Honestly Writes

✨Fandoms are my coping mechanism ✨ | MASTERLIST | They | Writing blog for @honestlystop

[honestlywrites]

Honestly Writes Masterlist

Call me Ahri! (they/them); I'm rarely updating fics or writing because I'm a full time academic but on the off chance I feel a deep inspiration, it will most likely show up here. I've linked my Pitt fanfics below + links to my other masterlists. Working on fixing some broken links so bare with me!

Blood in the Water | Brendon Park x Lawyer! Reader

Summary: As an associate lawyer, you're relegated to consults, researching case law, and generally doing the work that the partnered attorneys take credit for. Now, as a high-profile case threatens PTMC's reputation, you're tasked with handling their most difficult client yet, Park the Shark. 

Chapter One: Our Topic Is...

Chapter Two: Legally Blonde

Chapter Three: What, like it's hard? (TBD)

Kissing Boys in College | Michael (Robby) Robinivitch x Jack Abbot

Summary: Michael's various adventures in learning about his sexuality and Jack's role in all of it. 

[honestlywrites]

officially diagnosed with carpal tunnel and have a referral with a ortho surgeon 🥰😚💕 hope they’re cute like brendon park

[honestlywrites]

Blood in the Water | Brendon Park x Lawyer! Reader

Chapter Two: Legally Blonde

Summary: The court date looms ever closer, and the administration begs for a settlement to stop this case once and for all. But, Brendon--stubborn as ever--refuses to move on his stance. In an effort to 

CW: Brief descriptions of sexual harassment, nothing overtly described--just alluded. Please take care of yourself.  If you'd prefer to skip it, don't read from “What you did,” to ‘Brendon hears the familiar footsteps…’ Canon-typical depictions of death, medical terminology, and medical procedures. Alcohol drinking. Horniness. Inaccuracies up the wazoo. Please let me know if I forget anything!

A/N: I may be on a lot of ibuprofen and antibiotics, but nothing could stop me from finishing this chapter. It practically wrote itself. 

Masterlist

WC: 5k

“Okay, tell me about what you recall of the events following the operation.”

You were sat in the administrative offices where you had carved out a small cubical to do all your paperwork and consult with clients–mostly healthcare workers who wanted a legal consult but it proved useful in this moment to see Brendon fit himself into a rather short chair.

“The surgery took one hour and twenty minutes from the first incision to when we closed up the surgical site. Because Mr. Berger was a candidate for ERAS–”

“Hold on, you have to explain it to me like I don’t know a single thing about medicine. What’s ERAS?” you prompt, spelling out the acronym.

“Enhanced recovery after surgery, it’s a pathway that we as a health care team follow to decide when the best discharge timeline looks like,” he looks at you a bit like a lost puppy, if he was a giant anatolian shepard puppy with paws the size of your hand. You nod to encourage him to continue. “So because Mr. Berger was a candidate for same day discharge, the nurses and physical therapists consulted with him to ensure that he was prepared. He had his wife at home, could walk and ambulate comfortably by himself, pain was being managed by morphine in hospital with a script for oxycodone. He was urinating and otherwise had stable vital signs. So, when I checked on him to decide if he was able to be discharged, I deemed him fit and they left six hours after surgery.”

You nod, scrawling notes onto the familiar yellow legal pad. “At any point, was there any indication that Mr. Berger had an infection?”

“No, there was not, otherwise I would have not discharged him.”

More notes are scribbed into the margins. “And, during the surgery, was there any indication you may have left a surgical tool or gauze inside of Mr. Berger?”

Brendon scoffs at the thought, his eyes darkening. “Of course not.”

“I have to ask.”

“The thought that someone, especially me, would not count out all my tools and sponges is ridiculous.”

You sit back in your chair and take all of him in, paying attention to the frown creasing his brow, the rigidness of his stature, and the tautness of the skin around his clenched fists. A smile passes across your face before you can stop yourself. Brendon’s frown grows even deeper and his voice comes out so low, it is almost a growl.

“Do you think this is funny?”

“Of course not, I just have to remind you that as obvious as surgery and the rules around surgery may be second nature to you, a jury of laypeople won’t see counting out sponges as a obvious fact.” You have to pity him for just a moment, considering the reality that although he’s incredibly intelligent–he doesn’t understand the social finesse that comces with being in a court room. While he studied anatomy books, you were in front of professors and peers arguing a point. It was fascinating to say the least. “You need to convince them that you, as a person, cared about Mr. Berger enough to ensure the sponge count was perfect. The law is fickle to say the least, especially in a civil case where the burden of proof is a lot lower than a criminal case. I’m already doing things on my end to create a case, but your deposition and testimony have to be rock solid.” 

He shrinks slightly in a way you didn’t think he could. You see the thoughts racing through his head, navigating the interpersonal wordsmithing that has to occur in lieu of just describing the science. 

“Hey,” you reach across and take his hand, gently smoothing out the tension when you stroke your thumb over the back of his palm. “You are a passionate and skilled surgeon. Not once in your entire surgical career–including when you were a resident and fellow–have you shown any incidents of malpractice. I would know, I audited all of the reports you’ve written up.”

Brendon’s eyes brighten in shock. “That’s hundreds of reports.”

“You found me at the cafeteria table didn’t you? Why do you think I was so tired?”

“I don’t know, reading laws?”

You burst into a laugh, quickly stifling it behind a hand when you see a couple of your officemates turn in your direction. 

“God, you’re a joy.” You incite a small chuckle out of Brendon that’s more like a puff of air, but his frown’s been replaced by a smile so you accept it as a victory. Checking the time, you sigh and slip your hand out of his to begin packing up your notes. “It’s probably a good time to stop, it’s getting close to quitting time. For me anyways, and I need to make a phone call that I’ve been dreading. I’ll walk you out.”

The two of you rise and begin walking out and you have to will your face to not get flushed when he assumes his full height next to you. Although he was still taller than you sitting down–his fully stretched out legs really emphasize the shocking difference. 

“Who’s the phone call to?” he asks, holding the door open for you. You can almost feel your heart skip a beat in your chest.

“Just a paralegal I’m talking to about getting a warrant for a forensic autopsy,” you sigh and pause just outside the doors of the administrative wing. “I know that Callahan doesn’t want to bother because he wants this to end in a simple settlement rather than risking the hospital’s reputation on a whole trail but I believe you, Dr. Park.”

Your eyes meet his, crystal blue like Lake Como in Italy and you can only wonder if he really knows how beautiful he is in spite of his sharp features. Especially when you’re lucky enough to get a rare smile.

“Why doesn’t Callahan want the forensic autopsy?”

You deflate. “He doesn’t want to ruin relations between the widowed Mrs. Berger and the hospital so that the damages she’s suing for stay low. If we require the law to give us the body of her deceased husband, it could further the charges of emotional damages which Callahan wants to avoid. But he hasn’t heard your testimony, he just doesn’t believe we can win.”

“And do you?” 

It’s your turn to frown. “Do I what?”

“Do you believe we can win?” 

Even as an attorney who spent three years of law school seeing through everyone’s bullshit, you can’t even begin to dissect the face that Brendon’s making at you. Something between admiration and awe sits in the way his brow furrows but doesn’t frown. His hand reaches for yours almost subconsciously seeking comfort. You’d think this level of intimacy was foreign for a man like Dr. Park, all hair gel and teeth, but in the last couple of weeks working with him–you’d seen a different side. The fear and anxiety of losing something he unconditionally loved, his work. And it wasn’t the same kind of fear you see in people working a nine-to-five just to make ends meet, no. It was pure passion. And it endeared him to you.

You offer a comforting smile and nod, squeezing his hand in yours. “I do.”

He straightens up and and nods his head like he’s already decided on whatever’s going on inside his head. “I’ll get you that warrant then.”

Like a man on a mission, he lets go of your hand and turns to the elevator swiftly, pressing the button without even saying goodbye. Shock paralyzes you before you can respond. 

He’s already in the elevator, doors closing, when you muster; “What do you mean get me the warrant?”

Between the deposition and court dates quickly looming, you see Brendon less and less because you both have done your job. Now, all you had to do was wait to see if the trial went through or if an agreement would be reached–which was unlikely considering Brendon’s position on the whole thing. Callahan, the main defense attorney on this case, was persistent in trying to convince Dr. Park in admitting guilt. In doing so, the hospital and Brendon could accept the lower damages whilst keeping the case quiet. Callahan, for how intelligent he was in the court, was very manipulative. Flaunting his high brow attorney money, Brendon was on the receiving side of many gifts, lunches, and even offers to play at the local Country Club gold course. But it was all ridiculous. Did Brendon look like a man who played golf? 

You were on the receiving side of his lamentation whenever Brendon received one of these ostentatious invitations. This time, it was a dinner. 

Brendon Park (PTMC): Are you coming to the dinner Callahan has planned tonight? You: No? What dinner? Brendon Park (PTMC): For fuck’s sake he won’t stop inviting me to this dinner with a bunch of investors and stuff.  You: Gross. Are you going? Brendon Park (PTMC): I feel like I have to, I’ve already ditched three invitations to golf this month. You: Wow, Callahan treats you better than he does his wife. Kinda cute. Maybe the two of you should date. Brendon Park (PTMC): I didn’t know he had a wife. Seemed like the kind of guy married to his job.  You: Well when he makes that much money, you can’t help but stick around and be eye candy for the guy.  Brendon Park (PTMC): Wanna come to dinner with me? You: Like to Callahan’s dinner or just like regular dinner? Brendon Park (PTMC): Well Callahan’s dinner first but I was thinking we could grab dinner another time. Or, if the food is awful, we can grab burgers at the place around the corner from the restaurant.  You: Did you Google search other restaurants around the area? Brendon Park (PTMC): Look at me. They serve pea puree on a plate topped with a microgreen and call it dinner. I need more than just puree for how much protein intake my lifestyle requires. You: Okay gymbro ;) Brendon Park (PTMC): Careful sweetheart. These arms aren’t only for surgery. Brendon Park (PTMC): So, pick you up at 6? You: see you then ;)

The second you press send, you’re up and off your bed–running down the stairs with the gait of a clumsy horse. Trinity looks up from where she’s laying on the couch as you threaten to tumble down the stairs.

“Where’s the fire?” Dennis asks, poking his head out from the kitchen where he’s washing dishes.

Breathless from the running and also from the fact that you were just flirting with on of the hottest doctors you’ve seen in your life, you clutch the bannister before spitting out, “I’m going to dinner with Dr. Park.” 

Trinity sits up so fast you’re worried she got whiplash. “Oh shit.”

“I don’t know what to wear,” you stare at your friends wide eye, shocked that this is even happening. Trinity has been subject to many lamentations of your wet dreams about Brendon that this dinner feels closer to her Olympics than any flirtation with Yolanda has felt.

“Well then turn your butt around and get upstairs we’ve got work to do,” you mindlessly follow her instructions, too stunned to protest as she shouts out to Dennis. “Huckleberry, warm up the curling iron!”

After Trinity is done with you, your body has been scrubbed and exfoliated beyond your imagination with your hair curled perfectly to give off just the perfect illusion of effortlessness. The dress is a perfect mixture of professional and sensual, clinging to curves in a way that makes you feel like a hot lawyer and also a femme fatale. Looking in the mirror, you can barely recognize the person in the mirror. It’s unfamiliar, wanting to look good for yourself and for someone else. 

“You look like you’re ready to pain the town red, babe,” Trinity says, smiling, and finishing the last touches on your hair with a dusting of hair spray.

“I feel like it,” you turn to look at her earnestly. “Thank you, Trin.”

“Of course, dude. You deserve to look and feel like hot shit,” she wraps her arms around your shoulders, squeezing you in a hug that’s almost too tight but just tight enough to feel comforting. “Now, if you end up coming back here–I’ll make sure Huckleberry and I are out on the town–watching a drive in movie with his surrogate family or something.”

You let out a cackle. “You hate babies.”

“Yeah,” she says obviously. “But I love hearing about your sexcapades.”

Trinity bumps your shoulder and winks as you stand, balancing on your stiletto heels. This time, instead of the black pumps–you opted for a pinker shoe to feel more you and less like the lawyer persona you put on at work.

The doorbell breaks the two of you out of your dress up fantasy. A cold shiver of nerves runs down your head and back and Trinity notices in an instant, pulling the faux fur coat off the chair and placing it on your shoulders. 

“You’re a motherfucking lawyer. You’re the youngest associate in your firm. You are a boss ass bitch,” she tells you like a mantra as you nod and straighten your spine. 

“I’m a boss ass bitch.”

You shakily make your way down the stairs, balancing on the heels to the most hilarious sight you’ve ever witnessed. Dennis standing awkwardly in the living room while Brendon stands towering next to the doorway.

“Good evening, Dr. Park,” you smile, holding your clutch tightly like a lifeline as your eyes rake over his immaculately pressed suit. 

The fact that he’s wearing a suit is even more impressive considering the fact that he was less than thrilled at the idea of going to a fancy restaurant but you can’t complain. The light gray fabric edges on blue, emulating the colored skin of his namesake–the shark. It’s a little on the nose, but the fabric is perfectly pressed in a way that accentuates the divots of his body. The way the suit clings to his thighs and across his broad chest makes you want to take a bite out of his shoulder. 

“You can call me Brendon, sweetheart,” your heart flutters at hearing ‘sweetheart’ come from his mouth for the first time. “Shall we?”

His hand slots firmly on your lower back, and although you’re wearing a rather thick coat–you can feel the heat of his huge hand stretch across your waist.

“Have fun you crazy kids!” Trinity shouts before closing the door behind the two of you.

For a moment, you glance at Brendon, expecting a look of disgust or annoyance at Trinity. But, when you look up at him, all you see is his bright blue eyes gazing down with the light of the streetlamps dancing like stars in his eyes. In shock, you turn to look in front of you under the guise of finding your step. 

As you find your balance, you scan the curb for his car and set your eyes on a gorgeous blue Maserati GranTurismo that must cost more than your collective student debt you’ve accrued over your educational career. It’s sleek and modern and takes your breath away when Brendon goes to open the door for your, revealing the leather interior.

“Thanks,” your voice comes out breathlessly, sitting in the plush seat–your eyes roving over the dash. Once Brendon slips into the driver seat, you can’t help but speak up in awe. “Your car is beautiful.”

“She is, isn’t she?” a rare smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He fires up the engine, the soft purr of the V6 engine rumbling underneath the two of you. “I bought her after my nonna complained I was still driving her beat up old car. She thought I needed something that suited me.”

“Well,” you let out an incredulous laugh. “Thank you, nonna.”

The car darts off and you’re struck with joy as the lights of Pittsburgh fly by in a daze. 

Dinner is… well dinner is exactly what you expected. Tiny appetizers with even tinier entrees, all wrapped up with a weird gastronomic mousse that tastes more like air than vanilla. You wash everything down with a hefty gulp of whatever bottle of wine they bought for the table but even a sip makes you wish you were back home with Trinity, drinking Franzia. Sitting next to Brendan, you smile and make pleasantries with Callahan’s wife who is much more poised as she passes the basket of bread.

“So, have you been enjoying working at the firm? Callahan tells me that you’re the youngest associate they’ve ever hired,” she comments with a smile as you shrink under the watchful eyes of the table. 

“Yes,” you pile bread onto a plate as a distraction. “It’s been a dream come true to work somewhere with such incredible prestige. I heard so many great things about the firm while I was attending UPenn. The internship is a wonderful opportunity to get your foot in the door so when I was accepted for a full time position, it felt like a dream.”

You speak in half truths. Part of it is the watchful eye of Callahan across the table, ensuring that you speak well about the law firm he built himself from brick and mortar. The truthful side is that you were incredibly thankful to have a job, especially one working near your closest friend so you wouldn’t have to live a lonely life in the city. 

“Well, when we saw your resume, we had to catch you before anyone else offered you a position,” Callahan comments over his glass of white wine with a small wink that makes your stomach turn in disgust. Instinctively, you lean into Brendan to help ground you in a comforting presence. Your hand finds this underneath the plush tablecloth–just brushing the backs of your hands together to remind you that you aren’t alone at this table.

Dr. Park clears his throat and speaks, “Thank you for inviting me to this dinner. It’s been wonderful to spend time with my defense team, especially when you’re working so hard.”

He glances over at you, linking your pinkies as he emphasizes the last phrase. It makes your chest feel warm, to be seen for your hard work by the person you’re trying your hardest to defend. It makes the late nights and early mornings worth it when you know your building a case that you believe in, rather than one built with straw and facades. 

“Of course,” Callahan smiles. “Although, I hoped we’d be celebrating happier news tonight. In a case like this, it’s easiest to accept the deal when there’s non-reversible damages because the likelihood of defence verdict statistically decreases.”

“So I’ve heard,” Brendan grumbles and chokes down the last dregs of his wine glass, wincing slightly at the bitterness. 

“In my professional opinion, Dr. Park–and I’ve been doing this a while, I would hate to see your license to practice be threatened over a small mistake like this. It’s within my best interest to ensure that you continue to practice in the state of Pennsylvania, especially considering that you’re one of the best in the country,” Callahan smiles caustically, like his face is incapable of actually showing true joy. It may be that he enjoys the sight of people withering under his gaze too much to show his humanity, but you aren’t quite sure. What you are sure of is the slow bubble of anger that builds as he continues to coerce Brendan over something he’s been very firm about. 

Just as Callahan goes to speak again, you interject, “With all due respect, Mr. Callahan, Dr. Park is well aware of his options and has firmly denied the settlement. I believe that it is in our best interest as lawyers to seek out all information so that we may best defend him in court, as is what we are hired to do. Sir.”

You tack on the last bit in an attempt to show a modicum of respect through the venom you’ve spit out, but you know the vitriol escapes in the way that the table goes silent. Logically, you know you should be supporting Callahan and speaking sweet nothings to Brendon in an attempt to sway him to take the settlement so the hospital has to pay less for something he might not have even done. On the other hand, you’ve worked tirelessly with Brendan. You know him and his character. He may be cold, stern, and altogether a man of few words, but he is earnest in what he says and you believe him. So, you refuse to sit by while your colleagues–or more specifically your boss–demeans him in front of the table. 

Next to you, Brendon places his hand on your thigh as he brings his phone to his ear. “Urgently?” there’s a slight pause, “of course. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Grabbing your hand, he stands and you’re forced to follow. 

“Sorry everyone–they need me at the hospital. There’s an emergency reconstruction and I’m on call.”

You smile placidly to the table, taking a second to push in your chair politely so that a waiter doesn’t trip before being spirited off behind Brendan, only pausing once you’re around the corner. Looking up, you frown once the two of you stop on the side walk.

“Don’t we need to go? You said there was a surgery.”

He looks down and smiles. A real smile this time, one that lights up his face in a way that’s only reserved for the dim lighting of dusk. “I was just tired of hearing Callahan speak. He talks like he’s the only one in the room.”

A laugh bubbles up in surprise. You can’t hold it back, seeing the childish glee on Brendan’s face as the two of you hide on a street corner like teenagers after a prom night. 

“Dr. Park,” you playfully bat at his chest. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He catches your hand, holding it close–just above his heart so that you can feel it beat. “It’s Brendan.”

You sit in a comfortable silence, the ambiance of the city embracing the two of you in a distractionless cocoon. Your eyes scan his face, taking in the scruff growing in now that the night beckons and the small dimple in the center of his cheek. Unable to stop yourself, you reach up with your freehand and poke the dimple, watching it indent even further into his cheek.

“I didn’t know you had dimples,” your voice is a whisper. 

“I think you’re the only one in the hospital who’s seen me smile, let alone seen my dimples,” his hand drops yours and you have to hide the disappointment only before he laces your fingers together. “Now, if my calculations are correct–there’s a late night burger place open around the corner. And I don’t know about you, but I could go for some fries.”

You squeeze his hand, sidling up next to him to bask in his warmth. “Lead the way.”

With a full heart and an even fuller stomach, the two of you find your way back to the front door of your shared townhouse. All the lights are off, as per Trinity’s promise, but all you can think about is the new side of Brendon you’ve seen in the last few hours. This is the true Brendan, without the blue scrubs and gelled back hair. He was looser, more free with his curled hair that dangled out of place just so. And a smile that was almost blinding with out bright it could be. 

“Thank you for tonight,” his voice is almost a whisper as the two of you stand almost chest to chest, hands hovering but not touching each other.

“Of course,” you scoff and smile. “Who wouldn’t pass up an opportunity for free food.”

You can’t hold yourself back from tangling your hands in the lapel of his suit, feeling the smooth fibers underneath your fingertips.

“That’s not what I meant,” his arms slowly snake around your waist, pulling you closer until you can feel his breath puff against your face. 

“Yeah well, it’s not always that you get to berate your boss in front of important colleagues and donors. I should be thanking you for the once in a lifetime chance.”

Brendon falls silent as his eyes scan your face, looking for any hint of discomfort or rejection as he brushes his nose against yours. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”

Your blood sings with all the wine you consumed that night, your mind floating and hazy with joy. You can’t help but tug him close to finally capture his lips, feeling your chest warm when he clutches you tightly like you’re something precious. This close to him, you smell the bright pine notes of his aftershave and coconut in his curl cream. You don’t remember the last time you kissed someone you actually liked and this was wiping all the terrible memories away in a wash of bright joy.

He gently cradles your back as he pushes you against the door, always a doctor at heart with the way he watches out for your spine. You feel his body push even closer, his firm chest against yours and a leg that slips between your thighs–pressing against the place you want him the most. Your lips part for a brief moment to catch your breath and he can’t help but litter kisses down your jaw and behind your ear. Reaching up, your fingers tangle in the soft and slightly damp brown curls that sit atop his head, silently begging him for more.

In the dull lamplight, the two of you look like a happy couple–joyful and enjoying in each others intimate presence. For a moment you can almost forget that you work for him, that there isn’t a lawsuit looming around the corner waiting to sink its teeth into your plush flesh. But your mind doesn’t let reality float away when you finally come to. 

“Brendon,” you spout out, your voice hoarse. “We can’t.”

You tug on his hair gently to pull him away from your skin. He frowns and looks down at you like a lost puppy. You want nothing but to pull him into your house, to finally indulge in all the fantasies that keep you up at night. But, ethically, you know you can’t. 

“I work for you, Brendon. We can’t.”

He shakes his head in confusion. “You work for the hospital, there’s nothing against–”

“I’m sorry,” you reach up and place a hand on his face, pulling him down to press a parting kiss on his cheek.

You turn toward the door, hands fumbling with the keys as you wrench it open–pushing inside as quickly as possible. When the door finally shuts behind you, the tears begin to fall as you sink to the ground. Guilt claws a pit in your stomach as you listen to him stand outside the door, perhaps staring at the space you were once at, before walking down the steps to his car. You hold in the verbal sobs until the low purr of the GranTurisimo grows quiet and you feel your heart tug in your chest. 

After that night, there’s a silence that digs a hole in Brendon’s pocket where his phone is. Every time the phone vibrates, he can’t help but rush to check if a message from you is waiting. There never is. It’s just an endless stream of consults, questions, and monotonous work that makes every passing day go even slower. 

Only one message catches his eye. It’s an email with an attached warrant from his contact. Brendon’s heart could sing. The one last puzzle piece to his case was finally found and they would have an almost air tight defense to present to the court next week.

With a surgery upcoming that would take the rest of his afternoon, he practically bounds up the stairs, skipping steps to get to the administrative floor where all the attorneys are. He arrives at your cubical to see an open computer, but no dice. 

“Where is she?” he doesn’t mean to growl out at your coworker but after running up six flights of stairs, his voice comes out more growl than grumble.

“She’s in with Callahan,” they point toward the office at the end of the corridor and Brendon is already off, striding across the carpeted floor to get to you. He pauses when he hears voices speaking in hushed whispers, hovering just outside the door to give you the good news when you finally get out. 

“What you did,” he hears Callahan speak. “It takes a lot of guts to stand up to your boss like that.”

“Sorry,” your voice is small in the way you make it when fear overruns you–the way you sounded when you pulled away from the kiss. “I didn’t mean any disrespect, sir.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I… admire your tenacity,” a pit forms in the depths of Brendon’s stomach. It’s not true what they say about sharks, that they can sense a drop of blood in the ocean from a mile away. But this close, he can smell it in the air.

“Oh, thank you.”

“In fact, I think you have what it takes to make partner some time soon. The board doesn’t convene for a couple months, but I’m sure I can put a word in to recommend you.”

There a silence that makes Brendon’s ears ring. You’re quiet, too quiet for your dreams to be happening right then and there with Callahan recommending you for partner. A smack of the mouth and a firm slap ring out in succession.

“Are you hitting on me?” you ask incredulously.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” Callahan’s voice remains low and gravely, as though he hadn’t just harassed his own subordinate. 

Brendon hears the familiar footsteps of your heels on the carpet grow closer until the door is thrown open. You turn the corner and come face to face with him, sweat growing on your brow as you place a hand over your mouth. 

“I have to go,” you whisper and run out of the room, people peeking over the walls of their cubicles to watch the commotion.

“Wait!”

Brendon’s voice bellows out, but you’re already gone.

[honestlywrites]

Blood in the Water | Brendon Park x Lawyer! Reader

Chapter One: Our Topic Is...

Summary: As an associate lawyer, you're relegated to consults, researching case law, and generally doing the work that the partnered attorneys take credit for. Now, as a high-profile case threatens PTMC's reputation, you're tasked with handling their most difficult client yet, Park the Shark. 

CW: Canon-typical depictions of death, medical terminology, and medical procedures. Alcohol drinking, general mentions of SA--think Trinity's experiences from Season 1. Horniness. Please let me know if I forget anything!

A/N: Woah, my first multi-chaptered fic since... forever? (I don't want to say high school that feels wrong). Extra special shout out to: @f1uffysplace for the inspiration and @rr-after-dark for your general encouragement. This was the most fun I've had with writing in a while!

WC: 4k

It’s 7:05am when Brendon Park finally walks onto the surgical floor, passing Shirley–the secretary–before arriving at the door to his office where you’re standing. 

“You’re late,” you don’t even spare him a glance, only addressing him when the soft clack of his leather shoes grows closer.

“Excuse me,” he brushes past, his broad shoulders checking yours to scoot you out of the way, like he knows his presence alone takes up space. He moves swift and efficient, into his office, shutting the door behind him without a care when a perfectly shiny black heel catches in the doorway.

“I don’t think you’ve understood me but I’m your 7 o’clock,” you smile at him tightly and feel your patience wearing down slowly, his energy almost caustic as his eyes meet yours for the first time.

“Get your foot out of the door,” he grumbles, drawing it back slightly. He may be mean, a bit arrogant, and even cruel at times–but Brendon Park was raised to respect women and he wasn’t about to crush your perfectly heeled foot in the doorway.

You take the opportunity to push past, into the small office devoid of many personal affects. There’s a small framed picture of him with two women–perhaps his mother and grandmother– alongside a small shark figurine that makes you frown.

“Thank you for holding the door open for me,” you turn on your heel to face him, beginning to speak when you’re met with his perfectly sculpted pectorals at your eyeline. Clearing your throat and tilting your head up, you continue, “I’m here on behalf of Callahan, Moynihan, and Associates. We’re the legal firm that represents PTMC–and you’re being named in a medical malpractice lawsuit for a total knee arthroplasty you performed about a month ago.”

Brendon huffs as he moves about his office in an attempt to ignore your presence so that he can go ahead with his morning routine of checking all the unnecessary emails he’s been cc’ed in before the actual medicine begins. “I’m a orthopedic surgeon, I’m probably named in at least one lawsuit a year. I know the drill, so please leave my office before I remove you.” 

“Dr. Park, I don’t think you understand the severity of–”

“Leave. Now.”

He finally spares a glance your way once he’s seated in his perfectly ergonomic blue Herman Miller office chair, staring with a face he only reserves for the most ignorant residents. Although he doesn’t show it, he’s slightly surprised at the way you meet his eyes with an equally stoney gaze.

“You’re being named in a multi-million dollar lawsuit where the Pennsylvania board of medicine is acting as an amicus curiae. Your license to practice is being threatened. And, the media is involved because it’s about the now deceased former quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers,” you take a pause for dramatic effect, but to also relish in the shock on this 6’2 beast of a man’s face. “So, apologies if I was trying to help. I will take my leave now.”

Brendon watches as you turn and begin to exit his office and he can barely stomach the churning he feels in his gut as you leave. It’s an uphill battle as he fights his pride, ego, and ebs of anxiety to chase after you.

“Wait!” his voice bellows out, breaking through the relative quiet of the orthopedic offices. You refuse to pause your gait, but it isn’t hard when he has the longest legs known to man. A hand grabs your wrist roughly and on instinct, you wrench it out of his grasp.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are regurgitated out, leaving an acidic taste in his mouth. It’s not often that Brendon Park, Park the Shark, apologises–and to a stranger at that–but it’s the candor in his voice that makes you pause. 

“Take a seat in my office,” he begs. 

You look at him coyly, lifting a perfectly sculpted eyebrow to see if you can drag the groveling out as long as possible

“Please.”

It’s only then when you crack a smile, a true smile, because you’ve won.

“No hard feelings, Dr. Park. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Once the verbal joust had ceased, Park was perfectly reasonable and listened intently to what the case was about. Rob Berger, the former starting quarterback of the Pittsburg Steelers had finally retired from the sport after a career-ending knee injury that completely atrophied the muscle and bone. After several years of attempted rehabilitation, it was clear that he needed a completely new knee to continue comfortably. Dr. Park knew the rest from here. Berger consulted with UPMC and was referred to Brendan for his expertise and specialty in sports medicine, having been a football player in his youth. The shock only showed when you described the only known details of his death. 

The death was kept private until recently when the lawsuit was leveed. You and your fellow attorneys only knew what the media was told. Rob Berger was found dead when his wife, Andrea woke and saw that he was not breathing. She then called the police. Andrea then claimed that he had died due to a hospital aquired infection when a piece of gauze was left inside her husband–found only once the autopsy was conducted afterwards. Rob had been scheduled to see his physician and go to rehab that day because they noticed some swelling at home. 

You watched Brendon carefully whilst telling him the details of the case. Surprisingly, he listened intently, leaned forward in a way that accentuated the biceps threatening to burst out of his scrub top. There were several moments when words stuttered briefly because you had to reprimand your internal desires. This was a client. You were at work. This was the first time you had been trusted with handling part of the case. Your career, everything you had suffered was for this moment–to finally practice law in a way that felt authentic, or at least as authentic as representing a medical institution could be.

The discussions had lasted about thirty minutes before a pager went off, garnering much more important attention and so the two of you adjourned for the day with promises to schedule a meeting as soon as possible in his busy schedule. 

Throughout the day, you found your mind drifting off to him. It felt childish to develop a minute crush on a man you had met that day and spoken to for less than an hour, but the sincerity of it all was refreshing in an industry where it felt everyone was out for blood. You’d guess that maybe the rumors about sharks were wrong. They weren’t deadly at all, they just wanted to live–the same as anyone. 

At the end of the day, after trudging through endless paperwork, you sink back into your couch with a groan. You elevate your swollen feet, stretching out the achilles tendon after spending all day in pinpoint heels. You can’t even be angry at the pain, the heels did their job in making you feel like a bad ass bitch on the first real day of being an attorney after doing legal consults with employees for month, but you can still relish in the relief of finally being able to relax. No longer having to put up the mask of being a perfectly competent associate attorney, the tension in your shoulders melts and you bask in the silence. Until Trinity bursts through the front door, Dennis scurrying behind like a herding farm dog. 

“I’m moving to night shift. I know Dr. Robby and I share the cynical world view that makes us kindred spirits but I don’t think I can handle facing both Langdon and Garcia during day shift.”

You hear the familiar thud of a backpack as the couch sinks down besides you. Your eyes flicker open slightly, taking in the face of Trinity Santos, your best friend.

“Can you believe Langdon had the audacity to single me out during a trauma just because I didn’t forgive him? I mean c’mon, there was a man dying on the table,” her rambling is almost a comfort. There’s no exposition, no explanation, only true Trinity in all of her glory.

“You did tell him that he shouldn’t be at the hospital, Trin. So he might be a little peeved because of that,” you tell her, briefly muttering a ‘thank you’ to Dennis when he picks up Trinity’s backpack and hangs it up.

“Well you of all people should understand that he shouldn’t be at the hospital at all! He stole medication. That’s a felony,” she harrumphs and crosses her arms, sinking into the couch like a shield from the reality that this is more about emotions than it is about laws. You’re more than familiar with her temperament, and you love her for it, but her attitude is just cresting into grating and you feel a mean and meaningless insult at the tip of your tongue.

“Trin, I love you but I’m like the Snickers commercial right now–I’m hungry and irritable, and I’ve already had to deal with one of your annoying coworkers today so we have to continue this conversation once I’ve had the wonderful pasta that I’m hoping and praying Huckleberry will make for us.”

Dennis’ eyes widen as you silently plead in his direction. It always makes you smile when he realizes you’ve accepted him as part of this rag tag group. If buttering him up also gets you your favorite pasta, well. That’s for only you to know. 

“Coming right up,” he beams and ducks into the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans beginning to sound out like a beautiful food orchestra.

Trinity turns to face you. “Wait who? Was it Ogilvie? Technically not my coworker, he’s just a student. Not in the way Tori’s my coworker but in another way because I’ve known him for only a couple months–sorry, word vomit.”

“Don’t worry, I love your vomit.”

That cracks a laugh out of her and you even get a rare Trinity snort. “I didn’t know you were kinky like that.”

“Gross,” you playfully shove her shoulder and lean back on the couch. “It was Dr. Park. He’s a grade A asshole, honestly. But at least once he realized the severity of his situation he apologized. Like c’mon, if someone as tenured as you is being called on to talk about a lawsuit you should at least–”

“Wait, what? Lawsuit? And he apologized?” 

“Yeah. He was probably scared once I started talking about the board of medicine.”

Trinity sits up, eyes wide when she makes eye contact with you.

“Wait what’s the lawsuit about? And why did he need to apologize to you?”

You shrug. “It’s a high brow medical malpractice lawsuit. I can’t tell you all the details, confidentiality and all, but when I went to go talk to him he pushed me aside and I had to check his ego.”

“I should have expected it, I mean. For all that,” you hum and pause, trying to find the right words. “Mass, he must have like a huge ego to match.”

 “Dr. Park, ‘Park the Shark,’ apologized to you?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah, what’s so surprising about that? I mean you’d probably apologize if you rebuffed someone who was trying to talk to you about a career-threatening lawsuit too,” Trinity stares in silence a milisecond too long for it to be just about dramatics. “What is he like super mean?”

“He’s like a mega-asshole, yeah. He refuses to work with Huckleberry because he hesitated during a saline flush. Garcia stays quiet when he’s around and you know she’s a certified yapper. He commands and demands attention. He’s not nice to anyone, let alone admits fault by apologizing,” she rakes a hand through her post-work hair when it falls in her face. “You must be working some incredible feminine wiles for him to apologize to you.”

“Trinity!”

“What? I’m serious. I’ve never once seen that man do anything remotely nice,” she settles back crosses her arms, ignoring the storm of emotions evident on your face. “Must mean you’re special or something.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

You sigh and your body deflates. “Don’t give me false hope like that.” “What false hope, babe? You’re a catch. If anyone can melt the heart of that frost giant, it’d be you. In your weird lawyer-y way where arguments are actually foreplay,” Trinity reaches over and intertwines your hands together. It’s an intimate gesture. The both of you don’t like being touched very much after what happened when you were in high school on the gymnastics team. There are playful touches, things that happen between peers–but this right here? It was a reminder that the two of you had survived hell together and shared a bond stronger than most. 

“You are beautiful and attractive. You’re a lawyer for fucks sake, I mean you’re basically the real life Elle Woods without all the pink,” that makes you smile. “At least until you break out the pink pantsuit I know is collecting cobwebs in your closet.”

You pull Trinity close and lay your head on her shoulder, hers dropping atop yours. “I’m saving it for an important case. The day I go to court when I’ve finally made partner or something. I don’t know, I’m just afraid that people won’t take me seriously if I wear it in the hospital or around the office.”

“I know that. But know that you deserve love the same as any other person. You’re beautiful and smart. Don’t forget that.”

You sniffle and wipe a tear from your cheek. “When did you become philosophical?”

“I don’t know, I think I’ve been hanging around Robby too much.” 

The two of you erupt into a fit of laughter, only ceasing once Dennis brings dinner out to find his roommates in a heap of joy on the couch. The night dissolves into post-work shenanigans and somehow you and Trinity end up on the balcony of your town house, a little wine drunk and sappy staring into the flickering skyline of Pittsburgh.

“I mean it, y’know. You deserve a good thing,” you frown and look over at her. 

“I know, sweets,” she smiles at the nickname and takes another long drink of wine. “I don’t even know if that’s what this is. I talked to him for thirty minutes, max. It’s just another job.”

She hums, pensive, and looks away. “Even if it’s small, I just feel the need to remind you that you are allowed to like people and to want love back. If it’s just a flirtation or if you hookup with him and Dennis and I are pulling a double, I just want to tell you.”

Tears sting in your eyes. You and Trinity had talked extensively about this before, about the disgust that fills you when it comes to matters of the heart. You’re both hot headed and overly confident to cover up the insecurity stemming from your shared trauma. It affected you both differently, but every so often nagging intrusive thoughts invite in a horror house of anxiety and depression. 

“You can’t say stuff like that,” you sniffle and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “It makes me think you like me or something.”

She laughs and the two of you lean into each other, staring out at the life you’ve made for yourselves. “I love you, babe. You’re stuck with me.”

You didn’t mean to fall asleep in the cafeteria, it just happened. After a long night of focused research on different malpractice cases and establishing precedent, you had said fuck it to sleep and went to work a bit early to catch some of the other nurses, anesthesiologists, and doctors involved in the case before they started their day. 

Now, at six in the morning, your eyes were barely open and staring blankly at a report that seemed like it was a foreign language while sinking deeper and deeper into the loud vinyl seat. You would drift off for a second, eyes opening only once it was clear your head was headed straight for the hard cork table. You may be a lawyer, but a trip to the emergency room to treat concussion would have anyone clutching their pearls about their financial situation. 

The chair in front of you shifts slightly, jolting you back to reality. At first, it seems like a sleep deprived hallucination. Broad shoulders that stretch the confines of navy blue scrubs so much that you might even spot a popped thread. A five o’clock shadow that accentuates the sharp bone structure of his jaw and all centers around his nose. God, his nose. You want to sit on his face to see if what they say about big noses is really true. When you finally make eye contact with piercing blue eyes, it’s only then that the cold sweat of fear washes over.

You blink to clear the haze of sleep from your eyes and sit up, trying not to shrink under his gaze. “Dr. Park. What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he cocks an eyebrow. 

“So do I,” you fire back and reach desperately for the cold cup of coffee to take a sip of something to help wake you up. “I mean what are you doing sitting across from me?” 

You squint your eyes to read the small print describing the time in the corner of your computer screen. “It’s 6:30am, surely you must have a surgery or something to be getting ready for.”

“I do,” he says and lifts a hospital-branded paper cup to his lips. “Stopped for a cup of tea.”

“Coffee doesn’t do it for you?”

“Hard to be a surgeon with shaky hands,” he hums and there’s a disquieting silence that makes you want to melt down into your seat. The cafeteria is essentially empty this early in the morning, perhaps the stray night-shifter catching some breakfast or a family member who needed a snack but other than that–it was just the two of you. 

You offer a cordial smile. “Well, I should get back to work and I’m sure you would much rather be reading emails than entertaining me so I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

“Actually, I wanted to apologize,” a flicker of doubt runs through Dr. Park’s eyes. You can see it in the brief second it takes for him to break eye contact, seeking comfort elsewhere, before meeting your gaze once more. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you and I shouldn’t have brushed you off. And I wanted to thank you for taking the time to talk to me about the case after I disrespected you.”

Your jaw could have dropped to the floor. After telling Trinity about your encounter with Park, all she could tell you was about how rude he was to Whitaker or how he made Mel cry one time. He did apologize to Mel, but from what Trinity said, it was dry at best and happened briefly in the stairwell. 

It’s in staring at Park that you realize you have two options: accept his apology at face value and continue to work normally as work colleagues or do what Trinity keeps telling you to do and actually act on the thoughts and feelings that had been budding since your first meeting. For once, you hate to say it, but she was right. 

“I accept your apology, don’t worry about it,” you begin and watch as his shoulders physically drop down from his ears. “Although, I should have expected a little bark–or should I say bite? I know your reputation.” 

Even in the washed out fluorescent lights, you see a flush spread atop his cheeks that makes your smile grow even wider across your face.

“What can I say, I’m only here for the medicine. And if people get in my way, well, they should see it coming.”

“Remind me to not talk to you before your morning tea then,” you take another sip of your cold coffee and wince at the bitter taste. “Can’t relate. Even after a cup of coffee I feel like i can’t be sociable until I’ve had my second one.”

“Me? Sociable?” he asks, false shock written all over his face. “I’m always mean, some people just handle it better than others.” 

He makes firm, direct eye contact this time as he takes another swig of his tea. This time, its your turn for the flush to warm your cheeks as you break eye contact to stare at the tea bag–trying to discern what tea he prefers? Perhaps a black tea for the energy benefits. Or, does he enjoy an herbal tea to help him focus? The sleep deprivation catches up to you slowly and then all at once when you have to blink to refocus his figure in your vision. This makes him take pause.

“As a doctor–an orthopedic one at that–I have to tell you that cracking your skull open is not at all pleasant and should be avoided at all costs. Can’t have a lawyer defending me im court with a concussion.”

You roll your eyes and prop your head up with your hand, refusing to let him win by showing obvious fatigue. “I’m fine. I’m more than capable of defending anyone in court even without a cup of coffee.”

Leaning in, you lower your voice as if telling him a secret only between the two of you. “I’ll have you know that I once won a mock trial after getting black out drunk and waking up with just enough time to pull my pantsuit on.”

A lazy smirk crosses your face as Brendon pushes away thoughts of you, dressed up in the tallest stilettos and perfectly pressed suit and still having to look up at him just to meet his gaze. 

“I don’t think I should encourage that behavior.”

“It’s fine. The only black out nights I have are between me, my black out curtains, red wine, and a really good nap. And besides,” you sigh, sinking a little. “I’m not going to be the one defending you in court. I’m just here to help.”

Brendon pauses thoughtfully, eyes roving over your body. There was something he couldn’t place–not hostility, but a guardedness that reminded him of a dog that barred its teeth to warn everyone to stay away. A defense mechanism showing that you were ready to bite back at any moment, regardless of the situation. 

A beep on his watch makes him curse under his breath as he stands from the table. “I have to go prep for a surgery but–” he scrawls something quickly in doctor handwriting on your yellow memo pad. “Text me so we can go over the specifics of the case. I want to help provide as much information as possible.”

He offers the barest hint of a smile before walking off toward the elevators and you watch him walk away, taking advantage of being out of his eyesight to relish in the way his scrubs cling to his ass and thighs. 

Once he turns the corner you can only sigh and lean your head back on the plush backing of the booth, shutting your eyes in an effort to solve the puzzle of what just happened. 

You wake up in a puddle of your own drool, your face cushioned only by your arm which also sticks to the table from sleep-induced perspiration. The caocophany of voices disorients you for a second when you check the time to see you’ve slept for an hour or two since Brendon has left. The breakfast rush is in high gear, the smell of bacon and eggs making your stomach grumble and churn with hunger. 

It’s confusing for a moment because in the frigid hospital air, you’re incredibly warm. The smell of mahogany, lake water, and fresh laundry fills your senses. You pull the fabric around your shoulders closer unconsciously when you look down at the track jacket and frown, seeing an unfamiliar piece of clothing. Looking around, the only indication that someone’s messed with you is a small cup of coffee with a note scrawled on the side, accompanied by a small doodle of a shark.

‘You need to sleep more.’

God, you were fucked.

[honestlywrites]

reposting to say: i’ll do a tag list only because i don’t anticipate it getting too out of hand!

and also teenie announcement—i’m getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow so i’m not sure when next update is coming, but it’s in the works and it is coming! love y’all!

[honestlywrites]

to all the new people who’ve followed and are liking my new fic, thank you from the bottom of my heart! it’s been so special coming back to writing like this 💕 love y’all

[honestlywrites]

Blood in the Water | Brendon Park x Lawyer! Reader

Chapter One: Our Topic Is...

Summary: As an associate lawyer, you're relegated to consults, researching case law, and generally doing the work that the partnered attorneys take credit for. Now, as a high-profile case threatens PTMC's reputation, you're tasked with handling their most difficult client yet, Park the Shark. 

CW: Canon-typical depictions of death, medical terminology, and medical procedures. Alcohol drinking, general mentions of SA--think Trinity's experiences from Season 1. Horniness. Please let me know if I forget anything!

A/N: Woah, my first multi-chaptered fic since... forever? (I don't want to say high school that feels wrong). Extra special shout out to: @f1uffysplace for the inspiration and @rr-after-dark for your general encouragement. This was the most fun I've had with writing in a while!

Masterlist

WC: 4k

It’s 7:05am when Brendon Park finally walks onto the surgical floor, passing Shirley–the secretary–before arriving at the door to his office where you’re standing. 

“You’re late,” you don’t even spare him a glance, only addressing him when the soft clack of his leather shoes grows closer.

“Excuse me,” he brushes past, his broad shoulders checking yours to scoot you out of the way, like he knows his presence alone takes up space. He moves swift and efficient, into his office, shutting the door behind him without a care when a perfectly shiny black heel catches in the doorway.

“I don’t think you’ve understood me but I’m your 7 o’clock,” you smile at him tightly and feel your patience wearing down slowly, his energy almost caustic as his eyes meet yours for the first time.

“Get your foot out of the door,” he grumbles, drawing it back slightly. He may be mean, a bit arrogant, and even cruel at times–but Brendon Park was raised to respect women and he wasn’t about to crush your perfectly heeled foot in the doorway.

You take the opportunity to push past, into the small office devoid of many personal affects. There’s a small framed picture of him with two women–perhaps his mother and grandmother– alongside a small shark figurine that makes you frown.

“Thank you for holding the door open for me,” you turn on your heel to face him, beginning to speak when you’re met with his perfectly sculpted pectorals at your eyeline. Clearing your throat and tilting your head up, you continue, “I’m here on behalf of Callahan, Moynihan, and Associates. We’re the legal firm that represents PTMC–and you’re being named in a medical malpractice lawsuit for a total knee arthroplasty you performed about a month ago.”

Brendon huffs as he moves about his office in an attempt to ignore your presence so that he can go ahead with his morning routine of checking all the unnecessary emails he’s been cc’ed in before the actual medicine begins. “I’m a orthopedic surgeon, I’m probably named in at least one lawsuit a year. I know the drill, so please leave my office before I remove you.” 

“Dr. Park, I don’t think you understand the severity of–”

“Leave. Now.”

He finally spares a glance your way once he’s seated in his perfectly ergonomic blue Herman Miller office chair, staring with a face he only reserves for the most ignorant residents. Although he doesn’t show it, he’s slightly surprised at the way you meet his eyes with an equally stoney gaze.

“You’re being named in a multi-million dollar lawsuit where the Pennsylvania board of medicine is acting as an amicus curiae. Your license to practice is being threatened. And, the media is involved because it’s about the now deceased former quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers,” you take a pause for dramatic effect, but to also relish in the shock on this 6’2 beast of a man’s face. “So, apologies if I was trying to help. I will take my leave now.”

Brendon watches as you turn and begin to exit his office and he can barely stomach the churning he feels in his gut as you leave. It’s an uphill battle as he fights his pride, ego, and ebs of anxiety to chase after you.

“Wait!” his voice bellows out, breaking through the relative quiet of the orthopedic offices. You refuse to pause your gait, but it isn’t hard when he has the longest legs known to man. A hand grabs your wrist roughly and on instinct, you wrench it out of his grasp.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are regurgitated out, leaving an acidic taste in his mouth. It’s not often that Brendon Park, Park the Shark, apologises–and to a stranger at that–but it’s the candor in his voice that makes you pause. 

“Take a seat in my office,” he begs. 

You look at him coyly, lifting a perfectly sculpted eyebrow to see if you can drag the groveling out as long as possible

“Please.”

It’s only then when you crack a smile, a true smile, because you’ve won.

“No hard feelings, Dr. Park. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Once the verbal joust had ceased, Park was perfectly reasonable and listened intently to what the case was about. Rob Berger, the former starting quarterback of the Pittsburg Steelers had finally retired from the sport after a career-ending knee injury that completely atrophied the muscle and bone. After several years of attempted rehabilitation, it was clear that he needed a completely new knee to continue comfortably. Dr. Park knew the rest from here. Berger consulted with UPMC and was referred to Brendan for his expertise and specialty in sports medicine, having been a football player in his youth. The shock only showed when you described the only known details of his death. 

The death was kept private until recently when the lawsuit was leveed. You and your fellow attorneys only knew what the media was told. Rob Berger was found dead when his wife, Andrea woke and saw that he was not breathing. She then called the police. Andrea then claimed that he had died due to a hospital aquired infection when a piece of gauze was left inside her husband–found only once the autopsy was conducted afterwards. Rob had been scheduled to see his physician and go to rehab that day because they noticed some swelling at home. 

You watched Brendon carefully whilst telling him the details of the case. Surprisingly, he listened intently, leaned forward in a way that accentuated the biceps threatening to burst out of his scrub top. There were several moments when words stuttered briefly because you had to reprimand your internal desires. This was a client. You were at work. This was the first time you had been trusted with handling part of the case. Your career, everything you had suffered was for this moment–to finally practice law in a way that felt authentic, or at least as authentic as representing a medical institution could be.

The discussions had lasted about thirty minutes before a pager went off, garnering much more important attention and so the two of you adjourned for the day with promises to schedule a meeting as soon as possible in his busy schedule. 

Throughout the day, you found your mind drifting off to him. It felt childish to develop a minute crush on a man you had met that day and spoken to for less than an hour, but the sincerity of it all was refreshing in an industry where it felt everyone was out for blood. You’d guess that maybe the rumors about sharks were wrong. They weren’t deadly at all, they just wanted to live–the same as anyone. 

At the end of the day, after trudging through endless paperwork, you sink back into your couch with a groan. You elevate your swollen feet, stretching out the achilles tendon after spending all day in pinpoint heels. You can’t even be angry at the pain, the heels did their job in making you feel like a bad ass bitch on the first real day of being an attorney after doing legal consults with employees for month, but you can still relish in the relief of finally being able to relax. No longer having to put up the mask of being a perfectly competent associate attorney, the tension in your shoulders melts and you bask in the silence. Until Trinity bursts through the front door, Dennis scurrying behind like a herding farm dog. 

“I’m moving to night shift. I know Dr. Robby and I share the cynical world view that makes us kindred spirits but I don’t think I can handle facing both Langdon and Garcia during day shift.”

You hear the familiar thud of a backpack as the couch sinks down besides you. Your eyes flicker open slightly, taking in the face of Trinity Santos, your best friend.

“Can you believe Langdon had the audacity to single me out during a trauma just because I didn’t forgive him? I mean c’mon, there was a man dying on the table,” her rambling is almost a comfort. There’s no exposition, no explanation, only true Trinity in all of her glory.

“You did tell him that he shouldn’t be at the hospital, Trin. So he might be a little peeved because of that,” you tell her, briefly muttering a ‘thank you’ to Dennis when he picks up Trinity’s backpack and hangs it up.

“Well you of all people should understand that he shouldn’t be at the hospital at all! He stole medication. That’s a felony,” she harrumphs and crosses her arms, sinking into the couch like a shield from the reality that this is more about emotions than it is about laws. You’re more than familiar with her temperament, and you love her for it, but her attitude is just cresting into grating and you feel a mean and meaningless insult at the tip of your tongue.

“Trin, I love you but I’m like the Snickers commercial right now–I’m hungry and irritable, and I’ve already had to deal with one of your annoying coworkers today so we have to continue this conversation once I’ve had the wonderful pasta that I’m hoping and praying Huckleberry will make for us.”

Dennis’ eyes widen as you silently plead in his direction. It always makes you smile when he realizes you’ve accepted him as part of this rag tag group. If buttering him up also gets you your favorite pasta, well. That’s for only you to know. 

“Coming right up,” he beams and ducks into the kitchen, the clanging of pots and pans beginning to sound out like a beautiful food orchestra.

Trinity turns to face you. “Wait who? Was it Ogilvie? Technically not my coworker, he’s just a student. Not in the way Tori’s my coworker but in another way because I’ve known him for only a couple months–sorry, I’m just throwing up words onto you. Reminds me of Huckleberry.”

“Don’t worry, I love your throw up.”

That cracks a laugh out of her and you even get a rare Trinity snort. “I didn’t know you were kinky like that.”

“Gross,” you playfully shove her shoulder and lean back on the couch. “It was Dr. Park. He’s a grade A asshole, honestly. But at least once he realized the severity of his situation he apologized. Like c’mon, if someone as tenured as you is being called on to talk about a lawsuit you should at least–”

“Wait, what? Lawsuit? And he apologized?” 

“Yeah. He was probably scared once I started talking about the board of medicine.”

Trinity sits up, eyes wide when she makes eye contact with you.

“Wait what’s the lawsuit about? And why did he need to apologize to you?”

You shrug. “It’s a high brow medical malpractice lawsuit. I can’t tell you all the details, confidentiality and all, but when I went to go talk to him he pushed me aside and I had to check his ego.”

“I should have expected it, I mean. For all that,” you hum and pause, trying to find the right words. “Mass, he must have like a huge ego to match.”

 “Dr. Park, ‘Park the Shark,’ apologized to you?” she asks incredulously.

“Yeah, what’s so surprising about that? I mean you’d probably apologize if you rebuffed someone who was trying to talk to you about a career-threatening lawsuit too,” Trinity stares in silence a milisecond too long for it to be just about dramatics. “What is he like super mean?”

“He’s like a mega-asshole, yeah. He refuses to work with Huckleberry because he hesitated during a saline flush. Garcia stays quiet when he’s around and you know she’s a certified yapper. He commands and demands attention. He’s not nice to anyone, let alone admits fault by apologizing,” she rakes a hand through her post-work hair when it falls in her face. “You must be working some incredible feminine wiles for him to apologize to you.”

“Trinity!”

“What? I’m serious. I’ve never once seen that man do anything remotely nice,” she settles back crosses her arms, ignoring the storm of emotions evident on your face. “Must mean you’re special or something.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

You sigh and your body deflates. “Don’t give me false hope like that.”

“What false hope, babe? You’re a catch. If anyone can melt the heart of that frost giant, it’d be you. In your weird lawyer-y way where arguments are actually foreplay,” Trinity reaches over and intertwines your hands together. It’s an intimate gesture. The both of you don’t like being touched very much after what happened when you were in high school on the gymnastics team. There are playful touches, things that happen between peers–but this right here? It was a reminder that the two of you had survived hell together and shared a bond stronger than most. 

“You are beautiful and attractive. You’re a lawyer for fucks sake, I mean you’re basically the real life Elle Woods without all the pink,” that makes you smile. “At least until you break out the pink pantsuit I know is collecting cobwebs in your closet.”

You pull Trinity close and lay your head on her shoulder, hers dropping atop yours. “I’m saving it for an important case. The day I go to court when I’ve finally made partner or something. I don’t know, I’m just afraid that people won’t take me seriously if I wear it in the hospital or around the office.”

“I know that. But know that you deserve love the same as any other person. You’re beautiful and smart. Don’t forget that.”

You sniffle and wipe a tear from your cheek. “When did you become philosophical?”

“I don’t know, I think I’ve been hanging around Robby too much.” 

The two of you erupt into a fit of laughter, only ceasing once Dennis brings dinner out to find his roommates in a heap of joy on the couch. The night dissolves into post-work shenanigans and somehow you and Trinity end up on the balcony of your town house, a little wine drunk and sappy staring into the flickering skyline of Pittsburgh.

“I mean it, y’know. You deserve a good thing,” you frown and look over at her. 

“I know, sweets,” she smiles at the nickname and takes another long drink of wine. “I don’t even know if that’s what this is. I talked to him for thirty minutes, max. It’s just another job.”

She hums, pensive, and looks away. “Even if it’s small, I just feel the need to remind you that you are allowed to like people and to want love back. If it’s just a flirtation or if you hookup with him and Dennis and I are pulling a double, I just want to tell you.”

Tears sting in your eyes. You and Trinity had talked extensively about this before, about the disgust that fills you when it comes to matters of the heart. You’re both hot headed and overly confident to cover up the insecurity stemming from your shared trauma. It affected you both differently, but every so often nagging intrusive thoughts invite in a horror house of anxiety and depression. 

“You can’t say stuff like that,” you sniffle and wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. “It makes me think you like me or something.”

She laughs and the two of you lean into each other, staring out at the life you’ve made for yourselves. “I love you, babe. You’re stuck with me.”

You didn’t mean to fall asleep in the cafeteria, it just happened. After a long night of focused research on different malpractice cases and establishing precedent, you had said fuck it to sleep and went to work a bit early to catch some of the other nurses, anesthesiologists, and doctors involved in the case before they started their day. 

Now, at six in the morning, your eyes were barely open and staring blankly at a report that seemed like it was a foreign language while sinking deeper and deeper into the loud vinyl seat. You would drift off for a second, eyes opening only once it was clear your head was headed straight for the hard cork table. You may be a lawyer, but a trip to the emergency room to treat concussion would have anyone clutching their pearls about their financial situation. 

The chair in front of you shifts slightly, jolting you back to reality. At first, it seems like a sleep deprived hallucination. Broad shoulders that stretch the confines of navy blue scrubs so much that you might even spot a popped thread. A five o’clock shadow that accentuates the sharp bone structure of his jaw and all centers around his nose. God, his nose. You want to sit on his face to see if what they say about big noses is really true. When you finally make eye contact with piercing blue eyes, it’s only then that the cold sweat of fear washes over.

You blink to clear the haze of sleep from your eyes and sit up, trying not to shrink under his gaze. “Dr. Park. What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he cocks an eyebrow. 

“So do I,” you fire back and reach desperately for the cold cup of coffee to take a sip of something to help wake you up. “I mean what are you doing sitting across from me?” 

You squint your eyes to read the small print describing the time in the corner of your computer screen. “It’s 6:30am, surely you must have a surgery or something to be getting ready for.”

“I do,” he says and lifts a hospital-branded paper cup to his lips. “Stopped for a cup of tea.”

“Coffee doesn’t do it for you?”

“Hard to be a surgeon with shaky hands,” he hums and there’s a disquieting silence that makes you want to melt down into your seat. The cafeteria is essentially empty this early in the morning, perhaps the stray night-shifter catching some breakfast or a family member who needed a snack but other than that–it was just the two of you. 

You offer a cordial smile. “Well, I should get back to work and I’m sure you would much rather be reading emails than entertaining me so I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

“Actually, I wanted to apologize,” a flicker of doubt runs through Dr. Park’s eyes. You can see it in the brief second it takes for him to break eye contact, seeking comfort elsewhere, before meeting your gaze once more. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you and I shouldn’t have brushed you off. And I wanted to thank you for taking the time to talk to me about the case after I disrespected you.”

Your jaw could have dropped to the floor. After telling Trinity about your encounter with Park, all she could tell you was about how rude he was to Whitaker or how he made Mel cry one time. He did apologize to Mel, but from what Trinity said, it was dry at best and happened briefly in the stairwell. 

It’s in staring at Park that you realize you have two options: accept his apology at face value and continue to work normally as work colleagues or do what Trinity keeps telling you to do and actually act on the thoughts and feelings that had been budding since your first meeting. For once, you hate to say it, but she was right. 

“I accept your apology, don’t worry about it,” you begin and watch as his shoulders physically drop down from his ears. “Although, I should have expected a little bark–or should I say bite? I know your reputation.” 

Even in the washed out fluorescent lights, you see a flush spread atop his cheeks that makes your smile grow even wider across your face.

“What can I say, I’m only here for the medicine. And if people get in my way, well, they should see it coming.”

“Remind me to not talk to you before your morning tea then,” you take another sip of your cold coffee and wince at the bitter taste. “Can’t relate. Even after a cup of coffee I feel like i can’t be sociable until I’ve had my second one.”

“Me? Sociable?” he asks, false shock written all over his face. “I’m always mean, some people just handle it better than others.” 

He makes firm, direct eye contact this time as he takes another swig of his tea. This time, its your turn for the flush to warm your cheeks as you break eye contact to stare at the tea bag–trying to discern what tea he prefers? Perhaps a black tea for the energy benefits. Or, does he enjoy an herbal tea to help him focus? The sleep deprivation catches up to you slowly and then all at once when you have to blink to refocus his figure in your vision. This makes him take pause.

“As a doctor–an orthopedic one at that–I have to tell you that cracking your skull open is not at all pleasant and should be avoided at all costs. Can’t have a lawyer defending me im court with a concussion.”

You roll your eyes and prop your head up with your hand, refusing to let him win by showing obvious fatigue. “I’m fine. I’m more than capable of defending anyone in court even without a cup of coffee.”

Leaning in, you lower your voice as if telling him a secret only between the two of you. “I’ll have you know that I once won a mock trial after getting black out drunk and waking up with just enough time to pull my pantsuit on.”

A lazy smirk crosses your face as Brendon pushes away thoughts of you, dressed up in the tallest stilettos and perfectly pressed suit and still having to look up at him just to meet his gaze. 

“I don’t think I should encourage that behavior.”

“It’s fine. The only black out nights I have are between me, my black out curtains, red wine, and a really good nap. And besides,” you sigh, sinking a little. “I’m not going to be the one defending you in court. I’m just here to help.”

Brendon pauses thoughtfully, eyes roving over your body. There was something he couldn’t place–not hostility, but a guardedness that reminded him of a dog that barred its teeth to warn everyone to stay away. A defense mechanism showing that you were ready to bite back at any moment, regardless of the situation. 

A beep on his watch makes him curse under his breath as he stands from the table. “I have to go prep for a surgery but–” he scrawls something quickly in doctor handwriting on your yellow memo pad. “Text me so we can go over the specifics of the case. I want to help provide as much information as possible.”

He offers the barest hint of a smile before walking off toward the elevators and you watch him walk away, taking advantage of being out of his eyesight to relish in the way his scrubs cling to his ass and thighs. 

Once he turns the corner you can only sigh and lean your head back on the plush backing of the booth, shutting your eyes in an effort to solve the puzzle of what just happened. 

You wake up in a puddle of your own drool, your face cushioned only by your arm which also sticks to the table from sleep-induced perspiration. The caocophany of voices disorients you for a second when you check the time to see you’ve slept for an hour or two since Brendon has left. The breakfast rush is in high gear, the smell of bacon and eggs making your stomach grumble and churn with hunger. 

It’s confusing for a moment because in the frigid hospital air, you’re incredibly warm. The smell of mahogany, lake water, and fresh laundry fills your senses. You pull the fabric around your shoulders closer unconsciously when you look down at the track jacket and frown, seeing an unfamiliar piece of clothing. Looking around, the only indication that someone’s messed with you is a small cup of coffee with a note scrawled on the side, accompanied by a small doodle of a shark.

‘You need to sleep more.’

God, you were fucked.

[honestlywrites]

Kissing Boys in College (Michael Robinavitch x Jack Abbot)

Gif credits to @/ho-ii Michael Robinavitch x Jack Abbot To @silentorator for the @the-pitt-gift-exchange! A/N: First time writing fanfiction in a VERY long time, but I had SO much fun! I hope you enjoy love! <3 Description: Michael's various adventures in learning about his sexuality and Jack's role in all of it. TW: Mentions of homophobia, swearing, general medical ailments, and minor character death (aka a patient dies).

It began with a phrase.

“We all kissed boys in college.”

Robby had been charting at the nurse’s station to get a brief reprieve from standing when he heard it. Jack had come early to hand off. When Robby glanced over, subtly of course, he spotted Jack and Dana catching up–laughing about something he couldn’t make out.

He had always considered himself a very flexible man. His ears were pierced in college, he had friends from all walks of life–but he had never kissed a man before. Whenever the thought occurred in his mind, distant echoes of his father’s voice would ring out in shame for even considering the idea. So no, Michael did not kiss boys in college. It didn’t stop him from wanting to, though. 

The conversation quickly moved on after that. Even when he walked over, tablet in hand, there was no talk of boys kissing boys–only talk of the Steelers and the most interesting cases of the shift. Princess had been minding her own business, sitting off to the side–but she had to know. Michael couldn’t fathom the idea of asking her for insight, it would only further fuel the rumors. 

“You’re early,” he muses, eyes flickering up to meet Jack’s.

“Ah, you know me–I get antsy. Doesn’t look like you need the help though,” Jack glances around at the brief reprieve. “Could let you off early, Cap. Let you catch some Z’s? Or go on a hot date for the first time in 10 years?”

“Ouch,” Michael watches the corner of Jack’s eyes crinkle as a smile teases the edge of his lips. “Not like you’re out on the town yourself.”

“Yeah, well I already did that once,” the ring on Jack’s finger catches the light as he lifts it up. “I think I’m just about retired from that life.”

“And you think I’m not? I’m five years older than you and at least fifteen years older than the majority of people looking to date.”

“Some people would consider you a silver fox,” Jack winks and seems to bask in the accomplishment as Michael’s cheeks warm. “What do the kids say these days? Daddy?”

Michael blanches. 

“I don’t know, Parker’s been showing me shit on her phone whenever we sit and chart. Did you know the kids these days are gambling on blind boxes? They’re trying to get the twenty-four karat Labubu or whatever,” Jack huffs, pulling his backpack up higher on his shoulder and in the process, pulling his black shirt even more taut over his pecs. Michael fights the urge to fixate on his fellow attending’s muscles as Jack continues to speak–oblivious to the seemingly overt melt down Robby is having. 

“Anyways, I’m gonna go put my shit in my locker–but finish up okay? Go home early and get some sleep, God knows you need it.” 

As Jack saunters off to the lockers, Michael watches as the camouflage cargo pants he’s wearing threaten to slip lower and lower down his waist. An itch of discomfort pops up inside of him–shame for blatantly checking out Jack and guilt for even considering being attracted to him when he knows deep down inside that he is straight.

“You alright there, Cap?” Robby jumps at the sound of Dana’s voice, breaking him from his stupor. He nods quickly, looking over at Dana and Princess.

“Yeah, fine. I’m gonna go do one last round and then check in with Jack,” Michael stuffs his hands into his hoodie rushing off to the other side of the department. It wasn’t a crime to look, was it? And he could respectfully acknowledge that Jack was good looking. It didn’t have to surpass that.

-

The second time Michael questioned his sexuality at work (which was two too many times in his opinion) was when Santos and Whittaker were squabbling over something he didn’t understand.

He’s waiting for the coffee machine to brew when he hears it. A… chime? Or a notification. Something of that nature. It sounds akin to what Robby imagines a drunk marimba to sound like.

“What the hell?” Whittaker pulls his phone out and frowns as the drunk marimba notification goes off again–this time originating from Denis’ phone.

“What is that, some sort of alarm?” Robby asks, lifting his coffee to his mouth to take a sip. He wills it to wake him up, to give him some sort of energy as the day seems to drone on.

“It’s Huckleberry’s gay hook up app,” Santos laughs as Denis urgently goes to turn off his phone.

In his shock, Robby almost spits out his coffee but turns toward the sink and coughs up some of the liquid that threatened to go down his trachea.

“What? I didn’t put that on my phone,” his fingers tap vehemently on the screen, willing the notifications to stop.

“I did,” Santos beams, taking out a drink from the fridge. “Thought you needed to get out of the house more often.”

Once his breath finally returns to his lungs, Michael turns to the two interns with a look full of discomfort, confusion, and slight curiosity.

“Gay hook up app?” he asks slowly as if the words feel foreign in his mouth.

“Yeah, Grindr. Don't you know–” Santos stops in her tracks, making eye contact with her attending. “Nevermind, Huckleberry let’s go–”

She tugs on the collar of Denis’ scrubs and pulls him out of the room. Robby can only watch in shock. Later that night, as he finished up charting whilst the night shift gets on with their work, he can’t help but ask Jack about what’s on his mind.

“Hey, Jack,” he whispers, beckoning him over discretely. “Do you know what Grindr is?”

“Grindr?” every head in the department seems to perk up at the volume of Jack’s voice. Michael pulls him closer, begging him to quiet down.

“Sorry,” his voice lowers slightly, pronouncing the gruff edges of his voice. “Grindr?”

“Yeah…” Michael huffs, looking anywhere but in Jack’s eyes in an attempt to save him from embarrassment. “I just overheard some of the interns talking about it earlier and I was just… nevermind.”

“No, no.” Michael jerks back into his seat from Jack’s grip on his scrubs. “What do you want to know about it? Do you want to use it? I told you, man, the kids these days have different standards. I know they’d think you’re hot.”

“What?” his eyes widened. He’s almost confident that his face resembles a tomato. Or at least a ripe strawberry. 

“Don’t worry, I can help make your profile. I may not be the most savvy, but I can work my way around an app,” Jack clicks open his phone, navigating to the app store with ease. Michael can only stare in brief awe before he realizes he has to stop this before it goes any further.

“I don’t need your help with anything,” he grabs Jack’s phone and slams it onto the desk. “Just… wondering.”

Jack’s hands go up in surrender as the corners of his mouth perk up in amusement.

“Well, I’m surprised your interns didn’t educate you more. Goodness knows my kids tell me everything about what they’re up to today.”

Michael rolled his eyes. 

“Oh sorry, I forgot you’re the resident ‘sad boy.’’ Jack laughs.

“Well fuck me for being curious,” he huffs and turns to the computer, moving to log out and leave for the day.

“Hey, hey.” Jack places his foot on the bottom of the rolling chair and turns Michael to face him–their noses almost touching. His breath catches in his chest for a moment as his eyes meet Jack’s. He’d never realized how much they looked like topaz, shimmering gemstones that glistened like molten rock. There is a whiff of something masculine, but not overbearing. Jack’s aftershave, perhaps. He smells… nice. 

“If you want me to give you lessons in rizz, I wouldn’t mind.”

And just like that, the sparkle is gone. Michael gets up from the chair and walks towards the lockers, flipping his middle finger toward Jack as he chuckles behind him. 

“Call me!”

What the fuck?

-

Michael was on the roof again after one of those days. They had lost a young man who had been homeless for a while after his parents had kicked him out for his sexuality. He had come in for minor injuries after tripping into the street, but they had lost him due to the missed diagnosis of sepsis. There was no fever, no low blood pressure until it was too late. The labs came in only seconds after they announced time of death. Guilt weighed heavily on his head tonight.

He could only stare out at the flickering lights of Pittsburgh’s nightlife and wonder, if his life had gone differently–if he had lived with his father and not his grandmother–that he would have ended up like that young man. 

“You’re in my spot,” Robby jumps slightly at the feeling of Jack’s warm hand on his back. It takes a moment for him to adjust to the feeling, to find comfort instead of fear at the feeling of someone touching him. 

They sit in silence, listening to the ambiance of honking and brief interludes of cheering coming from the distant stadium. He can feel the warm of Jack radiating off of him like a heater, or a camp fire, as they stand elbow to elbow on the railing.

“It was my fault,” he confesses as the beating of his heart threatens to escape his chest. Jack doesn’t let him sit for a second. 

“I read the chart. I’m certain it wasn’t. Just an unfortunate series of events,” Jack reasons, but Michael doesn’t hear him.

“It was sepsis. How do I not catch sepsis? I’m a fucking attending–that’s one of the first things you learn to identify, sepsis. God, fuck me,” the tears well in his eyes and he drops his head into his hands.

“Michael,” Jack whispers. He feels a hand grab his cheek as the tears fall. “Michael, look at me. Eleven million people die of sepsis every year. You treated him. Watched him. Ran his labs. He had no fever, no low blood pressure until it was too late. It was his time.”

Michael turns to look away from Jack in an attempt to hide his tears, but his grip is firm.

“I wouldn’t bullshit you. You know me.”

“He was… he was just a kid. I was supposed to treat him and he was supposed to live a long life. He was supposed to get married and start a family, a new one away from his shitty parents,” it feels like his chest caves in when he pauses to sob. “He was supposed to live the life I was supposed to.”

Jack’s brows furrow for a moment and his grip slackens, allowing Robby to escape from his clutches. Michael turns away to hide his face, willing the wind to dry his tears faster than he can produce them. The deep seated shame sits in the pit of his chest, the words of his father echoing once more. What prevents Jack from doing the same? Rejecting him? Leaving him to die? He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, Robby? Robby.” 

There’s nothing for a second, until there’s warmth. On his face and his lips. And he quickly realizes that Jack Abbot, his longtime friend and fellow attending is kissing him. Michael doesn’t know how to handle it. He stand like a wall until his body finally catches up and pushes him away.

“Sorry, you were having a panic attack. I didn’t know how to stop you from hyperventilating except for stopping your breathing entirely. Feel to report this to HR, or Gloria. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking–”

His rambling is cut off by Michael’s hands around his waist, pulling him in to lay a proper kiss on his mouth. He relishes in the feeling of Jack’s stubble and warm, masculine smell. The feel of his muscles underneath his hands. For a moment, it was only them and Pittsburgh on the roof. 

Robby finally pulls away when his lips are slightly swollen and his cheeks are flush with a mixture of embarrassment and joy. He rests his forehead against Jack’s, breathing in the scent of them entangled. 

“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” Robby comments.

“Hm, then I guess you’ll have to help me because I’m feeling super nervous.”

Jack grins, and Michael finds himself falling into his arms once again.

[mateo-diaz]

when the job hits too close to home (part 1)

idea by thee most wonderful @cvldbones so i dedicate this to her <3

[honestlywrites]

it is i, your the pitt exchange gifter!!! i’ve received your prompt and am very excited <3 i do have to ask, are you looking for x reader, or are you open to canon characters-only fic? i’ve never written x reader, but im definitely down to give it a try if that’s what you’re hoping for!

AHHHHH hi pookie 🥺🫶 omg… i’d have to say i definitely prefer x reader BUTTT honestly if its fluffy and joyful (with the hurt/comfort thrown in) if canon characters are what feels right then i’m not gonna skew your creative freedom!!! MWAH sending u love <33

[gigiwritess]

University is interrupting my obsession with Jack Abbot

[honestlywrites]

hey. how funny would it be if my years long writing hiatus was broken because of 50 year old men on a medical drama.

[luveline]

𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

you and miguel have different definitions of the same word. he finally gives in to temptation —featuring a cranky but lovesick miguel and a flirty, head-in-the-clouds spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

This has to be your favourite song in the whole world. 

You sit in the hall beside the entrance to Miguel's office (this week, you're thinking you might call it The Bedroom, on account of all the magic happening inside), headphones on, a bottle of lemonade beside you. 

Today has the makings of a great day. You're at the Spider Society headquarters and not at home, for starters, and one of the Peter Parkers you'd made friends with in the med-wing saw you this morning and recognised you, which is brilliant because he looked super similar to every other Peter Parker you've met. He offered to help you fix your rinky-dink headphones, and now they're working again and loud enough to cover the sound of Spider Chatter, even with your enhanced senses. 

What's more, Miguel has finally emerged from his dormitory, and he's walking toward you looking confused. That's a step up from unhappy. 

He asks you something. 

"What? I can't hear you." 

He says something else. You shake your head, music too loud to catch even a hint of what he's saying, and Miguel eventually crouches down to push your headphones around your neck. He's surprisingly gentle. 

"What are you doing?" he asks. 

"Waiting for you, what did you think I was doing?" 

"Why are you sitting on the ground?" He gestures backward to a red-lit control panel. "Chair right there." 

"I think that's someone's desk." 

"It's really not." 

Miguel stands up and doesn't hesitate to grab your arms and help you up too. It means more to you than it should, because it's not necessary and a few months ago he wouldn't have bothered. Which isn't to imply that Miguel is a mean guy, Lyla says he used to be a loser (code for sweetheart), and you get flashes of it every now and then in chivalry and kind smiles. 

He's not mean, he's cranky. 

"Don't sit on the floor," he says. "Just– just go inside if I'm not here." 

"Well, The Bedroom doesn't come when I call." 

Miguel's lips part in confusion for a second. Lyla appears at his shoulder, and says, "She can't get the platform to come down without you, genius." 

"Put her name on the command list," Miguel says. 

Your eyes widen. Lyla flashes to his other side, closer to you, and smiles playfully. "Done." 

"Stop sitting on the floor," Miguel says, turning around. He walks a few steps and pauses when he realises you're not following. "Are you coming with me?" 

You jog to catch up with him. Music plays against your collar, a slinking, indie sound that makes Miguel wrinkle his nose. You turn it up a little bit and smile when he glares at you. 

You enter the atrium that houses The Bedroom. Miguel hops up onto the platform because he's too tall to see sense while you struggle, but you're pleased when he takes your hand and pulls you up properly. All these familiar touches today, anyone might think Miguel liked you. 

He definitely does. 

You sit down in the spinning chair near what you've decided is your desk but certainly isn't, again pleased beyond words when you find your sketchbook from last time still there, cleaned away carefully, pencils in a pot and a brand new pencil sharpener by the side of it. It matches your spider suit. You look over your shoulder, your face lit up with thanks, and Miguel swiftly looks away from you. 

"It's electric. Tell me when the battery's dead, I'll charge it." 

"Thank you," you say, flipping your sketchbook open to the last entry. 

You aren't Picasso, but most members of the Spider Society are somewhat artistically inclined, considering the suit-making rite of passage they must all endure —if you don't know how to sew before you start, you will by the end. 

Or like Miguel, you could cheat and make the suit out of nanotechnology. 

You haven't really been designing any suits lately. Spidering is tiring, you need to relax, and your reluctant friends are the easiest subjects, though Miguel's face is painstakingly difficult to get right. He's very angular, high cheekbones with that divot that needs kissing stat, and his nose… He's really pretty, but you almost wish he wasn't so your sketches of him held a better likeness. 

He's the only one of the regular crew that stands still long enough to be drawn. Jessica doesn't like you (or maybe she does, it's hard to tell, but she hasn't forgiven you for asking if her baby was like a maraca bead when she fights) so she doesn't let you draw her. Lyla will stand very still if you request it, but after a few portraits she got bored and started changing her hair or glasses, and after a few more she gave up. Margo is hard to focus on because her blue light makes everything else seem super orange, though she does stand in one place usually. She takes up a lot of pages, but it's Miguel you've drawn most of all. 

You go around the Spider Society sometimes asking people if they'll sit for you, but again your skills aren't impressive, so it's awkward when they want to see how you've done. There are drawings of all kinds of Spiders, including yourself, between Miguel, and Miguel, and Miguel. 

His back, the side of his face, his hands ungloved. His pointy bottom teeth mid fight. The naked stretch of his arm and his Rapture injector positioned over it. He might not appreciate that one. You rip it out and toss it in the waste paper basket under your desk, where it incinerates, paper smoke curling up toward the extractor fan on the atrium ceiling. 

"What are you doing?" he asks without looking at you, his gaze on one of his marigold coloured monitors. 

"Drawing." You're not drawing so much as sitting there with a coloured pencil in hand, trying to think of conversation starters. "What are you upto?" 

"According to the program, there are no Canon events today at risk of disruption," Lyla chimes in, "so Miguel's doing chores." 

"What, not one bad thing is gonna happen today?" you ask. 

"Nothing we can predict," Miguel says. 

You swap your pencil for your drink, unscrewing the lid of your lemonade to sip at it leisurely. Today is your favourite kind of day. No fighting, lots of time with Miguel, and music to go with it. You're so happy you could melt. 

Miguel turns to you and sees your stickying smile. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Just happy to be here with you," you say.

"Don't say stuff like that," he says, turning back to his screen. 

"Scared you'll actually experience sincerity?" Lyla asks. 

"Lyla," he warns, as though Lyla might be afraid of any consequence he had the power to inflict. 

"Sorry," you say, not very sorry, but not wanting him to be uncomfortable, "it's just nice, being friends with you."

"We aren't friends." 

You're not quick to take offence with Miguel. He can be cruel. He's hurting, he's unhappy, he has a lot on his plate. Oftentimes he's so tense with apprehension his neck locks up and you hear it clicking as he turns one way or another, or if he isn't apprehensive he's disappointed, furious, upset. You give him the benefit of the doubt because you know him, but you don't know the tone of voice he uses now. It's like he's offended at the insinuation. Like he would never, ever be friends with you. 

You put your lemonade on the desk and don't know what to do. His insipid floating platform is too high now to leave without causing a scene. Maybe when he's busy you can web down and go home. All you know is that you desperately don't want to be near him. But home sucks, and the dormitories are worse. You're stuck. 

"You can be so mean," you say softly, turning back to your sketchbook and pencils. 

You're thinking you might draw him with a bunch of bee stings, or find a previous sketch and cross his eyes out.

"What?" he asks. 

Your hackles rise. "You're mean. Don't talk to me." 

"What?" Miguel stands very still. "Y/N, what?" 

"What do you mean, what? I said something nice and you said something cruel. I get it, okay, we aren't friends, so don't talk to me." 

"I've upset you." 

You stare at your blank page. "It doesn't matter." 

"No, I've said the wrong thing." 

"Miguel, don't bother. What else could you mean by that?" You laugh with little humour. Crestfallen doesn't begin to describe how you feel. "I'll be quiet. I just don't want to be at home." 

"What's wrong with home?" 

"Is there ever much right?" 

"Did something happen?"

"We aren't friends, so why ask me?" 

You bite the inside of your lip as Miguel approaches, his footfall hushed over the lightweight metal flooring. You turn to him in your chair, head tilted back to meet his eyes, arms crossed over your stomach defensively. 

"That's not what I meant when I said that." He speaks slowly, firmly, to avoid any misunderstanding. "What's wrong with home, mi cielo?" 

You tap his ankle with your shoe, looking away from his gaze. You don't want to tell him, and if he keeps looking at you like that, you will.

"¿Qué pasó?" He bends at the waist slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, dark hair falling into his eyes.

"I don't know what that means," you murmur.

"Did something happen?" he asks.

"Nothing happened, it's just– it's lonely there," you say, squirming under the weight of his gaze, his sudden caring. "What's with you? One minute you're not my friend, the next you're worrying about me? You're giving me whiplash." 

He stands up, and his face falls back into a more typical emotionlessness. He's clearly feeling something, but he's wiping the slate clean. 

"When I said we aren't friends, it didn't mean–" He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you were staying in the women's dormitory?" he asks, frustrated.  

"I am, but I'm useless, and they don't really respect me because I'm–" 

"Eccentric?" 

"–not as experienced," you finish, eyes flaring. 

"Oh, my god," Lyla says, appearing in front of him to make sure he sees her delight at his slip up. 

Miguel bats her hologram with an annoyed grunt. She disappears again, her tinkling laughter cut short.

"It's a good thing," Miguel says quickly.

You stand up. "It's not the point." 

"You should feel at home in the dormitory, and if you don't, I'll find you somewhere else to stay here, you don't have to be in there if you don't feel welcome."

"Miguel, you're sounding awfully friendly right now." 

"We aren't friends," he says again, stepping closer to you. "What's so hard to understand about that?" 

"But we spend time together. We have fun. You like me, Miguel, you do, you tell me jokes sometimes, you make me things for me. You… you do like me, right?" 

"You know that I do," he says, his eyebrows pinching together. 

"You like me, like, you want me," you say, just to make sure.

His fist clenches hard enough to make an audible sound. Miguel's voice is fraught, and through barely parted lips, "If you know that, what's the problem?" 

You don't know. Maybe it was silly to worry about how he sees you, because you do know that Miguel likes you, but you also know he hadn't wanted to like you. His attraction to you was reluctant, you're not stupid enough to miss that, and it was important to you that whatever tension sexual or otherwise lingering between you had bloomed into mutual affection. 

"I want us to be friends, too," you say. 

"I thought we were more than that." 

It's such a quiet admission. He isn't afraid to say it, and he isn't reluctant like you feared. 

"Miguel," you say. "I want you to like me. I know I can be off-putting, I know I tease too much, but I don't want you to like me despite those things, I just want you to like me. So, when you say we aren't friends…" 

"I've never heard you say three serious sentences in a row," Miguel says, reaching out for your hand. He pulls you toward him slowly, his fingertips gliding up the length of your arm. "Then again, it's the same nonsense as usual." 

"Miguel–" 

"Of course I like you. How else do you need me to say it? I like you and I want to kiss you, I like you and I like that you're irregular. You want us to be friends? Then let's be friends." Miguel's hand closes around your bicep. His thumb presses against soft fat and muscle alike. "But not just friends." 

Relieved, you sigh. "So you're saying we really weren't friends?" 

Miguel leans down until his face is the only thing you can see. His smooth skin, his dark eyes, their darker flush of too-long lashes; it's unfair how pretty his eyelashes are, how they curl, how they bunch in triangles you have to fight to resist touching. His eyebrows so often slightly set, giving him an unhappy expression even now. 

He brings the hand that isn't clasped at your bicep to the hill of your waist. It's hot as a brand, and it pulls you closer, your neck craning with every inch he steals from between you. 

"We can be friends," he says. 

His fingers twitch against your arm, and his hand begins to climb. It's not as slow as it feels, conquering the curve of your shoulder, your neck. His hand is big, his thumb pressing into the column of your throat gently.

He looks at you for a measured lapse of time, and you know, finally, that you're on the same page. 

"What you said before, 'mi cielo?'" You hold his elbow. "What does that mean?" 

"My sky," he says. "My… my heavens. It's saccharine. It's something teenagers say, when they're," —his voice dips, the hand at your waist squeezing tight like you might slip through his hold—  "infatuated." 

"Just teenagers say that?" you ask.

"No," he allows. "I always thought it was too much." 

"But you–" 

"Yeah. I did." 

The first kiss is surprisingly sweet. On the tail end of words, Miguel presses his lips half-parted to yours, slowly, softly, like the brush of a downy feather. He lingers, and it's your own movement that spurs him on —you shudder up into his lips and he loses control. 

The sound he makes is a shock. You try to pull back to check he isn't hurting, and he lets you until he realises why it is you're pulling away. "It's fine, it's okay," he says quickly. 

Assuaged of your concern, he pulls you back in and he kisses you, he kisses you, his hand squeezing too tight and his nose bridge sliding up against yours from the force of it all. Your chest feels like a pit and you need Miguel closer if you're ever going to fill it, your hands snapping up to his face like magnets. There's no need to pull him down to you, he's already wading in, not wading —crashing, kissing you so hard your lips burn. 

You make a sound that says, hopefully, This is really fun, but don't give me a bruise.

His tongue is a heat at the seam of your lips. Your weight bends, your chest leaning into his front. He doesn't hesitate to ease his hand behind your back and prop you up against him as things get heady, and the only thing you can feel is him. 

All those times he almost kissed you, all those times he couldn't cross the gap. He poked and prodded and provoked you into getting into his space and each time you called his bluff. You wanted Miguel to give in, and now he has, it's the meltiest, most stickying warmth you've ever felt. 

Voices sound far away, off the platform and down the hall. Jessica and someone else, approaching fast. 

Something sharp snags your bottom lip as Miguel pulls away. You press your finger to your sore lip. When you pull it away, blood spots your skin. 

Miguel takes your face into his hand and angles your face to a glowing screen carefully, in total juxtaposition of the grip he'd had on your waist. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, the tip of his fangs catching the light. His adrenaline must be high. 

"Excited?" you ask him breathily. 

He wipes your lip with his thumb. The other hand pet's your cheek. You feel suddenly and smotheringly adored, all his attention on your pinprick wound. 

"Everything okay up there?" Jessica calls. 

Miguel drops your face like he's remembered himself. You turn to your newfound company, Jessica Drew and an unhappy looking Gwen Stacy. This high up, there's no way they can see the state of either of you, mussed hair and Miguel's blushy cheeks, but they'll see you eventually. And Miguel might like you, might want you, might be your more-than-friend, but he's a stickler for appearances, and being found kissing your subordinate dizzy when you're supposed to be working would mortify him.

"I cut my lip on a lemonade bottle," you call cheerily, waving at grumpy Gwen. Her lips perk up. "Miguel's trying to tell me it's my fault. Is lemonade usually sharp?" 

His hand flattens subtly at the small of your pack. 

"Thanks," he murmurs. 

"Welcome, handsome. Is it bad?" you ask, turning back to hip with your lip pouted. 

His eyes visibly soften at the sight of you. "Not that bad." 

"Alright, good. You'll have to let the platform down, I need to go." 

"What? Where are you going?" he asks. 

"If we're friends now," you say, lilting, performing a half spin in front of him just to watch his eyes narrow, "I'm going to have to make us bracelets. Friendship bracelets." He clearly doesn't like the idea of being friends still, so you amend with a softer tone, "Friends and whatever that was. Come on, you'll love it. I'll make it match your suit." 

He rubs the space between his eyebrows. 

"Will you bring your stuff here?" he asks, the platform beginning to lower under your feet. 

"Duh. I need to take lots of measurements. I'll be in your hair all day, you'll hate it." 

He nods like he agrees. "I'll hate it," he says, deadpan. When he's sure Jessica and Gwen aren't looking, he gives you a smile you've never seen before. 

You and I have a secret, it says. 

Lyla appears by your shoulder to instantly tell him otherwise. It goes without saying that she's mildly disgusted and extremely smug. "Don't match it to his suit, Y/N. Mr. Heartthrob here needs something soft. How about some baby pinks, hm?" 

Miguel sighs, but you barely hear him over your excited gasp. "Yes! Pink and white, for sure, that would be so nice." 

"Great," Miguel says. "Perfect. Thanks for that, Lyla."

"You're so welcome!" 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :D please reblog if you have the time ♡

[spiderism]

But the idea of tending to Miguel’s wounds after he comes back from a fight – he’s sitting on the couch while you’re straddling his thigh, knees sinking into the cushions; in hindsight, it was, reasonably, the closest look you could get at the fresh cut right above his eyebrow. He’s got a hand settled on your waist, his way of wordlessly apologizing to you, even though he doesn’t actually feel sorry. Miguel’s tipping his damn head back – won’t keep it forward so you have to lean in and dab at it with a towel drenched in antiseptic.

Your lips are pressed in a thin line, thoroughly unamused. ❝ This is the last time O’Hara. Don’t bother showing up after your next fight. I’m done. Got me dragging myself out of bed at two in the morning again—knock all you want, bleed all over my welcome mat. Go ahead. I’m not answering the door anymore. ❞

The corner of his mouth tugs up into something that’s not quite a smile, but comes pretty damn close considering his typical scowling and general broodiness. ❝ Don’t kid yourself. We both know you’ll let me in. You always do. ❞

[honestlywrites]

surprise! i finished the hat. my hands are a bit raw but whatever. in other news—i finished writing about half of the miguel x filo! reader involving my bestie mayday so look out for that! 🫡

what to expect:

- mayday

- baby fever

- a little bit of angst (im actually really bad at writing it)

- puto

just wanted to give y’all a little update :))

[beatificwrites]

MIGUEL O’HARA BF HEADCANNONS! ✦✦

content: mild cursing, gender neutral reader

i tried to proofread but i did rush to write this at 2am so !!

miguel o’hara as your boyfriend would:

₊ ˚ ๑

be territorial. always has to let those around know that you’re his and only his. there’s always a hand on your waist or lower back. if he’s feeling even friskier, a hand on your ass for sure. his grip must always find a subtle way to tell the world you’re his. he’s professional and serious, however those hands seek to be the opposite, especially in front of others, which has costs your bashfulness every time.

miguel o’hara as your boyfriend would:

₊ ˚ ๑

love physical touch. speaking of his hands, they can’t be off of you for a single minute! for sure when others are around, he carries this whole tough boss guy persona and his hand must be on his partner to let everybody know they’re his, however when it’s just you two in the office, he’s a tough boss guy who must embrace you from behind with lips ever so slightly grazing your neck and looks as smitten as ever while doing it.

he especially loves it when you sit on his lap while he taps away at the holograms. he gets to take care of business all while having his arms tightly wrapped around you.

miguel o’hara as your boyfriend would:

₊ ˚ ๑

always call you “mi tesoro” [my treasure] or “mi vida” [my life]. no matter what mood he’s in, he’ll always have the heart to show you the affection you deserve. you love the way the terms of endearment roll off his tongue and he adores how flustered you get every time.

peck on the cheek, “te amo, mi vida” before leaving for a mission. or, “hola, mi tesoro” as his lips curl into a smile before sharing another welcoming passionate kiss with you.

miguel o’hara as your boyfriend would:

₊ ˚ ๑

find the time to fry you fresh empanadas for lunch. just once probably because he’s a very busy man who must take on the burden of saving every multipleverse—yaddah yaddah yaddah. he brought up that he knew how to make them once and ever since then you wouldn’t stop pestering him until he gave in and took the time to make you your favorite things for lunch.

so, you’re with him at your shared apartment as he fries you a batch of the very anticipated miguel empanadas in a silly pink apron—that’s two sizes too small for him—you made him wear. your teasing him the entire time and he’s muttering endlessly in spanish under his breath. he promised to make you the food if gave him a massage everyday for the rest of the week, but you set your foot and said you’d do it only under the condition he wear the silly apron.

they were surprisingly delicious, i mean not that you expected they would taste like shit, but wow your boyfriend can actually cook!

[honestlywrites]

Omg if you write a Miguel x filo!reader I’d actually die. Like AKSHWGWBEIDODHW

Whenever I see a filo!reader fic I am INSTANTLY pulled in and just want more, but they can be hard to find sometimes. :(

I’m begging you please give us something, but take your time no rush. <3

also I am living for all the other anon suggestions and scenarios, can’t wait to see what you come up with!!! Muah 💛💛

AWWW IM SO GLAD OTHERS ARE EXCITED TOO! there’s def a fic on the way :)) i have it outlined in my notes app and have been doing research :)) thanks for all the support!!! <333

[honestlywrites]

STOOOP LITERALLY ME TOO I QUIT ART AND PERSONAL WRITING FOR SO LONG AND TELL ME WHY I SUDDENLY WHIPPED A SPIDERSONA BACKSTORY IN A DAY ??? 😭 the movies are so so good raaah

and OMG CROCHET !! ive always wanted to learn hehe i hope the hat turns out well !! update meee omg /nf

i will :)) 10/10 recommend and mayday’s hat isn’t too hard!! (i’d practice a little bit before diving in but i believe!!!!)