Sorry that this wasn't up faster (for the OC Creator Bingo) It's been a rough week. But here it is! Most of these are OC's I haven't thought about in a while or aren't super developed but I'm trying to get back into writing them. (And by that I mean I created these in or before High school which was almost 10 years ago for me)
I do not have tags for any of them yet, but when I do they will be under my ocs.
Tristan
Full Name: Tristan Ambers
Fandom: MCU - Avenger's Movies
Face claim: None yet
Bio: Tristan is a psychologist working for S.H.I.E.L.D who was assigned to evaluate the Avenger's and their mental states after the Battle of New York. Not everyone is very happy about this however, so Tristan must find away to connect with them while some of them fight her tooth and nail. All while trying to conceal her own powers.
Elyssa
Full Name: Elyssa Gretsch
Fandom: DC - Young Justice
Face Claim: None yet.
Bio: Elyssa is a young magician who uses runes on her clothing/tattooed on her skin to fight. She is mentored by Zatara and close friends with Zatanna.
Danielle
Full Name: Danielle Jackson-Stark
Fandom: MCU
Face Claim: None yet.
Bio: Danielle is the daughter of Tony Stark and one of his one night stands. She was raised by her mother, Mandy, until she was 6 when Mandy got sick. Not wanting her daughter to grown up in foster care after she passed, Mandy showed up on Tony's doorstep and told him about his daughter. Stories following Danielle would involve seeing her grow up throughout different events of the MCU and deal with her relationship with Tony.
Name Undetermined One Piece OC
Fandom: One Piece Live Action (OPLA)
Face Claim: None yet
Bio: After being shipwrecked with no memories, OC is picked up by Klahadore and his crew and taken hostage. She ends up being forced to help him with his plot of taking over Kaya's estate. OC feels like she is powerless to help her friends until the Straw Hats find their village and ignite hope in her once again.
(Nothing concrete yet but I'm already obsessed with her - more details to come!)
In honor of Disability Pride Month, OC Challenges has teamed up with @negative-speedforce-ocs to host a week-long event, from July 25th to the 31st, celebrating disabled OCs! Per Revan's brilliant idea, each prompt is based on the symbolism behind the colors and design of the Disability Pride Flag. I am honored to bring this challenge to life and hope you'll join us in celebrating, creating, and highlighting disabled original characters all week long!
RULES:
This challenge is for disabled ocs only… hence why it’s called the disability pride challenge.
Tag your posts with #odpc26 in order to have them reblogged. (please do not tag any non-challenge related edits with this)
Reblogs will be done through the last week of July (25th to the 31st) in accordance with the events happening.
DON’T steal edits. If you feel your edit or someone else’s has been stolen, report it to our submission box by following these guidelines.
If you want to make a crossover edit with somebody else’s oc, make sure the other person is okay with crossovers.
Feel free to send us any questions and keep in mind that all challenges are up for interpretation.
Be kind!!
Challenges under the cut!
DAY ONE (JULY 25th): GREEN: SENSORY DISABILITIES
Create something for an original character with a disability that affects their ability to process sensory information such as sight, hearing, taste, touch, and/or smell! (Rutgers)
DAY TWO (JULY 26th): BLUE: PSYCHIATRIC DISABILITIES
Create something for an original character with a disability that affects “mental impairment that substantially limits one or more of the major life activities of an individual!" (The ADA)
DAY THREE (JULY 27th): WHITE: INVISIBLE AND UNDIAGNOSED DISABILITIES
Create something for an original character who has a disability that is not immediately visible or "obvious" to others (Invisible Disabilities Association) or who you have created/written with a disability but does not get diagnosed or outwardly named in their canon!
DAY FOUR (JULY 28th): GOLD: NEURODIVERGENCE
Create something for an original character "whose brains develop or work differently" (Cleveland Clinic) due to a "neurological or developmental condition" (Harvard Health Publishing)!
DAY FIVE (JULY 29th): RED: PHYSICAL DISABILITIES
Create something for an original character who has a disability which effects their "physical functioning, mobility, dexterity or stamina!" (United Spinal Association)
DAY SIX (JULY 30th): THE BLACK FIELD: JOY/RAGE
In a world that tries to treat people with disabilities as if they are lesser, joy is an act of rebellion and rage is a necessity. How does your OC find joy, express their anger, or turn either into an act of resistance?
DAY SEVEN (JULY 31st): PARALLEL LINES/DIAGONAL BAND: SOLIDARITY AND SLASHING THROUGH BARRIERS
Show your solidarity and pride by celebrating and highlighting others with disabilities! Make something using a disabled creators (authors, singers, artists, etc.) work as inspiration, show us canon disabled characters that your oc relates to, do a crossover between your disabled character and someone else's, or even make something for someone else's disabled character as a gift!
go to discord support ( https://support.discord.com )
sign in or sign up (you do not, and imo should not, use the name and email you use for discord proper. this is a different account; if you've got Firefox, you can use an email relay mask very easily, and the email will end up in your inbox but the site won't know your email from it)
"Submit a request" (at the top)
fill all the dropdowns (I did "Help & Support" -> "Technical Support" -> "Account Settings" -> "[OS type"). it won't let you proceed until you do
Subject line: something about age verification
description box: keep it civil, but be clear. you don't like this, you're not participating, and you're not giving them your money anymore (whether you had nitro or not is irrelevant, remember that you didn't use your actual discord login to get here and they have no way to verify).
some reasons possibly worth mentioning: the insecurity of databases (Discord's had multiple leaks; databases being hacked isn't possible to prevent afaik, it's a matter of mitigation), the dangers of putting one's govt id on such a database, the technical problems people are already experiencing where it's already been established, how it will disrupt communities
be very clear that this is going to cost them money. "I won't use your service anymore" is a common threat ("I'm never shopping here again!") - you need to make them feel that they are losing money just by considering it, and it will get much worse if it's implemented.
anon in my inbox said fanfic writers who wrote about dark and taboo topics were not “real writers” because of what they wrote about.
reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.
reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.
we have to thank our brave soldiers in fandom who write gen fics. we have to thank our brave soldiers in fandom who write character studies and stories with no focus on romance or sex. we have to get on our knees and thank the brave soldiers in fandom who write about minor characters and friendship and family with no focus on romance or sex. i know it’s hard to care about characters in a world that seems to only revolve around ships but i see you. and i love you
I'm VERY broke as fuck and have a couple bills to pay over the next week and i, currently, do not have the money to pay that with so! Emergency commissions open till 6/10!
All Sketches; head shot/hips up/full body; base price set at $15 + $10 for added flats, plus $5 per extra character on single canvas!
Rules; no refined lineart! you wont recive messy sketch work but i will not be doing refined lineart after the final sketch is cleaned up! no full rendering! just flat colors(i will still do minor shading on the skin)! payment is due after the first approved sketch, through either Paypal, Cashapp, or Venmo!
Please share if you don't want a commission/cant afford it! Thank you!
Go ahead, make your OC the sibling/child/friend/whatever of an important canon character. Ship your OC with a canon character. Its fandom, its posts on social media/fanfic/fan art. Go for it, have fun, make up your own headcanons.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
summary: you and your coworker, eddie, are polar opposites when it comes to aesthetic. but maybe you have more than just a love for music in common deep down...
wc: 7.7k
cw: coworkers to lovers, opposites attract, modern au, jealousy, marking/hickeys, pining eddie, p in v sex (unprotected) oral (f recieving) fingering, dirty talk, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweet girl dirty/filthy girl), eddie talks a lot during sex, over stimulation, multiple female orgasms, D/s dynamic, dom!eddie, cream pie, after care, fluffy ending, an adorable one eyed cat named ozzy.
love notes: ahhhhhh this has been in the brainstorming stage foreverrrrrr. i hope you guys love it. i really love giving eddie a cat in modern au fics. i just think its so cute. ummmm i really enjoyed the smut in here as well, so hopefully you do too hehe
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"So, over here are the new releases," your coworker's voice sounded vastly uninterested in teaching you literally anything. "Mostly a mix of stuff. That's newly released. Hence the name."
He seemed almost bored with training you. He ran a hand through his long curly brown hair, like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Any other questions, rookie?"
You were new to Melody Records, a tiny record store tucked into a corner of downtown. You'd been looking for a job for a while, something with a little more character than flipping burgers, and you saw a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the window. Sure, you didn’t look like the usual employee here, but you knew your stuff. The owner, John Melody, had hired you on the spot after you geeked out about finding an original pressing of a Joy Division bootleg.
But Eddie, your new coworker, clearly didn't see it that way.
To him, you were just the new girl. With your pink cardigan and your little bow in your hair, a stark contrast to the black band tees and ripped jeans that seemed to be the store's unofficial uniform.
"Are you always this... 'enthusiastic' when you train new employees?"
He definitely didn't expect the sarcasm that dripped over every word. His head tilted, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. A slow, easy grin spread across his face, the kind that made you wonder if it was genuine or just another part of the uniform.
"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just trying to manage expectations. Most newbies last about a week. Usually after trying to alphabetize 'The' under 'T'. Plus... you don't really look the part, sweetheart."
You grimaced at the name. It was condescending, almost paternalistic. You hated it.
"And what 'part' is that, exactly?"
He gestured vaguely at you, at your pastel outfit and the little floral purse you had tucked behind the counter. "The Melody Records part. John's got a thing for lost causes, I guess."
You straightened up, pulling your shoulders back. The soft cashmere of your cardigan suddenly felt like armor. "Oh that is hilarious."
You let out an actual laugh at that as he stood there, eyebrow quirked and arms crossed. "Yeah? How so?"
"Eddie Munson. King of nonconforming, judging someone on their aesthetic." The words came out sharp, precise, each one a tiny pinprick. "My musical knowledge is just as deep as yours, I guarantee it. The fact that I like skirts doesn't mean I can't tell you the difference between black metal and death metal."
Eddie's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he recovered. He leaned against the counter, the worn wood creaking under his weight, and watched you, a new, more assessing light in his gaze.
"So the princess has bite," he mused, the nickname an experiment. "Alright, then. Go help him."
He nodded over to a man who had just walked in, leather vest creaking as he browsed the punk section. You recognized the patch on his back from a local band, The Flesh Riot. He looked lost.
"I could be wrong," you said, not moving an inch, "but something tells me he's looking for early UK anarcho-punk. I'd start him with a little Crass, maybe some Conflict. If he wants something more American, MDC's a safe bet."
You turned back to Eddie, raising an eyebrow in perfect, challenging symmetry to his earlier gesture. "Or I could just point him to the Taylor Swift section. Since I'm probably only qualified to sell that, right?"
A choked, surprised laugh escaped Eddie's lips. It was rough, unused, but it was real. He looked at the man, then back at you, and for the first time, the condescending amusement was gone, replaced by something grudgingly impressed.
"Let's just get you trained on the register system. It's older than dirt." Eddie sounded almost... subdued.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks of shared shifts, bickering over the correct way to file compilations, and the slow, steady erosion of Eddie's initial assumptions.
You were here together after close, doing your first Sunday night inventory together. The usual music was shut off, and instead some low folk you could both agree on played distantly on your phone.
That's when you heard the sound again. Skittering above you, like something was running across the floor upstairs.
"Oh my god, what is that sound? It's driving me insane." You groaned.
Eddie looked up from his clipboard, pausing for a moment. "There's an apartment upstairs."
"Okay. Who lives there? A bunch of rowdy gnomes?"
He shakes his head and looks back to his list, hiding a smile. "Nah, John used to back in the day before he married Marie and they had kids. Now he rents it out to some lowlife with a cat."
"There's been a random guy living above our workplace that I don't know, and you just... didn't tell me?" You stared at him, aghast. "For three weeks? You let me walk into the store alone for three weeks, knowing there's a stranger upstairs?"
You slapped him on the arm, half-joking, half-serious.
He rubbed the spot where you'd hit him, feigning injury. "Hey! What was that for?"
"For being a terrible coworker! What if he's a creep?"
"Oh he's definitely a creep. The creepiest. Hear he worships Satan and sacrifices bunnies in the upstairs bathroom." He's looking dead at you as he says this, and you don't believe it for a second.
You roll your eyes and go back to tallying the 7-inch singles, but you can't shake the image of some pale, gaunt figure performing a dark ritual in the bathroom while you were stocking shelves downstairs.
An hour or so goes by and you're finally finished. Eddie walks you to the front door but doesn't head out with you.
"Uh, is there more to do? If you're going to stay and take all the extra hours that's kind of ass, Munson. I need money too." You said, half-joking, but still confused.
He just smirked and gestured upstairs. "I'm going up."
"To the devil worshipping, bunny sacrificialist's apartment?"
"Hey, he's also a really good cat owner and guitarist. Don't put people in a box." He says with a wink.
"Wait, you live here?" The question comes out as a choked whisper, a flurry of realizations hitting you all at once.
"Surprise," he says, but there's no malice in it now, just a weird sort of gentleness you haven't heard before. "Told you. Total creep up there."
He doesn't wait for you to process, just gives you a two-fingered salute and shuts the door behind you, locking it from the inside. You watch him head upstairs.
Another month goes by and you're early for your shift. Shivering from the cold, you hold a tray with two hot coffees in one hand, unlocking the door with the other.
You and Eddie have built up a bond of sorts. You talk about music, of course, debating the merits of '80s goth versus '90s grunge until your voices are hoarse. He's learned you have a soft spot for sad, twee indie pop, and you've discovered his surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of folk singer-songwriters.
The bickering is still there, but it's morphed. It's less barbed, more like a well-rehearsed routine. It's comfortable. Sometimes even bordering on flirting.
"It is like, freezing out there dude." You say to the store, assuming he's already downstairs. "I swear I am not built for the cold."
You set the coffee tray down, shrugging off your pink peacoat and unwrapping your scarf. "Brought you coffee. But, don’t worry, it's black. Because I know you're too good for sugar and cream like a normal person." You're talking to the empty store, the words echoing slightly in the quiet space.
A floorboard by the back creaks and you turn, expecting to see Eddie.
What does greet you is a woman, slightly disheveled in a way that screams 'I just had a very good night'. Her dark hair is a mess, and she's wearing what is unmistakably one of Eddie's sweatshirts over a tight black dress. She pauses, shoes in one hand and she looks just as surprised to see you.
"Oh!" You both say at the same time.
The awkwardness hangs in the air, thick and suffocating.
"Um... Eddie said the exit was down here but... I think I picked the wrong door."
"Yeah, the one on the left... goes out to the alley," you manage, your throat suddenly tight. "Easy mistake."
As if on cue, you hear fast footsteps coming down the stairs, and Eddie appears, pulling on a t-shirt, hair a chaotic mess. He freezes when he sees you, then sees the woman, then looks back at you.
"Shit. Hey. Morning."
"Morning," you parrot back, trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.
This is fine. This is totally fine.
Why do you care what he does? It's his home, technically. He can have whoever he wants over.
But the image of her, in his sweatshirt, flashes in your mind. A hot, acidic feeling bubbles in your stomach.
She's pretty, in a way that is very different to you. Sharp, defined angles, a confident smirk. She's one of the sleek black cats to your fluffy pink kitten.
"So, this is awkward," she says with a small, breathy laugh, breaking the tension.
"Hey, no worries sweetheart, I'll walk you out. Left door, okay?" Eddie says, all charm and confidence. The nickname, the one he'd used on you that first day, now lands differently when directed at someone else. It feels cheap. Transactional.
The girl and Eddie disappear through the back door, her giving you an awkward wave. The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken things. You busy yourself with getting the register ready, the movements stiff and robotic. The back door opens and the shuts a few minutes later. You don't look up.
"Listen," Eddie's voice is low, careful. "About that."
"Don't," you cut him off, your own voice surprisingly steady. "You don't owe me an explanation. It's your... apartment. Your life."
"Yeah, sure," he starts heading toward you and pulling his hair into a low ponytail. His neck had faint marks you pretended not to notice. "But it's also our workplace. And that was... not my most professional moment. I'm sorry."
You risk a glance at him. He looks genuine, which only makes it worse. You force a smile that feels brittle on your face.
"You're fine. I brought coffee." You point at the tray, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a foghorn.
He looks at the two cups, then at you. He picks up the one you designated as his, his name on it in your bubbly handwriting with a little heart, and takes a long sip. A small, genuine smile touches his lips.
"Thanks, princess," he says, the nickname falling between you, heavy with new, complicated layers. "This might just save my life."
"Speaking of... professional…" You finish counting the money. "I think you should probably stop calling me that."
He pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow. "Princess?"
"Yes. We're coworkers. Equals. It feels... demeaning. Now."
"Now?" A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You want to wipe it off with your own hands.
"Yes. Now," you snap, your carefully constructed composure cracking. "Maybe when I started I was your 'rookie', but I've earned my spot here. I'm not your princess."
For a long moment, he just looks at you.
Something flashes on his face that looks a lot like hurt, which is ridiculous. He nods, slowly.
"Okay. Fair enough."
"Good."
"Good."
The morning proceeds in a tense, quiet efficiency. The usual banter is gone, replaced by the sterile sound of tape guns sealing boxes and the rustle of plastic sleeves. You're pointedly not looking at him, and he's pointedly not talking to you.
"I don't, like, have women over every night or something." He says at one point, when there's a lull in customers.
You pause. "I really didn't ask."
"I know, I know. I just... wanted to clarify that I'm not some... man-whore." He looks so awkward saying the words it almost makes you smile.
Almost.
"Your neck says otherwise, Eddie." You retort, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. The instant it leaves your mouth, you regret it. It's none of your business.
"Jesus," he breathes out, running a hand over the faint purple marks. "I'm sorry you had to see that. It was... a one-time thing. She liked my band's set. We had a few drinks. It wasn't anything."
He looks so genuinely distressed, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, that your anger dissolves into a confusing, hollow ache.
"You really don't need to explain," you say, your tone softer now. "Who you bring home is your business. It was just... awkward."
"Yeah, no shit," he agrees, a little of his usual swagger returning. "I'll try not to bring anyone home who doesn't know their left and right from now on. Scout's honor." He holds up three fingers, a mock-promise.
You don't laugh. You just nod and go back to your work, the silence stretching on.
Eddie is fucked.
It's been only a week since the awkward encounter with his one night stand.
One week since you'd asked him to stop calling you princess. One week of being acutely aware of your presence, the scent of your fruity perfume, the gentle click of your heeled boots on the wooden floorboards, the way you'd hum along to whatever was playing on the store's speakers, a soft, off-key counter-melody that he found himself straining to hear over the actual music.
He is, as they say, completely and utterly fucked.
Because you weren't talking to him. Not full silent treatment, but not the easy bickering he'd come to rely on. The silence was a new form of torture.
It all came to a head when he'd been helping a customer find an obscure post-punk record, and when he'd turned to ask you a question about the stockroom inventory, he'd found you with your phone in your hand, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face as you texted someone back.
The hot, possessive surge of jealousy was so potent it almost knocked him backward. He'd wanted to smash the phone.
It hit him like a ton of bricks that maybe he wanted you to be his. His princess. An honorific you’ve recently denied him from using.
"You're being really brooding right now."
Gareth's voice, muffled by his mouthful of fries, pulled Eddie from his thoughts.
"Yeah, man. You're doing more staring at that beer than actually drinking it." Jeff raised an eyebrow.
It was Friday night at the Hideout and Corroded Coffin had just played a gig for a crowd of at least ten drunks.
"I'm not brooding," Eddie grumbled, taking a large swallow of his beer.
He was thinking about the way your nose crinkled when you laughed. He was thinking about how he'd accidentally overheard you on the phone with your mom, your voice soft and sweet as you reassured her you were eating enough.
That. That right there was the problem.
"You're thinking about the new girl, aren't you?" Gareth grinned, a knowing look on his face.
"Her name is not 'the new girl'," Eddie snapped, a little too quickly. "And no, I'm not."
"Liar," Jeff chimed in. "You only get this constipated look when you're thinking about a girl."
Eddie's mind flashed back to that morning. The look on your face. The venom in your tone when you'd said, ‘Your neck says otherwise, Eddie.’ He hadn't been able to get it out of his head.
"She's not even your type, man," Gareth continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil he was stoking. "Isn't she like, all... pink and fluffy?"
"And she asked him to stop calling her 'princess'," Jeff added with a smirk. "That's gotta hurt the ego."
"It does," Eddie mumbled into his beer. "It really, really does."
He just shook his head and signaled the bartender for another round.
"She caught one of my... groupie conquests, trying to escape through the store," Eddie admitted, finally giving in.
Jeff and Gareth's laughter was loud and obnoxious.
"You're an idiot, Munson," Jeff said, clapping him on the back. "An absolute idiot."
"Yeah, well, tell me something I don't know," Eddie grumbled.
"So what's the plan?" Gareth asked, suddenly serious. "Are you going to, you know, talk to her? Like a normal human being?"
"And say what? 'Hey, sorry you saw me with another woman, but I'm actually hopelessly in love with the way you organize the vinyl'?" Eddie scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go over well."
"Just... talk to her, man," Jeff urged. "You guys have a lot in common, despite the... aesthetic differences. You're both nerds about music. Start there."
That night, lying in bed, the sounds of the sleeping city filtering through his window, Eddie couldn't stop thinking about you.
The way you hairbow bounces a little when you danced behind the counter to some obscure power pop song he'd put on.
The way your face lit up when a customer would ask you for a recommendation you were passionate about.
Your perfect pink pout when he annoyed you.
Yeah. He was so fucked.
The next day you walked into the store and the air immediately felt different. Eddie was already behind the counter, furiously scribbling something in a notebook.
It was starting to snow, the weather app on your phone saying it was going to be a bad one, so you were grateful for the warmth of the store. You hung your coat and went to the counter.
"Morning."
He looked up, and for a second, you saw panic flash across his face before he slammed the notebook shut.
"Hey pri-" Eddie caught himself, jaw tightening. "Hey. Morning." The correction landed awkwardly between you, a placeholder for something more familiar.
You simply nod, and the silence stretches, filling the space with a thousand unsaid things.
"I'm surprised we're open. I doubt we're going to get a lot of customers in this blizzard." You said, trying to make small talk, anything to fill the void.
"You could have called out. I could handle it on my own. Not like I have a far commute. Just up the stairs." The tone was casual, but the offer was clear. A peace offering.
"No. I like the snow." You said, looking out the big front window. And it was true. You did. The way it muffled the world, turned everything into a soft, hazy dream. "Makes the whole city quiet."
Eddie watched you for a long moment.
Your nose was a little red from the cold, and you'd tucked your hair behind your ears. You looked so... soft. A stark contrast to the jagged, noisy feeling inside him.
You were right. There was barely any foot traffic all day.
By the time the storm got pretty bad, John called, saying you two could close up early and get home safe. The problem was your car was buried, and Eddie knew even if you tried you wouldn't get far in it.
"You can, uh, wait it out at my place if you want," Eddie said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly. "It's better than freezing in your car."
"My knight in shining armor." You deadpanned. "It's fine. I can walk."
"You live across town. You'll be a human popsicle by the time you get to the main road." He said, locking the front door and flipping the open sign to closed. "C’mon. I'll make us some hot cocoa. With tiny marshmallows and everything. And you can meet Ozzy."
The promise of cocoa, with tiny marshmallows, was apparently your undoing. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded, a slow, reluctant bob of your head.
"Ozzy?" You asked, a small smile finally breaking through your defenses.
"My cat. The real ruler of the apartment, Prince of Darkness himself."
You followed him up the narrow, creaking staircase, your heart thumping a strange, uneven rhythm against your ribs.
The idea of being in his space, the space he shared with other women, sent a confusing mix of anticipation and dread through you.
His apartment was exactly what you expected, and nothing like it. It was chaotic, but a lived-in, comfortable chaos.
Guitars hung on the walls, surrounded by posters of bands you both loved and loathed.
A vintage leather couch was covered in mismatched pillows and a black fuzzy blanket.
It was a studio, so the bed was just there, half made and partially hidden behind a privacy screen.
It was messy, but clean. And it smelled like him— incense, old wood, and something warm, like sandalwood and clean laundry.
Then, a sleek black cat with one enormous green eye padded out from behind the couch, the other eye a milky, cloudy white.
It made him look perpetually unimpressed with the world.
"And this is Ozzy," Eddie said, scooping the cat up with practiced ease. Ozzy tolerated the affection, purring a deep, rumbling engine against Eddie's chest. "Don't mind him. He's judging us all."
You reached out a hesitant hand, letting Ozzy sniff your knuckles.
"He's blind in that eye," Eddie said softly. "Found him in a dumpster behind the store. Someone, uh, wasn't very nice to him."
Your heart did a painful little lurch.
You looked from the scarred, one-eyed cat to the man holding him. The 'devil-worshipping' freak of Hawkins who rescued hurt animals. The contradictions piled up, making your head spin.
"He's beautiful." You say it softly, unsure which of the boys you were actually talking about.
Eddie's gaze caught yours, and for a moment, the air crackled. The unspoken things between you felt heavier than the storm raging outside.
"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, carefully placing Ozzy back on the floor. "Cocoa. Right."
He busied himself in the small kitchenette, pulling out two mismatched mugs and a carton of milk.
You sat on the edge of the worn leather couch, hands clasped in your lap, feeling like an intruder in a life you were suddenly desperate to know.
A few minutes later, he came back with two steaming mugs, topped with a generous handful of tiny marshmallows, exactly as promised.
"Careful, it's hot." He set yours down on the cluttered coffee table.
You took a cautious sip. The chocolate was rich and dark, and the tiny marshmallows melted into a sweet, sugary foam on your tongue.
"Thank you." You murmur, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic.
"It's no problem." He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, a careful distance between you. "So, uh, this is the place. Palace of sin, as John calls it."
You cough a little as he says that, almost choking on your marshmallow.
"He's joking, mostly." He adds quickly, misinterpreting your reaction. "He knows I'm not really sacrificing bunnies."
"I don't think that's why he calls it the palace of sin." You say quietly into your mug, and then you look at him. You look him directly in the eye, and it's the first real, sustained eye contact you've had since the morning with the girl in the sweatshirt.
"You really think I'm some kind of slut, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air, raw and unfiltered. It's not an accusation, not really. It's a genuine inquiry, and the vulnerability in it catches you completely off guard.
"No... I just..."
You what? Why did you care so much what he did or who he did it with? Why did you feel a heat pooling lower when his shirt would ride up or when he would stick his tongue out just slightly while concentrating?
You try to search for the words, to articulate the tangled mess of your feelings.
"I'm not judging you. I don't care who you sleep with. It's..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely between you, the storm, the empty apartment. "I don't know what it is."
"Then what was that comment about my neck? That sounded a lot like judging." He's not angry, just… confused. A deep furrow of confusion between his brows.
"Because I was jealous, Eddie!" The confession bursts out of you, loud and uncontrolled. "I saw her. In your sweatshirt. And I hated it. Because she was... she looked like she made sense next to you. And I don't. And that makes me feel insane!"
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the howl of the wind outside and the frantic thumping of your own heart.
Eddie's big brown eyes seemed even bigger now, wide and a little glazed. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"You... what?" He finally manages to say.
"I was jealous!" You repeat, the admission now free, terrifying and liberating all at once.
"You were... jealous. Of... her." He's processing it, the words slowly arranging themselves into a coherent thought in his head. A slow smile spreads across his face, but it's not his usual smirk. It's something softer, a little dazed.
"Can we not? Look, I know I'm not your usual type. I'm not some cool, effortless rocker chick in black jeans and a band tee. I'm wearing a sweater with little embroidered daisies on it, for fuck’s sake. I just... I didn't expect it to bother me so much. Seeing you with... someone more your type." You finally look at him, and the vulnerability in your expression is raw, an open wound.
Eddie leans forward, closing the distance between you on the couch.
"You're an idiot," he says, and there's no venom in it. It's a mirror of what you'd said to him what felt like a lifetime ago, but this time it's gentle, almost fond. "A complete, beautiful, floral clad idiot."
You blink. "Beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful," he says, his gaze unwavering. "And you think she's my type? Did you not hear a single word I said? She was a one-time thing. A... mistake. I was trying to get over this... girl I work with."
He takes your cocoa mug from your trembling hands and sets it on the table. Then he takes one of your hands, his calloused guitarist's fingers wrapping gently around yours.
"You're like, my dream girl. All pretty and soft but with this fire inside you. You know more about music than half the dicks who come in here trying to flex on me. You laugh at my stupid jokes. And for whatever reason, you seem to tolerate my general presence." He takes a shaky breath. "Honestly, I can't imagine why you'd ever give me a second look, but I am so glad you do."
The tears you were fighting back finally escape, tracing hot paths down your cold cheeks.
"I thought you were making fun of me," you whisper. "When you call me princess."
"I am, but it's affectionate! I think you're a princess, but like, a warrior princess. The kind who would totally behead her enemies but then cry at a sad movie." He's so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "I like your little cardigans. And the bows in your hair. I like them so much."
You can't take it anymore. The tension, the longing, the weeks of misunderstanding, it all snaps.
You close the final inch of space between you, pressing your lips to his.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's messy and desperate, a collision of months of unspoken feelings. He tastes like cheap cigarettes and expensive cocoa, a combination that is somehow fitting. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs stroking away your tears as the kiss deepens, becoming softer, more exploratory.
"Don't cry, princess," he murmurs against your lips, the nickname a caress now, a secret shared only between you two.
You shift, swinging a leg over his lap to straddle him, the worn leather against your knees and the seam of his jeans rough against the soft fabric of your tights.
He lets out a surprised laugh, hands moving to the soft curve of your hips. "Well, shit," he breathes, looking up at you with wide, adoring eyes. "Okay."
His hands grip your hips, and you can feel the hard press of him through his jeans.
"You're so pretty," he says, the words a low rasp against your skin. You lean down to kiss him again, a slow, deliberate press of your lips. This time, it's less desperate, more sure. His hands slide from your hips, up your back, tracing the line of your spine through the delicate embroidery on your cardigan. He's touching you like you're something precious, something he's afraid of breaking.
"I want this," you whisper, the confession a puff of air against his jaw. "I want you."
"You have me," he answers, his hands stilling on your back. "Eager girl."
With newfound confidence, your lips find the sensitive skin just below his ear, and you're rewarded with a sharp inhale.
"Let's," you start, a little breathless, "move this to somewhere not the couch."
"Right. The bed. Yes."
The journey is clumsy, a mess of tangled limbs and quiet laughter. He backs you towards the bed, and the backs of your knees hit the mattress, sending you falling back with a soft bounce.
He looms over you, blocking out the dim light of the single lamp in the corner, a shadow made of ink and want. He hooks a finger into your sweater, tugging it up and over your head.
You had layers on, a tank over your bra, a skirt, tights, leg warmers. You blush a little at how many items of clothing he'd have to work through.
"Aren't you a present," he mutters, his eyes raking over you. "Gonna let me unwrap you, sweet girl?"
All you can do is nod, a frantic little bob of your head.
His knuckles brush against your skin as he unbuttons your skirt, slowly pulling it down your legs. His eyes follow the path of the fabric, a dark, hungry look in them. He tosses it aside, leaving you in your tights and tank top.
"These have to go." He says, hooking a finger in the waistband of your tights. "I'll be good and not ruin them. This time."
He's careful as he peels them down, the fabric whispering against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hits your bare legs, and you shiver.
"Shhh, I've got you," he murmurs, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your knee, then another a little higher, on your inner thigh. "Gonna keep you warm."
His hands trail up your legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips. The touch is feather-light, maddeningly teasing, and you can't help but arch into it, a silent plea for more.
"Let's see if we're on the same page." he whispers, as if he can read your mind. His fingers continue their slow, deliberate journey upward, and you feel a breath catch in your throat as he traces the edge of your underwear. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric, and your whole body tenses in anticipation. "Oh, yeah. We are definitely on the same page."
With a low groan, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, pulling you flush against the edge. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clothed core, and the heat of his breath through the thin cotton is enough to make you gasp.
"Eddie..."
"Wet little thing already," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you. "All for me? Just from a few kisses and some sweet talk?"
You can only manage a weak, desperate nod in response.
"Gonna treat you so good, princess." The nickname is a worshipful murmur now. "Gonna make you forget all about being jealous."
He finally slides your underwear down your legs, the cool air a shocking but welcome sensation against your slick heat. His hands gently spread your thighs, and you feel utterly exposed, completely vulnerable under the intensity of his gaze.
"Fuck," he breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "Look at you."
He leans in, and the first touch of his tongue is a revelation. It's slow, deliberate, a thorough exploration that has you writhing on the bed. He's not in a hurry. He's savoring every second, every sigh and whimper that escapes your lips.
"Mmm... this is my favorite flavor," he hums against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your entire body. "Wet, sweet, and all mine."
He focuses on your clit, drawing lazy circles with the flat of his tongue before switching to quick, precise flicks. Your hands find their way into his hair, the strands tangled between your fingers as you guide him, your hips bucking against his face in a desperate, needy rhythm.
"That's my girl," he praises, pulling back for a second to look at you. "So needy for me. Look at you, trying to fuck my face."
He's smiling, a smug, entirely too pleased smile, and you want to be annoyed, but all you can feel is a white-hot pleasure coiling tight in your belly.
"More, please, Eddie," you beg, your voice breathy and high.
"Anything for you, princess," he whispers, diving back in with renewed fervor.
He slides a long finger inside you, then another, the stretch perfect as he curls them just right, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. His tongue is relentless at your clit. His eyes are on you, so dark with lust they're almost black.
He looks like the most handsome devil and you understand why this is a den of sin as your back arches off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. The orgasm crashes through you, a wave of blinding pleasure that leaves you shaking and breathless.
He doesn't stop, working you through it until you're whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.
"Please," you gasp, pushing weakly at his head. "Too much."
"Too much?" He grins, pressing a final, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before crawling up your body to loom over you. "We're just starting."
His lips crash against yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimate flavor makes your head spin. You kiss him back with a desperate hunger, your hands roaming over the familiar planes of his back, feeling the muscles tense and shift under your touch.
He lifts his shirt off and then reaches for the hem of your tank top. You raise your arms, letting him pull it over your head, revealing the simple, lacy pink bra you wore.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you. "Hiding these from me, were you?"
He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it aside. His hands are on you then, cupping the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your already hardened nipples.
"God, I'm gonna worship these." He says, before leaning down to take one into his mouth.
He sucks and licks and nips, each tug sending a jolt straight to your core. Your back arches, pressing yourself closer, seeking more friction, more of him.
"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin before switching to the other, giving it the same, thorough attention. "Could probably make you come just from this, couldn't I?"
The thought alone is enough to make you moan.
"Yeah.. I bet I could. Maybe next time." He pulls away, a string of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. "Right now, I need to be inside you."
He stands up, making quick work of his own belt and jeans, shoving them down his legs along with his boxers. He kicks them away, and your breath catches in your throat.
It's the prettiest cock, dark curls at the base, flushed and already beading with precum at the tip. You watch, transfixed, as he gives himself a few slow, deliberate strokes.
"Yeah?" His smirk is sinful. "You like it? Like knowing you did this to me?"
"Come here," you demand, your voice thick with want.
He moves over you again, settling between your thighs. He takes himself in hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.
"I'm on the pill," you breathe out, a desperate last-ditch effort at coherent thought.
"Thank fuck," he groans, and then he's pushing inside you.
The stretch is a steady burn as he fills you inch by inch.
"Oh, fuck," he chokes out, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Feel so... you feel so good."
You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.
"Dirty girl," he chuckles, the sound of a low rumble in your ear. "Want it deep, huh?"
His hips begin to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that has you seeing stars.
"Does the pretty, soft princess like to be fucked deep and hard?" The question is a taunt, a dare, and you answer with a sharp buck of your hips, taking him even deeper. "Yeah she fucking does."
He rears up, grabbing your hands and pinning them above your head with one of his, lacing your fingers together. The other hand grips your hip, holding you steady as he picks up the pace.
"Perfect for me, aren't you?" He breathes, his eyes locked on yours. "Soft and sweet on the outside, but underneath, you're a dirty little thing. My dirty little thing."
"Just for you..." It comes out a whiny moan as he starts to pound into you, the headboard of his bed starting to tap against the wall.
"My good girl." He claims. The rhythm is punishing, a driving beat that pushes you toward the edge again. "Letting a monster like me defile your pretty little body."
The coil in your belly is winding up again, tighter and hotter than before.
"I'm close," you gasp, your nails digging into the back of his hand. "I'm so close."
"Mm yeah, baby. Can feel it. But you're gonna give me a few aren't you?" He coos. His pace changes to deep, grinding thrusts, the coarse hair at the base of his cock grinding deliciously against your clit. "Gonna soak my dick again and again before I'm done with you."
You whine his name as your orgasm washes over you, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your walls flutter around him, gripping him tight, and he groans, a long, deep sound of satisfaction.
"Oh yeah... I'm going to make you do that again," he pants. "Look at you, can't even stop shaking."
Before you've even come down, he's flipping you over. He pulls your hips up, guiding you to your hands and knees.
"This okay?" He whispers in your ear, checking in even now, the consideration a stark contrast to the raw, primal fucking.
You nod, pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He eases back in, the new angle hitting even deeper.
"Jesus... look at that," he breathes, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wide so he can watch himself disappear inside you.
He starts moving again, a faster, harder rhythm that has the headboard slamming against the wall all over again.
"Wish you could see the way this pretty pussy swallows me," he growls, punctuating his words with sharp, deep thrusts. "So greedy for me. Taking my cock so well."
His words are filthy, a string of praise and degradation that makes your head spin.
"I'm gonna have you on every surface in this apartment. The couch. The kitchen counter. Up against the window where anyone could see."
The image flashes in your mind, and a fresh wave of arousal gushes around him. "Oh you filthy fucking thing. You'd like that wouldn't you? Want someone to see what we do? See how good you take me?"
You're reduced to a series of desperate sobs and whimpers, your brain too foggy with pleasure to form a coherent response. "S'good... f-feels so..."
"Yeah, I know, princess," he pants, one of his hands snaking around to find your clit. "Got you stupid on my cock, don't I? Just a pretty, brainless mess for me."
He circles your clit with a rough thumb, and that's all it takes. The next orgasm rips through you, violent and overwhelming.
He leans over, kissing your shoulder as your body trembles. "There we go... I want one more."
"Eddie..." you protest, the word a weak puff of air. "Can't..."
"You can," he insists, his voice low and demanding. "You will."
And he proves it.
He pulls out, turning you onto your back once more. The sheets beneath you are damp, a testament to your pleasure. He looks at you with such awe, a reverence that makes your heart ache.
"My messy girl," he murmurs, spreading your legs wide. "Fucking perfect."
He slides back in, the sensation of him filling you again almost too much, and yet exactly what you crave.
Your thighs are pressed against your chest, a position that has him impossibly deep. He moves slowly this time, deep, grinding thrusts that stoke the fire in your belly all over again.
"Yeah... gonna give it to you nice and slow," he breathes, his forehead pressed against yours. "Make you feel it."
"Feel you everywhere," you whimper, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Everywhere..."
"You're so beautiful like this," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "All fucked out and begging. Never seen anything prettier."
The praise is your undoing. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep wave that promises to be the most intense of all.
He keeps kissing you as your thighs begin to shake. It's a slow, deep, bone melting thing. You're not even making loud noises anymore, just a constant mewl into his mouth.
Then you feel him start to lose rhythm, you pussy clenching him like you never want to let him go.
"M'close... fuck... princess, you're gonna make me... make me cum... " He grunts, burying his face in your neck, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a long, shuddering groan.
His release is warm and there's so much of it that it leaks out around him, but he doesn't pull out right away.
He stays there, a heavy, comforting weight on top of you, as you both catch your breath.
"Please don't pull out," you beg, clinging to him. "Not yet."
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in your ear. He rolls over, taking you with him, so you're sprawled across his chest, still connected.
"I'd never pull out if I didn't have to eventually," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. He was still buried deep, softening slowly inside you. "We can stay like this as long as you want."
He shifts slightly, and you can feel a little more of him slip out. You try to clench around him to keep him in place, a futile, desperate gesture.
"Sweetheart... easy," he soothes. "We've got all night. And tomorrow. And every day after that, if you'll have me."
He pulls a blanket over your tangled, sweat-slick bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
"Like... dating?" you ask, your voice muffled against his chest.
He laughs. "No, like I'm planning on keeping you as my sex prisoner in my den of sin." He says sarcastically, then his tone gets serious. "Yes, like dating. Fucking obviously. I've been pining over you for months. You think I'm just gonna let you walk away after I finally got you into my bed?"
The idea of him pining, of Eddie Munson being just as wrecked by this quiet, aching tension as you were, makes your heart swell.
"I'd like that," you whisper. "The dating thing. Not the sex prisoner thing."
He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Good to know. Glad we got that cleared up. But I mean... if we're talking roleplay..."
You swat at his chest, but it's a weak, lazy motion. You feel him soften completely, finally slipping out of you. You whimper at the loss, a sudden, hollow ache.
He kisses your forehead, murmuring against your skin. "Let's get you cleaned up, princess."
He's gentle, so surprisingly gentle. He disappears into the small bathroom and returns with a warm, wet washcloth. You expected him to just toss it to you, but instead, he kneels on the bed beside you and carefully, meticulously wipes you clean.
"Really did a number on you, huh?" A soft, proud smile on his face as he looks at the mess between your thighs. "All full and swollen. Perfect."
You hide your face in your hands, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks.
"No, no. Don't hide from me." He gently pulls your hands away, leaning down to kiss you, a slow, deep, claiming kiss. "Come on... shower and pee time. Maybe round two if we're lucky."
He pulls you to your feet, and your legs tremble, almost giving out from under you.
"Woah there." He catches you, scooping you up into his arms with a grunt. "I've got you. And the princess gets carried to her throne, apparently."
You can't help but laugh as he carries you into the tiny bathroom.
After you've both showered, the hot water a welcome ease to your sore muscles, he leads you back to the bed, pulling on a fresh pair of boxers before handing you a t-shirt of his, an old Metallica one that's been washed so many times it's soft and worn.
You pull it on, getting into bed next to him. Ozzy jumps up to join you, curling into a ball against your stomach with a deep, rumbling purr.
"See? He approves," Eddie murmurs, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. "And Ozzy is a very good judge of character."
You snuggle into his side, your head on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart.
The storm has passed, and outside, the world is quiet, blanketed in a fresh layer of snow.
Inside, you're warm and safe in your own private palace of sin, the world outside melting away until there's only the two of you, and the comforting weight of a one-eyed cat, and the promise of every tomorrow.
summary: the ER knows you're married, pregnant, and hopelessly in love with your husband. so when brendon keeps hovering around you, everyone's convinced you're having an affair.
pairing: brendon park + attending!pregnant!reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy, workplace misunderstanding
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first rumor started because of a protein bar.
Not because of anything dramatic. Not because someone saw you sneaking around hospital corridors or caught you pressed against a wall with Brendon Park's hand around your waist.
No.
It started because at two in the afternoon, during a brutally understaffed Friday day shift in the ER, you looked up from charting and said with exhausted fondness:
"My husband is going to kill me if he finds out I skipped lunch again."
And Dana, who had worked enough years in emergency medicine to survive on caffeine and spite alone, snorted.
"Husbands," she said. "They worry too much."
You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."
"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"
"He labeled every container by protein count."
"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.
"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."
Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.
Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.
They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.
They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.
And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.
That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.
So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.
And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.
Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.
Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.
The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.
The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.
Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,
"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.
Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.
"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."
Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"
"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."
Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.
"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."
The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.
Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.
Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.
"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.
"Hello to you too."
"Did you eat?"
The room paused.
You looked midly defensive. "Yes."
"You're lying."
"I had crackers."
"That's not food."
Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.
You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."
"You're pregnant."
"And?"
"And you require actual nutrition."
Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.
Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.
The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.
Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"
You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."
"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.
You looked confused. "Brendon?"
The entire station froze at the first-name basis.
"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.
"That's his name."
"No one calls him Brendon."
"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."
After that, people started noticing things. Little things.
Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.
How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.
One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.
"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."
Dana laughed. "Six?"
"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."
"What does that even mean?"
"I don't even want to know."
Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"
You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."
"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"
"Oh, that was ours."
Silence.
You blinked up. "What?"
Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"
"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."
Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.
"You're... close with him?"
You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."
Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.
You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.
And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.
Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.
The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.
And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.
Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.
"You can't have that much caffeine."
You looked offended. "It was half-caf."
"It was basically battery acid."
"You tasted it?"
"You left it on the counter this morning."
Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.
You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"
"You wanted fries."
"I mentioned fries once."
"You cried about it."
"I was emotional that time."
"You threatened divorce."
The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.
Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.
Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.
Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.
"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."
Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."
You looked at him. "I know."
"You forgot."
"I remembered eventually."
"You remembered because I reminded you."
The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.
Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.
The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.
The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.
"Oh my God."
You frowned. "What?"
He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"
You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"
"That man practically tucked you in!"
"He's just—"
"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"
"My husband!"
"Exactly!"
You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.
"Oh my god."
"So, you are!"
"No I'm not, Frank."
"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"
"Because he made it."
Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."
"He color-coded the whole calendar."
He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.
Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.
Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.
Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.
But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.
And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.
That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.
Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.
You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.
"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."
The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.
"No."
Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.
"Repeat what you said."
The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"
"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."
The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.
"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."
Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.
The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.
"You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.
It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.
And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Dennis looked at her. "What?"
But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.
At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.
Not like a lover, like a husband.
"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.
You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.
Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."
You blinked. "Yeah?"
Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.
You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.
Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."
"You never said—"
"Well, nobody asked."
"You literally acted like you hated each other!"
You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."
Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.
Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.
Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.
And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.
The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.
The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.
And worst of all?
Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.
Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:
"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour CVS buzzed overhead, casting that familiar sterile glow over rows of snacks, cold medicine, and the discreet personal care aisle tucked near the back. It was pushing midnight on a quiet Wednesday, and the store was almost empty just the faint hum of the freezers and a lone cashier scrolling through her phone at the front.
You lingered by the energy drinks, pretending to compare labels while your boyfriend. Travis stood a few feet away with zero self-consciousness, studying the condom boxes like they were a particularly tricky crossword puzzle.
“Baby,” he called softly, not quite whispering but keeping his voice down enough that it didn’t echo, “they got the standard ones, the ultra-thins that say ‘feels like nothing,’ and these ribbed ones that promise ‘heightened sensation.’ I’m thinkin’ heightened is the move tonight, but I also don’t wanna be that guy who picks wrong and then we’re both disappointed.”
You walked over, cheeks already warming, and bumped his hip with yours. “Travis, you don’t have to give a full TED Talk about it. Just grab a box.”
He turned, flashing that crooked, boyish smile that always made your stomach flip. His gray hoodie was half-zipped over a faded black tee, jeans slung low on his hips, and he had that post-shift looseness, shoulders relaxed, but still carrying a bit of the restless energy from hours of walking the storage facility floors. “What? I’m being thoughtful. Responsible boyfriend shit. We’ve been together eight months now feels like we should have this down to a science, but variety keeps it fun, right?”
You snatched the ultra-thin box from his hand and swapped it for the ribbed one he seemed to be leaning toward. “These. And stop narrating before the cashier hears and I melt into the floor.”
Travis chuckled, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he dropped the box into the red plastic basket you were holding. He added a small bottle of lube without missing a beat. “For comfort. And science. I read the back: non-sticky formula. We’re basically doing research here.”
You swatted his arm, biting back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously prepared,” he corrected, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close as you wandered toward the snacks. He smelled like his usual cheap cedarwood spray mixed with the faint coffee he’d grabbed from the break room earlier. “After that time we had to improvise with the emergency kit in my truck… never again. Lesson learned. Teacake learns from his mistakes.”
You grabbed a bag of sour gummies and tossed them in the basket, shaking your head. Travis had that way of turning even the most mundane errand into something light and shared. He talked a lot, chatty in that endearing, stream of consciousness way. Whether he was recounting a weird customer at the storage facility (someone trying to store a collection of garden gnomes) or teasing you about how cute you looked when you got flustered. Eight months in, and he still made ordinary nights feel special. He’d left behind some old trouble, worked the night shift to keep things steady, and treated your relationship like the best decision he’d ever made.
At the counter, the cashier scanned everything with the enthusiasm of someone who’d seen it all: condoms, lube, gummies, and a pack of mint gum Travis added last-second. She didn’t blink. Travis paid in cash, peeling off a twenty with a polite “Thanks, have a good night,” delivered with that genuine, slightly awkward warmth that made strangers soften instantly.
Outside, the parking lot was quiet under the yellow streetlights. Travis’s beat-up truck waited, the one with the slightly crooked bumper from an old fender bender he blamed on “bad luck and worse reflexes.” He opened the passenger door for you out of habit, then slid into the driver’s seat, the plastic bag crinkling between you.
He didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, he turned toward you, one hand resting on the wheel, the other reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hazel eyes caught the dashboard light, soft and earnest now that the teasing had dialed back.
“You really get embarrassed about this stuff?” he asked, voice gentler. “I know I get carried away sometimes. Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”
You laced your fingers with his, feeling the calluses from years of odd jobs and the steady warmth of his palm. “It’s not bad embarrassed. It’s just… intimate. Doing normal couple things together, you know?”
Travis’s smile softened into something warmer. He leaned across the console and kissed you, slow at first, then deeper, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. He tasted like the mint gum he’d started chewing in the store, and there was that familiar spark: playful but grounded, chaotic energy wrapped around real affection. When he pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he murmured, “That’s ‘cause we are in it. All the little things. The boring errands, the late-night runs, the way you laugh at my dumb jokes even when they’re bad. I’m all in with you.”
Your heart did its usual melt. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the light stubble on his jaw. “I’m all in too, Teacake. Even when you turn the condom aisle into a comedy routine.”
He grinned, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before starting the truck. “Good. ‘Cause I got more routines where that came from.”
The drive back to your shared apartment was easy, windows cracked to let in the cool night air, radio playing low. Travis kept one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles as he rambled about his shift: the guy who showed up at 10 p.m. to retrieve a single box of old vinyl records, the flickering light in unit 47 that he swore was haunted (but was probably just wiring), and how he’d spent half the night thinking about getting home to you.
You told him about your day, the annoying meeting that ran long, and he listened like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all week, chiming in with sarcastic commentary that had you laughing until your sides hurt.
Inside the apartment, Travis kicked off his shoes by the door and immediately wrapped his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. The bag landed on the kitchen counter with a soft thud.
“Shower first?” he suggested, lips brushing your neck. “I still smell like industrial cleaner and stale coffee.”
“Together?” you asked, already smiling.
“Obviously. Water conservation. I’m a responsible citizen now.”
The shower was warm and steamy, filled with wandering hands and quiet laughter. Travis washed your back with surprising gentleness, fingers tracing your skin while he told a half-whispered story about nearly tripping over a rogue shopping cart in the parking lot earlier. You soaped his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, the way his breath hitched when your touch lingered.
By the time you reached the bedroom, towels abandoned on the floor, the condom box was open on the nightstand. Travis hovered over you on the bed, propped on his elbows, messy hair falling into his eyes. The bedside lamp painted soft shadows across his face highlighting the faint freckles across his nose and the way his expression shifted from playful to focused and tender.
“You’re so damn pretty,” he said quietly, like he needed to say it out loud. “Still can’t believe you put up with my rambling ass every day.”
You pulled him down, legs wrapping around his waist. “I like your rambling. Keeps things interesting.”
He kissed you deeply, hands roaming with that mix of urgency and care. When he reached for the condom, he tore the wrapper with his teeth still a touch theatrical eyes locked on yours the whole time. Rolling it on was quick and practiced, but he took his time after, easing into you with a low groan that vibrated through both of you.
“Fuck… always so good, baby.”
The pace started slow and deep, building as you moved together, his hips rolling in that steady rhythm he knew drove you crazy, your nails pressing into his shoulders. Travis murmured against your skin the whole time: half-teasing praises, half-breathless curses, checking in with soft “You okay?” and “Tell me if it’s too much.” He was chatty even here, but it only made everything feel more connected, more real.
When you came, it rolled through you in warm waves, your moan muffled against his neck. He followed soon after, hips stuttering as he held you close, whispering your name like it anchored him.
Afterward, tangled in the sheets with the room quiet except for your slowing breaths, Travis pulled you against his chest, arm draped heavy over your waist. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip.
“Best midnight CVS run in history,” he said, voice sleepy and content. “Love doin’ normal shit with you. Makes everything better.”
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Love you too, Teacake. Even when you narrate the condom selection like a game show host.”
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling under your ear. “Hey, somebody’s gotta keep things entertaining. Can’t have us turning into one of those boring couples who just buy the same brand every time and never talk about it.”
You swatted his side lightly, both of you settling into comfortable silence. Outside, the city hummed faintly. Inside, it was just the two of you warm, safe, and perfectly ordinary in the best way. Travis’s breathing evened out first, but his hold on you never loosened.
Johnny Storm has never been good at sharing. Food? Sure. His car? Sometimes. Attention? Absolutely not. You? Hard no.
Which was exactly why you should have known something was wrong the second he spotted you standing in the Baxter Building lobby dressed for a date. You'd spent nearly an hour getting ready. Sue had even helped you with your hair. Not because you were particularly excited about the date, but because it had been so long since you'd actually gone on one.
The man was visiting New York for a scientific conference with Reed. You were helping Sue prepare the auditorium for Reed’s next lecture when he politely interrupted you. Sue had smirked as she watched the interaction.
You talked for a while, eventually leading to him asking you to dinner and Sue lightly nudging you in encouragement. So, you said yes. He was smart, charming, and had somehow worked up the nerve to ask you out after three days of meetings.
Apparently not according to Johnny. You were checking your reflection in the glass doors when you heard a familiar voice.
“Where are you going all dressed up? Sue got you running around at this hour?” Johnny asked as he approached you.
You turned to find Johnny smirking with his hands in his jacket posckets.
His blue eyes swept over your outfit.
Then his jaw tightened as the realization hit that you were definitely not in your typical “Sue’s number one assistant clothes”.
“A date,” you answered simply.
The word seemed to physically offend him. “A date,” he repeated.
“That's what I said,” you shrugged.
“With who?” He asked, his tone defensive.
You laughed. “Why do you sound like an angry boyfriend?”
“I'm not,” he said too quickly.
“Good,” you said simply.
Johnny's expression darkened. You tried to ignore the strange feeling in your stomach that came with his reaction.
For months the two of you had existed in this weird gray area.
Friends, best friends, honestly. Friends who occasionally kissed. Friends who occasionally spent the night together. Friends who have seen each other naked more times than they could count. Friends who definitely weren't dating but were probably in love if they could gather the courage to tell one another.
You had spent almost every night for the last two months in Johnny’s bed or in your bed with Johnny. Prior to that, it was just sex. Your average, friends with benefits situationship with your boss’s younger brother who was also your best friend. Because that’s totally normal, right?
Somewhere between late night kisses, tangled sheets, and early morning laughter the lines blurred and you found yourself hopelessly in love with him. What you didn’t know was that he was hopelessly in love with you long before you realized you were.
Every time either of you got close to discussing feelings, one of you changed the subject. And it was usually Johnny, which is what lead you to believe the love was completely one sided.
So eventually you'd stopped trying, and when Sue had nudged you before you could say no to this date, you had the epiphany that if you let yourself keep falling back into Johnny’s arms, the cycle would never end.
Now he was glaring at you like you'd personally betrayed him. “What's his name?” he demanded.
“Why?” You asked, raising your brow at him, testing him.
“Because,” he said confidently, like that explained all the emotion swirling in his irises.
“That's not an answer,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
Johnny rolled his eyes, “fine. Because I want to know."
“Daniel,” you said simply.
“Daniel,” Johnny repeated like it was an insult.
You sighed, “what is your problem?”
"Nothing,” he grumbled.
“Johnny,” you scolded, losing patience for his behavior.
“Nothing,” he nearly whined back like a child having a tantrum.
You stared at him and he stared right back. You narrowed your eyes, trying to read him.
“If you have something to say, something that might effect whether I go on this date,” you took a deep breath, willing the strength to finish your thoughts, “I suggest saying it before Daniel gets here.”
The tension stretched between you. Your heart was beating so loud you were sure he could hear it.
His eyes flicked to your lips, and for a moment you thought he was going to do it.
He simply shrugged, “nope… nada.”
You nearly flinched at his words. You shook your head, “okay,” you stepped around him, “have fun acting weird and being mad for no reason whatsoever.”
His voice followed you, “maybe he's boring.”
You stopped in your tracks just as you reached the door and turned around to face him again, “what?”
“I'm just saying. I know what makes you laugh.” He paused as if he was trying not to cringe at his own words, “you don't even know him.”
“Exactly,” you blinked, “you wouldn’t know… because you don’t go on them, but that’s the point of a date.”
Johnny opened his mouth and then closed it. He was very rarely left speechless.
His hands clenched at his sides. For one second you thought he might actually say whatever he was feeling, that your words had gotten to him just enough to make him drop to his knees for you.
Instead he muttered, “Forget it. Have fun.”
Your heart sank. Just like it always did when it came to Johnny and his feelings.
So you forced a smile, “goodnight, Johnny.”
You turned and pushed the doors open without sparing him another glance.
Johnny stomped so loudly back into the penthouse the walls were nearly shaking.
“Woah tough guy, I thought you were Ben shaking the apartment like that,” Sue said from the couch, “what’s got you so worked up?”
He huffed an annoyed laugh and continued walking towards his rooms, ignoring her advances.
“Okay, turn back around and sit down.” She demanded.
He took a deep, annoyed breath, but he knew better than to defy her. He rolled his shoulders and turned around, taking a seat across from her on the couch.
“Did you see my assistant in the lobby?” She asked teasingly, knowing that you were much more than that to both of them, and also knowing you were headed on your date.
The truth was she couldn’t stand to watch you both continue this dance. You thought you were smooth, sneaking out of his room in the morning, reeking of his cologne when she found you in her office before eight o’clock. She’s known for a while, and she’s also known you both belong together but won’t admit it.
“Yes. I saw her.” He said simply, acting grumpy.
She hummed in response, “she looked pretty, I helped her do her hair—”
“Sue, what is this?” Johnny asked accusingly.
She scoffed, “you know exactly what this is.”
He shook his head and let out a laugh, “what do you want me to do, huh? Sit here and tell you I’m in love with her? Go crash her date? She’s not mine.”
Sue raised her eyebrows, closing the book that was in her lap, “well I’ll admit, I thought it was going to be a lot harder than that to get you to say it.”
Johnny's mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide, “holy shit. Did you set this up?”
Sue bit her lip and shrugged.
“You are evil sister,” he said with a laugh. He ran his hand down his face.
“So what’re you gonna do about it?” She asked, raising a brow at him.
He threw his hands up in exasperation, “do you know where she is?”
She nodded with a smile.
Daniel had met you on the side walk just as you had willed the courage to keep your tears behind your eyes.
The restaurant was beautiful and the food was amazing. It was the type of restaurant you weren’t sure how he managed to get a reservation at on such short notice.
Daniel was perfectly nice and you were miserable.
Why the hell were you miserable? The sweet, tall, brunette with floppy eyes and brown eyes was basically yearning for you from across the table.
He was polite and ordered the perfect dishes and a delicious bottle of wine. But you couldn’t even taste the food or the wine. Because every few minutes your brain replayed Johnny's expression in the lobby.
You hated how much it bothered you and there was a storm inside your mind raging so loudly that you weren’t even listening to the sweet man across from you.
“So,” Daniel said with a smile, “I was hoping maybe tomorrow I could—“
A loud voice interrupted him from behind you.“absolutely not.”
Your eyes widened and slowly, you turned around, twisting uncomfortably in your chair. Although, you didn’t need to turn to know who’s voice it was.
Johnny stood in the middle of the restaurant breathing heavily like he'd sprinted ten blocks to get there.
Half the restaurant had already noticed him and stopped their conversations to listen in.
The flames were sizzling off his hands and there was some smoke left from it, did he just blast through New York to interrupt your date?
“Johnny,” you hissed.
“Oh, good. You're still here,” he said, his lips twitching up into his signature smirk.
“What are you doing?" You whisper yelled.
“I've been asking myself that for thirty minutes,” he took a few steps closer so that he was leaning against the small table you were sharing, “had to pick a place all the way downtown, huh?”
“Oh my god,” you ran a hand down your face, thoroughly embarrassed.
Daniel looked thoroughly confused, but Johnny was looking at you.
“You know what?" he said, “you were right.”
Your stomach dropped, “about what?”
"Me being weird,” he said.
Several nearby diners were openly staring now and when you glanced around and saw you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Johnny didn't seem to care.
“I've been acting like an idiot,” he continued.
“Johnny—” you tried to cut him off.
“No, let me finish,” Johnny took a breath and suddenly every trace of humor vanished from his face, “I hate that you're here with him.
Your heart stopped.
“I hate that some other guy gets to make you laugh tonight,” he was dead serious.
The room disappeared, Daniel was clearing his throat, but neither you or Johnny flinched, holding each others gaze.
There was only Johnny, even the sound had faded around you. Only those blue eyes fixed on yours.
“I hate every date you've ever gone on,” he took another step closer. “And I know I don't get to be mad because you aren't mine.” Johnny swallowed hard, “but I want you to be.”
The entire restaurant gasped collectively. You were pretty sure you did too, but honestly you think you blacked out for a moment.
Johnny's voice softened, “you make every day better. I look for you at the end of every day. I see you in everything I do.”
Your eyes burned.
“And somewhere along the way I fell completely in love with you. You’ve had my heart for months,” he nearly whispered the confession.
Daniel slowly raised his hand, “I feel like I should leave.”
“Its probably in your best interest to do so,” Johnny said without glancing toward him. His eyes remained locked on yours.
You didn’t say anything, you felt like your throat had gone completely dry and you were dizzy.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Daniel throw cash on the table before scurrying away.
“Good luck with whatever,” he pointed between the two of you, “… this is.”
Johnny never took his eyes off yours, “if you don't feel the same, that's okay, but I couldn't sit there knowing I might lose my chance because I was too scared to tell you.”
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt, “you idiot,” you let out a wet laugh.
Johnny laughed weakly, “yeah.”
“You absolute idiot,” you said with a smile.
“I've been told,” he smiled back.
Tears filled your eyes.
Then you stood up from your chair, and before he could say anything else, you closed the distance between you and you kissed him.
The restaurant erupted into applause, snapping you back into reality enough to make you realize you caused a scene, but not enough to make you pull away from him.
Johnny kissed you back instantly, his hands finding your waist. It wasn’t like your usual lustful ones, it was slow and passionate, like you had been waiting your entire life for this.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.
“Soooo… you love me too?" He asked with a smirk.
You rolled your eyes, “I've been in love with you for like forever."
Johnny groaned dramatically, lare you kidding me?”
“You couldn't tell?” You asked. His hands still held your waist tightly as you stood there.
“No!” He said, “we’ve wasted so much time being stupid.”
Johnny pulled you closer, “well,” his grin finally returned, “what happens now?”
You smiled, “first?” You brought your hands to his chest, resting them comfortably.
“Yeah?” He smirked, getting excited.
“You apologize to Daniel,” you bite your lip, knowing that’s not what he wanted to hear.
Johnny looked over at the door, “honey, we scared him right off. He’s long gone.”
Then he looked back at you. The expression on his face was so full of affection it made your chest ache.
"Second?" He asked.
You smiled, “second, we’re going to finish this bottle of very nice wine and talk about how we finally stop pretending we're just friends.”
Johnny's answering grin lit up the entire room, “best idea you've ever had.”
(5 times spencer lets reader touch him, and the 1 time he touches her first)
spencer reid x f!reader
(she/her pronouns used for reader-insert)
fluff
wc: 1819
title from: lover by taylor swift
1. It’s her first day at the BAU, and Hotch is introducing her to everyone on the team. Spencer immediately thinks she’s the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. Her smile is radiant, and her eyes seem to shimmer. He doesn’t even hear Hotch say her name.
She’s going down the row as Hotch says everyone’s name, giving each member a handshake with the loveliest smile on her face.
Spencer is rubbing his hands on his slacks to rid them of his nervous sweat. He doesn’t want to ruin his first impression with clammy hands.
When Hotch gets to Spencer, he says, “And this is Dr. Reid. He doesn’t really do-“
He’s cut off by Spencer returning her handshake. Aaron can count on one hand the number of times that he’s seen Spencer do this in all the time he’s known him.
Everyone is even more shocked when Spencer raises his other hand and encloses hers between both of his.
“It’s nice to meet you, Doctor.”
“Spencer, you can call me Spencer.”
2 She’s only been working at the BAU for a few weeks when Spencer scrambles into the bullpen 45 minutes late. He’s never late. He was awake until the early hours of the morning, too wrapped up in a new book to notice the time. When his alarm sounded at sunrise, he turned it off and accidentally fell back to sleep.
His hair is ruffled and his tie is crooked and his dress shirt isn’t all the way tucked in. Even his messenger bag is half open and on the brink of spilling papers everywhere. He feels so discombobulated, and he just knows that this is going to ruin his entire day.
She’s the first to see him. great. She’s so beautiful, and she’s seeing him as a sloppy mess.
“Hey, Spencer! You okay? We were worried about you.” He knows that she said we, and that means it wasn’t just her who was worried, but his heart feels warm at the thought of her missing him.
He nods and tells her, “Yeah, I overslept.” He’s embarrassed and shakes his head before ducking it down. He takes in his messy appearance and wishes he could start the whole day over.
She reaches out to him and carefully tightens and straightens his tie. She then reaches up to his collar and gently folds it over. He can feel himself blushing at the feeling of her fingertips brushing against his chest and then his neck.
She almost reaches down to the hem of his shirt before she whispers, “I’ll let you take care of that part,” while shyly giggling.
“Right, yes- Um… Thank you.”
“No problem, Spence.”
“Uh… does my hair look okay?” He dares to ask her, pointing up at his head.
She’s about to reach up to smooth some pieces down when Emily calls her over to speak to her.
“You look good, Spencer. You always do, don’t worry,” She smiles before she leaves him.
He’s left gazing after her as she treads towards Emily’s desk. He’s cursing Emily in his head for pulling her away from their moment together. He smooths his shirt down and tucks it in properly as he walks to his desk.
As he traverses through the bullpen, he just barely catches his name in the conversation she’s having with Emily.
“...Spencer doesn’t really like being touched. Something about the germs bothers him.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Her brows furrow, “Thank you for telling me,” and she sadly smiles.
He really wants to curse at Emily, now.
3 Weeks go by before she touches him again. Spencer is sorely missing the day that she fixed his tie. He’s starting to consider coming into work with it crooked again to see if that can tempt her to fix it for him, again.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to do that or anything more extreme.
They’re inspecting a scene together, and he’s crouched down over some papers scattered all over the floor. A piece of his hair keeps falling in his eyes as he reads them, but he’s wearing gloves, so he can’t push it back properly. He keeps trying to use his air to blow it out of his eyeline, but it keeps falling back down.
She comes over and crouches next to him, “Need any help?”
He looks over at her and sees that she hasn’t put both of her gloves on yet – she has one on and is about to put on the other.
“Actually, could you help me with this?” He blows air at the piece of hair again and gestures toward it. He’s so proud of himself for asking her.
“Oh, are you sure?” She says as she reaches toward him with her bare hand, freezing mid-air.
I hate you, Emily, he thinks.
He nods with a shy smile, so she completes her movement and tucks the piece of hair back for him.
They have twin blushes on their cheeks as they look away from each other and focus back on the documents in front of them.
4 They’re packed into the backseat of an SUV, Spencer, her, and JJ, in that order.
She climbed into the backseat after him and before JJ, and pressed her entire side against him – their arms and legs completely fused together.
After JJ climbs in, he looks over to see if she’s also touching JJ like this, and they must have at least 6 inches of space between them.
He’s absolutely basking in the feeling of her body pressed against his. He can barely contain his smile.
She softly nudges her leg against his at a red light, so he’s absolutely sure that it wasn’t an accident or a result of the car jostling. He gets the confidence to nudge her leg back, and she looks over at him with a smile. He blushes and ducks his head down.
5 He gets a call in the middle of the workday about his mom's health declining. The center needs his consent for a new medication.
He’s sitting and crying in a random hallway with his knees to his chest. He never sees anyone near here, so he thinks he’s safe to do so, just for a little bit.
“Spence! There you are, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
He looks up at her with red-rimmed eyes and tears streaming down his cheeks.
She crouches down in front of him and places her hands on his knees, rubbing soft circles against him.
“Spence, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” A few more of his tears fall at the endearment.
He frantically wipes his tears away. He doesn’t want her to see him like this. “I’m okay, it’s just my mom… she’s sick.”
She wordlessly moves to sit next to him, and he feels guilty that she’s settling onto the cold, hard, dirty floor.
That is, until she wraps an arm behind him and starts rubbing his back. Her hand rubbing up and down his spine is the most comforting thing he’s ever felt.
He whispers, “She has schizophrenia and lives in a treatment facility.”
She shifts her arm to wrap across his shoulder, then pulls him in closer to her. She places a hand on his head and guides it to rest on her shoulder, soothingly rubbing circles with her thumb.
♡♥♡ He finds her outside of a local precinct, sitting on a bench. As he approaches, he sees her shoulders shaking. Without even thinking, he starts unraveling his scarf to put it around her neck. He’s not sure why she’s out here at 9 pm, but he surely doesn’t want her to be cold.
He stands in front of her with the scarf draped over his hands, ready to place it around her neck, when she looks up at him, and he sees tears streaming down her cheeks.
He’s immediately reminded of how caring she was to him when she found him in a similar position, and hopes he can take care of her half as well as she took care of him.
As he drapes the knit around her neck, she whispers, “I don’t really want to talk about it. Is that okay?”
“No-yes, I mean, of course.” He’s disappointed that she doesn’t want to confide in him, but he would never push her to talk when she doesn’t want to, so he accepts that her wearing his scarf is enough of a win.
He turns on his heel to walk back inside when she stops him, “Wait, um, would you mind just sitting with me?”
“Of course,” He immediately replies.
He lowers himself on the bench next to her and thinks about when they sat side-by-side in the SUV. He wonders if he should press his leg against hers or if it isn’t the right time. That was more of a silly thing that they did, and he doesn’t want her to think that he’s not taking her feelings seriously.
“Thank you, I’m sorry, this is kind of embarrassing.” She feebly says.
“No, no, you’re fine, don’t worry,” He really hopes that he’s being reassuring enough for her. He knows how to calm down unsubs and victims and his mother, but this feels like entirely new territory.
As they sit in silence, he looks down and sees her wringing her hands in her lap. His own fingers twitch as he debates what to do. Normally, he’d fill the silence with questions or facts or statistics.
He tentatively reaches over and places his hand over both of hers.
They don’t talk much, as she requested, and normally that would make Spencer uncomfortable. Typically, he tries to avoid silence and fills it with his rants and ramblings. He even avoids silence in his own head by constantly having a book or headphones in his bag available.
This is different, though. Just her presence makes him feel calm and comfortable.
Eventually, she pulls one of her hands out from under his to wipe away her tears with her sleeve. His heart sinks at the thought that their moment is over.
That is, until she turns her remaining palm over and he realizes she’s trying to hold his hand properly.
She scoots closer to him and points up at the shining stars in the night sky.
“Are there any constellations we can see?” She asks.
He smiles at the opportunity to share his knowledge with her; this is something he knows that he’s good at.
He points out the various constellations above them and tells her about the ones that are present at other times of the year. He doesn’t notice that she’s shifted even closer to him on the bench until their hips touch and she’s lowering her head onto his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” she whispers
“Definitely,” He replies, and he bends his neck to place his head on top of hers, gently squeezing her hand as he does.
pretty pls comment and reblog if u liked! i love talking to u guys and seeing ur cute rambles in the reblog tags <3
