thank you sm for tagging me @lollypopunicorn14 !!!💞💞
Eleanor Crain (The Haunting of Hill House), Mulan (Mulan), Lexie Grey (Grey's Anatomy)
no pressure tags: @theboardwalkbody @lalalunascope @hi-res-tm @iristheplanet16 @fandomxo @lovesflourmorethananything @lives-in-midgard and anyone else who wants to do it!!
A/N: This was an idea that I came up with and was encouraged to write by the lovely @multifandomlover01, after I was chosen by the cat distribution system. This is very self-indulgent, just a heads-up. This took a really long time to write because I am currently in the process of moving, on top of having knee surgery that I had been putting off for literal years. Hope everyone enjoys it because I had fun writing this. I haven’t written anything in a long time, so I apologize in advance for any wonky grammar. I did proofread this and had a bit of help from Grammarly, just for punctuation. Any em dashes, Oxford commas, and semicolons are 100% me FUCK AI.
Characters: Andrew “Pope” Cody, fem!reader, Deran Cody, Craig Cody, and mentions of Smurf (TW)
CW: Fluff with allusion to sex, Daddy kink mention, light swearing, Craig and Deran are being dicks (sorta), mentions of Smurf (that woman deserves her own warning all to herself)
Summary: Early on into fem!reader’s relationship with Pope, a kitten given to them by the cat distribution system. Shenanigans ensue.
WC: 2.7k
~~~
Walking into the Cody house, you noticed it was quiet. Strange. There was normally an argument, TV or radio blaring, splashing in the pool, Craig having some ‘company’, or at the very least a conversation.
“Hello?” You call out, gripping the pepper spray that Pope insists you carry.
When you make it further inside, you spot Deran on the couch, passed out with a light sunburn on his face and hair packed with sand and salt; you knew he’d gone surfing- and that being said, Craig was also in the house.
A quick pat to his leg and he shoots up wide-eyed, ready to argue, but stops once he realizes it’s you. “Oh. When did you get here?”
“I just got back. Where are my boys?” You ask with a hand on your lavender sundress-clad hip, slightly impatiently.
“Huh?” He tilts his head and then proceeds to rub his eyes.
You roll your eyes; he really is useless sometimes. “Andr- Pope and Bandit?”
He points down the hall and calls in a mocking sing-song tone coupled with a shit-eating grin, “Oh, Andy! Your girl is here!”
Dick.
Andrew pops out of his room with a tired smile and rasps out a “hey.”
You walk into the room and shut the door, then turn to Andrew, cradling his face and planting a firm kiss on his lips. You swear you can feel him go lightheaded and lax against you.
“How are my boys?” Is mumbled into his neck as he wraps you in an almost constricting hug, causing you to smile and relax into his grasp. You laugh, “Miss me much?”
He nods and tucks his face into the side of your neck. “Yeah, we both did”
He quickly lifts you from the ground, his arms wrapping around the back of your upper thighs where your ass meets your legs. You let out a shriek of his name as you laugh. Laying you on his bed. He settles between your legs with his head on your plush, warm, sun-kissed belly. Your hands immediately start to card through his curls and rub his shoulders. Feeling him relax, you close your eyes but pry one open upon hearing a quiet jingle. Your gaze landed on the small gray cat that the cat distribution system so graciously gave you.
Eight months ago, Andrew was driving you back to your apartment because he refused to let you stay at what you’ve come to know as the Cody compound, and you made him pull over because you saw a tiny kitten on the side of the road near a storm drain. You had gasped so dramatically that he nearly crashed his truck because he thought you had hurt yourself on something, causing panic to seep deep into his bones.
After collecting himself, he turned to look at you to ask what the fuck that was, but you were already running across the street to something he still couldn’t see. Jumping out of the truck, he runs to you with nothing but concern written all over his face.
“Baby! What’s wrong?” He asked, borderline whined, turning you to face him, and his heart sank further once he saw tears in your eyes. Speaking frantically and panicked, “Please talk to me, baby. What did I do wrong?”
“He’s just a baby,” you whimper out with a pout, showing him the tiny, trembling, fuzzball of a gray kitten.
Pope, letting out a sigh of relief, spoke pleadingly, now holding your shoulders, “Please don’t gasp like that again and look both ways before crossing the street. You scared this shit out of me.”
Wiping your tears, you nod. “Can we keep him? Please, Pope?” You stick out your lip in a dramatic pout with the doe eyes you came to realise will make him say yes to just about anything.
Guiding you back to the truck with one hand over the kitten and the other on the small of your back, “Yeah, sure, baby, we can keep him, but Smurf doesn’t like cats.
He’s still frazzled as he now drives to a pet store instead of your apartment because you said the poor thing needed a bed, food, and toys. Simply nodding along, he pays for supplies but not before you tell him to pick a collar for his new ‘son’. The title makes him stop dead in his tracks.
“What did you just call it?” He searched your eyes, making sure he heard you correctly.
You let out an overly dramatic gasp. “Do not call our son an ‘it’. We just need to come up with a name for him.” Looking down at the cat, you spoke directly to him: “It’s okay, mommy and daddy will find you a good name.” You look up at Pope again. “Right, Daddy?”
Pope knows in that exact second he is a goner, and he is exactly where he wants to be, especially if you are going to call him that again.
He comes to when he notices you waving a hand in his face. “Pope? Honey? Earth to Andrew. Are you okay?”
All he managed was a nod before giving the confused cashier a wad of bills and carrying the bags to the engraving machine, where you stand, for the small tag that goes on the ocean blue collar Pope chose.
“Hmm.” You hold up the kitten you wrapped in your sweater. “What does he look like to you?”
He shrugs, looking at you instead of the kitten.
You shift from hip to hip, still thinking. “Oh! What about Clyde?”
His face scrunches at the suggestion. “Why Clyde?”
“Because he stole my attention.” You state simply.
He stares at the screen like he’s deep in thought before asking. “Do you really want to keep with the theft thing?”
You shrug, “Yeah, kinda, I don’t think you’d be a fan of Andrew Junior for a cat. I think that should be reserved for our human child.”
You then watch his brain melt in real time, his face beet-red and looking at you like you hold the secrets to the universe, and he manages to stutter out “Bandit?”
“That’s perfect, Pope. I love it!” You quickly type in the name, but you notice he goes even quieter. “What’s wrong? Do you not like it?”
“No, no, I like it, but I like Andrew.” He mumbles, looking at the ground.
Questioning, you tilt your head. “You want to name him Andrew?”
“Bandit for the cat but. I like it when you called me Andrew.” He slowly admits, still not looking directly at you.
You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek and state it like it’s a fact. “Well. I won’t call you Pope anymore then. Is that better, Andrew”
He’s frozen like a deer in headlights and nods, touching his cheek as his ears, down to his chest, burn a dusty shade of red. “Just if Smurf and everyone else are there, don’t.” He chews the inside of his cheek.
He remains quiet as the name ‘Bandit’ is engraved on the small tag, and for the dive back to your apartment. After turning the truck off, he races around the front to help you out and grab the bags of things he bought from the pet store. He walks you to your door and sets the bags down.
Awkwardly kicking the ground and stuffing his hands into his pockets, he finally speaks up. “Uh, goodnight, and goodnight, Bandit”
“Andrew… Do you want to come inside?” You spoke as you unlocked your door.
He stares at you and blinks. “You want me inside?”
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured asking you to spend the night, but yeah. I want you to stay.” You give a shy smile. The original plan to get him to stay the night was to have a beach date near your place and end the night with a bonfire, and then say you didn’t want him driving late at night, but saving a cat would have to do.
He closed and locked the door behind him and stood awkwardly at the shoe rack. “Shoes off? Wait. Spend the night?”
“Please. Then help me set everything up for our son. Yeah, I want you to spend the night. We’ve been dating for about four months, and I get that we said slow but… I don’t know; you don’t have to stay.” You quickly turn around and put Bandit in his new bed on the couch.
Suddenly, you feel hands wrap around your waist from behind and a peck on your shoulder. Melting back into him, you smile contentedly.
“I’ll stay. We have the little guy to take care of now.” He spoke in a hushed tone.
You turn around and kiss him properly. “Yeah, we do.”
That was the night you figured out that the three of you would be stuck together for a long time, and you have been.
After thinking about the night you knew your boys were yours, you motion for the now much larger cat to join you and Andrew on the bed. Bandit lies between Andrew's arm and your thigh. He seems to need to be touching both of you when it's time to lie in bed. As you continue to comb through Andrew's hair, you swear he starts to purr like Bandit does.
Andrew lifts his head and stares up at you with those soft, deep chocolate eyes that make you melt. He then gives an equally soft smile as his hands run over your waist and sides. Smiling back down at him for a moment, you close your eyes and let your head fall back down to the pillows.
He turns his head to the side and starts speaking to Bandit as if they were both humans.
“We had loads of fun doing some seagull watching.” Andrew scratches Bandit’s chin. “You really gotta get better about not stepping in your own piss, though I’m tired of bleaching the bathroom and mopping the house,” Andrew spoke softly while stroking Bandit's head.
You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to mop just cause he tracks litter through the house-”
As he attempts to interject with his brows screwed together with a scowl. You put a finger to his lips.
“Let me finish.” You lock eyes with him, taking a more serious gaze. “You can just vacuum and sweep. Everyone always wears their shoes inside, and there’s a party here every other day. I think you should just stick to the basics and not have to deep clean every day. Once a week would be fine. We could also get better about wiping his feet after he uses the litter box. Then there’s Craig’s dogs.” You shudder thinking about the dogs and what they used to do in the house before Andrew told him to stop bringing them because they tried to eat Bandit once.
Andrew grumbles and looks back at Bandit. “I’ll get some more baby wipes, I guess”
“Listen, Andy, as much as I would love to stay here with you both, I’m getting kinda hungry.” You scratched Bandit’s head. “My boys need dinner too”
Andrew reluctantly gets up but keeps a hand on your hip as you pick up Bandit. You three walk into the kitchen to see Craig digging through the fridge.
“Calm down; I’m getting ready to make dinner.” I hand Bandit to Andrew and swat Craig out of the way.
Andrew walks over to the couch with Bandit, setting him in his lap and turning on the TV to the nature channel, where a documentary about birds is playing. Craig joins them on the couch, grumbling about being starving as he rolls a joint.
“Everyone okay with baked chicken, potatoes and broccoli?” You call from the counter as you set everything down, earning a unanimous grunt of agreement from the three men.
You season the chicken, broccoli, and potatoes before putting them in the oven to cook. Just as you enter the TV pit, you smile at Andrew and then see that Bandit and Andrew both have their heads tilted to the side, watching the TV. You smile, but the moment is very quickly ruined by a cackle from Craig.
He continues to laugh as he gets Deran’s attention, “Hey, Der, look Pope and the cat have the same stare!”
Deran also bursts out laughing, causing both Bandit and Andrew to look at the two laughing men with the same unamused expression.
Deran slaps the back of his hand to Andrew’s chest. “You got the same eyes, man.” They both continue to laugh.
The somewhat carefree expression that Andrew had is now gone and replaced by his signature shark-eye stare.
“Quit making fun of my boys.” You quickly chirp and sit in Andrew's lap. After kissing his cheek, you whisper. “You do pull the same faces sometimes.”
His ears burn red at the casual affection. It took him a long time to get used to affection in private; he just couldn’t believe that what you felt for him was genuine. Getting him used to even subtle PDA was an uphill battle, but you didn’t push it too much just a kiss on the cheek, a side hug, or a barely there peck on the lips if anyone was around and could see the two of you, even if it was the people he grew up with. Albeit they are shitty people.
You remember the time shortly after you got Smurfs' approval for Bandit to stay the night from time to time that you caught them both staring blankly out the window. Not looking for anything but more so just relaxing their eyes and enjoying the sun that was pouring through the large windows.
The laughing eventually dies down, and you all watch the documentary that Andrew chose. The timer for the oven goes off, and you get up to serve dinner. Andrew quietly sets the table as if it is for an etiquette class exam, but you are grateful because you could never remember which side the knife is supposed to go on, and if the cup is supposed to be above it or on the opposite side of it.
“Thank you for setting the table for us.” You smiled, setting the hot dishes on the hot pads in the middle of the table.
You get a nod in response and a grunt as he sits down, but he thanks you for the meal after and washes the dishes. Craig slips a few ‘guests’ in for the night, and Deran says he's going out. Making your way back to Andrew's room, you see him moping on his bed, taking a deep breath, and closing the door.
Sitting at the foot of the bed and petting Bandit, you ask him what's wrong. When he doesn’t respond, you move closer to him, resting a hand on his leg.
“Andrew, honey, what’s the matter?” Speaking in a soft tone, while rubbing his thigh with your thumb.
He finally spoke up in a quiet voice, “Do we really look the same?”
You can’t hold back the small laugh that pushes its way through your lips. “Andrew! Are you actually upset about that?”
“No…” He looks down at Bandit, who then chirps at him.
Lying next to him, putting a hand over his heart and spoke honestly. “Andrew, every one of your brothers is an asshole. I know you know that. I don’t think you look like Bandit or that Bandit looks like you, but like any pet, he picks up and mirrors behaviors. I think you have watched enough nature and animal documentaries to know that. What other cat do you know or have you heard of that will put the toilet seat down? He's seen both of us do it so many times that he just does it himself.”
Andrew turns to look at you, putting his hand over yours. “I know, but he’s our son; he should look like one of us, at least.”
The two of you laugh before settling down once again, and then you speak up, “I love you, Andrew. Love you too, Bandit.”
Andrew responds with a searing kiss that lets you know he loves you without words being needed.
Summary: another birthday at a club for Pope but maybe this one won't be so bad
WC: ~3.7k
Warnings: takes place at a club, this is sultry and suggestive but there’s no smut, Baz is a warning because he's a dick, other asshole men who don't respect women or their right to be left the fuck alone and not touched, disrespect of performers, tiny bit of creep/protective Pope, one use of the word whore, two people get into a fight
Author Note: I wrote this in third person, not second, don't ask me why. Reader is referred to as Ruby but that's just a stage name, not her real one. One use of Y/N for the real name.
It was Pope’s birthday again and his brothers had decided that he needed to go to yet another club. Although at least this one wasn’t a strip club. You weren’t even allowed to touch the performers here unless they touched you first (and even then, you’d better watch yourself). And you definitely couldn’t pay any woman to have sex (club policy said that couldn’t happen on the premises). It was a much higher end club than the strip club they’d taken him to last year. The women here didn’t just dance on a pole to music to put on a show, they actually had talent and skills other than pole dancing (which by itself is a lot harder than you’d think it’d be). Some sang, some tap danced, and some even yodeled (whatever floated your boat). There were a few male performers too.
He honestly wasn’t expecting the effort that clearly went into some of the performances. One juggled. Another recited poetry. It was like a variety show that men were allowed to be aroused by. The women were also dressed in all manner of clothing, not just skimpy outfits that couldn’t possibly be comfortable with how tight they seemed to be.
Andrew wasn’t having any better a time personally speaking than he was last year (he was however able to admire the variety of talents displayed by the women) until the club lights dimmed pretty low and the light that was on the stage glowed a sexy red. A woman in a stunning red dress that was probably tailored to her body stepped out and up to the old fashioned microphone provided for her on the stage.
“Never know how much I love you. Never know how much I care.” It was the most sultry voice Andrew had ever heard come from a woman’s body.
“When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that’s so hard to bear. You give me fever when you kiss me. Fever, when you hold me tight. Fever in the morning, a fever all through the night.”
Her eyes met Pope’s and he swore his heart stopped.
“You like that one Pope?” Baz leant in and asked him. “I could swing a private meeting with her with the manager.”
“Shut up. I’m trying to listen.”
“Do you wanna meet her?”
“I’m trying to listen to her sing.”
She descended down into the audience, leaving the old fashioned microphone and grabbing a red bejeweled mic from a stage hand.
“Sun lights up the day time, moon lights up the night.” She moved gracefully through the crowd. “I light up… when you call my name.”
She moved closer to him. And he stiffened.
“And you know I’m gonna treat you right.” She sang right to him, a ruby red smile gracing her lips. “You give me fever… when you kiss me. Fever when you hold me tight.”
She moved on and he suppressed the urge to grasp her wrist and make her stay but it made sense she’d try to move through the crowd and make more than one man feel special. He just wanted to be the only man she made feel special. His eyes stayed on her as she moved through the crowd. He never wanted to lose sight of her.
She rounded back around to him and her eyes lingered on his. He managed a small awkward smile that he convinced himself had brightened hers.
She made her way back up to the stage to finish the song. And then the lights dimmed and the stage was cleared.
“Now do you wanna meet her?” Baz asked him. “I could swing it with the manager.”
“I don’t need you asking for favors from people on my behalf.”
“I was just offering to do something nice, man.”
“What, so you could get back there and talk to some other performer? You’d be doing it just as much for yourself as you’d be doing it for me.”
“I never said anything about myself.” Baz remarked defensively.
“No, but you didn't have to. I saw how you were eyeing that fire dancer. You’re gonna get back there to talk to her. You don’t care about me.”
“You don’t want in on it? Fine. Be the creep who stares.”
“Better than a creep in her sacred space.”
“Whatever, man. I’m gonna go get laid. You can stay here.”
“I will.”
His brothers left him there one by one until he was all alone. He watched the other acts and drank beer but the sultry red performance was stuck in his mind. She had such a magnetic stage presence.
“Can I get you another beer, hon?”
He was expecting a waitress to be asking that question but he recognized that voice. It was her. He turned to look at her.
He furrowed his eyebrows. “Why would you get me another beer? You’re not a waitress.”
“I could put an order in for you still with the bartender.” She offered.
He sat stiffly with his hands folded in his lap. “You don’t need to do that, I’m good. Thank you, though.”
“You enjoyed my performance.” She smiled as she sat down in Baz’s vacated seat. She was wearing a much looser and more comfortable looking dress than the tailored one.
“You were very good.” He complimented her simply.
She smiled a bit. “Thank you. I always appreciate positive feedback and compliments.”
“You probably get a lot of it.”
Was he… actually shy? Well… she supposed there were all sorts. He wouldn’t be her first shy admirer. There was the one chemistry professor who came for a stretch of time who blushed every time she even so much as looked at him. And if she winked? He had to unbutton his top shirt button. She liked the shy ones. She preferred the sweet ones.
“Not as much as you’re probably thinking I do.”
“Well, you should be getting… like… a lot more compliments.”
Her smile widened. “What’s your name?”
He was so distracted by her widened smile that it took him a few seconds to reply to her. “Oh uh A-Andrew.”
“Andrew,” she repeated, nodding. “I like it. I think it suits you. You sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“I’m good, really.”
“You just seem… uncomfortable.”
“I’m just not used to places like this.” He murmured.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
His gaze snapped up from the floor to meet hers. “What? No.”
“No? Because you’re pretty stiff… posture wise…”
“It’s not you.”
“So it’s the environment?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s too loud… too dark… too many people…”
“We have quieter rooms with less people.”
“I thought that wasn’t allowed.”
“Not for… servicing. It’s for individuals who don’t like all the people. There’s a monitor in there with the stage on it so you can watch the performances. Someone can bring you drinks. There’s a buzzer on the wall.”
“Are you performing again tonight?”
“Later on, yeah.” She confirmed.
“I’ll stay here, then.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“And you’re sure I can’t even put in a water order for you?”
“No, thank you.” He didn't want her doing anything for him like that. That wasn’t her job.
“Alright, then.” She rose. “I’ll leave you alone now if you’d like.”
“When will you be performing again?” He asked before she could move too far away from him.
“In about an hour.”
“Can my seat be saved?”
“You wanna reserve the seat?”
“Yeah. Can I do that?”
“I think it’s-”
He cut her off. “Money isn’t a problem.”
“It depends on how long you want to reserve it for.”
“Every single night you’re here.”
“I work Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”
“Three nights forever… how much money would that be?”
“Uh… I think it’s like 50 grand for like forever forever if you wanna ensure it’s yours if I ever switch nights or something.”
That definitely sounded appealing to him. “Who do I talk to about that?”
“Uh… the manager…”
“And where is he?”
“Probably in his office.”
“Can you show it to me?”
She agreed to do that. “… sure… follow me.”
She led him to the manager's office.
“What can I do for ya?” The manager asked him with an easy smile.
“I would like to reserve a seat for all of her performances.”
“In perpetuity?”
Pope nodded. “Yes.”
“50 grand for ownership of a seat.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Alright, then, son, let’s ge-”
Andrew cut the man off. “I’m not your son.”
The manager managed a small, polite smile. “Well let’s get that settled, then. Then you can watch this pretty little thing all you wa-”
“Don’t call her that.” Andrew snapped at him.
The smile became more pained. “Let’s just sign.”
Pope smiled, ready to end the interaction as well. “Gladly.”
Nobody asked why he could just give away 50 grand on that. Nobody asked anybody why they had that kind of money around here.
“You, sir, are the proud owner of that seat whenever you want it.”
“Can I stop other people from sitting in it if I’m not there?”
“We try our best.”
“Try really hard. I don’t want germs from other sweaty people in my seat. What am I paying for if not to reserve my seat in perpetuity for myself?”
“If we have overcrowding…”
“Kick some people out, then. That’s my seat now, isn’t it?”
“We’ll be as accommodating as we can be, sir.”
“You have to reassure me that no one’s gonna take my seat even if I’m not there. I can’t have other people sitting in it. You understand me?”
“Y-yes, I understand. We try to make our patrons happy.”
“Good.”
He walked out without another word, his eyes meeting hers briefly before he continued on down the hallway.
“We’ll need to have Brian keep an eye out for that one.” Gerald said once he was out of earshot.
“Why? Because he cut you off?”
“Because he’s a creep, dear.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh? No? He was practically in heat over you.”
“No, Gerald, that would be you. I don’t get concerning vibes from this guy. He’s just sensitive.”
“Sensitive?” He scoffed. “Don’t be naive, girl. Every bad boy, gutter trash, poet, artist, and pristine trust fund baby has their issues, it’s what fuels the business. You can’t trust any of these guys, sensitive or insensitive. Just be careful with that one, okay, doll? I don’t need the liability.”
“Are you always so wary of patrons?” She knew he allowed far too much to slide.
“Just the weird ones.”
“They’re all “weird” in their own unique way or they wouldn’t be here.”
“Not all of ‘em look at ya like that one, though.”
“No… they don’t, do they? But I don’t think I have anything to worry about with him.”
“Don’t let him get too close to you.”
“I can take care of myself.” She countered. “Don’t make him uncomfortable.”
“You’re really protective of this guy? He’s not a puppy dog, honey. He’s a Rottweiler and he’ll bite you.”
“I am an adult. I don’t need your protection or Brian’s. I know how to get a vibe off a guy and that guy is more of an older, abused German Shepherd.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She left the manager’s office and went to her dressing room to decompress and get ready for her next show. She was crossing the floor on her way when a man intercepted her.
“Hey there, darlin’.” The raspy voice was one she knew well.
“Not in the mood, George, but thanks.” She politely tried to turn him down and move along.
Only he wasn’t taking that as an answer. He gripped her bicep. “Maybe you should get in the mood.”
“I have a show to get ready for.”
With both hands now on her arms, he gripped her tightly and held her there. “How’s about you give me a private show, hmm?” He’d leant in, his breath smelled like a brewery.
“No.” She told him firmly.
“You don’t get to say no to me, you whore.”
“Don’t touch her.” A voice came from behind before the man was wrenched away from her.
A fist connected with his face again and again and again.
“Hey, hey, stop.” She touched Andrew’s back. And he twitched at her touch. “Someone’s gonna call the cops.”
He stopped and stumbled back. “He touched you first. Everyone saw it.”
Brain the bouncer made his way over finally (way to fucking go, Brian).
Andrew got in his face. “Where were you, huh?”
“None of your business.” Brian answered stiffly.
“Isn’t it your fucking job to protect her?”
“I was talking with the boss.”
She scoffed. “About Andrew?”
Brian did not answer.
“God, after I told him I wasn’t worried?”
“Obviously this guy is something to worry about.” Brian said, eyeing Andrew.
“And what about George there?” She asked, pointing. “How much chatter have you heard about him? He was trying to solicit me.”
“I woulda handled him if there was a problem.”
“Is he gonna have to leave now because he punched him?” She gestured to Andrew.
Brian nodded. “Yeah, he should leave.”
“And George?”
“He touch you?”
“He did.” She confirmed. “After he tried to get me to do a private show for him that I had no interest in doing.”
“He goes too.” Brian nodded.
“Andrew was just protecting me.” She defended him.
“He should’ve waited for me.”
“You were nowhere in sight!” Andrew exclaimed.
Brian put his hand up. “Sir, calm down, please.”
“Are you the only bouncer for this place? How many performers do you have? How many seats?”
“Take it up with the manager, now you have to leave.”
“He doesn’t seem to like me very much. I doubt he’d listen to me.”
“You still have to leave.”
“I’m sorry.” He told her. “I didn’t mean to make trouble for you.”
She shook her head. “You’re not trouble.” She reassured him.
“Guy smells like trouble.” Brian remarked.
“And you smell like an asshole.” Andrew scrunched his nose up. “How much cologne do you use? Does it make you feel like a man?”
Andrew’s face met a table. He growled in distress as Brian hauled him back up by his jacket collar.
“Brian!” She scolded.
“Oops. Sorry.” The bastard was not sorry.
“Don’t fight him.” She told Andrew. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Andrew huffed but allowed Brian to continue to escort him out.
“Come back tomorrow night if you want but you’d better fucking behave.”
Pope just glared at the man before he went back inside the club. And he stayed at the back entrance and just stood there, staring, waiting. He couldn’t seem to make himself move away to leave. It was his birthday and he hadn’t even wanted to come here but he’d be damned if he didn’t make sure the performer got to her car safely after her shift.
Brian caught him loitering near the back entrance. Andrew knew Brian wasn’t happy he was there but he’d be damned if he was leaving before securing her safety.
“You got a problem, bub?”
Andrew shook his head. “No. No problem.”
“Move it along or you’ll be banned.”
“I just paid a lot of money for a seat. I doubt your manager will ban me, no matter how much trouble he thinks I’ll cause. I’m not doing anything out here. There’s a camera right there, right? I’m in full view of it. I’m not gonna do anything.”
“If anyone complains, you can bet your ass you’re getting banned. You can have your money back and we’ll give that seat to someone less troublesome than you.”
“No one’s gonna complain.”
“Best way to ensure that is by moving it along. You can’t just be chilling out here in the alley, man.”
“I wanna make sure she’s okay,”
Brian scoffed. “Ruby? Give that up, man. It’s not happening.”
“Ruby?”
“Her stage name… because of the red…”
“Like you give a shit about her.”
“It’s my job to care. It’s not your job to care.”
“So do your fucking job so I don’t have to.”
“You’re on thin fucking ice, buddy, watch it.”
Andrew got in his face. “Or what?”
Brian did not back down. “I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
Pope didn’t back down either. “I’d like to see you try.”
The two men exchange blows until they’re just beating the shit out of each other in the alleyway. They stopped when they heard the back door open. Ruby stood there (sans any red clothing at the moment). She’d come out for her break.
“What… the fuck?”
“He started it.” Brian immediately blamed the altercation on Andrew.
“You threw the first punch!”
“Boys, boys…” Ruby shook her head. “Knock it off before I go get Gerald.”
“This creep wouldn’t leave.”
She sighed. “Was he bothering anyone?”
“No. But he was loitering. I should call the cops.”
“Why were you just standing around out here?” She asked Andrew in a much less antagonistic way than Brian would've.
“I wanted to make sure you got to your car safely.” He couldn't quite meet her eye.
“What a gentleman.” Brian mocked.
Andrew scowled at him. “I wouldn’t have hurt her.”
“Well it’s my job to make sure you never get the chance to.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt you.” He told her sincerely. “I didn’t do anything. I-I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“I believe you.”
“Jesus, Ruby.” Brian cursed.
“Go inside, Brain.” She told him sternly. “You’re supposed to be keeping watch in there anyway.”
“You think I’m gonna leave you alone out here with him?” He jabbed a finger at Andrew.
“Go inside!” She snapped. “Penny’s on the camera, yeah? She’ll let someone know if she sees anything.”
“If someone can run that fast.” Brian scoffed.
“How many guys do you have in there?” Andrew queried.
“None of your business." Brian snapped. "Like you’d have a chance of getting hired here.”
“Maybe you should take care of the safety of your performers a little bit better. If I did work here, they might be safer.”
Brian took a step towards Andrew. “Maybe you should mind your own damn business.”
Andrew took a step towards him too. “Maybe you should be better at your job. I bet I could do your job better than you.”
“All you’d do is steal panties or some shit.”
“What, like Felix?” Ruby asked. “Gerald did fuck all about that. Gerald does fuck all about anything." She griped. "Do you know how many walk outs we’ve had to do?” She asked Andrew.
“How many?” Andrew asked, genuinely interested.
“Three in six months. But does he hire more guys for the floor? Noooo, he just raises poor Penny’s blood pressure.” She was obviously exasperated.
“That girl’s got good instinct and reflexes.” Brian defended.
Ruby put her hands on her hips. “There’s literally just you and Hector for a 100 capacity venue.”
Andrew's eyebrows shot up in shock. “It’s just two guys?”
Ruby nodded. “And we’re at max capacity on the weekends.”
“Do you have another show tonight?”
“You’re not enti-” Brian started but Ruby cut him off.
“Shut up and go back inside, Brian! Being in there and handling the patrons is literally your only job and you’re failing at it.”
Penny’s voice crackled in Brain’s earpiece and he shot Pope a glare before going back inside.
“Do you have another show tonight?” Andrew repeated the question
“My last one of the night, yeah.” She confirmed.
“Don’t go back in there.” He pleaded with her, taking a step towards her.
“I have to. It’s in my contract right now that I do three shows three nights a week.”
“Alright but uh… find my brother Deran, he’ll probably still be in there chatting up a male performer, long blond hair. Or Craig… he’s tall with a beard, it’s brown, he’s a brunet.”
Ruby nodded, she recognized the names. “Blackwell’s brothers, yeah.”
“They’ve been here before?” He inferred Baz had. But Daren and Craig had said nothing.
“A few times." Ruby confirmed. "It’s mostly Baz by himself, though. I can go tell them to keep an eye on me, if that’ll make you feel better.”
“Just Deran or Craig. I don’t trust Baz. Actually, mostly just Deran. Craig’s probably too distracted.”
She smiled. “I like Deran. I’ll go find him, then.”
He relaxed slightly. “Okay. Go find Deran.”
“I will. But I can handle myself pretty well, just so you know.”
“Still, I’d feel better knowing someone more competent than Brian was looking after you.”
“You and me and all the other performers, trust me.” She smiled at him widely and turned back to open the back door.
“Hey, Ruby?”
“Y/N.” She gently corrected.
It took him a second to process this. “What?”
“My real name.” She clarified.
It took another second for him to speak. “Oh…”
“Feel free to use it. Ruby’s my stage name. But people I like get to use my real name.”
“You… like me?” It was like he couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t remember why he’d wanted her to stop. Had he had a question for her? He couldn’t remember it now. Perhaps he just wanted her to linger just a few seconds longer. Perhaps he’d just wanted to spend a precious few more seconds in her presence.
She nodded, smiling sweetly at him. “Yeah, I do. I think you’re sweet.”
And then before he could say anything else, she was gone, back in the club again, and out of his sight.
And Andrew felt like he’d just been hit by a truck. He stood there stunned before he’d recomposed himself. After he’d done so, he went back to his truck to wait. For exactly what, he wasn’t sure. But he tried to prepare himself for whatever it was that awaited him now that he was in this. And he was in this, he’d decided. He was in this for the long haul.
A/N: This was an idea that I came up with and was encouraged to write by the lovely @multifandomlover01, after I was chosen by the cat distribution system. This is very self-indulgent, just a heads-up. This took a really long time to write because I am currently in the process of moving, on top of having knee surgery that I had been putting off for literal years. Hope everyone enjoys it because I had fun writing this. I haven’t written anything in a long time, so I apologize in advance for any wonky grammar. I did proofread this and had a bit of help from Grammarly, just for punctuation. Any em dashes, Oxford commas, and semicolons are 100% me FUCK AI.
Characters: Andrew “Pope” Cody, fem!reader, Deran Cody, Craig Cody, and mentions of Smurf (TW)
CW: Fluff with allusion to sex, Daddy kink mention, light swearing, Craig and Deran are being dicks (sorta), mentions of Smurf (that woman deserves her own warning all to herself)
Summary: Early on into fem!reader’s relationship with Pope, a kitten given to them by the cat distribution system. Shenanigans ensue.
WC: 2.7k
~~~
Walking into the Cody house, you noticed it was quiet. Strange. There was normally an argument, TV or radio blaring, splashing in the pool, Craig having some ‘company’, or at the very least a conversation.
“Hello?” You call out, gripping the pepper spray that Pope insists you carry.
When you make it further inside, you spot Deran on the couch, passed out with a light sunburn on his face and hair packed with sand and salt; you knew he’d gone surfing- and that being said, Craig was also in the house.
A quick pat to his leg and he shoots up wide-eyed, ready to argue, but stops once he realizes it’s you. “Oh. When did you get here?”
“I just got back. Where are my boys?” You ask with a hand on your lavender sundress-clad hip, slightly impatiently.
“Huh?” He tilts his head and then proceeds to rub his eyes.
You roll your eyes; he really is useless sometimes. “Andr- Pope and Bandit?”
He points down the hall and calls in a mocking sing-song tone coupled with a shit-eating grin, “Oh, Andy! Your girl is here!”
Dick.
Andrew pops out of his room with a tired smile and rasps out a “hey.”
You walk into the room and shut the door, then turn to Andrew, cradling his face and planting a firm kiss on his lips. You swear you can feel him go lightheaded and lax against you.
“How are my boys?” Is mumbled into his neck as he wraps you in an almost constricting hug, causing you to smile and relax into his grasp. You laugh, “Miss me much?”
He nods and tucks his face into the side of your neck. “Yeah, we both did”
He quickly lifts you from the ground, his arms wrapping around the back of your upper thighs where your ass meets your legs. You let out a shriek of his name as you laugh. Laying you on his bed. He settles between your legs with his head on your plush, warm, sun-kissed belly. Your hands immediately start to card through his curls and rub his shoulders. Feeling him relax, you close your eyes but pry one open upon hearing a quiet jingle. Your gaze landed on the small gray cat that the cat distribution system so graciously gave you.
Eight months ago, Andrew was driving you back to your apartment because he refused to let you stay at what you’ve come to know as the Cody compound, and you made him pull over because you saw a tiny kitten on the side of the road near a storm drain. You had gasped so dramatically that he nearly crashed his truck because he thought you had hurt yourself on something, causing panic to seep deep into his bones.
After collecting himself, he turned to look at you to ask what the fuck that was, but you were already running across the street to something he still couldn’t see. Jumping out of the truck, he runs to you with nothing but concern written all over his face.
“Baby! What’s wrong?” He asked, borderline whined, turning you to face him, and his heart sank further once he saw tears in your eyes. Speaking frantically and panicked, “Please talk to me, baby. What did I do wrong?”
“He’s just a baby,” you whimper out with a pout, showing him the tiny, trembling, fuzzball of a gray kitten.
Pope, letting out a sigh of relief, spoke pleadingly, now holding your shoulders, “Please don’t gasp like that again and look both ways before crossing the street. You scared this shit out of me.”
Wiping your tears, you nod. “Can we keep him? Please, Pope?” You stick out your lip in a dramatic pout with the doe eyes you came to realise will make him say yes to just about anything.
Guiding you back to the truck with one hand over the kitten and the other on the small of your back, “Yeah, sure, baby, we can keep him, but Smurf doesn’t like cats.
He’s still frazzled as he now drives to a pet store instead of your apartment because you said the poor thing needed a bed, food, and toys. Simply nodding along, he pays for supplies but not before you tell him to pick a collar for his new ‘son’. The title makes him stop dead in his tracks.
“What did you just call it?” He searched your eyes, making sure he heard you correctly.
You let out an overly dramatic gasp. “Do not call our son an ‘it’. We just need to come up with a name for him.” Looking down at the cat, you spoke directly to him: “It’s okay, mommy and daddy will find you a good name.” You look up at Pope again. “Right, Daddy?”
Pope knows in that exact second he is a goner, and he is exactly where he wants to be, especially if you are going to call him that again.
He comes to when he notices you waving a hand in his face. “Pope? Honey? Earth to Andrew. Are you okay?”
All he managed was a nod before giving the confused cashier a wad of bills and carrying the bags to the engraving machine, where you stand, for the small tag that goes on the ocean blue collar Pope chose.
“Hmm.” You hold up the kitten you wrapped in your sweater. “What does he look like to you?”
He shrugs, looking at you instead of the kitten.
You shift from hip to hip, still thinking. “Oh! What about Clyde?”
His face scrunches at the suggestion. “Why Clyde?”
“Because he stole my attention.” You state simply.
He stares at the screen like he’s deep in thought before asking. “Do you really want to keep with the theft thing?”
You shrug, “Yeah, kinda, I don’t think you’d be a fan of Andrew Junior for a cat. I think that should be reserved for our human child.”
You then watch his brain melt in real time, his face beet-red and looking at you like you hold the secrets to the universe, and he manages to stutter out “Bandit?”
“That’s perfect, Pope. I love it!” You quickly type in the name, but you notice he goes even quieter. “What’s wrong? Do you not like it?”
“No, no, I like it, but I like Andrew.” He mumbles, looking at the ground.
Questioning, you tilt your head. “You want to name him Andrew?”
“Bandit for the cat but. I like it when you called me Andrew.” He slowly admits, still not looking directly at you.
You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek and state it like it’s a fact. “Well. I won’t call you Pope anymore then. Is that better, Andrew”
He’s frozen like a deer in headlights and nods, touching his cheek as his ears, down to his chest, burn a dusty shade of red. “Just if Smurf and everyone else are there, don’t.” He chews the inside of his cheek.
He remains quiet as the name ‘Bandit’ is engraved on the small tag, and for the dive back to your apartment. After turning the truck off, he races around the front to help you out and grab the bags of things he bought from the pet store. He walks you to your door and sets the bags down.
Awkwardly kicking the ground and stuffing his hands into his pockets, he finally speaks up. “Uh, goodnight, and goodnight, Bandit”
“Andrew… Do you want to come inside?” You spoke as you unlocked your door.
He stares at you and blinks. “You want me inside?”
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured asking you to spend the night, but yeah. I want you to stay.” You give a shy smile. The original plan to get him to stay the night was to have a beach date near your place and end the night with a bonfire, and then say you didn’t want him driving late at night, but saving a cat would have to do.
He closed and locked the door behind him and stood awkwardly at the shoe rack. “Shoes off? Wait. Spend the night?”
“Please. Then help me set everything up for our son. Yeah, I want you to spend the night. We’ve been dating for about four months, and I get that we said slow but… I don’t know; you don’t have to stay.” You quickly turn around and put Bandit in his new bed on the couch.
Suddenly, you feel hands wrap around your waist from behind and a peck on your shoulder. Melting back into him, you smile contentedly.
“I’ll stay. We have the little guy to take care of now.” He spoke in a hushed tone.
You turn around and kiss him properly. “Yeah, we do.”
That was the night you figured out that the three of you would be stuck together for a long time, and you have been.
After thinking about the night you knew your boys were yours, you motion for the now much larger cat to join you and Andrew on the bed. Bandit lies between Andrew's arm and your thigh. He seems to need to be touching both of you when it's time to lie in bed. As you continue to comb through Andrew's hair, you swear he starts to purr like Bandit does.
Andrew lifts his head and stares up at you with those soft, deep chocolate eyes that make you melt. He then gives an equally soft smile as his hands run over your waist and sides. Smiling back down at him for a moment, you close your eyes and let your head fall back down to the pillows.
He turns his head to the side and starts speaking to Bandit as if they were both humans.
“We had loads of fun doing some seagull watching.” Andrew scratches Bandit’s chin. “You really gotta get better about not stepping in your own piss, though I’m tired of bleaching the bathroom and mopping the house,” Andrew spoke softly while stroking Bandit's head.
You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to mop just cause he tracks litter through the house-”
As he attempts to interject with his brows screwed together with a scowl. You put a finger to his lips.
“Let me finish.” You lock eyes with him, taking a more serious gaze. “You can just vacuum and sweep. Everyone always wears their shoes inside, and there’s a party here every other day. I think you should just stick to the basics and not have to deep clean every day. Once a week would be fine. We could also get better about wiping his feet after he uses the litter box. Then there’s Craig’s dogs.” You shudder thinking about the dogs and what they used to do in the house before Andrew told him to stop bringing them because they tried to eat Bandit once.
Andrew grumbles and looks back at Bandit. “I’ll get some more baby wipes, I guess”
“Listen, Andy, as much as I would love to stay here with you both, I’m getting kinda hungry.” You scratched Bandit’s head. “My boys need dinner too”
Andrew reluctantly gets up but keeps a hand on your hip as you pick up Bandit. You three walk into the kitchen to see Craig digging through the fridge.
“Calm down; I’m getting ready to make dinner.” I hand Bandit to Andrew and swat Craig out of the way.
Andrew walks over to the couch with Bandit, setting him in his lap and turning on the TV to the nature channel, where a documentary about birds is playing. Craig joins them on the couch, grumbling about being starving as he rolls a joint.
“Everyone okay with baked chicken, potatoes and broccoli?” You call from the counter as you set everything down, earning a unanimous grunt of agreement from the three men.
You season the chicken, broccoli, and potatoes before putting them in the oven to cook. Just as you enter the TV pit, you smile at Andrew and then see that Bandit and Andrew both have their heads tilted to the side, watching the TV. You smile, but the moment is very quickly ruined by a cackle from Craig.
He continues to laugh as he gets Deran’s attention, “Hey, Der, look Pope and the cat have the same stare!”
Deran also bursts out laughing, causing both Bandit and Andrew to look at the two laughing men with the same unamused expression.
Deran slaps the back of his hand to Andrew’s chest. “You got the same eyes, man.” They both continue to laugh.
The somewhat carefree expression that Andrew had is now gone and replaced by his signature shark-eye stare.
“Quit making fun of my boys.” You quickly chirp and sit in Andrew's lap. After kissing his cheek, you whisper. “You do pull the same faces sometimes.”
His ears burn red at the casual affection. It took him a long time to get used to affection in private; he just couldn’t believe that what you felt for him was genuine. Getting him used to even subtle PDA was an uphill battle, but you didn’t push it too much just a kiss on the cheek, a side hug, or a barely there peck on the lips if anyone was around and could see the two of you, even if it was the people he grew up with. Albeit they are shitty people.
You remember the time shortly after you got Smurfs' approval for Bandit to stay the night from time to time that you caught them both staring blankly out the window. Not looking for anything but more so just relaxing their eyes and enjoying the sun that was pouring through the large windows.
The laughing eventually dies down, and you all watch the documentary that Andrew chose. The timer for the oven goes off, and you get up to serve dinner. Andrew quietly sets the table as if it is for an etiquette class exam, but you are grateful because you could never remember which side the knife is supposed to go on, and if the cup is supposed to be above it or on the opposite side of it.
“Thank you for setting the table for us.” You smiled, setting the hot dishes on the hot pads in the middle of the table.
You get a nod in response and a grunt as he sits down, but he thanks you for the meal after and washes the dishes. Craig slips a few ‘guests’ in for the night, and Deran says he's going out. Making your way back to Andrew's room, you see him moping on his bed, taking a deep breath, and closing the door.
Sitting at the foot of the bed and petting Bandit, you ask him what's wrong. When he doesn’t respond, you move closer to him, resting a hand on his leg.
“Andrew, honey, what’s the matter?” Speaking in a soft tone, while rubbing his thigh with your thumb.
He finally spoke up in a quiet voice, “Do we really look the same?”
You can’t hold back the small laugh that pushes its way through your lips. “Andrew! Are you actually upset about that?”
“No…” He looks down at Bandit, who then chirps at him.
Lying next to him, putting a hand over his heart and spoke honestly. “Andrew, every one of your brothers is an asshole. I know you know that. I don’t think you look like Bandit or that Bandit looks like you, but like any pet, he picks up and mirrors behaviors. I think you have watched enough nature and animal documentaries to know that. What other cat do you know or have you heard of that will put the toilet seat down? He's seen both of us do it so many times that he just does it himself.”
Andrew turns to look at you, putting his hand over yours. “I know, but he’s our son; he should look like one of us, at least.”
The two of you laugh before settling down once again, and then you speak up, “I love you, Andrew. Love you too, Bandit.”
Andrew responds with a searing kiss that lets you know he loves you without words being needed.
I unfortunately will not be keeping her. I have a dog with some medical issues and won’t be able to care for another animal but I already found her a home. She’s chilling with me until my friend can come and get her. No name yet but I’ve sort of dubbed her Scully (I’ve been watching the x-files again).
She had a little bed she can hide in and a small heat pack that she loves. I worked at a dog kennel that had a special building just for cats especially during kitten season so I know what I’m doing. I also have a few numbers for people who foster cats if I need help. She’s chilling, has had a bath and was fed. Today was stressful so she’s taking a well earned nap.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
I’ve seen this circulating forever and genuinely thought “no way do I have any of them following me” until this week when it turned out I had all these fuckin “MAP” (pedophile) followers sad to find out I’m an “anti” (normal person)
Please leave and also please get guinea worm.
summary: The story of a cowgirl turned PTMC trauma worker who bonds with Dennis over shared farm roots and long shifts in the ER. From long-day vending machine confessions to a mechanical bull showdown, their connection grows steady and warm. Between dust, dance steps, and hospital chaos, they discover that maybe falling isn’t so bad... if you’ve got the right person beside you.
cw: fluff / slice-of-life!!!! fem!reader. hospital setting. trauma cases referenced (non-graphic). alcohol consumption (bar scenes). mechanical bull / minor falling. mild language. emotional themes (homesickness, burnout, post-shift heaviness). slight AU for Dennis' background. reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!
The first time Dennis realizes you are not just the quiet Southern girl who happens to work in trauma, it’s because of your hands.
PTMC is loud that afternoon (so loud that it almost gives him a migraine)—monitors chiming in overlapping rhythms, a trauma alert echoing down the hall, nurses moving with the choreography of people who have done this too many times to panic. Dennis is mid-explanation, walking a med student through suturing technique with Donnie, when he glances over at you. You’re scrubbed in beside him, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in calm concentration. There’s blood on your gloves, a faint crease between your brows, and absolutely no hesitation in your movements.
You hold the needle driver like it belongs to you; not delicately but steady and controlled. The kind of steady that doesn’t come from textbooks. It comes from experiences, from life.
Afterward, when you both step out to scrub down, Dennis studies you out of the corner of his eye. There’s something grounded about you, even when the department is on fire, you don’t rush. You don’t flail. You move like someone who has seen bigger storms than this. Like someone who is used to the most and the people being all around.
“Do you ever get stressed?” he asks, bumping the sink lever with his elbow. It’s genuine: because Dennis gets stressed all the damn time.
You glance up at him, water running over your fingers and down to your elbows, expression thoughtful for half a second. (You have always preferred washing your hands with soap rather than just hand sanitizer). “I’ve pulled a calf out at three in the morning in the middle of a thunderstorm,” you say simply, shrugging. “This place has air conditioning. I’ll manage.”
He stares at you, eyebrows raised up on his forehead. “You’ve done what?”
You shut off the water and reach for a tissue, studying him a little more closely now. “You didn’t grow up on a farm?”
Dennis gives you a look that’s almost offended at the fact that you don’t even remember that (he told you before, during a talk between two traumas). “Broken Bow, Nebraska,” he says. “Fourth-generation cattle farm. I can castrate a bull, mend a fence line, and reverse a trailer before sunrise.”
You pause mid-dry, surprise on your face. “You’re kidding? That’s cool.” That’s just cool that you understand him on the subject. Now you have more things in common than before.
“I left,” he adds, quieter now. “Went to college, med school. Didn’t go back.” There’s no self-pity in his voice. Just a fact. You lean your hip against the sink, reassessing him entirely. “You ever miss it?”
“Every day,” he admits, and it comes out easier than he expects. “But I wanted this, I always wanted this. Saving lives, being a Doctor.” You nod slowly, like you understand something deeper than the words, probably because you do. “Takes guts to leave,” you say. “Most folks just stay ‘cause it’s easier.” You think of a few people while saying those words.
He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah… well. My dad still thinks I’ll come back and take over.”
“Maybe you will,” you shrug, smiling softly at him. “World’s funny like that.”
He watches you for a moment, noticing the faint rope-burn scars on your wrist, the way you stand like you’ve never once been afraid of hard work. He has seen that before; in his mom, in his fathers and even in his brothers. “What about you?” he asks. “You ever think about leaving for good?”
You smile, but it’s softer this time. “I did leave,” you say. “I’m here, ain’t I?” Something shifts between you then; not teasing, not banter but recognition. Something that makes you closer.
Two kids who grew up with dirt under their nails and decided to chase something bigger than the horizon they were handed. Dennis feels something in his chest settle into place after that conversation.
And that’s how it starts.
It turns out Dennis did grow up on a big farm with his family, really—and he spent summers at his grandparents’ place in rural Pennsylvania. Chickens pecking in the yard, a vegetable garden that swallowed him whole by August and a mule named Edith who, according to him, had it out for him personally.
You find this out at two in the morning, both of you leaning against the nurses’ station with paper cups of vending machine coffee that taste vaguely like regret. Both your shifts have been finished for hours now, but the work is never over when there’s files, labs, charts.
“Edith bit me once,” he says, finishing a sentence.
“She probably had her reasons,” you reply without looking up from your charting, a tiny amused expression on your face.
“I was seven.” He almost gasps at you.
“Still.”
He watches you smile faintly at your own comment, now. There’s a silver chain around your neck, no charm attached, just resting against your collarbone. You always smell faintly of leather and cherry chapstick beneath the hospital soap, and he has no idea how that’s possible but it’s there every time. You remind him of his girl friends from Broken Bow when he was nothing but a boy.
“You still ride?” he asks after a pause. Your pen stills and your expression softens, just a fraction. “When I can,” you say. “There’s a stable outside the city. Ain’t home, but it’ll do.”
He nods slowly. “I haven’t been on a horse since I was twelve.”
“You ever fall?” You ask, lifting your eyes up to look at him, genuine and curious. There’s no hint of mocking or teasing in your expression; because of course you fell before too. And you still do to this day. “Immediately.” He voices back at you.
You grin, now. “Everybody falls. Question is whether you get back on.” He narrows his eyes, hands crossed onto the station. “Do you always talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re narrating a country song.”
You bump his shoulder lightly with yours, amused at these words. “You always overthink everything?”
“…Yes.”
“Figures.”
From that night on, it becomes a quiet routine. The ED farm duo, as Trinity starts calling you both. Between traumas and consults, you trade stories. He tells you about canning tomatoes with his grandmother in a kitchen that always smelled like vinegar and basil. You tell him about fence posts that had to be reset after every bad storm and the way the sky turns green right before hail.
He listens to you in a way most people don’t. Just genuinely interested.
And you notice.
The night the mechanical bull happens, it’s been a shift from hell. Three traumas back-to-back. One pediatric case that sits heavy in everyone’s chest. By the time someone suggests drinks, no one argues. Jack had needed to come on the day, and when it’s late in the night, he’s with the rest of you too. You don’t know him much, but Dennis seems to look up to the attending like he does with Robby.
The bar is loud and dim, neon beer signs buzzing against dark wood walls. You’re in worn jeans and boots. Dennis can picture you wearing a cowboy hat if he thinks about it hard. You look more relaxed out of scrubs, but no less solid.
He’s halfway through his second beer when Donnie points toward the corner.
“Oh no,” Dennis mutters. You follow their gaze. There it is: a mechanical bull, surrounded by cheering strangers and questionable decisions. Your entire face lights up and a gasp escapes your mouth.
Dennis recognizes that look immediately. It’s the same one you get before taking on a difficult procedure; focused, excited and a little dangerous (very dangerous). “Don’t,” he says, warning you like he knows about your thoughts. You tilt your head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t even think about it.” You set your beer in his hand before he can protest. “Hold this.”
“We’ve had a long day… You’re going to hurt yourself. I’m serious.” Dennis just says, your hand in his left hand and his own in the right one. He looks a bit lost for a second, knowing that you won’t listen to him for nothing in the world. Can you help yourself? The voices of Trinity, Perlah and Princess are encouraging you on the side, while Dana and Robby are rolling their eyes.
“So am I.” You only reply before walking toward the bull with that easy confidence, boots hitting the sticky floor like it’s just another barn. The operator raises his eyebrows. “You ever ridden one of these?”
You don’t answer, you just swing a leg over and settle into place like you’ve been doing it your whole life.
Dennis feels his pulse spike; is it stress, is it fondness, is it something else? He doesn’t know.
The machine starts slow; you don’t grip desperately or lean stiffly, you move with it. Fluid and balanced like you know how to. Your thighs tighten naturally, one hand firm on the strap, the other lifted loosely in the air. When the bull jerks, you adjust. When it spins, you lean. It looks less like you’re trying to stay on and more like you’re dancing. The bar is filled with whistles and encouragement now, making you smile.
The operator increases the speed and you grin wider, eyes sparkling.
“Holy—” Dennis breathes.
You stay on. Eight seconds, ten and even fifteen. The crowd grows louder, but you don’t seem to hear them. You’re laughing, hair flying around your face, completely in your element. Your body is following the movement of the mechanical bull, and you close your eyes for a second.
When you finally let yourself fall, it’s deliberate. You land on the mat with a breathless laugh that echoes across the bar, people clapping at you before turning their attention away, finally. Dennis is already there, pushing through the small crowd. He offers you his hand. “You okay?” he asks, voice half-worried, half-awed.
You take his hand, letting him pull you up. Your palm is warm, calloused, familiar. “Whitaker,” you say, cheeks flushed, “that thing barely tried.” Your eyes are wide, you can feel your cheeks burning from the effort.
He stares at you like he’s just discovered something extraordinary. “You’re insane.”
“You like it.”
He doesn’t deny it.
A few weeks later, he finds himself standing awkwardly at the stable you mentioned. The one out of the city. You’re already there, brushing down a bay mare with slow, affectionate strokes. The late afternoon sun casts everything in gold, dust floating in the air like tiny sparks.
“You came,” you say, surprise flickering across your face before it melts into something softer.
“I was curious,” he replies, his cheeks flushing pink and eyes looking away, a bit shy. You raise an eyebrow. “About horses or about me?”
“…Both.”
You grin and hand him a helmet. “Alright, farm boy. Let’s see what you remember.”
He’s stiff at first, mounting carefully while you steady the stirrup. When he settles into the saddle, you step closer to adjust his posture, your hand brushing his knee. “Relax,” you murmur. “They feel what you feel, you know that.”
“That’s… a mildly terrifying thing to remember.” You laugh quietly, shaking your head at his words. “Trust her.”
The horse begins to walk. Dennis inhales sharply, then exhales as the rhythm steadies. You walk alongside him for a while before swinging up onto your own horse in one smooth motion that makes him blink. He doesn’t say it but riding horses had never been his favorite thing, honestly. “You make that look too easy,” he calls.
“It is easy,” you reply. “When you’re not fightin’ it.” He watches you ride ahead slightly, sunlight catching in your hair, posture straight and natural. You look like you belong here in a way you don’t always let yourself look in the hospital. For the first time, he thinks he understands something about you.
You’re not restless, you’re rooted.
Back at PTMC, the farm duo label sticks harder than ever. You bring homemade jerky one shift and drop it on the table he is sitting at, without explanation. He brings in his mom’s pickle recipe printed neatly on cardstock because if we’re committing to this theme, we’re doing it properly. You swore he called her just for that, but don’t ask about it.
After a brutal shift, you both sit on the hospital steps in the quiet dark. The city hums in the distance, but it’s softer here. “You ever miss it?” he asks gently. “Like… really?” His voice is quiet, like the memories are too loud in his head.
“Every day,” you admit. “Miss the quiet, miss the way mornings start before the sun and end when the work’s done, miss knowin’ exactly what needs fixin’.” You reply to him, head turning to look at his face for a second before your eyes shift once more.
He nods. “You’re good at this, though.”
“At what?”
“Here, the hospital, people.” You look at him, expression thoughtful. “I guess patchin’ things up ain’t that different. Just… different species.” There’s a tiny smile on your face. He laughs softly and you swear your heart skips a beat.
Your shoulder leans against his, you can almost feel the warmth of his skin against yours under your scrubs. There’s a silence taking over now.
Dennis stays beside you, not moving away.
The county fair happens a month later. You drag him toward the livestock pens first, critiquing prize cattle with alarming seriousness together, joking and smiling. You demolish him at ring toss, though. He wins you a cheap stuffed cow anyway, looking absurdly proud of himself.
When the live band starts up near the food stalls, you don’t hesitate. You grab his hand and pull him toward the open space in front of the stage, all excited about this one moment. “Do you know how to two-step?” you ask.
“Who do you take me for? Of course. But uh… It’s been time, so…”
You sigh dramatically, rolling your eyes. “Guess I’ll have to show you, then.” You guide him through it patiently, hands warm against his, boots moving in time. He stumbles once and twice. You laugh, not unkindly. You wonder if he truly doesn’t remember or if he just wanted to be close to you. “See?” you murmur when he finally catches the rhythm. “Everybody falls.”
He looks slightly up at you, flushed and smiling, and realizes he doesn’t mind falling at all, not if it’s with you.
And under the fair lights, with country music humming through warm summer air and your laughter brushing against him like wind across an open field, Dennis decides that maybe being a farm boy isn’t such a bad thing.
Especially if it means getting to stand beside a girl who rides storms like they’re nothing—and still chooses to stay.
Okay I know I said I was gonna post the fic I was working on last Friday and it’s now a full week later. (My bad dog) It’s the last day of my spring break and I’ve been working on stuff for midterms and honestly the fic has been coming along really well. It was originally supposed to be a 3k word fic but I’ve expanded by a lot (not at 6k words) and I want it to be as good as it can be. So, as a treat here’s a little snippet. And I mean little.
You look up at the board, “Any good ones, Dana?”
She looks at you with glasses at the point of her nose.
“Oh come on. What did Santos say to you?” You questioned, already slightly annoyed at the situation.
“Kid, I’ve been alive long enough to know what it looks like when somebody is really into another person. I also know this job is stressful, but let yourself have something nice. He’s a sweet kid,” she finishes her sentence, pursing her lips.
“Dana, I can’t do dating right now. I just can’t. I’m gonna break his heart, and then I’ll be the real bad guy.” You spoke and grabbed a tablet, but as you turn around, you walk into something or someone, really. You make an ‘oof’ sound and hear an ‘ope sorry’ in that small voice that was unmistakably Dennis’.
“Sorry, Doctor Whitaker.” You apologize and offer a smile, trying to ease any tension.
“You’re okay, Doctor,” he replies quickly before walking past you.
“You’re already breaking it, sweetie.” Dana didn’t even look at you as she sat down. The words sting more than they should.
Okay I’m putting out some feelers for a Pitt fic I lost in my like and cannot find for the life of me. I told a friend about it and I can’t even give them the title or author.
Basically it’s a fic where the reader marries Abbot after they break up with Robby. (I think in the fic they dated for like six years. I’m trying to be as specific as possible) Reader eventually ends up in the hospital after a car accident that broke their pelvis. The reader was reaching for Robby instead of Abbot and it rubs Abbot the wrong. Reader eventually ends up at Robby’s place and they make out in his garage before moving inside his house.
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
stormborns
germansingergirl
