet you one day, claiming to already know you two will be best friends. shes right.
bf!jack whose instagram is a y/n fanpage. all his posts aside from one are pictures of you, the exception being one of you and him.
bf!jack who started using curl products and styling his hair after learning how much you love his curls. he especially loves when you pull on them.
bf!jack who picks up your favorite ice cream from the store on the way home when he has to stay extra late as an apology, even though you've said it's unnecessary and that he doesnt have anything to be sorry for.
they’re on their first vacation together and the water was much calmer now than it was earlier in the day.
the families had packed up. the kids long gone, leaving the beach wrapped in that quiet way that only came just before the sunset.
she stood waist deep in the ocean, the last rays of sunlight turning the water into liquid gold.
jack was only a few feet away, watching her skim her fingertips across the surface of the water.
"you're thinking again," he said loudly so she could hear him over the waves.
she glanced over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly.
"am i that obvious?"
"to me?" he said with a smirk as he waded closer to her as the waves crashed against his toned muscles, "always."
she laughed softly as a wave rolled between them.
"i was just...thinking about how nice today was."
"yeah?"
she nodded eagerly.
"i didn't want it to end."
jack reached for her hands beneath the water, lacing their fingers together.
"good thing tomorrow exists."
she looked up at him.
"you'd take me again?"
he smiled, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face.
"i'd take you anywhere." he mused, “we can do whatever we want. vacation is a beautiful thing, baby.”
her heart melted into molten honey as she tried to hide the smile that was creeping across her tinted lips.
but it was impossible, of course. because he was there, looking, oh so handsome and wet. and sun-kissed.
"you're making me blush." she sighed as he guided her further into the water.
"that's the goal." he puffed his chest playfully as she rolled her eyes— though they were shining brightly.
"you're so cheesy sometimes”
"and yet..." he stepped even closer until the water lapped gently against both of them, "...you're still looking at me like that."
"like what?" she trembled, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands snaked around her hips.
"like i'm the only man on this beach."
she whispered, "you are."
for a second, neither of them spoke.
the only sounds were the waves breaking around them and the distant cries of seagulls flying over them.
jack tutted, his thumb slowly brushing over the fabric of her swimsuit.
"c'mere."
she didn't have to be told twice.
she rose onto her tiptoes in the water, ghosting her lips against his. they both breathed each others sunscreen in as she shook absentmindedly against his grasp.
he smiled against her lips before kissing her—slowly, unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be.
she smiled into the kiss, and he laughed quietly against her as her fingers wondered into his curly locks.
"what?" he murmured.
"nothing." she said pulling away.
"that's twice you've said 'nothing' today." he said, chasing her lips with his own.
she tucked her face against his neck. "i just..."
he rubbed circles against her back making her arch into him even more.
"just what, sweetheart?"
"...i love you."
the words came out so quietly he almost missed them.
almost.
his expression softened instantly and he leaned back just enough to look at her.
"say it again." he pleaded.
his eyes glittered in the sunlight as he bent down to brush his nose against the nape of her neck.
she giggled, a timid smile blossoming onto her cheeks.
"jack..."
"humor your old man."
she shook her head, smiling as she playfully punched his bicep.
“stop, don’t say that.” she said tenderly as he rested his head against her forehead.
jack laughed, nodding his head motioning for her to speak again.
"i love you."
his eyes grew dark and he kissed her forehead. then her nose. then the corner of her mouth.
"good."
"good?" she laughed. slightly mortified.
"because i'm completely and endlessly in love with you."
she let out the tiniest, happiest gasp before pulling him into another kiss.
behind them, the sun slipped beneath the horizon but neither of them noticed.
they'd been too busy looking at each other the entire time, saying ‘i love you’… ‘i love you’… ‘i love you’… in between tender kisses.
waiiiit cute jack date idea: he lets you drive his big ass truck for the first time lmaoaoaoaoa
thank you for requesting, anon!! i decided to make reader a shyyy bby!! hope you enjoy <3
jack x shy! reader
it’s late in the afternoon.
the sun is dropping low over the parking lot outside the tennis court and everything is washed in that silky gold blanket that makes their post workout high feel calmer than they expected it to.
“i can’t wait to take a shower.” she hums as she swings their racks in her hands while he walks slightly ahead of her.
“mm, me too.” he says looking back at her with the cheekiest expression. she giggles, shaking her head as she selfishly admires how his back muscles flex underneath his shirt.
jack huffs as he unlocks the car with his key as he stands next to his truck like it’s just another extension of him.
she calls his truck, ‘actual true love’ which caused him to playfully roll his eyes at how she teases him about his prized possession. mans best friend.. or whatever they say.
it’s large, black, and impossibly clean for a man that lives in chaos most days. he keeps his swat bag in the trunk and his work bag on the floor behind his seat.
he taps the hood once, then looks at her with prideful eyes, “you’re going to learn how to drive it.”
she paused as her eyes widen at his sudden intrusion of her oogling, “what?” she laughs, “oh, stop.” she brushes off.
“i’m not joking baby.” jack nods at her, motioning her to come towards the drivers seat.
“i- i don’t think i can! your car is like a monster, babe. she throws her hands up as if that was shielding her away from him.
“well, that’s why you’re learning,” he says too casual for her liking.
she hesitates where she stands on the curb, fingers curling at the hem of her workout skirt. “c’mon baby, it’s huge.” she states.
jack opens his mouth for a comeback but she glowers at him in warning making him shake his head as his chest shakes from his low chuckle.
“what if i mess up?” she urges.
his gaze softens as he reached his arms out for her. she takes his hand in hers before he pulls her close into him like that’s the exact answer she’d give him.
“then you’re just gonna correct it,” he says. “or you stop and pull over, baby. nothing bad will happen.”
she groans in response and hands him the racks as he opens the drivers side door for her anyway. “get your cute ass in.” he tuts.
she yelps as she playfully taps her bum with large palm. grumbling as the seat swallows her in.
it all feels too high for comfort. it’s not as daunting when she’s the passenger princess. the truck suddenly feels too wide in every direction as she adjusts the seat twice before even looking at him.
jack gets in on the passengers side “okay,” he says, while she pressed the electric turn-on button.
she glances at him while her hand hovers over the gear for a second too long but he doesn’t rush her— he just waits and that makes it worse and better all at the same time.
she gulps as he reminds her about the blind spots before she finally shifts into drive. the truck gives a small roll forward and her breath catches immediately grabbing the steering wheel tighter than necessary. her knuckles going white as she peers out of the windshield.
“ey,” jack says, “baby, you’re in control, it’s not going to run like a horse.”
“i- i know,” she says quickly. “i just—this is so big.”
“it sure is,” he replies, looking out at the nearly empty parking lot.
he still directs her slowly though.
a lap around the lot— she jerks the wheel once when she turns too sharply and immediately looks like she’s about to apologize.
“it’s fine,” he interjects softly, “you’re overcorrecting yourself.. when have i not done that in a tight turn?” he comforts as she nods.
“o—okay i’m easing into it,” she mutters, which makes him glance at her.
that’s the first smile she gets out of him.
“you call that easing?” he jokes making her scoff.
her cheeks flush a deep pink as she talks while her eyes stay glued to the view in front of her, “it feels like easing.”
“that’s because you’re nervous.”
she doesn’t argue that part because he’s right.. like always.
on the third lap, her grip loosens and her worried breathing slows and the truck suddenly doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing her while anymore. it just feels like something she’s learning to understand.
of course, her notices immediately. “you’re doing better,” he says proudly.
she blinks over at him. “really?” she squeals excitedly, her body jumping up and down in the seat slightly.
“yes.”
there’s no hesitation to his voice as she glances at how his freckled arm hands out the window. she can’t help but take her bottom lip in between her teeth at the way he gave her his confirmation.
it lands more than it should and jack raises his eyebrows, deciding not to say anything.
the fourth lap around is clean. she turns smoothly and has good acceleration. she actually laughs a little, surprised at herself because now she’s got it all under control.
“i didn’t mess it up,” she says, almost disbelieving.
“you didn’t,” jack agrees, “have more faith in yourself, baby. when you put your mind to something, you’re always going to do well even if it takes practice.”
she glances over at him, her lashes fluttering softly, “well you make it look so easy.”
he chuckles, “it’s just practice.” he pause for a second. then softer, “and paying attention.” he points making her smile.
when she finally parks back into a random spot, she doesn’t immediately get out. her hands are still on the wheel.
jack cocks his head “good girl, you did great.” he says like he wants it to stick.
she smiles timidly, “you’re just saying that because i didn’t crash your truck.”
“i wouldn’t let you crash it.” he says defensively, like it was never an option in the first place.
she looks down for a second, then back up at him. “so all of this was… what? to prepare me for something?”
his eyes flick to hers briefly. “something like that.” he reached over the console and rested his hand on her thigh out of habit, “if you ever needed to drive it, i don’t want you afraid of it.”
she nods, laying her hand onto his as he squeezed her thigh absentmindedly. they stay like that for a good while before she steps out slowly, still a little stunned at how normal it started to feel.
jack is quick to follow—he helps her into the passengers side before he rounds back to the driver seat and rests a hand briefly on the truck like he’s checking it’s fine then looks back at her.
“i think it’s a good idea to get you more practice in,” he says, climbing in.
she blinks. “jack!” she groans, “you’re gonna make me drive this thing again?”
“yes.” he says, reaching over and pulling the seatbelt over her lap and locking her in.
“fine,” she finally says as he starts to drive out of the lot, but there’s a small smile plastered across her pinky glossed lips.
jack nods once, like it’s settled. his hand resting on her thigh yet again as she reached towards the radio to pick a playlist.
“let’s go home and shower, shall we?” he hums.
she giggles in response, leaning towards him before giving his cheek the sweetest kiss.
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.”
“Jackie, can you fill my water bottle, pretty please?” You beg him from the sofa as he does things in the kitchen. You don’t even need to tell him again, he’s already coming to grab the water bottle, giving you a kiss on the lips and going to fill the massive water bottle with cold water and one ice (that’s how you like it, and he knows it). When he comes back, you tangle your pretty and manicured fingers through his curls and kiss his lips “thank you Jackie, wanna make out?” You ask him with a smirk. He of course, does want to.
Even when he’s bone tired after his shift, he goes and buys you breakfast takeout from your favourite yogurt bowl and iced coffee from your favourite place. He knows you deserve to be treated like a princess.
He loves it when you style him for an event or a date. He loves to see your concentration face, thinking about what clothes are going to match. You make him try so many options on, it’s ridiculous, but he loves to see your happy face when you’ve found THE outfit. He almost always gets a makeout session after, because you just find him so hot in the clothes you picked out.
You always try to match his outfit, whether it’s the colour or the pattern, or sometimes you buy the same item of clothing for him and for you. You always take so many mirror pictures with him and the matching outfit.
You’re always attached to his hand, your hand is always in his, fingers intertwined. His calloused and big fingers feel rough against your manicured ones, but you love the sensation and how he feels secure.
You call him all types of nicknames, which, for an almost fifty year old might be kinda cringe, but he loves it. He loves it when you call him “Jackie” or “Baby” in public, “Teddy bear” when cuddling, “Big boy” in bed. He loved it when you call him new nicknames now and then, it makes you both giggle, but you always stick to the same ones.
Sometimes you slap his ass. He doesn’t mind at all.
You always help him clean his amputation site after a long shift. He makes it seem like he doesn’t want you to, but deep down he loves to feel your soft hands on his leg instead of his calloused ones. At the end of the cleaning and applying lotion, you always kiss the site.
SUMMARY: Jack is that stage in life where a day off can never really be a day off. He always finds something that needs fixing, and as his wife, you’ve grown accustomed to that. You don’t expect him to be so clumsy at it, and you don’t expect to get hurt helping him when the doctor becomes the patient.
NOTES: Injuries (laceration on the arm, fractured ankle), household accidents, mentions of blood, medical setting, established marriage, very sweet and selfless Jack, hurt/comfort vibes.
REQUESTED BY: @dillydallyy
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The rhythmic, heavy thud of the mallet against wood had been echoing through the house for the better part of an hour. Jack was upstairs on the landing, finally tackling the squeaky floorboard that had been driving you mad for weeks. You were down in the kitchen, enjoying the quiet weekend and waiting for the kettle to boil so you could bring him a cup of tea.
The comforting routine shattered in an instant. A sudden, metallic crunch echoed down the stairs, followed by a heavy thud and a sharp, choked gasp of pure agony. The silence that immediately followed was heavy and terrifying.
"Jack?" you called out, your heart leaping into your throat. There was no answer, just the sound of low, ragged breathing. Dropping the mug onto the counter, you bolted up the stairs, your socks slipping slightly on the carpet as you rounded the corner to the landing.
Jack had collapsed against the wall, his face entirely drained of colour and slick with a sudden, cold sweat. His eyes were clamped shut, and his right hand was wrapped desperately around his left forearm. Dark, thick blood was already spilling through his fingers, pooling rapidly on the pale timber he had just been prying up.
"Fuck, Jack," you breathed, dropping to your knees beside him. The sheer volume of blood made your stomach drop, your hands hovering over him, trembling violently. You had seen him in his hospital scrubs a thousand times, completely unshakable in the face of trauma, but seeing him as the patient completely paralysed you.
Jack opened his eyes, the pupils blown wide with shock and pain. Even as his breathing hitched, the seasoned emergency doctor in him fought through the agony. He looked at your shaking hands and forced his voice to remain steady, though it came out as a strained, gravelly rasp.
"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart," Jack whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second as a fresh wave of pain hit him. "Don't look at the floor. Look at me. I need you to be my hands right now, okay? I slipped with the chisel. It’s deep."
"What do I do? Tell me what to do," you pleaded, your voice cracking as you tried to anchor yourself to his gaze.
"Go to the bathroom. Grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, and grab a clean towel," he instructed, his breath hitching as he shifted his weight. "Move fast, honey. Go on."
You scrambled to your feet, your socks skidding on the hallway runner as you burst into the bathroom. You grabbed the heavy medical kit and yanked a towel off the shelf, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Within seconds, you were back on the floor beside him, unfolding the towel with trembling fingers.
"Okay, I'm here. I have it," you said, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Good girl," Jack murmured, his head leaning back against the wallpaper. "I need you to open the kit and get the thickest trauma dressing in there. If not, the towel will do. You need to apply direct pressure right over my hand. Don't be gentle, sweetheart. You have to push down hard."
You nodded, swallowing down the rising panic. You folded the towel into a thick pad and placed it directly over his bleeding arm. As Jack slowly pulled his own crimson-stained hand away, the sight of the jagged, deep laceration made your vision swim, but you didn't hesitate. You placed both hands on the towel and leaned your entire body weight into his arm.
Jack let out a sharp, agonised groan, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans as his body went rigid.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you sobbed, tears finally blurring your vision.
"Don't be sorry," he panted, his forehead resting against your shoulder now, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. "You're doing perfectly. Keep holding it like that. We need to stem the flow before I can try to stand up."
For a few minutes, the landing was silent save for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. You kept every ounce of your weight pressed onto his arm, feeling the warm pulse of his blood beneath the heavy fabric. Slowly, the bright red seeping through the white towel seemed to slow down, the direct pressure doing its job.
"Is it stopping?" you whispered, looking down at his pale face.
"It's slowing," Jack managed, offering a weak, strained version of his usual reassuring smile. "You're amazing, you know that? My brilliant girl. Now, we need to tie it off tight. Use the roller bandage from the kit. Wrap it over the towel, as tight as you can manage."
Working with one hand while keeping pressure with the other, you managed to fish out the heavy bandage. Under his quiet, patient whispers, you wrapped the fabric securely around his arm, pulling it taut until Jack gave a tight nod of approval.
"That’s it. That’s got it for now," Jack breathed, leaning back against the wall with a sigh of sheer exhaustion. His face was still ghostly pale, but the immediate, terrifying torrent of blood had been contained. "Now, can you grab your phone? We need to get the crew out here."
"It's on the top step," you said, turning your head to look at the mobile device resting just a few feet away near the banister.
You started to shift your weight to stand up, your muscles stiff from the tension. But as you moved, your foot found the slick, wet patch of blood that had splattered onto the edge of the exposed, loose floorboards. Before you could even register the lack of friction, your foot shot out from under you.
"Whoa—!" you cried out, your hands flailing for a grip that wasn't there.
Your momentum carried you sideways, right over the lip of the top step. With a sharp gasp of terror, you tumbled awkwardly down the first half-flight of stairs, your body bouncing painfully against the carpeted steps before you landed with a dull, heavy thud against the wall of the half-landing.
A searing, white-hot pain immediately exploded in your left ankle, so intense that it stole the air right out of your lungs. You lay there on your side, pinned to the floor by the sudden, throbbing agony, clutching your leg as tears stung your eyes.
"Honey? Sweetheart, talk to me!" Jack’s voice echoed down the stairwell, completely stripped of its professional calm. It was pure, unadulterated panic. "Are you alright? Answer me!"
"My ankle," you gasped out, your voice small and choked with pain. "Jack, I can't move it. It hurts so bad."
From the top of the stairs, you heard a heavy drag and a grunt of pain as Jack, completely disregarding his own severe injury, began crawling toward the edge of the landing. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with horror as he saw you curled into a ball on the landing below.
"Don't move, honey. Just stay completely still," Jack commanded, his voice thick with emotion as he held his bandaged arm tightly against his chest. "I'm coming down to you."
"Stay there, Jack, don't move!" you cried out, looking up at him through a blur of tears. The sight of him dragging himself toward the edge of the stairs, his face entirely grey and his newly wrapped bandage already showing a fresh blossom of crimson, was almost worse than the white-hot agony radiating from your ankle.
"I'm not leaving you down there, sweetheart," Jack panted, his voice strained as he carefully manoeuvred his weight onto his good arm, slowly lowering himself down the first step. Every movement was a battle against shock, his breath catching sharply in his throat with each hitch of his body. "Just keep breathing. Nice, deep breaths for me."
It took him what felt like an eternity, but Jack finally managed to slide down the half-flight of stairs, collapsing heavily onto the landing beside you. He let out a ragged groan, leaning his back against the wall and immediately reaching out with his uninjured right hand to cup your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, his touch warm and desperate.
"Look at me, honey. Let me see you," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, looking for any signs of a head injury before his gaze drifted down to your left leg. "Where does it hurt the most? Is it just the ankle?"
"Yeah," you choked out, squeezing his hand tightly. "I just slipped on the... on the blood, Jack. I tried to grab the phone and my foot just went. It snapped so loud."
"Okay, okay, let me have a look. I'm going to be very gentle, I promise," he whispered, leaning forward slightly. With practiced, tender precision, his steady fingers gently hovered over your ankle, barely brushing the skin. Even that tiny movement made you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder.
"I know, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, his brow furrowed in deep concern as he assessed the rapidly swelling, distorted joint. "It’s a nasty sprain, possibly a fracture. We need to get that elevated and iced, but first, we need to actually call the ambulance. Where's the phone?"
You pointed a shaking finger up toward the top step where your mobile was still resting, completely out of reach for both of you.
Jack let out a dry, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Plan B. My phone is in my back pocket. Do you think you can reach it? My left arm is completely useless right now."
Carefully shifting your weight while trying not to jar your leg, you slid your hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone. Your fingers were still trembling so hard you almost dropped it, but you managed to unlock the screen and hand it over to him.
Jack didn't dial the standard emergency number; instead, he tapped in a direct line straight to the local ambulance dispatch handling the Pitt’s intake area. He pressed the speaker button, setting the phone down on the carpet between you. Within two rings, a familiar, crisp voice boomed through the speaker.
"Ambulance dispatch, what is the nature of the emergency?"
"Hey, it's Jack Abbot," Jack said, leaning his head back against the wall, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative tone he used when directing a chaotic trauma bay. "Listen, I need a crew at my house. We've got a bit of a situation here."
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the sound of furious typing. "Jack? Dude, what’s gone on? You’re supposed to be off until Monday."
"Yeah, well, the world had other plans," Jack grunted, wincing as he shifted his bandaged arm. "I've managed to put a chisel through my left forearm. Deep laceration, heavy bleeding, but we've got a pressure dressing on it now. My wife just slipped on the landing trying to help me and has taken a tumble down the stairs. Suspected fractured left ankle, severe pain, non-weight bearing."
"Jesus, Jack, you don't do things by halves, do you?" he replied, his voice a mix of professional urgency and fond disbelief. "Alright, I’ve got a unit just three minutes away from your street. It’s Mac and Sally. They're en route now. Keep that pressure on your arm, and keep your wife still."
"Thanks. Tell them the front door is unlocked," Jack said before hanging up. He turned his attention back to you, his expression softening instantly as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Hear that? Three minutes, honey. You're doing so well. I'm so proud of you."
"I was trying to help you, and I just made it worse," you whispered, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "Now you're stuck on the floor because of me."
"Don't you dare worry about that," Jack chided gently, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled you as close to his side as he could manage without hurting either of your injuries. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "You stopped the bleeding, sweetheart. You saved me from a massive haemorrhage. If anyone is to blame, it’s me and my DIY projects."
A few minutes later, the heavy thud of the front door swinging open echoed from downstairs, followed by the hurried footsteps of two paramedics moving into the hallway.
"Jack? Where are you, buddy?" a loud, cheerful voice called out from the bottom of the stairs.
"Up on the half-landing, Mac!" Jack shouted back, his voice cracking slightly with the effort. "Mind your step as you come up, it’s a bit of a disaster."
Two paramedics, loaded down with trauma bags and an extraction chair, rounded the corner and stopped dead in their tracks. Mac, a burly man with a thick beard, stared at the two of you huddled together on the small landing. Jack pale and blood-stained, and you clutching a ballooning ankle.
Sally, his partner, let out a loud, astonished bark of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh, you have got to be joking. Jack, what on earth have you done to your poor wife?"
"I didn't do anything to her, she was trying to rescue me!" Jack protested, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the way he winced as Mac knelt down beside him.
"Hm, likely story, doc," Mac teased, his hands already moving efficiently to check the pulse in Jack’s wrist below the bloody bandage. "Honestly, Jack, we leave you unsupervised for one weekend."
While Mac focused on Jack, Sally slid gracefully onto the floor next to you, opening her kit with a reassuring smile. "Alright, let's have a look at this leg. Jack’s a terrible patient, so you're my priority right now."
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur of efficient, careful movement. Sally administered a dose of medication for your pain, which finally took the sharp, agonizing edge off your ankle, while Mac reinforced Jack’s dressing and got him a dose of something strong.
Despite their teasing, the paramedics were incredibly gentle, carefully loading you both onto separate carrying chairs to navigate the rest of the stairs. Jack refused to be loaded into the ambulance first, stubbornly waiting until you were securely inside so he could have his stretcher positioned right next to yours. The entire drive to the hospital, his hand never left yours, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your knuckles as he murmured sweet, groggy assurances that everything was going to be fine.
The moment the ambulance doors burst open at the Pitt, the familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic and the hum of bleeping monitors washed over you. But the usual professional quiet of the admissions bay was shattered the instant Mac and Sally wheeled your matching gurneys through the automatic sliding doors.
"Heads up, team, we've got a double intake!" Mac called out at the top of his lungs, a massive, mischievous grin on his face. "Your best doctor has managed to incapacitate the entire Abbot household."
The reaction was instantaneous. Langdon, who had been charting at the central desk, dropped his pen entirely, his jaw hitting the floor. "What the... Dr Abbot?"
Dana emerged from Bay 4, a clipboard tucked under her arm, but stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes darting from Jack’s heavily bandaged, blood-stained arm to your elevated, ballooning ankle. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. The hell did you do to this lovely lady, Jack?"
Within seconds, a small crowd of familiar faces converged on the two stretchers. Mel hurried over from the staff room, a half-eaten sandwich still in her hand, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and absolute amusement. "Oh my… are you okay? Well clearly not but… what happened?”
"I slipped on his blood!" you called out, the pain medication making you laugh weakly as the stretchers were wheeled side-by-side into the major trauma bays.
Robby walked out of the resuscitation unit, snapping off a pair of surgical gloves, his expression instantly melting into a look of profound, theatrical despair. He walked over to the foot of Jack’s bed, crossing his arms. "Abbot. I leave you in charge of your own home for twenty-four hours, and you bring your lovely wife into my ER on a stretcher? Explain yourself."
"It was a loose floorboard, Robby," Jack groaned, the morphine making his voice deep and slightly slurred, though he still managed to shoot a mean glare. "The chisel slipped. She was brilliant, actually. Total natural."
"And then she fell down the stairs because you're a terrible husband," Trinity chimed in, leaning against the doorframe of the bay with a massive smirk on her face. She looked over at you, giving you a sympathetic wink. "Don't worry, beautiful, we'll make sure his stitches hurt extra bad for making you go through this."
Samira pushed through the crowd, carrying a fresh bag of IV fluids and a splinting kit. She looked at the two of you, shaking her head in fond disbelief as she began setting up near your bed. "Right, let's get a look at this ankle, shall we?"
Despite the relentless teasing and the chorus of laughter echoing through the department, the underlying warmth and care from the staff were palpable. The curtains between your bays were pulled completely back, creating one large room so Jack could keep his eyes on you. Even as Samira gently examined your leg and Langdon began prepping Jack’s arm for a neat row of sutures, Jack kept his right hand stretched across the gap between the gurneys, his fingers hooked securely around yours.
"You're in good hands, sweetheart," Jack whispered, completely ignoring Trinity and Robby, who were currently debating which one of them got to write ‘DIY FAIL’ on his medical chart. He squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes soft with devotion. "They're going to fix us both up, and I promise you, I am never touching a tool again."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Abbot," Langdon chuckled, pouring sterile saline over Jack’s forearm to clear away the dried blood. He winced on Jack's behalf as the true depth of the laceration was revealed. "Though looking at this, you won't be holding a chisel or a scalpel for at least a few weeks. You've sliced right down. You're lucky you missed the important stuff."
"I told you, she stopped the bleeding," Jack said, his voice thick with pride despite the sharp intake of breath he let out as Langdon administered the local anaesthetic around the edges of the wound. He kept his eyes locked onto yours, his grip on your fingers tightening as the needle did its work. "She was incredible, Langdon. Didn't even faint."
Over on your side of the bay, Samira was carefully wrapping a temporary fiberglass splint around your rapidly bruising ankle, having just come back from reviewing the digital X-rays that Robby had rushed through the scanner. "Well, your brilliant wife has a nasty grade-three sprain and a tiny fracture. No surgery needed, thank goodness, but you're going to be on crutches and a boot for a while."
"Hear that, honey?" Jack murmured, a look of profound relief washing over his pale features as the morphine and the local numbing agent finally took the edge off his pain. "No surgery. You're going to be just fine."
"I'm more worried about you," you admitted, your voice still a little breathless from the lingering adrenaline and the effects of the medication. "You look like you've been through hell."
Dana walked back into the bay, holding a selection of takeaway menus, placing them on the bedside table between your gurneys. "Right, since you two managed to completely ruin your Saturday, the department is buying dinner. Santos wants pizza, Mel wants Thai, so you two get the deciding vote. Consider it a consolation prize for having the most embarrassing admissions of the year."
"Pizza," Jack grunted without hesitation, earning a loud cheer from Santos, who was still lingering near the desk. Jack looked back at you, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. "We'll get the one you like, sweetheart."
As Langdon methodically began placing neat sutures into Jack’s arm, the initial chaotic energy of the department began to settle back into its usual professional rhythm. Robby and Dana headed back to the central desk to handle a new influx of patients from the waiting room, leaving the curtains open just enough for the staff to keep an eye on their favorite patient duo.
By the time Jack’s arm was neatly bandaged and your leg was securely immobilized in a heavy boot, the evening sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, warm shadows across the trauma bay. A delivery driver had dropped off three massive boxes of pizza, and Samira had kindly brought over two cups of tea, served in the mismatched mugs from the staff room.
Jack managed to shift his gurney a fraction closer to yours, his right arm slung comfortably over the metal guardrail so he could remain completely connected to you. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to both of you, the quiet hum of the hospital a strangely comforting background noise compared to the terror on the stairs just hours earlier.
"I really am sorry, honey," Jack whispered, his voice soft and entirely devoid of the bravado he had shown in front of his colleagues. He leaned his head against the side of his pillow, looking at you with an expression of pure, unfiltered devotion. "I wanted to fix that stupid floorboard so you wouldn't trip on it, and I ended up putting you in a cast instead."
"We're a matching set now," you teased gently, reaching over to squeeze his uninjured hand, gesturing to his heavily wrapped arm and your massive black boot. "Besides, you heard the crew. We really don't do things by halves."
Jack let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound warm and familiar as he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your skin. "No, I suppose we don't. But from now on, we are hiring a professional for absolutely everything. Next weekend, you and I are staying on the couch."
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