i knew the SECOND dr park came on screen he was going to go triple platinum. if ur competent, mean, and look like you’re going to hang someone on a meat hook this fandom is going to collect you like an infinity stone
Park the Shark x ED!fem!resident!reader—in which, you used to work for him in your med student years which earns you the nickname "Shark bait" from your friend Trinity and you come to realize just how true that nickname is.
TW: 18+ MDNI. It's smut, it's sex. Park is soft with only the reader. Reader hates the nickname "pup" that Park uses. But, it's like, just about the sex.
a/n: I cannot get this man out of my head so I had to write this. Hope you guys like it!
“You’re fucking with me right, Robby?” you ask him, hands on your hips as you raise your eyebrows, glancing at the scene before you, the severed leg and the scattered med student holding it. “Park’s on duty? He’s gonna eat these kids alive.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Robby replies and you sigh, rolling your eyes and assessing the scene, smiling once at Trinity whose eyes are narrowing at you, lips curving up of their own accord.
“Yeah, Shark bait, that’s why you’re here. He’ll bite you instead of us,” she replies, her lips fully curved up in that sardonic grin of hers, eyes glimmering with mirth and fire and the anticipation of a fight—the kind of anticipation borne from years of being friends, of learning the other’s mood and fears and irritants. Of becoming an irritant.
“So glad I can be the sacrificial resident today,” you quip, reaching over to the box of gloves, pulling them on and shaking your head, looking between the leg in the bag and the bloody stump attached to a person shaking from the numbed-out pain. “What are we looking at?” And the scattered med student, a new arrival, hesitantly and haltingly explains the story, how the industrial guillotine paper slicer at the person’s work broke off, slicing clean through their leg.
“Should be one Sharkie takes, right Shark bait? I mean, you would know since you worked under him for your med student years,” Trin says, her grin only growing and you roll your eyes at her before assessing the scene, clapping your hands together once.
“He’ll love it and hate all of us. Now, let’s prepare for a Shark Attack,” you reply, lips curving up in a saccharine sweet smile at Trin which she returns with glee. And then you see Robby stiffen and you curse internally before turning to the sliding doors, Dr. Brendan Park standing there, looking way too good in his purple scrubs, eyes locked on you.
“Pup?” he asks you and it does not matter how hot he is because you hate that he calls you that. You’ve hated it since your first shift as a M3 in ortho when he called you that because you listened well and did what he asked. Misogynistic asshole, you think, flicking your gaze to Trinity whose glaring daggers at him, best friend hackles on the rise. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Dr. Park,” you answer, waving one gloved hand and gesturing at the scene of blood and pain and fear behind you. “As an ED R2, I’m sure you understand that we take on traumas…some of which require consults. Like now.” He doesn’t move, still frozen, eyes locked on you and for once, you feel every inch the shark bait Trin calls you.
You hate that you like the way he’s looking at you, that you like him. You have since your first day on ortho, shocked by the man who appeared before you looking like a Greek God come to life dressed in purple scrubs. And you were a goner—until he called you pup. And then you tried to avoid him and his grip, switching to the ED for your residency, switching to your best friend Trinity. Switching to a place that was both safe and dangerous, but safer than himand the things he made he feel and the way he looked at you.
The way he’s looking at you now.
“Dr. Santos,” you call out, flicking your eyebrows up once, telegraphing help and she steps up, beginning to explain the case, her voice dark and threatening yet Park’s eyes never leave you and you can feel your entire body heating up, blood rushing everywhere his gaze looks, a very annoying response because it’s now far too uncomfortable here.
“Reattachment is possible. I’ll get an OR prepped. Scrub up, pup,” he says, eyes on you, only you as if there are no other people in the room but you and him, “you’re going back into the OR.”
“My apologies, Dr. Park,” you tell him, flashing a faux-apologetic smile at him. “I have patients here that I cannot leave, but Dr…” you pause, glancing at the med student’s badge, the name ANDERSON flashing up at you. “…Anderson will be happy to help you.” And then you pull the gloves from your hands with a snap, tossing them into the garbage bin, turning back to Trin. “Karaoke still on for tonight?”
“Duh,” she replies, following you out, her arm looping through yours. “You’ve yet to hear my rendition of ‘Casual’ by Chappell Roan, baby.”
“I live with you, Trin. I have heard your rendition because that’s just you and Yoyo.” You laugh as she slaps your arm before the two of you flash your badges at terminals, sighing and cracking your knuckles.
“Charting,” you two say at the same time, laughing once again so hard that Dana looks back over her shoulder just to check that the two of you are still alive.
And you are. But even through the laughing, you can’t rid your mind of those predator eyes and the way they latched onto you like you were prey—like you were bait.
***
Karaoke night with the Pitt crew was always interesting. It meant that you, Trinity, Dennis, Victoria, Yoyo, McKay (when she could wrangle a babysitter), Mohan (because you insisted she needed a life), Robby and any Night Crew who miraculously had the day off, all showed up at the same bar, booking all the singing slots while getting slammed.
Fun times every Friday.
Except this time wasn’t so fun. Because Park the Shark had heard you ask Trinity about it and somehow managed to figure out the bar and decided to show up. Unfairly because he was even hotter out of his scrubs. And because he was watching you with that look he always had in his eyes, the one that made you question whether you really hated him at all.
“You really are shark bait, Shark bait,” Trin whispers to you, her breath skating along the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think we’d ever see Park the Shark out of PTMC.”
“I feel like we’re about to get eaten!” Dennis calls out as he approaches, a tray laden with shots—two each for him, Trin and Vic and two shot glasses of lemonade for you because you don’t drink.
“Not us, Huckleberry,” Trin says, her gaze tracking the Shark as he moves deeper into the bar, closer to you. “Just Shark bait here. She’s gonna do what Shark bait does…” she trails off, widening her eyes at you as she slams back a tequila shot, smiling once in a poisonously sweet way, “get the bite.” And then she slams back the second shot, departing with a wave of her fingers, her set up on the machine—“Casual” by Chappell Roan.
“Hey, pup,” calls out Park and every nerve in your body is on edge, his voice eliciting that feeling like burning and freezing all at once, both pleasant and painful. Like him. “Yoyo always talks about these nights, thought I might check it out.” And then his body brushes your back as he takes Trin’s recently vacated spot, your body tensing in a way that has nothing to do with hate.
“You know, Vic,” Dennis says, looking at you with wide eyes, “we should move closer to…heckle Santos. Yeah, that’s what we should do.” And the two of them take off after downing their shots, looking back at you with wide WTF eyes before disappearing into the crowd of rowdy, adrenaline junky ER doctors.
“I should follow them,” you say and you start to stand from your chair but Park’s fingers close around your wrist, grip tight but not too tight, just enough to say don’t go.
“Wait a minute, pup,” he says, lips curving up in a grin that has no right to be as hot as it is. No right. “I just got here, why are you fleeing from me?” He looks at you like he cannot look away, like doing so would destroy him and you. Like if he looked away, you would disappear and he can’t have that. The way he looks at you sets a fire in your blood and you hate that it does.
Because you hate him. You think.
Right?
“Don’t call me that!” you snap at the same time as you sink back down into your seat, letting his hand linger on your wrist, heat simply growing in your skin as he shifts his fingers down to lace with yours. “I’m not your fucking pup! I’m a doctor and I deserve respect.”
“I don’t call you that to disrespect you,” he whispers, eyes never once straying from you, your skin heating under his gaze, those eyes so like the predator he was named for, unrelenting and far too hot. “I call you that to remind myself I can’t have you.”
“Can’t have me?” you whisper as the same time that the song, Trinity’s singing punctuates into your head, the lines knee-deep in the passenger and you’re eating me out. Is it casual now?
“You were my med student, I couldn’t do what I wanted to do,” he whispers, the words unusually soft for someone normally so harsh, his words as sharp and deadly as a shark bit.
“What did you want to do? To me, that is?” you ask, tone leading and sultry on purpose, your eyes lingering on his lips and the way his tongue darts out to wet them. The way he suddenly looks nervous underneath your stare, like you’re the predator and he’s the prey.
“I wanted to live up to that nickname you all have for me down in the ER. And I was going to make a move as soon as you came back for your residency but wouldn’t you know…” he pauses, looking at you once again with that stare, the one that’s making you burn, just burn—for him. “You never showed up. I had to find out through Garcia that you switched to the ED. You never even told me, pup.” He’s leaning forwards, his hand coming to rest on your cheek, his eyes no longer staring at you with the predator stare, but with longing, with lust.
And that you understand.
“Maybe I should live up to my nickname now,” you whisper, shifting towards him, your lips just inches from his.
“And what nickname would that be?” You reach your hand forwards, placing it on his knee as the music surrounding you (Dennis’s cracking voice on “Vampire” by Olivio Rodrigo) fades to a simple blur of noise and people, the only thing you can really see and hear before you, the doctor who makes you feel both fire and ice—lust and hate.
“Shark bait,” you whisper, biting your lip just slightly as his pupils expand, black eating away at blue, warming those icy eyes so completely that they resemble the ocean entire.
“I think I’ve been hooked,” he whispers and you’re gone. You’re entirely gone because fuck it you want this man. You want to fuck him just like you did when you were a med student with a dry mouth because no one should look that good in scrubs. And he’s even better in casual clothes.
And god he’ll look even better in nothing.
“I don’t think so,” you whisper, your lips now hovering just a millimetre above his, “see you haven’t taken a biteyet.”
“I’m about to.”
***
That’s what led to here and now, you inside his house, his bedroom, the two of you locked in a kiss that has your toes curling and your thighs tightening together because you need friction, need him. His hands are on your ass, pressing you closer to him and the obvious hardness, the one that rocks against you while his lips move on yours, tongue sliding and gliding along yours in a way that has you moaning and he isn’t even touching you, not really.
He pulls back just slightly, those eyes so dark like the bottom of the ocean where the water is the darkest, the thickest, locked on you with that stare that makes it seem like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that can save him. Oxygen for the drowning man. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” you breathe and then his hands drift from your ass to the hem of your shirt, pulling it off, his lips parting as he groans, the sight of your lacy black bra too much for him to handle and then his lips are on yours, breath hot as he trails kisses down your jaw, your neck, nipping and biting and sucking. Marking.
“So…perfect,” he moans as his hands grip your hips, your thighs parting, just enough for him to grind his clothed cock over your clothed cunt, rocking in a way that has you mewling, hands clawing at his back, his lips finding your chest, mouth playing with your breasts through the lace of your bra, his eyes trained on yours, his face at your chest and the sight is too much, yet not enough.
“I said…yes,” you breathe out, your nails digging in just slightly as his hands trail from your hips up to your back, his fingers unhooking your bra, pulling it from you, his rocking never ceasing, the friction not enough. You need him. Just him, inside you.
Now.
“Let me have this, precious,” he murmurs, his words hot on the valley between your breasts, bra tossed somewhere in the room. You don’t care where.
“I need you,” you whine, your hands tangling in the short strands of his perfectly combed hair that isn’t so perfect now and that’s all you needed to say because now he’s lifting you and setting you ever so gently down on his bed, pulling your skirt and panties off, discarding them and stripping himself of clothes, climbing over you, his body unfairly hot and attention focused solely on you.
“You ready?” he asks you, his voice dark and husky and you nod and then you feel him slide against your entrance and his hips move forwards, inching himself inside so carefully until he’s sheathed, the stretch exquisite and perfect and amazing and omigod it feels like he was made to be there, inside of you.
Especially when he sheathes himself completely inside, just holding there for a moment, his lips on your neck and then he’s pulling back and snapping his hips forwards over and over, every time hitting that spot inside you. The one that has never been hit like this, like it is with him and you think that it is entirely unfair because he’s ruined you for sex with anyone else.
(you also think that may be partly his plan).
“You,” he murmurs against your neck, hips slamming into you, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the room in a way that is both lewd and hot and you never want it to stop. “Are so…fucking perfect.” You clench around him at his words, drawing forth a muttered curse from his lips as he freezes and then your hands—currently resting on his back, digging in a number of crescents—move to his face, pulling him from your neck, until he’s looking at you. Looking at you like he’s a starving man and you are all the nutrients he will ever need.
“Let me be in control,” you whisper and then he’s shifting, hands gripping your hips until he’s flat on the mattress and you’re resting on him. And then you rise just slightly, slamming down onto him, delighting in the way he moans the first time, your hips rocking and slamming in a way that has him tightening his grip on your hips as you bring yourself to your peak, shattering around him, that warm coil in your stomach coming loose around him, the clenching of your walls with your release, pulling his own from him and he lets go with a muted cry, spilling into the condom, his hands holding you in place for just a moment before he moves in a such a fast way that you don’t even know what’s happening, just that you’re on your back and he’s out, pulling the condom off and discarding it before climbing back over you.
“How many rounds, precious?” he asks you and, honestly, him calling you that name is almost enough to have you releasing, but all you do is smile at him, in a saccharine sweet way, your hand coming to rest on his cheek, his hand resting over yours.
“As many rounds as you have left in you, Sharkie.”
Those were dangerous words.
But you delighted in the danger that whole night.
***
“Looks like Shark bait got the bite last night,” Trinity says, her voice echoing through the Pitt as you sit down at one of the terminals, flashing your badge, the chart of your latest patient flashing up and you hold up the finger to her.
“Better than nothing at all,” you reply and you can hear her choked snort as she falls onto the stool beside you, her arm coming over your shoulder as she glances at the chart you’re working on. “There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality, you know,” you remind her, hitting her with your elbow and she lets out a breathy laugh.
“Not in this place,” she replies and you can’t deny she’s right at the same time that the mood in the ED shifts, heavy footsteps echoing through the room.
“Dr. Park,” Robby calls out, “didn’t know we had an Ortho consult.”
“You don’t, Robinavitch,” you hear Park say, his voice ever so the Shark that the ER fears, the surgeon who can smell blood. And then you feel him stop behind you, his hand coming down ever so gently to rest on the small of your back. “I have something for you, precious.”
“And what is it?” you ask him, spinning on the stool, his hand sliding with the motion to rest on your waist as he crouches down before you, his one hand holding an iced coffee with a familiar dark blue scrunchie on it.
“A) a coffee,” he says, lips curving up in that gentle, tender smile, eyes looking at you with that look that makes you feel like you are everything that ever was for him, “and B) I have the scrunchie that you left at my place last night.” You accept the coffee from his hand, the scrunchie still around it as you take it off and slip it on his wrist.
“Maybe I left that so I’d have a reason to come back tonight,” you whisper and he simply smiles at you, the one he gave you last night, the one of desire and luck and contentment.
“You don’t need a reason to show up, precious,” he replies and you can feel the blood rush to your face, that heady mix of heat and pleasure in your cheeks and you bite your lip trying to suppress the smile that wants to grow, knowing that every person in the ER is watching and that Ahmad has already probably set up the betting board.
“You’re telling me I can just show up? Do you do this for everyone or just me?” you ask, your voice dropping lower as his hand, the one with the scrunchie on the wrist comes to rest on your cheek.
“Only for you, love,” he whispers, his voice soft and tender. “Only for you.”
And you know right then and there, that you will be showing up a lot. With or without a reason.
Because he wasn’t the one who was hooked. That was you.
“Good,” you whisper and then he’s pressing a soft kiss to your lips, one that lingers throughout the day until you show up at his house, kissing him as soon as he opens the door.
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