in the words of Shawn Hatosy, "I'm happy to be part of your disorder."
Masterlist (*18+)
A/N: In general, it’s safe to assume that all fics for a specific character take place in the same universe.
The PITT
Brendon Park
Closet Gremlin
You’re in the last year of your PhD program at Carnegie Mellon, conducting research at PTMC. You don’t have time to be distracted, certainly not by a handsome orthopedic surgeon with an attitude problem.
Office Gremlin
“You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.”
Get In Gremlin
Your car is in the shop. Brendon forces upon offers you a ride home.
Swimming With Sharks
You end up in the ED with a teensy, tiny head wound. Brendon makes it everyone’s problem.
The Shark's Lair (coming soon)
You have a concussion. Brendon has control issues. Somehow, this results in you sleeping over at his apartment and wearing his shirt.
Hypothetically (smau)
wOUld yOU lovE me iF i WaS a WOrM
With Teeth*
Brendon loses a patient. You give him back control in the only way you know how.
A/N: Brendon is a sad boy; I'm utterly obsessed with him and his five seconds of screen time; had to get something out there while writing the next part of the Gremlin series
Masterlist
—————————————————
Brendon Park had a sometimes-abusive, always-an-asshole father. Nothing he did was ever good enough, and he was constantly told he would never measure up.
Brendon Park had a sweet, doting mother who drank to cope with her husband. He was twelve when she died.
Brendon Park was valedictorian of his high school and earned a full ride to college. His ruthless intelligence was the one thing his father couldn’t take from him, and he used it to get as far away from him as possible.
Brendon Park penny-pinched when he first became an attending and paid off his med school loans within a couple of years. He hates owing anyone anything.
Brendon Park has fought tooth and nail for everything in his life, clawing himself high enough that he’s untouchable. Then he meets you.
Brendon Park is terrified of you. He’s spent decades carving softness out of his life, because soft things always get taken away. He’s waiting for you to get taken away, too.
Brendon Park doesn’t know what to do with you. Yes, you’re soft. But you’re brilliant, witty, and utterly unafraid of him. You’re silk wrapped around steel. Maybe not all soft things are weak.
Brendon Park doesn’t do half-measures. Once he realizes you’re not going anywhere, that you want him as much as he wants you, he’s all in. You’re it for him.
Brendon Park thinks dating conventions are for idiots. He’s decided you’re his, and he’s been yours since the moment he saw you. Why would you not move in and get married immediately.
Brendon Park shows you he loves you by micromanaging everything and forcing you to eat protein with every meal. He hounds you incessantly about drinking enough water.
Brendon Park is touch-starved and will die before ever admitting it. But he likes keeping you near, likes keeping you tucked against his side. It’s to keep you safe, he tells himself.
Brendon Park thinks you’re the most perfect person to ever walk the earth. You are clearly superior to everyone else in every conceivable way. He also thinks you’re fucking annoying sometimes.
Brendon Park is so, so in love with you. You’re the one soft thing in his life that’s stayed, that loves him despite his sharp edges. Devotion has never know someone like Brendon Park.
Summary: You end up in the ED with a teensy, tiny head wound. Brendon makes it everyone’s problem.
WC: 3,463
Warnings: the smallest splash of angst-lite; reader experiences a minor head injury; typical ED/medical stuff; protective Brendon Park needs a warning label; probable medical inaccuracies, because to my father’s eternal disappoint, I am in fact not a medical doctor
A/N: read as standalone, but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; cameo by Robby because for some reason I still like that sad old man; I can not believe I'm posting again so soon, but the muse is a fickle bitch
Masterlist
—————————————————
You’ve learned many things about Brendon Park in the month or so since you met him. You know he takes his coffee black, like a complete psychopath. You know he has a secret sweet tooth (black coffee notwithstanding) and that he never lets his fuel tank drop below a quarter. You know he loves Sudoku, his favorite color is blue, and that he can’t draw to save his life.
What you don’t know is whether or not you should call him.
You’re sitting on a bed in the ED, picking nervously at the sheets and trying to pretend there’s not an IV needle inside of you. Your head is throbbing, there’s dried blood itching the side of your face, and you’re so embarrassed you almost forget both of those things.
You’d been standing on the second floor balcony that overlooks the main atrium, head buried in an email on your phone. It was an email from the outside member on your committee, and you’d been so wrapped up in wording your reply properly that someone could probably had died next to you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Ironic, given that some poor radiology intern carrying a stack of boxes had then crashed into you. The force of the collision had knocked you off your feet, and you’d subsequently hit your head on the balcony railing and, humiliatingly, passed out.
Apparently any loss of consciousness is a big deal, because even though you’d been down for less than thirty seconds, you’d still been rushed to the ED. That was almost an hour ago, and in that time, you’ve been poked, prodded, and questioned half to death.
What day is it?
Do you know where you are?
What’s the last thing you remember before losing consciousness?
Can you tell me what five times seven is?
Friday, PTMC, emailing Dr. Usher, thirty-five.
The resident checking you out had seemed satisfied with both your answers and your vitals, and it wasn’t long before they sent an intern in to stitch up the nasty gash on your temple. They’d given you a local anesthetic, but your head still hurts. You can hear them in the hall now debating whether you need a CT, and you’re suddenly confronted with the fact that you know next to nothing about medicine.
Sure, you did your obligatory Grey’s Anatomy stint in high school, but that highly questionable, medical-adjacent soap opera is your only reference for anything that’s happening right now. You feel out of your depth, lonely and sort of scared, and of course the first solution your possibly-concussed brain provides is call Brendon.
It’s past five, so he should be finishing up his last consults for the day. He’s not on call this weekend, and you don’t remember him mentioning any evening plans. He’s also the most medically competent person you know, and he would definitely know what’s happening and what to do.
Some part of you doesn’t want to call him though. The two of you haven’t talked any more about whatever it is happening between you after the night he’d driven you home. He’s not quite your boyfriend, not quite just your friend. There’s no real reason to call him except you want to, and you’re very good at convincing yourself that that’s not a good enough reason to do anything. You don’t want to put him on the spot, don’t want to make him uncomfortable or make him feel obligated-
That last thought stops you. You don’t think there’s a multiverse out there in which Brendon Park feels obligated to do anything. The President himself could probably stand directly in front of him and ask him to do something, and Brendon would just stare flatly back and say no. If he doesn’t want to come down to see you, he won’t. Simple as that.
Feeling slightly better, you pick up your phone and call him before you can talk yourself out of it. It rings once before he picks up.
“Imp.”
His voice — sharp and biting and familiar — washes over you like a wave. The sound of it touches the fragile part of you you’ve been holding together since you woke up on the tile, and you immediately feel tears begin to well. Shit, you take back all your prior reasoning. You’re just going to hang up. You are not going to cry on the phone with him-
“Imp, why are there monitors beeping in the background. You’re not observing today.”
Well, now you’re definitely crying.
He remembers your schedule. He remembers your schedule and your ridiculous coffee order and tiny details about your ten thousand page long dissertation. He remembers unimportant things because they’re important to you. He would rather die than admit he’s maybe a nice person, but you love his caustic brand of care, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it aches.
“Um, would you-, could you come down to the ED?”
The brief silence that follows your question is the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.
“Bren?”
“What room are you in.”
The words are short, clipped, and everything you needed to hear.
“I think Central Three-“
“Hi, Ms. Y/l/n, I’m just here to check on your stitches.”
The same resident you saw when you first came in walks into the bay, Dr. Copeland you think is his name. He’s probably your age, with sandy blonde hair and the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. The intern who did your stitches is trailing behind him. They both pause when they see you on the phone, and you’re about to hang up and apologize for whatever hospital policy you’re probably violating, when Brendon’s voice snaps in your ear-
“Give me five minutes. And tell whatever fuckwit resident that is to keep his fucking hands to himself until I get there.”
The line goes dead, but you don’t feel nearly as alone as you did a few minutes ago.
“Everything okay?” Copeland asks.
He seems genuinely concerned, and you suddenly feel kind of bad for him. You don’t know what Brendon’s going to say when he gets here, but it’s certainly not going to be good job.
“Um, yes?”
None of you are convinced by your unenthusiastic answer, but no one points it out. Instead, Copeland snaps on some gloves and starts moving towards you. You make a sound of protest and lean away. You’re pretty sure he’s a senior resident, he seems perfectly competent, and he’s been nothing but nice to you, but the need to obey Brendon’s directive outweighs the need to get your busted-open skull checked out. That is something you will one hundred percent have to unpack later in therapy, but right now, you’re standing by it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Copeland asks again, looking even more concerned this time. “Would you like a female doctor?”
Very observant and kind of him, but no, you don’t think that will help. Brendon’s fuckwit resident comment probably applies to the entire ED if not the entire hospital. You’re trying to think of a way to explain why you don’t want your head examined yet, when you hear it.
“Park? I didn’t know we called for a-”
Brendon says something biting and likely rude though you can’t make out the specifics, and then he’s there. Standing in the entrance of the bay, looking like wrath given form. His eyes assess the room in one quick sweep before settling on where you’re curled up on the bed. Something complicated passes across his face, and you’re sure your expression does something similar.
You can’t explain why the sight of him feels so reassuring, or why he’s the person you want with you right now. Your parents and siblings are states away, but you could have called one of your friends from school — your cohort is actually quite close, and you enjoy spending time with them. But right now, when you’re tired and injured and not sure what to do next, his iron control and ruthlessness confidence are what you need. Just the sight of him makes some of the rigid tension in your body ease.
“Hi,” you say softly.
“Dr. Park,” Copeland greets. “Can I help you?”
Brendon ignores him completely and makes his way over to you.
“What happened.”
It’s a command, not a question.
Copeland is still standing next to you, gloves on and clearly unamused with this sudden interruption, and you hesitate. Maybe you should just let him work first. But Brendon says your name once — low, dangerous —and you start speaking before your brain catches up.
“Um, I fell?”
His eyes narrow.
“Okay, I fell and then hit my head. And maybe I passed out, but it was only for like…twenty seconds.”
He exhales slowly through his nose and makes a visible effort not to say something nasty. Instead, his hand comes up to rest on your jaw, and his touch is so gentle it steals your breath. His fingers trail featherlight over your cheek, and then he turns your head to the side, so he can see the gash on your temple. The complicated look from earlier intensifies.
“Vitals and GCS.”
Once again, it’s not a question, and Copeland answers albeit reluctantly.
“98/63, 79 pulse, 98 sat. GCS 15.”
“Which of you idiots put these sutures in?”
You don’t mean to, you really don’t. But your eyes flick over to the intern in the corner, and Brendon follows your gaze like a shark scenting blood. It’s only then that you recognize the woman, Dr. Wilts. She’s the same intern Brendon tore to pieces the last time he was down here. She clearly also remembers the incident — she looks mildly terrified and actually takes a half step backwards.
“Dr. Wilts is a talented doctor and is perfectly capable of suturing a head laceration,” Copeland says calmly.
You have to admire his composure — Brendon’s radiating caged-tiger energy right now. He dislikes most other people on a good day, and he’s definitely not having a good day. In fact, he looks one step away from homicide.
“If this scars, it’s because you suture like shit,” he says to Wilts. “And where are her films?”
He directs the second part to Copeland while simultaneously looking at your chart, open on the work station next to your bed.
“She hasn’t been to CT yet.”
Brendon turns slowly with a glare that makes even you flinch.
“Is there a specific reason, or were you just feeling particularly fucking useless today?”
It’s at this moment that another man walks into the room. He’s older than the residents, maybe in his forties, with dark hair and a scruffy beard on his jaw. He looks tired in the way everyone in the ED looks tired, but his brown eyes are kind.
“Park, why are you harassing my residents?” he asks, amicable but firm.
“Robinavitch.”
From his tone, you can tell Brendon doesn’t necessarily like this new man, but he at least respects him. Sort of.
“A trauma came in earlier, but Ms. Y/l/n should be up for CT soon. Dr. Copeland and Dr. Wilts have followed procedure and done an excellent job.”
Brendon clearly disagrees with the word excellent, judging by the sneer that curls his lip.
“Ms. Y/l/n, my name is Dr. Robby, one of the attendings here. How are you feeling?”
You actually feel quite a bit better now that Brendon’s here, but you don’t think your emotional state is what Dr. Robby was interested in. You take a minute to think about it, taking stock of your body now that your brain isn’t so frazzled. The anesthetic is still doing its job, so you can’t feel the stitches, but the rest of your head is throbbing dully. That, and your whole left side feels bruised from where you’d hit the ground.
You tell him, and he nods.
“That’s normal, but we can get you something for the pain. Otherwise, if your CT comes back clean, you should be good to go.”
You nod, then immediately regret it when it makes your head worse.
“In the meantime, Dr. Wilts will bandage your-”
“Like fuck she will.”
Brendon’s voice cuts like glass in the wake of Robby’s warmth. You turn your head to look at him, and your breath catches. His face is carved of ice and quiet fury. He’s looking at poor Dr. Wilts like he’s trying to eviscerate her with his eyes, and the hand that had been on your face is now resting possessively on your shoulder.
Oh god, maybe you are concussed.
Because there’s no way that Brendon Park’s attractiveness should be anywhere near the top of your current priority list, but oh. It is. It really, really is. You like that he came for you. You like that he’s touching you. And maybe it makes you a terrible, horrible, no-good person, but you really like that he’s being all snarly at other people over you.
“Park,” Robby starts. “This isn’t the OR, you’re not in charge down here.”
“No one else is touching her.”
The two of them lock eyes for a long moment, and it’s like watching a rabid tiger and a slightly confused bear stare each other down. Robby ends up looking away first, which you know he would probably call being the bigger person, and Brendon would definitely call being the loser.
“Ms. Y/l/n, is it okay with you if Dr. Park takes care of wrapping your wound?” Robby asks.
Brendon smirks like he knows exactly what you’re going to say, which, fair, but you still shoot him a look to cut it out.
“Yes, thank you, Dr. Robby.”
Robby nods before leaving with a promise to check on you after your CT. Copeland and Wilts trail after him. Brendon waits until they pull the curtain closed, giving the two of you at least the semblance of privacy in the busy ED, before rounding on you.
“How the fuck do you knock yourself out just by standing?”
The words are biting, angrier than when he spoke to anyone else, but his hands are impossibly gentle as they reach up to cradle your face. He tilts your head to look at the wound again, but his hands linger this time, and he strokes one thumb carefully over the uninjured side of your face. Your eyes flutter shut, and you nuzzle closer into his touch.
“Wasn’t my fault,” you mumble.
“What?”
It takes you a second to find more words. Some of the adrenaline that’s kept you upright and alert has started to wear off, like your body knows it’s safe now that he’s here. Without it, you realize just how tired you are. It takes concentrated effort to open your eyes and arrange a sentence.
“Someone bumped into me.”
His eyes turn downright murderous.
“It was an accident,” you hasten to add. “They were carrying a lot of boxes, and I think they just didn’t see me.”
That doesn’t appease him in the least, but he thankfully doesn’t push it. Instead, he grabs the tray of supplies Wilts left behind and gets a pair of gloves from the boxes attached to the wall.
“Don’t move,” he orders.
Once again his touch is at odds with his tone. He does a bit more poking and prodding at the sutures, but so carefully it’s like you’re made of glass. Then he cleans the wound again, even though you know Wilts already did it, and applies gauze and tape with the kind of focused attention usually reserved for diffusing bombs.
“Thank you,” you say softly when he finishes.
He doesn’t answer at first. His pelagic eyes are calmer now, like taking care of you himself has eased some of his fury, and he watches you with an unnameable expression. He strips off his gloves slowly.
“Why did you call me?” he finally asks.
You could say so many things.
Because he was already in the hospital, and it was convenient. Because he’s a doctor and would do things like demand to know your vitals and see your films. Because he’s Park the Shark, and the ED respected him. All of those things were true, and easy.
“Because you make me feel safe.”
You weren’t expecting him to confess his undying love to you after that, but you weren’t expecting…nothing either. He just stares at you. Silent, unmoving, face blank. It takes about three seconds of that for you to regret your words, then an additional five for you to start panicking.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ha-“
He kisses you.
He braces one hand next to your head and leans down before brushing his lips against yours. The touch is brief, over nearly as quickly as it started, but sure. You feel it with every nerve in your body. A breathless noise escapes you, and he pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.
“Brave girl,” he murmurs. “Swimming with sharks.”
He moves to kiss you again, but the curtain behind him jerks open. You both freeze. Your cheeks immediately go nuclear at being caught, but he just looks annoyed. He straightens slowly and turns to face whoever it is with a nastier-than-usual scowl on his face. You wince when you see its Wilts.
“What?” he barks.
“I’m uh, I’m here to take Ms. Y/l/n to imaging.”
She sounds like she would rather be doing literally anything else right now, and you place a hand on Brendon’s arm before he can take her head off. Very, very begrudgingly, he turns his attention to you again.
“Will you be here when I get back?” you ask, partially to distract him, partially because you want to know.
He gives you a look that clearly says what kind of stupid question is that and sighs in annoyance. But he still reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and lets his hand linger.
“Yes.”
You smile.
“But only if you don’t take too long.”
You’re laughing as they wheel you away.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Robby
“Huh.”
It’s nearing seven, he’s been on his feet for twelve and a half hours, and all that stands between him and his couch is shift change with Jack. But for some godforsaken reason, Robby finds himself standing at the nursing station, staring at Central Three like he’s being paid to do it.
He doesn’t know The Shark well. He knows he’s something of a god to the surgical residents that are down here sometimes, and he certainly commands the room when he himself deigns to make an appearance. But short of being ruthlessly efficient, allergic to small talk, and kind of a dick, Robby doesn’t know anything about him. So really, there’s no reason to be surprised that the other man has a girlfriend.
He is indeed, surprised.
Maybe it’s not because Park has a girlfriend, but because Park has this specific girlfriend. She’s sweet, quiet, though that could admittedly be because she’s in the ED. But she spoke very politely to Copeland and Wilts, didn’t show any indication she was annoyed by the wait for CT, and had apologized at least twice for things like twitching while getting sutured.
“What are we staring at?”
Jack steps up to the desk next to him, backpack slung over his shoulder and energy drink sweating in his hand. Robby just nods his head at Central Three. As they watch, Park’s girlfriend walks out of the room, looking calm if not a bit tired. Park follows close on her heels, and he looks exactly as pissed off as he did when Robby talked to him an hour ago.
“Apparently Park has a girlfriend.”
“Huh. I think I saw them in the elevator together a few weeks ago.”
“She came in with a head lac and a minor concussion, and he bit Wilts’ head off over it.”
Wilts was normally confident and decisive, especially for a first year, but there was something about The Shark that made even seasoned residents question themselves.
“Nearly took off my head, too.”
“That’s kind of sweet.”
Robby looks over at Jack like he’s the one with head trauma.
“Excuse me?”
“At least now we know he’s capable of an emotion besides disgust.”
Like he knows they’re talking about him, Park’s head swings in their direction, and his lip curls in a sneer. His girlfriend follows his gaze and offers them a shy smile. The dichotomy is actually kind of funny once you get over the oddness of it, and Robby finds it in himself to offer a genuine smile back.
“He’s still an asshole,” he says to Jack once the couple leaves.
Summary: Your car is in the shop. Brendon forces upon offers you a ride home.
WC: 4,324
A/N: direct continuation to Closet Gremlin/Office Gremlin though you could probably get away without reading those first; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; hint of d/s dynamics if you squint and stand on your head; the grip this character has on me after ten seconds of screen time is unholy
Masterlist
—————————————————
PTMC feels different this late at night.
It’s past eleven, and while the hospital is never truly quiet, the hustle and bustle of the day has died down. The only patients left are those staying overnight or those in the emergency room downstairs, and visiting hours are long over. The hallway outside your office is mostly empty. You’ve seen two night nurses and a janitor in the last hour, but that’s it.
You hadn’t meant to stay this late, but a random idea for a new model branch had turned into you hunched over your computer for four hours without eating or peeing. Then when your choices eventually became go to the bathroom or die (you’d chosen the bathroom), another idea had hit you in the stall. That had been three hours ago, and you’re now tired enough that the code on the screen is blurring.
You push yourself out of your desk chair with a groan — clearly, having ergonomic chairs in shoe-cupboard-offices was not high on the hospital’s list of priorities. Completely understandable, yet unfortunate. And, if you’re being honest, your aching back is your own fault. None of the coding you had just done required actually being at the hospital. You should have just gone home and worked from there, but you’d been too excited about your idea and hadn’t wanted to wait.
Sighing, you pack up everything in your worn backpack and pull it over both shoulders. Your mom had told you when you were in elementary school that if you only used one strap, you would have lopsided shoulders for life. You’d learned pretty quickly that she was exaggerating, but the habit had stuck anyways. You make a mental note to call her tomorrow and catch up as you leave the office and close the door behind you.
The trek to the elevator feels odd without a hundred people crowding the halls. Your makeshift office is by the admin wing, which means basically everyone in this part of the building is gone. You say good night as you pass the janitor you saw earlier, but you don’t see anyone else. You’re expecting the elevator to be empty, too, and you’re surprised when the doors open to reveal another person. You’re even more surprised to see it’s Brendon.
There’s a backpack slung over one of his shoulders and a set of car keys in one hand, and you realize he must be heading home just like you. He’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him. His scrubs are wrinkled, there are shadows under his eyes, and his hair looks like he’s run his hand through it fifty different times from fifty different angles.
“You going to get on, or just stare at me all night?”
Clearly his brain is just as sharp as always.
You’ve known Brendon Park for three weeks now, and while you wouldn’t call the two of you close by any means, you’re at least closer. He’s dropped by your office a couple of times between surgeries, and you’d ventured up to the fourth floor once to bring him an actual black coffee. Then there was the time he’d been called to the ED for a consult while you were there observing, and you’d watched him bite off a fellow attending’s head and make an intern cry.
Your favorite though, was when he’d come to your research presentation. He had indeed pawned off his rounds on Dr. Feldman, and he’d shown up just like he said he would. He’d sat in the back, talked to exactly nobody, and had looked just as grumpy as he always did the entire time. But he’d been there, he’d listened, and he’d even stayed long enough after to tell you that was acceptable. You’d practically swooned.
So are you closer? Yes. Has that made him friendly? No.
“Hello to you, too,” you sigh as you step into the elevator.
He huffs noncommittally, and you choose to interpret that as a greeting.
“Parking garage?” is all he asks you as the doors shut.
“No, my car’s in the shop. I’m going to take the bus.”
That gets his attention. He turns to face you, a more-annoyed-than-usual scowl on his face.
“You’re going to take the bus at midnight?”
“It’s technically eleven thirty-seven.”
Something homicidal passes across his expression, and you fight a smile.
“You know what I fucking meant.”
It’s probably not the healthiest trait in the world, but you can’t deny you like needling him. Partially because you’re just giving as good as you get, partially because you know he secretly enjoys it, and mostly because everyone else seems too scared of him to do it. Not that you’re unafraid of him, per se. He’s six foot plus of muscles and condescension, but you kind of like the thrill that goes up your spine when his pelagic eyes meet yours.
Like now, when he’s glaring at you like he can murder you through force of will alone. Those icy blues feel like fire as they meet yours, making a pleasant warmth take root in your stomach. You don’t know whether you hope he does or doesn’t notice the way your breathing quickens.
The elevator has long since stopped on the first floor, but neither of you move to get out. You just stare at each other in stubborn silence. You don’t bother answering his question, since clearly yes, you were planning to take the bus at almost-midnight. PRT was free for CMU students, and you’d ridden it plenty of times before. There was nothing wrong with-
“I’ll drive you home.”
Your brain manages to shut down and go into overdrive at the same time. The logical, usually predominant part of you says it’s not a big deal. A sort-of friend offering another sort-of friend a ride home for safety reasons. The other part of you, the one that beats your logical brain into submission whenever Brendon’s around, say it is in fact, a big deal.
“You don’t have t-”
“It wasn’t a suggestion. Again, you seem to forget I have a financial interest in keeping you alive.”
Instead of being insulted, you feel oddly reassured. You would normally waffle around, not wanting to be a burden or an inconvenience. You would probably insist you were fine with the bus, then be sad and cold later waiting at the shelter. But Brendon’s flat insistence means you can skip all of that. It feels…freeing.
“Fine,” you say, like you’re the one doing him a favor. “I accept these terms.”
He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. He doesn’t comment though, just steps off the elevator and starts walking away without checking to see if you’re following. You are, but only after making a rude hand gesture at his back.
He leads you to a parking lot you haven’t seen before, probably one reserved for staff. It’s fairly empty, though you do still spot one or two outrageously expensive sports cars. You’re secretly wondering if one of them is his, when he stops by a black 4Runner. You’ll admit you’re more than a bit surprised when he opens the door and throws his bag in the backseat. You must stare for a moment too long, because he shoots you a look and says-
“Get in, gremlin.”
You consider not doing it just to piss him off, then decide it’s not worth shooting yourself in the foot. Especially since you feel a raindrop hit your cheek. Defeated by the weather, you climb into the passenger seat and settle your backpack on your lap. The weight of your laptop and coding textbooks is crushing the circulation out of your thighs, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to put stuff in the backseat. Which is stupid, because you probably are, but you don’t want to take up too much space.
Brendon solves that when he gets in, looks from the bag to your face, then uses one hand to pick it up and place it in the back. Your first thought is presumptuous. Your second thought is he’s really strong. The second thought is the one that sticks around.
“Um, thank you,” you say, suddenly feeling shy now that you’re both in the car. “For the ride.”
He hums noncommittally.
“Seatbelt,” is all he says.
He hands you his phone as he pulls out of the parking lot, and you type your address into the GPS. You feel a brief spike of anxiety when you pass it back to him — what if he’s a serial killer, and he’s been playing the long game to earn your trust? Really, you should have considered this before you got in the car. Because now you’re alone in a vehicle with him, and he knows where you live. You watch a lot of crime dramas. It’s probably not the best hobby for a woman who lives alone, but now you’re thinking about that episode where the guy-
“If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t have left the hospital with you. There are cameras everywhere.”
You glance over at him and are both reassured and perturbed to see him kind of smiling. Sure, it’s more mocking than anything, but that tiny curve at the corner of his mouth still makes your breath catch.
“I wasn’t thinking anything like that.”
“Liar.”
Maybe you’re so tired that your brain is starting to malfunction, because you think he might sound…fond? Or maybe he’s the one who’s losing it. He does look exhausted.
“How was surgery?” you ask.
You may or may not have looked up orthopedic surgeons and their typical schedules a couple of weeks ago. For no reason other than expanding your knowledge base. But you know they generally keep to working hours for consults and scheduled surgeries. On call days are different though, which was likely why he’s just heading home now.
“The interns this year are particularly stupid, and the R4 on call was a fucking idiot. But the actual surgery went well.”
“I feel like you probably say that about the interns every year.”
“Yeah, well they keep finding new ways to disappoint me.”
You laugh, and his lips twitch again.
“Okay, you have to say one nice thing about them.”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough to give you a look that would have killed a lesser person.
“No.”
“If you keep treating them like you’re waiting for them to disappoint you, they will continue to disappoint you.”
“Or maybe they’re just really fucking disappointing.”
“Bren.”
That makes you both freeze. Him, likely because he’s thinking of ways to tell you off for the uninvited nickname. You, because you are already telling yourself off for the uninvited nickname. You don’t know where it came from, and you certainly hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Nicknames imply a level of familiarity you’re not sure the two of you have. What if he’s offended. What if he thinks you’re stupid. What if-
“Fine. They’re persistent, I’ll give them that. Or they’re just dumb and lack survival skills, which is equally as likely. Was that nice enough?”
Your body is still locked in fight or flight, and it takes you a second to understand what he said. Then another minute to process that he’s not upset. In fact, he indulged you, which does not help calm down your heart rate at all.
“It was acceptable,” you eventually manage.
You’re so frazzled by your blunder that you stop paying attention to where you’re going. It’s only when you drive by the movie theatre several blocks in the opposite direction of your apartment that you realize he’s not taking you home. You sit up straighter immediately.
“Relax, gremlin.“
You look over at him in alarm, and he sighs.
“I assume you haven’t eaten.”
“Well no, but-”
“I’m taking you to get food, not to kill you.”
Butterflies erupt in your stomach at the same time annoyance tugs your mouth into a frown. He offered to take you home, and now he wants to feed you. Your whole body softens and warms. But he also didn’t ask and scared you half to death, so there’s that.
“You could have let me know,” you say grumpily.
“I just did.”
He would have been proud of the glare you give him if he wasn’t looking at the road instead of at you. Thankfully, he must feel the force of your ire, because he says-
“Fine. My apologies for trying to keep you alive. Any other complaints you’d like the lodge?”
His voice is dripping sarcasm, but you still choose to capitalize on the opportunity.
“Yes, in fact. I think you could pick something nicer to call me than gremlin.”
You can hear him rolling his eyes.
“No.”
“Come on, it can even be a synonym. There are plenty of small, playful folklore creatures to choose from. Pick one of them.”
“How about goblin.”
You squawk in indignation, and he laughs.
“I will jump out of this car and tell everyone you pushed me,” you hiss.
“If you survive, which you won’t.”
“We’re not going that fast.”
“If I hear you unbuckle your seatbelt, I will speed up.”
Now you’re the one contemplating murder, though you acknowledge he has a point. You really are hungry. Hungry enough that you choose to keep your mouth shut the rest of the short drive. He pulls into a small diner, one of those old ones that has sketchy tile but is guaranteed to have amazing food, and your stomach grumbles.
“That is not me saying you’re right,” you say when he smirks at you.
The inside of the diner is exactly as you imagined it — red vinyl booths that are now more patches than vinyl, scuffed checkered tile, and the smell of coffee and bacon permeating the air. The lady behind the counter says hi, Shark when the two of you walk in and gives you a delighted smile that’s disturbingly reminiscent of Patty.
“They call you Shark?” you whisper to Brendon when he leads you to a booth in the back corner.
“Should they call me Bren?”
Your cheeks go nuclear. You make it a point not to look at him as you sit down, then you hold the menu in front of your face so he can’t see you, either. He laughs under his breath, and though the sound makes a pleasant warmth burn low in your stomach, you studiously ignore him. Besides, you’re so hungry that everything on the menu looks delicious right now, and deciding what to eat feels harder than deciding your dissertation topic had been.
“What can I get you guys?”
The lady from the counter walks up to your table, still wearing the same overly-pleased smile from when you’d come in. She’s looking back and forth between you and Brendon like she’s just won the lottery. Brendon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and tells her just the usual, Fran. Then they’re both looking at you, and you feel like you’re being quizzed by your qualifying committee.
“The skillet hash with sunny-side up eggs, please,” you say.
“Anything to drink?”
“Just water, please.”
She’s still smiling when she grabs the menus and walks away, and something tells you it’s not because she’s feeling particularly customer service-y right now. She and Patty should compare notes you think to yourself.
Then it’s just you and Brendon, and you realize this is the longest you’ve ever spent with him. Usually it’s just a quick chat when you both have a free moment. But right now there’s no models to run, no patients to see, and you suddenly feel more nervous than you have since the day you met him. You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Why did she call you Shark?”
He arches a brow.
“You really don’t know?”
You stare back blankly, and his lips quirk.
“One of the residents started calling me Park the Shark during my first year as an attending. It stuck.”
“And you like it?”
“I never said that.”
“Your face did. It’s doing the…slightly less annoyed thing. You like it.”
You’re starting to recognize the nuances in his perpetually unimpressed expression, the difference between mocking smiles and genuine ones. You can tell by his tone what he really means even if his words are always sharp. And right now, the man is insufferably pleased by his moniker.
“The residents have nicknames for everyone, and Shark is better than anything the other attendings have. They call Lee ‘Kim Jong Un’ behind his back.”
Your jaw drops.
“They what?”
“Are you telling me you don’t have nicknames for the professors in your department?”
“Well, yeah, but not Kim Jong Un.”
He just shrugs.
There’s a pause then, and you’re surprised to find the silence isn’t uncomfortable. You’re not thrilled by it, but you’re not crawling out of your skin to find something to say, either. You’re content to just sit and look around the old diner. His phone pings at one point, and he looks at it with absolute disgust before typing an aggressive response.
“Do you need to go back?” you ask.
He glances up at you, expression unreadable.
“Would you be upset if I did?”
It’s your turn to shrug now.
“Why would I be upset about you doing your job?”
It’s Wednesday, so if he’s on call today, he’s probably on call every Wednesday. You know he’s also likely on call at least one weekend a month. It’s just part of being a surgeon, and you knew the moment you saw him in the elevator earlier that there was a chance he’d get paged again. Ideal? No. But upsetting? Also no.
He stares at you for a long minute, like he’s looking for a sign you’re lying to him. He won’t find one. You might be a lot of things — prone to overthinking everything, plagued by imposter syndrome, simultaneously really smart and really dumb — but unreasonable isn’t one of them.
“I don’t have to go in yet,” he eventually says.
You tilt your head.
“I feel like I just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking.”
“What makes you think you passed?”
You’re about to open your mouth to tell him to go suck on an unripe lemon when Fran comes back. She sets the food down along with two glasses of water, and you pause mid-snipe to thank her. Brendon does the same, then hands her a couple of folded bills.
“In case I get paged before we finish,” he tells her.
“You want change, sweetie?”
He shoots her a grumpy look.
“Do I ever?”
“Well you’ve also never brought your girlfriend before, so I just wanted to check.”
You’re glad you hadn’t had a chance to take a sip of water yet, because you would one hundred percent have choked on it. You can’t tell if Fran is joking or serious, but either way, you were not prepared to be called Brendon Park’s girlfriend in a random diner at midnight on a Wednesday. Of course, Brendon himself doesn’t appear phased. Just gives her his normal unimpressed look and puts his wallet back in his pocket.
Fran takes that as her cue to leave, though she does so with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen. You watch her go while panic steadily brews inside of you. Desperate for something to do besides visibly freak out, you reach for your own wallet, only to stop when Brendon makes an offended sound.
“If you hand me money, I will drop you off on the side of the road.”
“That seems dramati-.”
“Besides, I have to take care of my girlfriend.”
The smirk he gives you sends heat arcing through your body and straight between your legs. Your breath actually catches, and you forget how words are supposed to work. He’s teasing, you know he’s teasing, but that doesn’t stop the thought from doing something embarrassing to your nervous system. Because part of you wants to know what it’s like. Not necessarily being his girlfriend, just being…his.
You want to know what he’s like when he first wakes up, before coffee and hair gel. You want to curl up with him on the couch while he complains about the general stupidity of humanity. You want to find him in the back row of your presentations and know that he sees you. It’s too much for how short a time you’ve known him, but Fran’s words imprint the possibilities on your mind.
Dinner passes in a blur after that. You know he talks to you, and you know you answer, but you wouldn’t have been able to recall the content of that conversation even if you were held at gunpoint. At least his pager stays silent. The two of you are able to finish eating in peace, and then you’re saying bye to Fran and walking back out into the damp Pittsburgh night. You still feel like you’re experiencing everything on a delay, right up until you turn around to ask him a question and collide with his chest.
Oh.
He must have been walking closer behind you than you thought, and his hand shoots out to steady you when you stumble into him. All of your senses suddenly go on high alert. You can feel the heat of his skin, can smell the vetiver and bergamot of his cologne. His chin dips so his eyes can meet yours, and you feel his gaze like a lightning bolt down your spine. You expect him to be annoyed with your sudden intrusion into his space, but there’s no irritation in his expression. Just steady patience and the slightest hint of amusement.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
His hand is still on your waist from when he’d caught you, warm even through the material of your sweater. It’s big enough that his fingers splay across your rib cage, and you’re agonizingly aware of it every time you take a breath. You’re agonizingly aware of everything about him.
“Brendon,” you breathe.
He hums under his breath.
“I like Bren better.”
Then he’s stepping around you to open your door for you, and you’re left gaping at empty air like a landed fish. He laughs, somehow mocking and fond all at the same time, and nudges you none-too-gently towards the car. It takes you a bit to reboot and comply.
“Mean,” you mutter when you pass him.
He doesn’t deny it, but he does close your door for you. Aggravating man.
The drive back to your apartment is relatively quiet compared to the one to the diner. You’re full, sleepy, and reeling from emotional whiplash. Brendon is…Brendon. Quiet, confident, smug. Looking stupidly attractive doing something as simple as driving a car. Extremely aggravating man.
Your building has a quite a few lights on when he pulls into the parking lot, especially given the hour. But you know a lot of the other residents are also grad students, so you’re not surprised by how many people are still up. Finals are around the corner, which means it’s prime cramming season.
“Thank you,” you say when he puts the car in park.
He turns to you, his eyes cutting even in the dim light of the cab. Fatigue has sharpened his features, not softened them, and looking at him feels like looking at a carved statue. He’s beautiful like this, you think. With his hair mussed and exhaustion bruising his under eyes. So beautiful it makes something in you ache.
“Will you be in after your meeting tomorrow?” he asks in return.
You have a meeting with Dr. Nayar on campus in the morning, something you’d mentioned in passing when you brought him coffee last week. You’re both surprised and not surprised that he remembered. He remembers everything.
“Yes, eleven-ish, maybe.”
“Good.”
There’s a world of meaning in that one word.
“Will I see you?” you make yourself ask before you can chicken out.
Thursday is one of his surgery days, which means he might have an unexpected break if a case wraps up early, or he could be stuck in the operating room from sunup to sundown.
“Do you want to?”
There’s a hint of his usual smirk in his voice, and your cheeks heat. He bought you dinner. He drove you home. Someone called you his girlfriend, and he didn’t correct them. Yet that simple question — do you want to — feels more weighted than anything else has tonight. This is him handing you a simple choice that holds far more meaning than just tomorrow.
Do you want to see each other tomorrow?
Do you want to keep sneaking in visits between meetings and surgeries?
Do you want to keep needling each other and pretending neither of you enjoy it?
Do you want this? Whatever it might turn into?
“Yes.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Much later, when you’re curled up in bed under your nest of blankets and wearing your oldest, comfiest sleep shirt that you pull out your phone to text him. A million ideas of what to say cross through your mind, but eventually you settle on another thank you. You don’t expect him to answer, and you’re just about to close your eyes when your phone pings.
His response is just two words, but they make your heart stutter.
Goodnight, imp.
You stare at your screen. Imp. You’re pretty sure those are tiny little demon things that like to play pranks. You’re also pretty sure they’re supposed to be ugly. It’s objectively not much of an improvement over gremlin, maybe half a step up if you’re being generous. But something about those three little letters makes your whole body warm with affection.
Summary: “You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.”
WC: 3,017
A/N: direct continuation to Closet Gremlin — you should probably read that first, but idk, you do you; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; also it’s technically still Friday as I post this, so don’t come for me
—————————————————
You don’t know why you’re doing this.
You’re standing in line at your new favorite coffee shop, the cute one on the corner that hosts Star Wars trivia and serves lattes in handmade mugs. You’d found it two weeks after you’d started working at PTMC, and now you show up every Friday like clockwork. Your pitiful grad student stipend makes it irresponsible to come more often than that, though you do occasionally cave on particularly early Monday mornings.
Noa, the barista, already knows your order by heart, and they smile in greeting when you reach the register.
“Just your usual today?” they ask.
You hesitate. You really don’t know why you’re doing this.
“Umm, can I add a long black?”
Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. The first time you’d come here, you’d told them you liked your coffee to taste as un-coffee-like as possible — clearly the extra drink isn’t for you. They don’t comment though, which you’re grateful for. You might see them every week, but you’re definitely not prepared to explain to them why you’re buying coffee for a man you’ve met exactly once and who wasn’t even particularly polite to you.
It’s gratitude, you tell yourself.
That’s not completely a lie. Working at a desk was significantly more comfortable than working on the floor of a supply closet, so you really are thankful. And if that’s not the only reason you walk out of the shop carrying two drinks, no one else needs to know.
The three-block trek to PTMC somehow feels both longer and shorter than usual. By the time you’re scanning your badge and riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, you’ve called yourself an idiot five different ways. It’s too late to change your mind though — the lady at the nurses station has already seen you, and you’ll look like an even bigger idiot if you just turn around and walk back the way you came.
It’s the same nurse you saw when you were here a few days ago. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, with steel grey hair held back by a sparkly butterfly clip and hot pink glasses perched on her nose. She’s sipping something from a mug labeled “World’s Best Grandma,” and her badge reel is shaped like a unicorn.
She must recognize you, too, because something horrifyingly close to amusement is dancing in her warm brown eyes. Patty, you read from her badge, looks down at the two coffees clutched in your hands then back up at you. She smiles.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
You’ve spent your entire academic career giving lectures in front of everyone from freshmen falling asleep in their seats to snobby faculty who disagree with everything you say on principle. You’re trained to be confident, eloquent. To answer any question thrown your way whether directly or by pivoting. Talking to a kind older lady with glittery clogs should not phase you.
It does in fact phase you.
“I’m uh, looking for Bre-, Dr. Park?”
Her grin widens.
“He’s is in surgery right now, but he should be closing soon if you want to wait.”
You shake your head immediately. There’s no way you’re going to stand here waiting for him like a lovesick teenager; you have more dignity than that. You’ll just consider this the universe telling you this was a bad idea.
“I have a meeting,” you lie.
Patty raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call you on it.
“Do you want to leave that here?” she asks instead, gesturing to your occupied hands. “I don’t usually play courier, but I’d be happy to give him that for you.”
It doesn’t take a genius to puzzle out why you’re looking for Brendon while holding an extra coffee, but you still feel yourself flushing at being caught. Maybe it’s frowned upon to interrupt surgeons in the middle of one of their operating days. Or maybe he brings random women to his office all the time, and you’re just the latest in a long string. Either way, you’re overthinking, mad at yourself for overthinking, and late to an imaginary meeting.
“That would be great, thank you,” you say.
You hand over the coffee like you’re handing over contraband. She takes it with what feels like an inappropriately pleased expression.
“I hope your meeting goes well,” she replies.
Yeah, she definitely knows you lied.
Mustering as much dignity as you can manage, you thank her again before turning and heading back to the elevator. You can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of your head as you go. It’s not until you reach your tiny little borrowed office on the second floor that you finally relax a bit. You sit down in your chair, drop your bag on the floor, and take a sip of your coffee. Then promptly gag and nearly spit it out.
The taste of bitter black coffee coats your tongue like a violation. You glare at the innocuous looking to-go cup like it’s responsible for the mixup. Your beloved, sugary monstrosity is rotting upstairs, but you would rather gnaw your arm off than go back and switch drinks with Patty. You groan and drop your head into your hands.
It’s going to be a long day.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Who the fuck sits like that?”
You jump and nearly knock over your coffee. You’d taken it to the cafeteria and loaded it with as much cream and sugar as possible until it was almost palatable. You’d been sipping it on and off while you worked in silence for the last hour, and you hadn’t notice Brendon arriving at your door until he spoke. He stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed and lip curled like he’s looking at a zoo exhibit.
You blink slowly.
You’re sitting with your knees drawn up, feet tucked close. Your chin rests on your knees, and your arms are wrapped around them so you can reach the keyboard.
“It helps me think,” you reply slowly.
“You’re not doing much to beat the gremlin accusations. You look like fucking Gollum.”
Far from being offended, you feel your face light up.
“You’ve read Lord of the Rings?”
“That’s what you got out of that?”
He looks deeply unimpressed, which you find deeply attractive for some reason you’ll explore in therapy next week. He’s just as handsome as you remember, even with his hair mussed from his scrub cap and a small mark on his nose from his eye protection. It’s kind of annoying, if you’re being honest. No one should look that good in hospital-issued scrubs.
“You have terrible taste in coffee,” he continues.
You choke.
You’ve been so disgruntled while slogging through your sad-black-coffee morning that you forgot it meant he did not have sad, black coffee. You’ve been worried about your own drink, when you really should’ve been worried about his. Horror dawns at the realization you brought a six-foot-plus, scowling orthopedic surgeon a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup.
You wince.
“I gave you mine by mistake. This one was supposed to be yours.”
You gesture to your own cup weakly.
“It’s just a long black.”
“So you have some taste,” he snorts.
That pulls a scowl out of you, which in turn pulls a smirk out of him.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” you retort. “I wait all week for that drink, and you didn’t even appreciate it.”
“Thank you.”
You’re shocked by how sincere he sounds. He looks at you steadily, not a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he ruins it two seconds later by opening his mouth.
“Poor timing on your part though, Patty is having a fucking field day over this.”
“Well excuse me for not having your operating schedule memorized.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Besides,” you continue. “It’s just a thank you coffee, not a marriage proposal.”
“Why, you thinking about marriage?”
You should absolutely not blush at that. You blush. Then you blush even harder when that slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. Asshole.
“Did you come all the way down here just to be a jerk?” you scowl.
“Not only.”
He walks into the office then, and your breath catches. The space is small to begin with, really more of a shoe cupboard than anything else, but it feels positively minuscule with his massive frame inside of it. He stops on the opposite side of your desk and nods at your computer.
“I saw the hospital memo — you’re giving a lecture on your research next week?”
“I-, uh, yes?”
You’re shocked that he actually reads his memos — you certainly don’t — and even more shocked that he noticed your tiny little line in the million-page document. It’s nothing big, just you giving an overview of your dissertation and its projected implications for the hospital. Really, it’s mostly just so you can tell people they might see you popping in and out of their departments for observation and to not call security on you.
“Are you planning on going?” you ask hesitantly.
He shrugs.
“If I can pawn off rounds on Feldman, then yeah.”
Oh.
He says it like it’s a forgone conclusion, like of course he’ll be there and you’re an idiot for thinking otherwise. He’s smart, handsome, maybe secretly nice underneath ten layers of grump. But once again, the thing that strikes you most is that he sees you and takes you seriously. You can count on one hand the number of people outside your committee who actually care about what you study, and you wouldn’t even need all your fingers. Even your parents’ eyes kind of glaze over when you get too technical.
Your face must betray some of what you’re thinking, because he’s quick to add-
“I just want to make sure you’re on track to give me my 20%.”
You actually laugh then, and something in his expression softens so minutely you almost miss it. Your heart stumbles over its next beat. You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.
You’re searching for something to say that won’t give away your inner crisis, when you’re saved by the sound of another voice at your door. Although once you glance over and see who it is, you decide you would rather have confessed your undying love than deal with whatever this is about to be.
“Hey, y/n, I brought you some-, oh.”
Several things happen in quick succession. First, you make uncomfortable eye contact with Jeremy Hayes, who’s standing in the doorway clutching a cup from the hospital cafeteria. Second, Brendon looks over at you and clocks your vaguely pained expression. Last Brendon and Jeremy look at each other, and you can almost feel the instant dislike that passes between them.
“Hi, Jeremy,” you say quickly, trying to defuse the situation.
His eyes peel reluctantly away from Brendon’s, and he gives you a slightly more strained version of the smile he was wearing a minute ago.
“Hi,” he greets again. “I got you something.”
He walks into the office, passes Brendon, and then rounds the desk to stand next to you. He places the cup on your desk and lingers by your side. You wonder if it’d be rude to scooch your chair away from him.
You’ve known Jeremy since he started as a post-doc in your department ten months ago, and you have enjoyed approximately zero of those months. It probably makes you mean, but there’s just something about him that rubs you the wrong way. You don’t know why — there’s nothing technically wrong with him. He’s handsome, smart, and well-liked by most others. Maybe, you think as he grabs your old cup of coffee and tosses it in the trashcan next to the desk, it’s because he does stuff like this. You weren’t enjoying the lukewarm drink, but still. It feels presumptuous if not rude.
Brendon must feel the same, because he arches one imperious eyebrow that conveys an entire speech’s worth of words. Jeremy flushes, but powers through.
“I’m Dr. Jeremy Hayes, Carnegie Mellon,” he says.
Brendon just stares at him, arms crossed and expression flat.
“Y/n and I work quite closely together.”
That’s a gross over-exaggeration of your basically non-existent relationship.
“I didn’t know you were working with PTMC,” you say when it becomes clear Brendon has no intention of contributing to this conversation.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, so are you um, visiting someone here?”
“I was just in the area and wanted to come check on my favorite grad student.”
PTMC and CMU are relatively close to each other, only about twenty minutes without traffic, but it still feels…excessive. Even if he really was just in the area. And it’s news to you that you’re his favorite grad student — if you’re being honest, you don’t really want to be.
“Well, um, thank you for stopping by,” you say, hoping he gets the hint.
He does not get the hint.
Instead, he turns to Brendon and smiles confidently.
“You must be one of y/n’s new friends.”
Brendon says nothing, and the smile falters.
“Sorry if I interrupted, you were saying?”
Brendon just cocks his head.
“I can wait until you’re gone.”
Jeremy looks like he’s just been slapped, and you realize you’re going to have to put an end to whatever pissing match this is. Although calling it a match seems unfair. It’s more like Jeremy trying to talk to an uninterested brick wall.
“Thank you for stopping by to check on me,” you say to him. “I’m doing well. I’ll see you at the department brown bag next week?”
Something passes across his expression so quickly you don’t quite know what to make of it, before he pastes on another megawatt smile and nods.
“Of course. I’ll come by another time when you’re not so busy.”
He heads for the door then, but not before casting one more weighted look at Brendon. Brendon, for his part, just looks back with the same bored expression he’s been wearing for the past ten minutes. That is, until Jeremy actually leaves. Then he makes it approximately five seconds before rounding on you.
“You-”
“You don’t have to say it,” you grimace, rubbing at the ache forming at your temples.
“Someone has to. You have shit taste in friends.”
You glare at him.
“He’s not my friend, and that’s rude.”
“So is throwing away someone’s overpriced coffee and replacing it with cafeteria sludge, but you didn’t have anything to say about that.”
You open your mouth to respond, then close it, because he’s not wrong. You thought the exact same thing. You’ve thought the exact same thing about Jeremy several times in fact.
“He your advisor?”
You nearly choke.
“No, he’s a post doc. We don’t actually work on anything together.”
“And yet he came all this way to see you.”
You wince.
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.”
“Because it is. You told me I was terrible and knocked over my pens the first day I met you.”
He stops there, but you hear the rest of it anyways. So why don’t you say anything now? You don’t answer right away, partially because you’re not sure. When you stay silent, he shifts forward, and you brace for whatever scathing thing you’re sure he’s about to say. Instead, his expression softens, and his voice is careful when he asks-
“Is he a problem?”
That’s all he asks, but you once again hear the unspoken words that follow. Is he a problem and do you want me to do something about it? Warmth blooms in your chest. You met Brendon three days ago, talked to him for maybe half an hour, and did indeed knock over his pens after he specifically told you not to touch anything. Twice. But here he is showing real concern for you. Add that to his genuine interest in your research, and you suddenly find yourself too deep in a pool you weren’t aware you were swimming in.
“He’s just…really friendly,” you say when you remember how words work.
“Y/n.”
He says your name flatly, but it still manages to convey disbelief, annoyance, and try that again all at the same time. You feel a mortifying lick of arousal. This is not the time, but your body doesn’t seem to care. Hearing your name in that tone, from his mouth, short-circuits you for a second.
“Okay, maybe he’s too friendly,” you amend, “but I don’t think he’s a problem.“
He looks at you for a long moment, considering, before nodding.
“You can tell me if that changes.”
He’s serious, and you’re gone.
“Are you saying you care?” you joke in an attempt not to confess your undying love on the spot.
He immediately scowls.
“I’m saying that if you get murdered by your stalker before I get my cut, I’m going to be pissed.”
That makes you grin. In a lot of ways, Brendon is the opposite of Jeremy — snappy, rude, not a people person — but you find you prefer that. He’s straightforward, intentional. Sharp-tongued, but respectful of the things that matter. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to hold your ground with him.
“I’m serious,” he says when you keep smiling at him. “Stop looking at me like that. We’re not friends. You’re still an office gremlin with shit taste in coffee and terrible posture.”
“Technically matcha isn’t coffee.”
“For fuck’s sake-, I have a surgery to get to.
He shoots you a look cold enough to kill and leaves without another word. You laugh at his retreating back, then laugh harder when he flips you off over his shoulder. Your morning is starting to feel significantly better.
Maybe getting him a coffee wasn’t a bad idea after all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When you get to your office Monday morning, there’s a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup waiting for you on your desk.
Summary: “You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.”
WC: 3,017
A/N: direct continuation to Closet Gremlin — you should probably read that first, but idk, you do you; set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; also it’s technically still Friday as I post this, so don’t come for me
Masterlist
—————————————————
You don’t know why you’re doing this.
You’re standing in line at your new favorite coffee shop, the cute one on the corner that hosts Star Wars trivia and serves lattes in handmade mugs. You’d found it two weeks after you’d started working at PTMC, and now you show up every Friday like clockwork. Your pitiful grad student stipend makes it irresponsible to come more often than that, though you do occasionally cave on particularly early Monday mornings.
Noa, the barista, already knows your order by heart, and they smile in greeting when you reach the register.
“Just your usual today?” they ask.
You hesitate. You really don’t know why you’re doing this.
“Umm, can I add a long black?”
Noa quirks an eyebrow at you. The first time you’d come here, you’d told them you liked your coffee to taste as un-coffee-like as possible — clearly the extra drink isn’t for you. They don’t comment though, which you’re grateful for. You might see them every week, but you’re definitely not prepared to explain to them why you’re buying coffee for a man you’ve met exactly once and who wasn’t even particularly polite to you.
It’s gratitude, you tell yourself.
That’s not completely a lie. Working at a desk was significantly more comfortable than working on the floor of a supply closet, so you really are thankful. And if that’s not the only reason you walk out of the shop carrying two drinks, no one else needs to know.
The three-block trek to PTMC somehow feels both longer and shorter than usual. By the time you’re scanning your badge and riding the elevator up to the fourth floor, you’ve called yourself an idiot five different ways. It’s too late to change your mind though — the lady at the nurses station has already seen you, and you’ll look like an even bigger idiot if you just turn around and walk back the way you came.
It’s the same nurse you saw when you were here a few days ago. She’s older, maybe in her late fifties, with steel grey hair held back by a sparkly butterfly clip and hot pink glasses perched on her nose. She’s sipping something from a mug labeled “World’s Best Grandma,” and her badge reel is shaped like a unicorn.
She must recognize you, too, because something horrifyingly close to amusement is dancing in her warm brown eyes. Patty, you read from her badge, looks down at the two coffees clutched in your hands then back up at you. She smiles.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
You’ve spent your entire academic career giving lectures in front of everyone from freshmen falling asleep in their seats to snobby faculty who disagree with everything you say on principle. You’re trained to be confident, eloquent. To answer any question thrown your way whether directly or by pivoting. Talking to a kind older lady with glittery clogs should not phase you.
It does in fact phase you.
“I’m uh, looking for Bre-, Dr. Park?”
Her grin widens.
“He’s is in surgery right now, but he should be closing soon if you want to wait.”
You shake your head immediately. There’s no way you’re going to stand here waiting for him like a lovesick teenager; you have more dignity than that. You’ll just consider this the universe telling you this was a bad idea.
“I have a meeting,” you lie.
Patty raises an eyebrow but doesn’t call you on it.
“Do you want to leave that here?” she asks instead, gesturing to your occupied hands. “I don’t usually play courier, but I’d be happy to give him that for you.”
It doesn’t take a genius to puzzle out why you’re looking for Brendon while holding an extra coffee, but you still feel yourself flushing at being caught. Maybe it’s frowned upon to interrupt surgeons in the middle of one of their operating days. Or maybe he brings random women to his office all the time, and you’re just the latest in a long string. Either way, you’re overthinking, mad at yourself for overthinking, and late to an imaginary meeting.
“That would be great, thank you,” you say.
You hand over the coffee like you’re handing over contraband. She takes it with what feels like an inappropriately pleased expression.
“I hope your meeting goes well,” she replies.
Yeah, she definitely knows you lied.
Mustering as much dignity as you can manage, you thank her again before turning and heading back to the elevator. You can feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of your head as you go. It’s not until you reach your tiny little borrowed office on the second floor that you finally relax a bit. You sit down in your chair, drop your bag on the floor, and take a sip of your coffee. Then promptly gag and nearly spit it out.
The taste of bitter black coffee coats your tongue like a violation. You glare at the innocuous looking to-go cup like it’s responsible for the mixup. Your beloved, sugary monstrosity is rotting upstairs, but you would rather gnaw your arm off than go back and switch drinks with Patty. You groan and drop your head into your hands.
It’s going to be a long day.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Who the fuck sits like that?”
You jump and nearly knock over your coffee. You’d taken it to the cafeteria and loaded it with as much cream and sugar as possible until it was almost palatable. You’d been sipping it on and off while you worked in silence for the last hour, and you hadn’t notice Brendon arriving at your door until he spoke. He stands just inside the doorway, arms crossed and lip curled like he’s looking at a zoo exhibit.
You blink slowly.
You’re sitting with your knees drawn up, feet tucked close. Your chin rests on your knees, and your arms are wrapped around them so you can reach the keyboard.
“It helps me think,” you reply slowly.
“You’re not doing much to beat the gremlin accusations. You look like fucking Gollum.”
Far from being offended, you feel your face light up.
“You’ve read Lord of the Rings?”
“That’s what you got out of that?”
He looks deeply unimpressed, which you find deeply attractive for some reason you’ll explore in therapy next week. He’s just as handsome as you remember, even with his hair mussed from his scrub cap and a small mark on his nose from his eye protection. It’s kind of annoying, if you’re being honest. No one should look that good in hospital-issued scrubs.
“You have terrible taste in coffee,” he continues.
You choke.
You’ve been so disgruntled while slogging through your sad-black-coffee morning that you forgot it meant he did not have sad, black coffee. You’ve been worried about your own drink, when you really should’ve been worried about his. Horror dawns at the realization you brought a six-foot-plus, scowling orthopedic surgeon a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup.
You wince.
“I gave you mine by mistake. This one was supposed to be yours.”
You gesture to your own cup weakly.
“It’s just a long black.”
“So you have some taste,” he snorts.
That pulls a scowl out of you, which in turn pulls a smirk out of him.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” you retort. “I wait all week for that drink, and you didn’t even appreciate it.”
“Thank you.”
You’re shocked by how sincere he sounds. He looks at you steadily, not a trace of mockery in his expression. Then he ruins it two seconds later by opening his mouth.
“Poor timing on your part though, Patty is having a fucking field day over this.”
“Well excuse me for not having your operating schedule memorized.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Besides,” you continue. “It’s just a thank you coffee, not a marriage proposal.”
“Why, you thinking about marriage?”
You should absolutely not blush at that. You blush. Then you blush even harder when that slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. Asshole.
“Did you come all the way down here just to be a jerk?” you scowl.
“Not only.”
He walks into the office then, and your breath catches. The space is small to begin with, really more of a shoe cupboard than anything else, but it feels positively minuscule with his massive frame inside of it. He stops on the opposite side of your desk and nods at your computer.
“I saw the hospital memo — you’re giving a lecture on your research next week?”
“I-, uh, yes?”
You’re shocked that he actually reads his memos — you certainly don’t — and even more shocked that he noticed your tiny little line in the million-page document. It’s nothing big, just you giving an overview of your dissertation and its projected implications for the hospital. Really, it’s mostly just so you can tell people they might see you popping in and out of their departments for observation and to not call security on you.
“Are you planning on going?” you ask hesitantly.
He shrugs.
“If I can pawn off rounds on Feldman, then yeah.”
Oh.
He says it like it’s a forgone conclusion, like of course he’ll be there and you’re an idiot for thinking otherwise. He’s smart, handsome, maybe secretly nice underneath ten layers of grump. But once again, the thing that strikes you most is that he sees you and takes you seriously. You can count on one hand the number of people outside your committee who actually care about what you study, and you wouldn’t even need all your fingers. Even your parents’ eyes kind of glaze over when you get too technical.
Your face must betray some of what you’re thinking, because he’s quick to add-
“I just want to make sure you’re on track to give me my 20%.”
You actually laugh then, and something in his expression softens so minutely you almost miss it. Your heart stumbles over its next beat. You try to remind yourself that you’re too practical to moon over someone you’ve known for exactly three days, especially when he calls you gremlin on a regular basis, but you fail spectacularly. Apparently your type is intellectual assholes.
You’re searching for something to say that won’t give away your inner crisis, when you’re saved by the sound of another voice at your door. Although once you glance over and see who it is, you decide you would rather have confessed your undying love than deal with whatever this is about to be.
“Hey, y/n, I brought you some-, oh.”
Several things happen in quick succession. First, you make uncomfortable eye contact with Jeremy Hayes, who’s standing in the doorway clutching a cup from the hospital cafeteria. Second, Brendon looks over at you and clocks your vaguely pained expression. Last Brendon and Jeremy look at each other, and you can almost feel the instant dislike that passes between them.
“Hi, Jeremy,” you say quickly, trying to defuse the situation.
His eyes peel reluctantly away from Brendon’s, and he gives you a slightly more strained version of the smile he was wearing a minute ago.
“Hi,” he greets again. “I got you something.”
He walks into the office, passes Brendon, and then rounds the desk to stand next to you. He places the cup on your desk and lingers by your side. You wonder if it’d be rude to scooch your chair away from him.
You’ve known Jeremy since he started as a post-doc in your department ten months ago, and you have enjoyed approximately zero of those months. It probably makes you mean, but there’s just something about him that rubs you the wrong way. You don’t know why — there’s nothing technically wrong with him. He’s handsome, smart, and well-liked by most others. Maybe, you think as he grabs your old cup of coffee and tosses it in the trashcan next to the desk, it’s because he does stuff like this. You weren’t enjoying the lukewarm drink, but still. It feels presumptuous if not rude.
Brendon must feel the same, because he arches one imperious eyebrow that conveys an entire speech’s worth of words. Jeremy flushes, but powers through.
“I’m Dr. Jeremy Hayes, Carnegie Mellon,” he says.
Brendon just stares at him, arms crossed and expression flat.
“Y/n and I work quite closely together.”
That’s a gross over-exaggeration of your basically non-existent relationship.
“I didn’t know you were working with PTMC,” you say when it becomes clear Brendon has no intention of contributing to this conversation.
“I’m not.”
“Oh, so are you um, visiting someone here?”
“I was just in the area and wanted to come check on my favorite grad student.”
PTMC and CMU are relatively close to each other, only about twenty minutes without traffic, but it still feels…excessive. Even if he really was just in the area. And it’s news to you that you’re his favorite grad student — if you’re being honest, you don’t really want to be.
“Well, um, thank you for stopping by,” you say, hoping he gets the hint.
He does not get the hint.
Instead, he turns to Brendon and smiles confidently.
“You must be one of y/n’s new friends.”
Brendon says nothing, and the smile falters.
“Sorry if I interrupted, you were saying?”
Brendon just cocks his head.
“I can wait until you’re gone.”
Jeremy looks like he’s just been slapped, and you realize you’re going to have to put an end to whatever pissing match this is. Although calling it a match seems unfair. It’s more like Jeremy trying to talk to an uninterested brick wall.
“Thank you for stopping by to check on me,” you say to him. “I’m doing well. I’ll see you at the department brown bag next week?”
Something passes across his expression so quickly you don’t quite know what to make of it, before he pastes on another megawatt smile and nods.
“Of course. I’ll come by another time when you’re not so busy.”
He heads for the door then, but not before casting one more weighted look at Brendon. Brendon, for his part, just looks back with the same bored expression he’s been wearing for the past ten minutes. That is, until Jeremy actually leaves. Then he makes it approximately five seconds before rounding on you.
“You-”
“You don’t have to say it,” you grimace, rubbing at the ache forming at your temples.
“Someone has to. You have shit taste in friends.”
You glare at him.
“He’s not my friend, and that’s rude.”
“So is throwing away someone’s overpriced coffee and replacing it with cafeteria sludge, but you didn’t have anything to say about that.”
You open your mouth to respond, then close it, because he’s not wrong. You thought the exact same thing. You’ve thought the exact same thing about Jeremy several times in fact.
“He your advisor?”
You nearly choke.
“No, he’s a post doc. We don’t actually work on anything together.”
“And yet he came all this way to see you.”
You wince.
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds creepy.”
“Because it is. You told me I was terrible and knocked over my pens the first day I met you.”
He stops there, but you hear the rest of it anyways. So why don’t you say anything now? You don’t answer right away, partially because you’re not sure. When you stay silent, he shifts forward, and you brace for whatever scathing thing you’re sure he’s about to say. Instead, his expression softens, and his voice is careful when he asks-
“Is he a problem?”
That’s all he asks, but you once again hear the unspoken words that follow. Is he a problem and do you want me to do something about it? Warmth blooms in your chest. You met Brendon three days ago, talked to him for maybe half an hour, and did indeed knock over his pens after he specifically told you not to touch anything. Twice. But here he is showing real concern for you. Add that to his genuine interest in your research, and you suddenly find yourself too deep in a pool you weren’t aware you were swimming in.
“He’s just…really friendly,” you say when you remember how words work.
“Y/n.”
He says your name flatly, but it still manages to convey disbelief, annoyance, and try that again all at the same time. You feel a mortifying lick of arousal. This is not the time, but your body doesn’t seem to care. Hearing your name in that tone, from his mouth, short-circuits you for a second.
“Okay, maybe he’s too friendly,” you amend, “but I don’t think he’s a problem.“
He looks at you for a long moment, considering, before nodding.
“You can tell me if that changes.”
He’s serious, and you’re gone.
“Are you saying you care?” you joke in an attempt not to confess your undying love on the spot.
He immediately scowls.
“I’m saying that if you get murdered by your stalker before I get my cut, I’m going to be pissed.”
That makes you grin. In a lot of ways, Brendon is the opposite of Jeremy — snappy, rude, not a people person — but you find you prefer that. He’s straightforward, intentional. Sharp-tongued, but respectful of the things that matter. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to hold your ground with him.
“I’m serious,” he says when you keep smiling at him. “Stop looking at me like that. We’re not friends. You’re still an office gremlin with shit taste in coffee and terrible posture.”
“Technically matcha isn’t coffee.”
“For fuck’s sake-, I have a surgery to get to.
He shoots you a look cold enough to kill and leaves without another word. You laugh at his retreating back, then laugh harder when he flips you off over his shoulder. Your morning is starting to feel significantly better.
Maybe getting him a coffee wasn’t a bad idea after all.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When you get to your office Monday morning, there’s a matcha latte with oat milk and vanilla syrup waiting for you on your desk.
Summary: You’re in the last year of your PhD program at Carnegie Mellon, conducting research at PTMC. You don’t have time to be distracted, certainly not by a handsome orthopedic surgeon with an attitude problem.
WC: 2,708
A/N: set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; possible medical/probable computer science inaccuracies (contrary to what your local Karen thinks, Google is not a replacement for an actual degree); you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; mild d/s undertones if you squint and look upside down; Abbot cameo because I’m weak for that old man
—————————————————
The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.
“What the fuck?”
The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.
“Um…hi?”
He does not smile back.
In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.
“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”
His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.
“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”
“It has an Ethernet port?”
He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet.
“You work for CMU?”
“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”
He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue.
“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.
He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-
“What’s your dissertation title?”
“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”
“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”
“I’m s-”
He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.
“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”
He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating.
“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”
This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:
“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question.
You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.
On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does.
“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks.
You blink twice.
“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”
“That’s not what I asked.”
That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter.
“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.
He nods once, as if in approval.
“Good.”
Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.
The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.
“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.
Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again.
“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”
You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin.
“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.
“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.
“Nope.”
He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.
“So why’d you come in the closet?”
“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”
“I do not talk to myself.”
“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”
You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.
“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.
“Park.”
The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning.
Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace.
A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”
“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.
Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.
You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.
“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.
Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.
“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up.
“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”
You scowl.
“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”
He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:
“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”
You hiss of indignation.
“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”
That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation.
As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.
“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”
A pause.
“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”
Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh.
“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.
He shrugs.
“Yes.”
He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.
“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”
He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away.
“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”
“What, breathe on anything?”
Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.
If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.
“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”
You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.
“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.
Time feels suspended for a second.
He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.
Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.
“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”
That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it.
“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.
You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.
Then you knock over his cup of pens and settle in to work.
Summary: Brendon loses a patient. You give him back control in the only way you know how.
WC: 6,447
Warnings: established relationship; angst; hurt/comfort; unprotected piv (jfc wrap it before you tap it); d/s dynamics; bdsm, but like, vanilla bdsm?; oral (m receiving); fingering (f receiving); overstimulation kind of; unhealthy coping mechanisms? idk; use of a sex toy; seriously, use a condom
A/N: set six-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; technically part of the “Closet Gremlin” universe but can be read as a standalone
Masterlist
—————————————————
Brendon doesn’t get home until eleven.
You’re curled on the couch under the fluffy shark-patterned blanket you’d gotten him for his birthday (he’d told you it was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, then proceeded to use it basically every day since), and the TV is playing some Netflix romcom you don’t really care about. He’d texted you somewhere around six telling you there was a trauma incoming and to not wait up for him, which meant you’d of course waited up for him.
In the year the two of you’ve been together, you’ve learned that there’s no way to predict how trauma cases will impact him. There are days he comes home like nothing happened, days he comes home even more smug than usual. Then there are the days where he loses a patient or the outcome isn’t what he was hoping for, but he’s typically quick to make peace with it. He’s calculating, pragmatic. He knows when the odds are unfavorable and doesn’t dwell when they beat him.
Then there are days like today.
Days when you know something has gone wrong the moment he steps inside the house. He’s not particularly talkative as a baseline, but usually he’ll at least call a greeting. Today there’s nothing but stony silence. The only sounds are the slight shuffle of him taking off his shoes and the click of the closet opening so he can hang up his coat. When he finally steps out of the mudroom and into the den, he does barely more than nod at you before disappearing upstairs.
You’re not upset. You might have been, once upon a time, but you know him well enough by now to know this is just how he copes. He’ll probably take a shower, eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy, then curl around you in bed like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But he’ll hold you, and you’ll let him, and that’ll be enough for both you.
You sit quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the shower come on, and are startled when he instead comes back down the stairs wearing training shorts and an old t-shirt.
“Bren?” you question softly.
He pauses. His spine is rigid, his jaw tense, and you can see the weight of every life he’s ever held resting on his shoulders in that moment. Something heartbreakingly vulnerable flashes in his eyes so quickly you almost miss it, before he hides it behind iron walls.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
Then he disappears into the basement. A few moments later, the sound of weights clanking together floats up the stairs.
Your heart squeezes, but you don’t follow him. You know he needs to work through whatever it is on his own. Instead, you turn the volume on the TV up to give him some privacy and busy yourself with cleaning.
You grab his bag from where he’d dropped it in the mudroom and unpack it — putting the food he didn’t eat back in the kitchen and plugging in his laptop to charge. You wash the few dishes in the sink by hand and then spend some time prepping lunches for both of you for the following day. Then you go upstairs and throw his dirty scrubs in the wash along with a few other things. Really, there’s not enough laundry to warrant a load, but you need something to occupy you. No matter what he said, you won’t be able to sleep knowing how upset he is.
Eventually, the load finishes, and you put it in the dryer. Then that finishes, too, and Brendon is still in the basement. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearing 1:00 AM. You bite your lip. You’re exhausted, so you can only imagine how tired he must be. He’d been out the door by five that morning, and you know he’d had no break between his regular shift and the emergency trauma. You also know he hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, if his mostly untouched lunch was anything to go by.
You start folding laundry while glancing at the clock every five seconds. You want to give him his space, but you’re also getting increasingly worried. You’re not quite sure where the line is between letting him process and leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually though, when you’ve reorganized your nightstand twice, when the hour hand is closer to the two than the one, you decide you should at least check on him.
You pad softly down the stairs to the first floor and then pause at the doorway to the basement. You can no longer hear weights shifting around down there. In fact, it’s eerily silent aside from the low hum of the TV, and you feel a frisson of nerves as you descend the dimly lit stairs.
“Bren?”
He’s sitting on the FID bench facing the wall of mirrors. Several dumbbells are discarded at his feet. Sweat stains his shirt and his brow, and he’s still breathing heavily from whatever set he just finished. He’s still apart from the rising and falling of his chest though, his eyes fixed unseeingly on one of the heavy rubber mats lining the floor. He doesn’t even move when you say his name, and you’re not sure if it’s because he can’t hear you or because he doesn’t have the energy to respond.
The two of you exist in silence for a long moment, and you know he won’t break it unless you do. Carefully, like you’re afraid any sudden movements will make things worse, you cross to the mini-fridge on the back wall. You grab a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap as you walk back across the room to stand next to him.
“You should drink something,” you say softly, holding it out to him.
He might not want to talk about anything, but you can at least take care of him physically. Or you can try. He doesn’t take the water, and you only hold it out for a second longer before recapping it and setting it at his feet. Worry grips your chest like a fist.
“Do you-”
“You should go.”
You freeze. Your first reaction is hurt, which you quickly shove as far down as you can — this is about him, not you. Then comes the instinctual urge to obey. If he wants you to go, then you will. But just as your body is about to turn and move on its own, your mind catches up.
“You said I should go,” you venture carefully. “Does that mean you want me to?”
He doesn’t say anything, which tells you more than if he had.
Feeling steadier now than you did a second ago, you go to round the bench and stand in front of him, only for his hand to shoot out and keep you from coming closer.
“You can’t be around me right now,” he reiterates tightly.
“Because of me? Or because of you?”
His gaze snaps up to you then, and you inhale sharply at what you see there. Fury, bright and sharp, cuts through you like a blade. Right alongside it is grief so raw it’s almost anger in itself. There are other emotions buried there, too — frustration, self-loathing, hopelessness — so many that he looks like he’s drowning in them.
“Careful,” he says lowly.
Your heart stutters nervously, but you don’t back down.
“If you want me to leave, I will, but don’t tell me to go because you think you’re protecting me.”
His jaw tightens, and he stands. Towering over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. It works and it doesn’t. Your body responds the way it always does when he’s this close — your heart rate picks up, your breathing goes uneven, and awareness prickles across your skin. But you’re not scared of him. You don’t think you ever could be.
“You want to be soft right now,” he grits out, teeth bared. “You want to be sweet and gentle until everything’s better.”
You shake your head slowly.
“I want to be whatever you need me to be,” you tell him.
Wrong answer, or right one. You don’t know. All you do know is he makes a low, mean sound, and takes a predatory step towards you. You instinctively back up. The backs of your knees hit the bench, and you drop down on it with a graceless oof. Now it’s your turn to sit while he stands over you.
“You have no idea what I need right now,” he snarls.
Realization hits you so fast you feel dizzy, then ridiculous for not realizing sooner. The way he’s practically vibrating in his skin. The way he’s been down here punishing his body for nearly three hours. The way he seems to want you close and also want you as far away as possible.
He feels out of control.
He’s not just angry, he’s not just grieving. He’s spiraling. Tough cases always challenge his need for control, but he’s also pragmatic enough that he usually bounces back quickly. Whatever control he felt he lost with this trauma, he can’t get it back. He’s been trying to — down here alone, for hours — but it’s clearly not working.
He must see the realization in your face, because his expression shutters further, and he makes a low warning sound in his throat.
“Don’t,” he grits.
You don’t say anything, just reach out slowly and grab one of his hands. It flexes almost spastically in yours, but he doesn’t pull away. At least until you bring it to your mouth and brush a soft kiss across his knuckles. Then he tries to jerk it back, but you won’t let him.
“I can’t be gentle right now,” he scrapes out.
“I don’t need you to be gentle.”
He growls in frustration and crowds even closer.
“You don’t get it, I don’t trust myself around you.”
Your heart breaks, even as determination solidifies in your mind. Slowly, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to, you lift his hand to your neck. His fingers twitch as you wrap them carefully around your throat, and his breath punches out of him like you struck him.
“I trust you,” you whisper.
A brief pause—
And then he’s moving. He spits out a curse and then he’s hauling you to your feet. His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s all teeth and anger wrapped in desperation. The awareness that’s been humming under your skin since he got home morphs into arousal from one breath to the next. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt as you do your best to keep up with his relentless pace.
“Brave fucking girl,” he hisses against your mouth.
You whimper in response, concerned, relieved, and turned on all in equal measure. He kisses you like he’s punishing you. He kisses you like he can burn out his anger through your body, and you kiss him back like you want it. You do, you think, when he yanks your head back so his lips can find your jaw. You want whatever he wants, want to be whatever he needs.
He worries a bruise onto your neck, more teeth than lips. It’s petty, mean. It makes your cunt clench around nothing. You tilt your head further back to give him more access, and he rumbles a low sound of approval.
“So eager for me,” he mutters against your skin.
You nod frantically — you are, you always are.
You tug at his shoulders to bring his mouth back to yours. He allows it, indulgent. One hand is still buried in your hair, while the other bands like steel around your waist, and it presses you as close to him as possible and then closer still. He seems content for a moment, letting you guide the kiss, at least until he nips sharply at your lip and slides his hand back to your throat. It tightens just enough to make you work harder for every breath, and the feeling goes through you like lightning.
“Hmm, you like it when I get to decide if you breathe?” he asks.
Your only response is a whimper, and his eyes flash dangerously. You feel dazed, floaty, and he’s barely touched you yet. The same thought must cross his mind, because his grip loosens for a second, and the hand at your throat reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from your face.
“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I don’t know how to be gentle right now.”
You hear him fighting to keep his voice calm, to truly give you the out if you want it, and that more than anything makes your decision for you. He might not trust himself, but you do. You know he won’t hurt you.
Slowly, keeping your eyes locked with his, you sink to your knees.
Something complicated crosses his face. Longing and vulnerability mixed with love so deep it’s pain. He looks at you like you’re tearing him apart and remaking him at the same time, like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. His hand, steady enough to piece bodies back together, shakes as it reaches out to touch your face. His thumb brushes reverently over your cheek.
“Brave girl,” he whispers again.
Then all the softness disappears behind steel. You watch him physically piece his armor back together— his breath evening, his shoulders straightening. His eyes glint like ice, and the hand on your cheek grabs your chin and forces you to look up. You stare at him, feeling small and exposed.
“Clothes off.”
The words are quiet, but there’s no doubt they’re an order.
Your breath hitches, but your hands move to obey without thought. They grab them hem of your sweater and pull it off. Next comes your bra, and you blush a little when you drop it on top of the sweater. He’s seen you naked a thousand times before, but there’s something about it that feels especially vulnerable when you’re on your knees like this. You start to get up, so you can take off your shorts, but his voice stops you.
“I didn’t say you could stand.”
A shock of heat lances through you and goes straight to your cunt. You make a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a whimper, and stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares unblinkingly back. Hands unsteady now, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties and start tugging them down. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassing trying to wiggle out of them while still kneeling. You have to contort and do a sort of shuffle to get them off, but you finally manage it.
Now naked, you look up at him and wait for whatever comes next. The air in the basement is cooler than the rest of the house, and you feel your nipples start to pebble. The subdued lighting that usually feels soothing now feels too bright, too revealing. The only sound is the quiet hum of the fridge, which makes you hyper aware of your own breathing.
Part of you is uncomfortable, itching to move, to say something — anything to break this silent standoff. It doesn’t matter how safe you feel with him, the stark power imbalance between the two of you — you naked and kneeling, him clothed and towering over you — never fails to tug at something soft and unprotected within you. You force yourself to remain still though. As strong as the urge to retreat is, the need to obey is stronger.
“Eyes closed,”he says at last, and you comply gratefully. “Stay here.”
You’re startled when you hear him disappear up the stairs, but you obey and stay still. You think you hear him continue to the stairs to the second floor, but you can’t be sure. Then there’s nothing. Alone, waiting, the anticipation feels sharper. The rubber mat under your knees feels slightly too firm, and the air feels slightly too cold. Your legs are starting to cramp. Time passes oddly while you wait, and you’re relieved when you hear him coming back down.
Anticipation runs down your spine like a physical touch when you hear him come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your eyes are still closed, and you have no idea what he’s doing or if he’s even looking at you. The uncertainty, the feeling of being completely at his mercy, makes your thighs clench together. The action makes you suddenly aware of how wet you are, and an involuntary sound escapes your throat.
One of his hands comes to rest briefly on your head at the sound, grounding, then vanishes.
“Hands.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. Carefully, you stretch your hands behind you. He moves, looping something around your wrists and securing them at the small of your back. You test the bindings once — snug enough they won’t slip off, but loose enough you could get out of them without much effort. They’re more symbolic than anything, but they still make your cunt pulse.
Next he slips something over your eyes. You open them on instinct, but aside from a vague haze of light, you can’t see anything through the fabric. Now truly unable to see and with your hands bound, your awareness of everything else around you skyrockets. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, hear the measured rhythm of his breathing. He trails a hand lightly down one of your arms, barely anything, and it sets off fireworks in your body.
He stands, and you feel more than hear him walk around you. He stops in front of you, one hand coming to rest on your face. You feel his fingers press against your lips, and you open obediently.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Your cunt clenches around nothing again. You suck lightly on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead, and feel yourself getting steadily wetter. Your breasts feel heavy, your nipples tight, and you want him to touch you so badly it’s nearly pain.
“Good girl,” he repeats, then draws his fingers out. “Open.”
You do and are rewarded with the slide of his cock over your tongue. You make a grateful sound that would have been embarrassing if your brain was functioning. Instead, all you care about is the weight of him in your mouth and the low hiss he lets out when you start sucking.
“So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he mocks.
You hum in agreement, lost in the taste of sweat and skin and the slightly bitter flavor of pre-come.
He lets you play for a while, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. You alternate between sucking the flared head, tongue flicking the slit until his hips twitch, and sinking down further until your jaw aches. His fingers card through your hair, misleadingly gentle, and you think then that you could stay like this forever. Your knees ache, and your shoulders are starting to protest, but all that matters is this. Him, his taste, the sounds he makes. You’re actively clenching your thighs together now, trying to get any friction on your clit. He lets out a mean laugh when he notices, but he doesn’t stop you.
You know his patience won’t last though, and you’re proved correct when his grip suddenly tightens.
“I’m going to fuck your pretty throat now,” he says darkly.
You make a sound that might be agreement, might be a plea, and then his hips snap forward sharply. You nearly gag around the intrusion — too much, too fast — but you force yourself to breathe through it. He hums in approval, and you fairly whine.
He sets a slow rhythm, steadily fucking his way deeper with every thrust. His hand at the back of your head holds you in place, and you moan at the feeling of him bullying his way into your throat. You gag around him a couple times, spit sliding down your chin and tears pricking your eyes. He doesn’t stop. He knows if you really wanted out, you would slip the loose bindings and tap his thigh. But you don’t, and he mutters filthy encouragement as he slides even deeper.
“So fucking pretty like this-”
“Feels so good-”
“Fuck, baby, just like that.”
By the time you’ve finally taken all of him, you’re shaking, hips grinding down against nothing. Your jaw aches and you can feel the tears on your cheeks, but all you want is more. You make a desperate sound, and he groans in response, before slowly drawing back. A pause, then he returns with a harsh snap of his hips, and you’re whining. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you relish it. You want him everywhere, stamped on your body inside and out.
His breath punches out of him harshly as he fucks your face, and for a brief second you think you could come like this. Untouched, just the taste and feel of him and the sound of his voice spewing filth.
“My perfect girl, take- ah, take my cock so fucking well.”
You swallow around him, and his hips spasm.
“Shit, don’t-. Baby-, fucking Christ.”
You know he’s getting close. He’s spending longer down your throat with each thrust, grinding your nose against his pelvis. His breathing goes ragged, and his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Sure enough, one, two thrusts later and he’s yanking you off his cock with a curse.
You hear the obscene slide of his fist over his spit-soaked cock, and then you feel the first splash of come hit your cheek. He grunts as he fucks his fist, painting your face and chest. You moan at the feeling.
“Fuck, you did so well,” he says when he’s finally spent.
You preen under his praise.
“You think you deserve a reward?”
“Please.”
You sound wrecked, desperate, but you don’t care. Your body is hot, your skin too tight, and you want his hands on you more than you want your next breath.
He makes you wait for a minute.
He moves away from you, and you hear a rustle of cloth. You think he’s wiping his hands off, but you can’t be sure. Then he’s coming back over to you, and you’re nearly squirming in anticipation when he lowers himself behind you. His chest touches your back, and you feel his legs on either side of yours. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t seem concerned.
“Spread your legs,” he tells you.
You do, ignoring the way your knees protest the movement. Now that you’re not focused on his cock, you’re fiercely aware of how long you’ve been kneeling. He doesn’t tell you to get up though, and any discomfort vanishes a moment later when his arms come around you and then his fingers are running through your folds. Your hips jerk forward.
“Oh, sweetheart. Did you get this wet just sucking my cock?”
You don’t answer right away, too focused on the feeling of finally, finally being touched. But his fingers stop when you stay silent, and you cry out in protest.
“Answer me, baby.”
“Yes,” you gasp.
“Yes, what?”
Even after everything he’s already done to you, even with his come drying on your face, saying the words makes your cheeks burn.
“Yes, sucking your cock made me this wet.”
“Good girl.”
And then he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, and you nearly fall over. There’s no build up, no ease in. Just his fingers crooking in a practiced motion and rubbing relentlessly at the spot that makes you see stars. You moan, high and helpless. Your head drops back against his shoulder, and your hips move gracelessly as you chase his fingers. His thumb eventually moves to swipe against your clit, one brief moment of fire-tipped pleasure. Then his hand is withdrawing, and you nearly sob.
“Bren,” you cry pathetically.
He body pulls away from yours, but before you can protest, you feel something else moving between your legs. Not his fingers-
“Oh,” you gasp.
It’s a dildo. Not as thick as his cock, but definitely thicker than his fingers. Your walls clamp down around the intrusion. He fucks you shallowly with it, teasing more than anything, but you’re grateful for anything after waiting for so long. It’s more than enough to get you there, and your hips are starting to stutter when he says-
“No coming, baby.”
He actually laughs at your cry of distress.
“Don’t you want to be good for me?” he asks.
That alone almost makes you come.
Your cunt spasms around the dildo, and everything in your body pulls tight. Yes, you want to be good for him, it’s all you want right now. Sometimes you think it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You garble out some version of that and preen at his murmured approval.
“Spread your legs a little more-, just like that. Sink a bit lower-”
You obey, not quite knowing what he’s trying to do yet, when you feel something against your clit and it clicks. Oh. You know exactly which dildo he’s using now. The dark purple one with the rabbit attachment at the base, which means-
The vibrator switches on, and you make a sound like you’re dying.
“Hmm, feel good?”
You’re nodding, babbling, something.
“Now be a good girl and keep that in for me.”
He stands then, and while part of your mourns the loss of his warmth behind you, most of you is too focused on the incessant buzzing against your clit to care. It feels like it’s been years since he first kissed you, and you’ve moved past arousal into physical distress. You try to focus on something else, anything else. Your attention turns to your legs, which are cramping badly now, and your knees, which are aching as they dig into the ground. It doesn’t work though — you still feel like you’re a breath away from coming.
That’s when you hear it.
A scraping sound, followed by the click of weights hitting each other. A few footfalls hitting the floor, then the same sound again. Your brain short-circuits. He’s working out. You’re kneeling bound and blindfolded, his come drying on your skin and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, and he’s working out. He must see the understanding dawn on your face, because he huffs out a laugh.
“Focus, baby.”
It takes a moment for your brain to come back online, even longer to notice the dildo is slipping out of you. You’d started rising up on your knees without realizing it, until only the tip is left inside of you. Startled, you drop back down without thought, only to yelp when the movement slams the rabbit into your clit.
Another laugh, meaner this time, and then he goes back to his workout.
Time ceases to matter. You can’t see anything, and your attempt to count the seconds that go by lasts approximately ninety seconds before you give up. The only thing you have to mark the passing of time is the rhythmic sound of him breathing his way through every rep, punctuated by longer pauses between sets.
The base of the dildo perches precariously on the ground, held upright only because it’s inside of you. When you sink all the way down, it rests snugly inside of you, but it also pushes the rabbit directly against your clit. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough at the same time — almost numbing after so long, but still just one wrong twitch away from making you come. But every time you rise up to get away from it, the dildo threatens to fall out. You can only lift a couple inches without it slipping, and the awkward half-kneel makes your already-trembling thighs scream after only a minute.
You can’t stay pressed against the vibrator without coming, and you can’t get away from it without the dildo falling out. Either way, you’re going to disobey him. The thought fills you with dread, and you fight to be good, cycling between both agonizing positions. You don’t know how long passes like that. Your body is on fire, but your mind is full of static, the only clear thought you have: be good. You repeat it in your head until it’s all you know, all you are.
You start drifting, experiencing things through a haze, like they’re happening to someone else. The need to come is still there, but it’s not as urgent anymore. It’s been muted by distance. You’re somewhere else, floating and far away and-
A hand lands on top of your head and you come crashing back into your body.
Sensation comes back, ten times sharper than before, and your body convulses as you fight the sharp, stabbing need to come. You make an agonized noise. You’re sweating, trembling, and you’re so wet you can feel it dripping out of you. Every nerve ending is on fire, your legs feel like they’re going to collapse even though you’re already kneeling, and you need to come, you-
“Shh, breathe, sweetheart.”
You gasp out a breath.
“That’s it. Focus on me.”
He starts taking deep, even breaths, and you fight to mimic him. Slowly, the frantic energy in you eases into something manageable. His hand stays on you the whole time. It’s not gentle, not rough, but it grounds you enough that you’re able to settle all the way back into your body.
“Good girl, I’m going to turn this off now okay?”
His fingers tap lightly at the vibrator, forcing a whine out of you. But you nod, and he murmurs more praise. The buzzing switches off, followed by him removing the dildo altogether, and you don’t know whether to sob in relief or to wail at the loss.
“Fuck, baby, you made such a mess. Are you sure you didn’t come without permission?”
You shake your head frantically. No, you were good. You’re always good. Panic wells up in you, and you garble out a protest. You wouldn’t do that, you-
“I believe you, sweetheart. Always so perfect for me.”
You wilt in relief.
“Next is your wrists, okay?”
He waits until you nod before slipping the bindings off. Your shoulders scream in protest when you bring your arms back in front of you. His hands are there immediately though, rubbing carefully to help you through the worst of it. And even though it hurts, even though your knees ache and the muscles in your legs feel like they’re on fire, you still moan at the feel of his hands on you. Your body is caught somewhere between overstimulated and touch-starved, and you arch into his touch even though it’s painful.
“Alright, sweetheart, hands and knees. Do you think you can do that for me?”
You honestly don’t know if your limbs can hold you up anymore, but you try. You’d do anything he asked you at this point. Anything if he’ll finally let you come. You place your hands on the floor in front of you and lean some of your weight on them. Encouraged when they don’t give out right away, you shift slowly forward until you’re properly on all fours. You’re shaking, but you don’t fall.
“Doing so well, my perfect girl.”
The praise washes over you like a physical touch, and your pussy spasms weakly.
“Listened so well; I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”
You’re beyond words a this point, but you make a desperate sound of agreement and arch your back as best you can. He makes an appreciative noise at the sight. One hand finds your hip, the other running down the length of your spine, and you feel all of it like you’ve touched a live wire. Then he’s moving behind you, positioning himself, and the noise you make when you feel the head of his cock against your swollen pussy is feral.
“So fucking wet,” he says, dragging the tip through your folds.
And then he slams into you in one, harsh thrust, and you choke on a scream.
He sets a brutal rhythm immediately, his hands bruising your hips to hold you in place. The respite you got when he took the dildo out vanishes, and you’re suddenly back to teetering on the edge of coming. His cock is so much thicker than the dildo, so much longer — you can feel him in your throat. You can feel every ridge, every vein as he fucks you like he’s trying to mold you to the shape of him.
“Shit,” he snarls when a particularly rough thrust makes you clench around him. “This perfect-, ah, perfect fucking pussy.”
His shifts slightly behind you, and you wail at the change in angle. Every thrust sends lightning down your spine, pleasure so sharp in hurts. Your arms shake, then give out, and you collapse forward onto the floor. He doesn’t pause though, just tightens his grip on your hips until you know you’ll wake up with his fingerprints on your skin. The thought makes you moan.
“That’s it, baby, taking my cock so well. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
Your breath is coming out in pathetic little moans every time he buries himself inside of you, but you try to respond, try to say yes. The only thing you manage is an incoherent approximation of his name.
“My smart girl, so cock drunk you can’t speak.”
You don’t know which part of that sentence affects you more. Either would suffice to ruin you, and you feel your wetness start to drip down your thigh. You’re so wet you can hear your cunt trying to suck him back in every time he withdraws. The sound is loud, obscene in the small room, but you don’t care. You want more. Want him closer, harder, more.
Like he can hear your thoughts, he hooks one arm around you and reaches between your legs. He thumbs your clit lightly, barely a touch, but you clamp down so hard you nearly force him out.
“Jesus fucking-, hngg, fuck, fuck.”
His hips stutter, the first crack in his iron control. He keeps rubbing your clit though, and you know without a doubt that if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to come.
“P-please,” you gasp. “Bren, please. Please let me c-come. I-, ah, I need to come.”
“Sweetheart-”
“Please.”
You’re outright crying now. Crying, begging, willing to do anything if he’ll let you come. It’s not a matter of willpower anymore, it’s a matter of survival. Your body has been denied for so long that you’re either going to come or pass out.
“Shit, alright. You’ve been so good for me, baby, you can come.”
He delivers a particularly brutal thrust and pinches your clit, and you detonate.
Lightning explodes through you. Your body spasms with it, your hands scrabbling for purchase against the floor. Pleasure so intense it’s agony forces a sob out of your mouth. It’s too much, and you feel like you’re going to break under the pressure of it, but you can’t escape. His hands are still pinning you in place, and you’re too weak to move, so all you can do is lay there as it tears you apart.
Dimly, you’re aware of him coming, too. His hips stutter, then slam forward one more time before he’s twitching inside of you. He holds you through it, spewing a litany of curses and praise, but it’s like you’re hearing from underwater. You’re still coming, drenching his cock with it. Every time you think it’s over, another wave hits you, and your vision actually greys out for a second.
When you finally settle back into your body, you feel hollowed out. Everything is too much, too sensitive. Your breath is coming in broken gasps, your legs are shaking, and you can’t stop crying.
When he pulls out, it’s relief and loss all at once. You make a distressed noise, but quiet when he scoops you up into his arms. He sits on the ground and settles you in his lap, and you immediately burrow as close to him as humanly possible.
“Shh,” he soothes. “You did so well, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”
The words are like a balm to your ragged nerves.
“Listened so well, my perfect girl.”
You’re an absolute mess — a mixture of both your releases dripping from between your legs and tears mixing with the remnants of dried come on your cheeks. He ignores all of it, cradling you close. For a while, there’s only the sound of him murmuring reassurances in your ear, only the feeling of being totally surrounded and safe. He doesn’t rush you, and eventually you calm enough to accept the bottle of water he holds to your lips.
“Can I take off the blindfold?” he asks once you finish drinking.
You nod.
The overheads in the gym are dimmed all the way down, but you still wince at the first stab of light. You have to blink several times to adjust, and the first thing your eyes settle on is the reflection of you and Brendon in the mirror. You look about as wrecked as you feel, and though he looks similarly exhausted, you can immediately tell that the simmering anger from earlier has cooled. His pelagic eyes are calm as they stare back at you, his hand steady as it cards through your hair.
“You with me?” he asks softly.
You hum in agreement, and he huffs a laugh.
“Words, sweetheart.”
A weak spark of arousal runs through your body.
“‘m with you,” you mumble.
Silence falls, and you close your eyes again. You know the two of you will eventually have to get up — he’ll take you upstairs and help you take a shower before wrapping you in the fluffiest towel you own. He’ll make you drink more water and force you to eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy. Then the two of you will climb into bed, and he’ll curl around you like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But for now, he’s holding you, the world has settled, and that’s enough for both of you.
Summary: You’re in the last year of your PhD program at Carnegie Mellon, conducting research at PTMC. You don’t have time to be distracted, certainly not by a handsome orthopedic surgeon with an attitude problem.
WC: 2,708
A/N: set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; possible medical/probable computer science inaccuracies (contrary to what your local Karen thinks, Google is not a replacement for an actual degree); you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; mild d/s undertones if you squint and look upside down; Abbot cameo because I’m weak for that old man
Masterlist
—————————————————
The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.
“What the fuck?”
The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.
“Um…hi?”
He does not smile back.
In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.
“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”
His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.
“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”
“It has an Ethernet port?”
He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet.
“You work for CMU?”
“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”
He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue.
“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.
He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-
“What’s your dissertation title?”
“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”
“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”
“I’m s-”
He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.
“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”
He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating.
“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”
This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:
“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question.
You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.
On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does.
“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks.
You blink twice.
“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”
“That’s not what I asked.”
That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter.
“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.
He nods once, as if in approval.
“Good.”
Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.
The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.
“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.
Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again.
“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”
You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin.
“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.
“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.
“Nope.”
He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.
“So why’d you come in the closet?”
“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”
“I do not talk to myself.”
“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”
You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.
“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.
“Park.”
The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning.
Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace.
A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”
“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.
Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.
You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.
“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.
Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.
“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up.
“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”
You scowl.
“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”
He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:
“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”
You hiss of indignation.
“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”
That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation.
As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.
“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”
A pause.
“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”
Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh.
“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.
He shrugs.
“Yes.”
He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.
“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”
He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away.
“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”
“What, breathe on anything?”
Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.
If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.
“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”
You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.
“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.
Time feels suspended for a second.
He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.
Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.
“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”
That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it.
“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.
You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.
Then you knock over his cup of pens and settle in to work.
You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Word count: 9.5k+
Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Soft Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex).
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou.
Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series.
Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.
Cross posted to AO3.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Series tag.
You hand him the wrong sized needle.
“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.
You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.
Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.
You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.
And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.
“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.
“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.
The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.
He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.
It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.
It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.
“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.
“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”
“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”
You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.
Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”
“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”
You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”
You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.
You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.
“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”
“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.
“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.
Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.
Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.
She stares at you.
You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.
“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.
“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.
You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”
“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”
With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.
You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.
He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.
“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”
Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.
He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”
You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.
“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”
It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”
“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.
“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.
You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.
“It looks worse than it is,” you say.
“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.
They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”
You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.
“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”
You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.
He attempts a poker face. Do not react.
“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”
Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.
“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.
“On an app.”
“What? Just a random dating one?”
“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”
“The what kind?”
Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”
A pause. “They have those, now?”
You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”
“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.
The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.
You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.
“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”
You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”
Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”
“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”
Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.
You shuffle around, facing him.
He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.
“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.
Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”
You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”
“How much research did you do?”
“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”
“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”
Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”
Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.
You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”
You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.
You’re not listening.
“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.
This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.
A rough palm slotted against your cheek.
The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.
His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”
And you do.
Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.
But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.
He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.
Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.
“I’m sorry,” you say again.
He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.
So you do.
In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.
Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.
“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.
“I don’t want—”
“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”
Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”
You suck in a breath. “No—”
“What did I just say about—”
A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.
It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.
“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.
“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”
“I can’t what?”
“Take care of me.”
Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”
“No,” you say.
“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.
You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.
How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.
“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.
Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.
“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.
“Everything,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.
His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Why?”
“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”
He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.
Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.
Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.
His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.
He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.
“Please,” you utter.
“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.
You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.
His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.
You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.
“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”
Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.
The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.
Jack tells you to go home. You do.
Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.
He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.
The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.
“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.
“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.
“Yeah? You don’t got time?”
“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”
“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.
Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.
“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.
Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”
“See you,” Jack says.
“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.
“Me too!” John adds.
“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”
Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.
You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.
Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.
You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.
“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.
You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.
Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”
“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”
“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.
“Please,” you add.
He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”
You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”
“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”
“Okay.”
He lingers. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Feeling like yourself?”
You think. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.
He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.
Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.
“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.
And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.
When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.
“Hey.”
You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.
Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.
“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.
“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.
“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.
Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.
Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.
Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.
Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.
“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.
“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.
And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.
You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.
The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.
“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.
Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.
You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.
“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.
You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.
“Stay down.”
You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.
Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.
Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”
Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.
“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”
His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”
“Don’t,” you hiss out.
“—I’m not going to leave.”
It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.
Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.
Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”
“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.
“Jack,” you say.
He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”
You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.
And Jack.
He sinks.
One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.
A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”
“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”
And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.
You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.
He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.
As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.
How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.
Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.
You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.
Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.
“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.
“But I… yelled.”
Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.
“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”
And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”
“I want to be.”
“So you are. Mine.”
You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.
He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.
“You’re mine?”
“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?
“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.
He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.
A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.
You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.
A drawn out noise, broken into pants.
His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.
“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”
“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.
Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.
“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.
“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.
“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”
“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.
“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.
“Please,” you whine.
“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.
Air catches in your throat.
Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.
You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.
“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”
You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.
“Please.”
“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.
You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.
His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.
Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.
Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.
Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”
He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.
“Jack, please, please—”
He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.
Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the spongy inside. Pads of his fingers massaging.
You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”
You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.
“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.
He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.
“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”
Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.
“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.
You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”
“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.
“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”
The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.
You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.
Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.
“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”
He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.
You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.
“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”
“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”
“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”
Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”
And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”
Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.
He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.
Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.
“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.
Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.
You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.
He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.
You stroke him, feeling the length.
“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.
You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.
“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”
You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”
Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.
Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.
“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.
Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.
You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.
You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.
You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.
His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.
“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.
You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.
“What do you need?”
Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.
You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.
Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.
You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.
Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.
You part them.
His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.
Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.
“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.
A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.
“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.
You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.
“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.
You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.
Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.
Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.
He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.
“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.
The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.
You cry out.
Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.
You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.
His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.
“Trying to.”
He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.
You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.
Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”
Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.
A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”
“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”
“But I’m—”
“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”
“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bottom drawer,” you say again.
Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.
Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.
He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.
“Can I go on top?” you ask.
He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”
“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”
Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.
Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.
Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”
And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.
You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”
“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”
It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.
“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.
And finally, you’re sinking down on him.
The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft, spongy insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.
Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.
Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.
You try to rise.
His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”
“Jack—”
“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”
And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.
Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”
“Wasn’t on purpose.”
He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.
You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.
It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.
“Please,” you sob.
His hips snap upwards.
Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.
Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.
“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”
The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”
You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”
“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”
“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”
“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”
Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.
Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.
You whine. Close.
“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”
Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.
You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”
You’re flattened on the bed.
From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”
“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.
Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.
He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.
You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.
He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.
And he stays.
You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”
His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.
Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.
“Love you,” you whisper.
Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.
in the morning, lucius helps you get comfortable riding a horse. in the night, you don't need assistance with a ride you know well. he offers it anyway.
riding; raw pnv; fluff into smut; cocky lucius, reader has braids! :P
MDNI 18+
w/ LUCIUS VERUS
rome is a republic, and therefore, rome is now a home. for you and for lucius.
there is still much to be done, much that needs to change, but that burden has fallen onto the elected officials of the republic. lucius verus is not one of those officials, which leaves time in his day for other tasks such as this.
idleness still has not come natural to him.
he likes having something to do with his hands, but even then the tickle at the back of his neck and the worry cemented in his brain prevents him from being completely present in a moment. he has no other choice but to find tasks to do that occupy his entire body and soul, and today's task has been getting you comfortable on the back of a horse.
"you are tense and she is aware." he is blunt with his statements and it irks you. lucius knows he is not being very helpful currently, but he can only do so much from the ground while he stares up at you, one hand shielding his tanned face from the sun and the other placed on his hip.
"i am also aware, lucius." you even speak through clenched teeth.
lucius tries a different approach. he softens his voice, accidentally slipping into the cadence that he uses when it is only the two of you and the four walls of your home to witness the ways you both indulge in the others body.
"just breathe and take it slow. it's okay."
from the ground lucius can see the change in your body. the tension from your legs is gone and the stiffness in the back has dissipated as well. but you are not relaxed, and perhaps that is still his fault.
"i wish you would not speak to me like that when i am up here, lucius."
lucius laughs, the sound bigger than he initially intended, but it makes you laugh, too, and finally your body begins to loosen.
"just remember what i have taught you. don't second guess yourself."
and finally, there is progress being made. lucius follows you and the horse around the grounds, waiting with endearment in his eyes as you lean into the flow you have created.
by the time your feet hit the ground again, lucius thinks you have made good progress. he kisses you as he tells you so.
idleness has not come natural to lucius, he needs to be doing something at all times. except, it seems that he can submit to inactivity when it comes in this form—you above him, slowly rocking your hips in search of your own pleasure.
he watches the way you move your body to your advantage, guiding your hips back and forth with his cock completely sheathed inside of you. his body is relaxed, one hand tucked behind his head and the other resting on your hip, but his eyes are restless. they struggle to find a single place to settle on, constantly flickering from your gaze to your breasts to your tummy to where your bodies are flush together—grown patches of hair knitted.
everything about you is enchanting, how could he settle on just one part?
you have a hand on lucius' chest, holding yourself steady as you sit up tall. gone is the updo you had earlier as your hair now frames your face, strands of braids pressing against your cheeks and laying against your bare skin down your back. a couple of times you let out these pretty gasps, your face scrunched up when lucius teasingly knocks his hips up into yours, testing you and attempting to throw you off kilter. it doesn't work. you only plant your hands firmer onto lucius' chest and take him with determination.
the irony of how well you take this ride compared to the other from this morning does not evade him.
he was proud this morning, but the pride he feels now is different. it spreads a grin on his face and sends more blood down to his cock. he's trying to be still, he is trying to let you maintain control of this situation. you do not need his help, you can handle this on your own. but lucius does not want to help because you are incapable, he wants to help because it comes to him naturally.
he cannot just watch you exert yourself without aiding.
he thrusts shallowly up into you, watching the way your eyes widen with shock. he laughs a bit to himself, stroking the skin over your hip with the rough pad of his thumb.
"do you object?"
you hesitate, planting your teeth into your bottom lip. "i can handle it," you eventually say.
lucius nods. "i am aware, but do you object?" he speaks slowly, making sure you hear every single word.
you shake your head and that is all lucius needs to dig his heels into the bed, pull your torso down to his, and assist. he presses his fingertips into the flesh of your ass, pulling your cheeks apart and using your skin as a grip.
when you whine and press your forehead into his chest, lucius tuts, clicking his teeth like he's calling an animal.
"look at me," he asks, your name sweetly following the request. you shakily lift your gaze until lucius' eyes find yours. not even a second later does your forehead fall to his, collapsing as if the weight of your skull was too much for you to carry.
the tips of your noses brush together as lucius jostles you with every drive of his cock. mouths wide open share air through gasping inhales and trembly exhales. you look so thoroughly spent like this, slightly different from the ethereal way you looked as you sat atop of him.
gratification floods lucius when you moan his name, eyes pinched shut as you feebly press your cunt down onto him.
his lips quirk up as he says, "tell me how you are feeling. are you close?"
you fail to answer, your head lolling to the side.
lucius, however, doesn't cease. he follows your movements, making the work he is doing below the waist more punctual throughout. "hm?" he asks, pressing the tip of his nose against yours while his arm hooks around your waist. he slows his hips down, pulling you tight against him and giving you shallow thrusts.
"c'mon," he says your name, the syllables reeking of teasing just before he slips into that same cadence that he used while you were on the horse's back.
"is it so much that you cannot speak to me?"
lucius does not know if you can even hear him over the thunderous claps of skin meeting, but he is just teasing you at this point. he does not bother hiding his grin anymore.
when you actually do try to speak and nothing comes out but garbled speech, lucius has mercy on you. he lays his head back, weaving his hands between the braided strands of your hair and pulling you to rest on his chest.
"close," you say, words muffled against his chest. "'m close, lucius."
"alright," he affirms. "you can do it from here, yeah? help me out?" he can handle it fine on his own, but he wants to see your breasts bounce as you do. he wants to see determination pinch between your eyebrows. he wants to watch pleasure take control of your body and pull your head back by your braids, dropping your mouth open as the pressure of an orgasm rocks throughout your entire body.
Summary: The Dagger Squad starts to notice the subtle ways Jake Seresin shows his love for you, from quiet moments at home to stolen glances at the Hard Deck. As each of them pieces it together, they realize Jake isn’t just Hangman—he’s yours.
Warnings: use of Y/N, she/her, fluff.
Word count: 1121 (oops i got a bit carried away)
A/N: someone reposted my last “curious gazes” and requested one with all the daggers, and i’ve been thinking about it ever since. i finally got time to write it so i hope you enjoy, i’ve been loving these!!
***
Jake “Hangman” Seresin had a reputation for being bold and larger than life. To most, nothing more than a cocky, overconfident pilot, the kind of guy who never seemed to take life too seriously. But when the Daggers met you, they began to see a side of Jake they’d never expected—a side that made them realize there was far more to him than they ever realized.
And it happened in little moments, each one chipping away at the image of Hangman and revealing Jake.
***
Phoenix
Natasha had always been sharp. She could read people easily, and Jake was no exception. She’d noticed the changes in him before anyone else: how he wasn’t as quick to boast, how he lingered on his phone more often, smiling at something no one else could see.
Still, it wasn’t until that night at the Hard Deck that she put the pieces together.
Jake walked in with you by his side, and Natasha immediately noticed the way he looked at you. It wasn’t the casual charm he used on everyone else—it was softer, almost reverent.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Jake said, his voice filled with a kind of pride that made Natasha blink in surprise.
You smiled and waved, introducing yourself as Jake’s girlfriend, though you didn’t need to. Natasha had already figured it out.
She watched as Jake stayed close to you all night, not in his usual attention-seeking way, but quietly, as if he couldn’t bear to let you out of his sight. When you laughed, he leaned in just a little closer. When you spoke, he listened like your words were the most important thing in the world.
Later, as Jake brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek and a soft smile, Natasha smirked and leaned over to Bob. “He’s gone.”
Bob
Bob Floyd noticed it in the details, in the quiet moments that others might overlook.
When Jake and you invited the squad over for dinner, Bob didn’t know what to expect. He’d never pictured Jake as the hosting type, but as he stepped into your cozy home, he could tell this was different.
“Make yourself at home,” you said warmly, handing Bob a glass of sweet tea.
Jake was in the kitchen, wearing an apron—an apron, of all things—as he stirred something on the stove. Bob couldn’t hide his surprise.
“You’re domesticated, Seresin,” Rooster teased, leaning against the counter.
Jake smirked without looking up. “Happy wife, happy life,” he said easily, earning a laugh from you.
“Not your wife yet,” you teased.
“Yet,” Jake said, glancing at you with a grin and tossing you a wink that made Bob’s chest ache with secondhand fondness.
Bob noticed the way you moved around each other, wordlessly passing utensils and dishes, finishing each other’s sentences. There was a quiet rhythm to it, a kind of unspoken understanding that came from deep love and trust.
When dessert came out, Jake set the plate in front of you first, brushing a kiss to your temple. Bob caught the way you smiled, the way Jake’s hand lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary.
Bob glanced at Phoenix, who raised her eyebrows knowingly. “That’s love,” she whispered, and Bob couldn’t agree more.
Rooster
Bradley Bradshaw noticed it during a pool game at the Hard Deck.
Jake had always been competitive, but tonight, he wasn’t playing to win against the squad—he was playing to impress you.
Every shot he made, he’d glance over at you, his grin widening when you clapped or cheered. But it wasn’t just the showmanship that caught Bradley’s attention. It was the way Jake handed you the pool cue, guiding you through your shots with a patience Bradley hadn’t thought him capable of.
“Am I doing this right?” you asked, laughing as you tried to line up your shot.
“You’re perfect,” Jake said softly, his voice so low that only you and Bradley heard.
Bradley rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. “You’re whipped, Seresin.”
“And happy about it,” Jake shot back, winking.
Bradley couldn’t argue with that.
Payback & Fanboy
Fanboy and Payback noticed it on the beach.
It was a rare day off, and the squad had decided to hit the sand for some football and relaxation. You’d tagged along, sitting under an umbrella with a book in hand while the others played.
Jake kept sneaking glances at you between plays, his grin growing every time you looked up and smiled.
When the game ended, Jake jogged over to you, dropping to his knees in the sand beside your chair. “Having fun?” he asked, brushing sand off his hands.
You smiled, closing your book. “Always, when I’m with you.”
Mickey nudged Reuben, jerking his chin toward the two of you. “Look at him. That’s not the Hangman we know.”
“Nope,” Reuben said with a grin. “That’s Jake. Big difference.”
Coyote
Javy had known from the beginning.
He’d been there when Jake first mentioned you, his voice tinged with something Javy hadn’t heard before: vulnerability. He’d watched as Jake navigated the early days of your relationship, unsure of himself in a way that was both endearing and rare.
At a barbecue one weekend, Javy pulled Jake aside, nodding toward you as you chatted with Phoenix and Bob.
“She’s good for you, man,” Javy said.
Jake nodded, his gaze fixed on you. “Yeah. She is.”
“You ever gonna tell her how whipped you are?” Javy teased.
Jake smirked. “She already knows, no need to say it.”
The Moment They All Realized
The squad’s collective realization came during another gathering at your house.
It was late, and the group was sprawled across the living room, laughing and swapping stories. You were in the kitchen, tidying up, when Jake disappeared without a word.
A few minutes later, he returned with a dish towel over his shoulder, carefully carrying a handful of freshly washed glasses.
“Need a hand, sweetheart?” he asked, walking straight to you.
The room went silent as the squad watched him press a kiss to your temple before helping you dry the dishes.
Phoenix broke the silence first. “Holy shit. He’s a househusband.”
The room erupted in laughter, and Jake looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “Jealous?”
“Absolutely,” Natasha said, grinning.
As the laughter died down, Javy raised his beer. “To Y/N,” he said.
You looked up, surprised. “To me?”
Javy nodded. “Yeah. You turned Hangman into Jake. And we love you for it.”
The squad cheered, and as Jake’s hand found yours, you squeezed it, your heart full.
Because while Jake might not have always been the loudest about his love, the people who mattered most could see it clear as day.
Summary: Jake’s given and taken orders a hundred times throughout his career but nothing compares to the moment he realizes you liked it.
Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x F!Reader
Word Count: 2.1K
Rating: 18+ only. Sexual content. Authority and sir kink, praise kink and Hangman being a cocky asshole.
A/N: Thank you @wildbornsiren and @whatblogisthis216 for beta'ing and @blue-aconite for the beautiful graphic. In the future I may write part 2 if my muses cooperate. Reblogs and comments feed the muse.
Masterlist ♡ Top Gun Masterlist
Jake doesn’t pay much attention when you’re first introduced with the rest of the eggheads from the Office of Naval Research. Another one of many civilian engineers working on the new plane he’s been assigned to test. You keep things professional and polite although he can tell you find him attractive. It’s written all over your face and demeanor. You’re not the only one, several of the other engineers can’t seem to string together a full sentence around him.
You’re pretty, he can admit that much to himself, but a sweet face has never been enough on its own to hold his interest. Especially when he’s here to do a job, one he takes very seriously. The chance to be the first to fly the latest prototype jet isn’t an opportunity that comes up often. He volunteered immediately for the assignment when it came up, beating out most of his Top Gun class for the honor.
What he doesn’t bank on is having to sit through mind numbingly boring briefings and listen to the engineers argue anytime the tiniest adjustment is made. Most of his exposure to you is during these meetings but the first time you talk to him one on one is four weeks into the project.
That’s when he notices your particular….quirk. You’re following him out after the morning briefing, yammering away about the new wing design specs. He’s read your report in detail and already familiarized himself with the changes.
All Jake wants is a moment of silence to mentally prepare himself for today's test but you keep talking. It doesn’t help that he’s got the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes and you’re oblivious to his attempts to cut the conversation short.
“I got it. I know how to fly a plane,” he tells you.
“Lieutenant Seresin,” you start but he cuts you off with a look.
“I’ve read your briefing packet, top to bottom. It was extremely thorough. If I have questions you’ll be the first person I ask. Scout’s honor,” he adds, giving you a sloppy half salute that seems to confuse you for a moment before you start talking again.
“I just want to make sure-“ you begin and Jake sighs, annoyed.
“I got it. Now go sit down,” he tells you curtly.
You step back back, brows raised. Jake almost misses the way your pupils dilate and your lips part just so.
"I'm sorry, Sir," you reply. "I..."You stammer and tug at the hem of your shirt before hurrying to take a seat.
You watch him from behind the computer bank as he climbs into the cockpit and fiddles with the controls. He can feel you watching him as he puts his helmet on. It’s clear to him that you want his approval, even if you don’t realize it.
Fuck, that paired with the ‘sir’ and the delicious little waver in your voice spikes his interest. He waits until you’re practically squirming in your chair before he gives you a nod. Your response is immediate, shoulders dropping and the tense lines on your face easing.
It’s not just that he makes you nervous, he’s seen that plenty of times before. No, this is different. Special. You liked it when he barked an order at you.
–
Over the next few weeks, he watches you closely, taking note of your responses to everyone you interact with. It’s clear you crave praise from others, perking up under any compliment you receive and deflating under criticism. However, it’s your response to authority that interests him most. You’ve got a natural inclination to listen to orders but as far as Jake can tell he’s the only one who elicits that type of reaction from you.
Each encounter he has with you is a chance to test the theory he has. He catalogs the difference in your responses; when he’s softer in his requests versus an outright order. Jake sees how quickly you obey a demand to sit next to him at the next briefing, just so he can be close to you. The speed you produce a new report just for him is a powerful thing. He especially loves the way you blossom under his praise when he compliments changes you've made to improve performance.
You’re smart, undeterred when the men in the room try to speak over you. Even though you’re quiet-natured, you’re no pushover either. He respects your determination and hard work.
The most telling moment is one afternoon when you’re loitering on the edge of the hanger as he finishes up his conversation with the flight chief. It’s clear you need to speak to him. The fact that you won’t interrupt him is just a bonus– something he knows from experience will translate well in the bedroom.
“Come here,” he commands, crooking a finger at you. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice to have you scurrying to him. You touch your chest and fiddle with the locket you wear, twisting the thin gold chair around your index finger. Jake’s not sure if he’s just gotten better at clocking your reactions or you’re extra affected today but whatever the reason, he’s enjoying the show.
“What do you need?” He asks.
“For you to sign the report,” you tell him, opening the folder and pointing to the highlighted portion.
When he takes the pen from you he makes sure to drag his fingertips over the back of your hand, watching for your reaction behind his aviators. The soft sound that passes your lips doesn't disappoint him. He thinks about what other sounds he could drag out of you. How he could get you desperate enough to beg him to fuck you. The way you’d sigh his name and -
“Sir?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his little daydream. You’re staring up at him expectantly. “I need my pen back, please.”
When he hands it back, you smile. It makes him long to pull you against him and kiss you breathless. To test out the limits of how well you’d listen to him but he knows he has to wait until the project is over. He’s not about to jeopardize either of your careers though as the weeks drag on he certainly finds himself fantasizing about that.
You’ve caught him staring at during the morning briefings once or twice, his chin resting on steepled fingers. It’s always the same response from you, the double blink and glance away. Sometimes you’ll bite your lips and fiddle with the pencil, tapping it in rapid succession against the table. He can feel your eyes on him too and he has to repress a smirk. These morning briefings are starting to become his favorite part of the day.
—
Two torturous months pass before the admiral visits and the project gets wrapped up. He has some innocent fun with you during that time, nothing overly mean, just enough to get you flustered and stoke the flame. His favorite form of foreplay.
The team celebrates at the Hard Deck. Alcohol flows freely and spirits are high. It turns out engineers partied harder than pilots. You only have a drink which bodes well for Jake. He needs you sober for this and wants a clear head of his own, nursing a single beer most of the night.
While he waits for an opportunity to get you alone he formulates how he wants to approach this. He doesn’t doubt his assessment. He’s rarely wrong about these things but it’s always possible you’re not completely aware of your quirk. If he embarrassed or frightened you all his waiting would be for nothing.
After another hour or so he senses his chance. You head outside to take a quick call and Jake follows. He waits at a safe distance to give you some privacy but once you slide the phone back into your jacket he makes his presence known.
“Lieutenant Seresin,” you greet. You look surprised to see him but pleased too.
“It’s Jake,” he corrects, stepping toward you.
When he presses into your space you take a half step back and then another, letting him herd you into a little alcove out of sight. You watch him curiously, maybe even a little confused. You’re not scared to be alone with him —you trust him.
“What’s up?” You’re trying for casual but failing adorably.
Jake’s close enough to touch you, but refrains from it. He won’t until he has your permission and understanding. He smirks and tits his head. A direct approach might be quicker but he’s curious if you’ll figure it out on your own.
“I know your secret, sweetheart,” he whispers.
That gets you going. You don’t seem to know where to put your hands. Nervous laughter comes next but Jake stays quiet, letting you squirm a little longer.
“My secret?” You question.
“It’s compatible with mine,” he hints.
You frown, forehead wrinkling. He recognizes the expression from countless morning briefings when you were contemplating a problem. It’s cute watching your brain work in real-time to put the pieces together. A full minute passes before your eyes dart back to his face, surprised.
He nods encouragingly and then very hesitantly you say, “Is that so, sir?”
There’s a heavy emphasis on the last word.
“Smart girl,” he praises.
You grin and rock back on your heels. “Well, I did design the aircraft you’ve been flying the last four months,” you shoot back.
He can see the struggle it is for you not to smile. You’re proud of your work and should be but he can’t have you mouthing off already.
“Don’t get smart with me,” he warns playfully, loving the way you immediately duck your head.
“Sorry, sir.”
You sound appropriately contrite and he smirks.
“Look at me.” Two fingers under your chin encourage you to meet his gaze. “I want you to be honest,” he begins, watching carefully for any sign you’re not on the same page as him. “Do you want to do this?”
“Do you mean…you mean sex, right?” You ask, looking a little unsure.
You’re so sweet that Jake slips character briefly to give you the soft smile you deserve. “Sex and more,” he confirms. “I can help you explore this side of yourself.”
“Yeah. I want that,” you tell him shyly.
“That’s good to hear, but that’s not how you talk to me, and I think you know it.”
“I want you to teach me, sir,” you respond.
“Better,” he praises.
He slides a hand up your jaw to grasp the back of your neck and angle your face upward so he can crush his lips against yours. He closes the distance between your bodies, pressing you back into the wall with a groan. You make a desperate little sound that goes right to his dick and grasp his biceps tightly.
You part your lips and fuck, he’s finally tasting you fully like he’s been imagining. He loves how soft and warm you are in his arms and the way his lips slide against yours. All of his pent-up desire is out now. The hand at your hip slides down the curve of your ass to grasp your thigh so he can grind shamelessly against you. You whimper, nails pressing into his skin. He rocks his half-hard cock into the warmest part of you, needing more friction. He wants to hear you make that little sound again too.
“Oh, please,” you gasp when you finally part.
You sound wrecked and he thinks you look it too.The skin of your face is warm to the touch and your eyes are a little glassy. Jake's half convinced you might let him have you here and for a moment he actually considers it. He knows how good that kind of messy, quick fuck can be but tonight he wants to see all of you. To spend his time taking you apart until you’re incoherent and at his mercy. He can’t do that here.
“Easy,” Jake whispers, running a hand down your back. “Look at me,” he instructs, smiling when you do. You’re trembling all over and he rubs his thumb over your swollen lips as he gazes down at you. “Catch your breath.”
Once you’re calm he lets go of you and runs a hand through his hair. You’re watching him, waiting to be told what to do. “Go inside, say goodbye to your friends. Then I want you to meet me out front. Got it?”
You nod and he surges forward to kiss you one more time before stepping back to let you past him.
Fuck, tonight is going to be good he thought.
♡
I no longer have a tag list, please follow @hg-library and turn on notifications.
