[rr-after-dark]

“Everything Good in You” - Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.

Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!

Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare

NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie

Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist

A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive

Word Count: 18.3k

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund

[slow-motion-double-vision]

Your smile, Your ghost (part 19)

Pairing: Brendon Park x femReader (nurse reader)

Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?

Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.

Chapter Summary: Dr. Park drives you home. He didn’t say he’d drive you STRAIGHT home.

Part 18 | Masterlist

——————————————-

“What’s your address?” Park asked as he grabbed his phone and unlocked it.

“You don’t have to drive me all the way home,” you insisted.

Wordlessly, he passed you his phone with the Maps app open. You reluctantly took it from him and typed in your address, then passed it back to him. He put the phone back on the stand and drove away.

You tried to ignore him, you really did. But there was something about Dr. Park that made it impossible to ignore him.

“You cold?” He asked, hand hovering over the heater button.

“Mm-mm,” you shook your head. If he insisted on driving you home, you’d survive the car ride in silence you figured.

“Tired?”

“Mm-hmm” you nodded. Unsure of what else to do, you tapped your fingers on your lap.

This was going to be the longest car ride ever.

Park drove like the elderly. Slowing down at yellow lights, waiting too long at the stop sign and letting people cross streets. You understood driving safely in the rain, but this was almost like he was taking longer on purpose.

You stared straight ahead the whole time, but you could feel his eyes constantly checking on you. Like he wanted to make sure you were still there.

He cleared his throat, disrupting the awkward silence you decided on.

“Did you see the moon tonight?”

With this rain? You wanted to respond.

“Is it a full moon tonight?”

Since when do you care about moon phases? You bit your tongue.

“Is it,” he paused and stood straighter. “I heard full moons are the worst.” He said tersely.

You whipped your head towards him. This was rich coming from the man who rolled his eyes at your suggestion that the solar eclipse meant new beginnings.

“Heard they’re bad luck too. They bring out the worst in people.”

“No, they don’t.” You finally snapped. “They-“ you cut yourself off, turning back to stare at the road. Damn it. So much for giving him the silent treatment.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught him smirking. The bastard was smirking while staring straight ahead at the road.

“I shouldn’t talk.” You mumbled as you crossed your arms, slightly eyeing him.

His smirk dropped, replaced with a guilty look on his face. Good. He should feel guilty.

Eventually, he slowed down to a stop in front of your place. He put the gear stick in park and rested his hands on top of the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. In a strangely pensive manner.

You unclicked your seatbelt and grabbed your bag, rushing to end the interaction.

“Thanks for -“ “I just want-“

You both spoke at the same time.

“Thanks for driving me home,” you said earnestly and grabbed the door handle.

He said your name, making you stop to look at him. His hands fell off the steering wheel as he shifted his body towards you.

“Yesterday at lunch” he spoke up as he met your gaze. He exhaled deeply, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was…” he paused.

“An asshole.”

“An asshole,” he nodded in agreement and swallowed forcefully. His eyes studied yours. “I’m sorry.”

You scanned his face, missing his usual scowl and frown. A remorseful look paired with his apology. You leaned your head back on the headrest, feeling your anger slowly simmering down. Perhaps it was best to not end this job assignment so bitterly. That wasn’t really you.

“I should make you earn my forgiveness,” you turned to look at him. “But I forgive you.”

He let a big breath out and scratched his ear. “Good,” he nodded and shifted back to stare straight ahead. His hands hovered over the steering wheel again.

You took that as your cue to leave.

“Thanks again,” you reached for the door handle again. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“You didn’t eat,” Park stated, quickly turning his head to you.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t eat lunch at work.”

“I had a vending machine snack,” you shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

Like comedic clockwork, your stomach loudly growled. You hung your head shamefully as Park hummed.

Without a warning, he switched the gear stick into drive and pressed on the gas. You jolted at his actions as the car swerved.

“What are you doing?” You asked alarmed.

“You’re hungry.” he explained matter-of-factly.

“Park, stop,” you turned to look at your street as it got farther away. “You were supposed to drive me home.”

“We’re making a stop,” he shrugged.

“We were at our destination already.”

“Put your seatbelt on,” he muttered quickly, gesturing to your seatbelt. You started pulling on it, quick to click it safely. You looked through the side mirror, your street long forgotten. Where was this urgency when he was driving you home earlier?

“This is essentially kidnapping.”

“What’s the nearest restaurant?” Park ignored you as he took his phone off the stand. Swiftly, you reached to steal it from his hand. He whipped his head towards you, with a questioning look on his face.

“I’ll guide you,” you waved him off. The idea forming in your head.

If he wanted to be stubborn. So could you.

—-

“No.”

“We’re already here,” you pointed ahead.

“We’re leaving,” He looked through his rearview mirror and looked over his shoulder.

“But, I’m hungry,” you insisted.

“We are not having dinner from a McDonald’s drive thru.”

“Not only did you insult me yesterday” You sighed heavily and dramatically. “You’re purposefully starving me too.”

Park narrowed his eyes at you as you smiled at him. He tsked and pulled up closer to the drive thru speaker box.

He ordered, paid and rolled his eyes at your attempt to pay. Handed you the bags with a disapproving shake of his head. He made his way to the parking lot, pulling into an open spot.

You peeked out the window, examining the sky.

“The rain's calmed down. Do you want to eat on that bench?” You pointed at the bench that was slightly covered by the trees. It seemed decent enough.

Park didn’t answer, just stared at you and scanned your body. Twisted his mouth and sighed loudly, clearly bothered by something.

He seemed strict about food in his car, hence your suggestion. Was junk food in his car the tipping point after all these months?

He stretched out his hand and pinched the sleeve of your sweater.

“Your sweater is drenched,” he mumbled.

Park turned around digging through the back seat. He pulled out a hoodie and offered it to you. You raised your eyebrows at him, expectantly.

“Just use my sweater,” he answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitated.

“You’ll smell like mold if you don’t change.”

“It’ll go with the smell of greasy food.”

He visibly grimaced and placed the sweater on your lap, leaving you no choice.

You unzipped your own sweater, struggling with it. It’s much harder to take off clothes when they’re wet. While you took off your sweater and put on his own, he looked away to text on his phone. A gentlemanly gesture you appreciated.

You exhaled in relief once you adjusted the strings so it would fit your neck better. He was right, it was better to not rot in wet clothes. You threw the wet hoodie on the floor of the car by your feet.

Park met your gaze only to quickly look away.

“So, are we eating outside then?” You grabbed the bags.

He shook his head, “It looks like it could rain again.”

You looked out the window again, the clouds had dispersed and the moon was visible now. Sure, whatever he said.

You started taking out the food, handing him the different items. You unwrapped your own burger and took a bite. Wow, you really were starving. Turning your head to see how he was handling his meal, you caught him staring at you. You chewed slowly and pointed at the burger in his hand.

“Don’t make me eat alone,” you insisted.

He cursed under his breath and unwrapped the burger slowly, taking a small bite out of it.

“Good?” You asked hopefully.

He side eyed you. A quiet “watch it” on his face.

He turned off the car and turned down the windows the tiniest bit, letting the fresh air inside.

“How much do I owe you?” You pulled out your phone.

“For what?”

“The food…” you hinted.

“Nothing,” He said your name, scoldingly as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “Stop offering, it’s insulting.”

You put your phone down and held your hand up in surrender, “just wondering. Don’t want to get a venmo request later.”

“Who would do that?”

“You’d be surprised by some…guys,”

“Was it Dodger?” He asked mockingly.

“Roger.”

“Same thing,”

“No, this was a different bad date I had.” You shuddered thinking of the dating failure that was Chad.

“But you don’t want to hear all that,” you waved it off, taking another bite of the burger. Yesterday’s events were still fresh on your mind.

“I want to hear.” He gestured at you with his chin. “Tell the story.”

So you told him the story of Chad and how the date went. His eyebrows shot up higher with each detail you added.

“Idiot,” he scoffed at the end of your story.

“What about you? Any bad date stories?”

“No,” he shook his head. “All my dates end well.”

“Oh come on,” you rolled your eyes as he smirked.

Cocky bastard.

“So you’re luckier with the dating thing? Got a girlfriend?” You asked the question that had been killing you since you met him.

“No,” he looked down. “My schedule’s difficult, most women don’t understand.”

The tiniest part of you was hoping for that answer.

“Be honest,” you chose to change the subject. “When’s the last time you had a burger?” You eyed the half-eaten burger in his hand.

“I eat burgers. From restaurants or made at home,” he explained, like it was obvious.

“So, you’re out of your comfort zone right now?”

He frowned at you, then looked down at the burger in his hand.

“Yeah, you don’t strike me as a burgers in the car kind of guy.”

“I’m not,” he scoffed. “But your stomach was loud. I couldn’t send you home like that.”

“You could, though. I’m not your responsibility.”

“My staff is my responsibility,” he dipped his chin.

“I’ll be sure to tell Gilroy, then. That you’ll take him out to dinner next time.” You hid your smile with your hand.

“Not funny,” he pointed a finger at you and took a bite out of the burger.

“He’s staff,” you gestured.

“Only staff I like,” he said in between bites.

“Well, you did call me your favorite nurse earlier.” You teased him.

“I called you my nurse.” He countered.

“Well, I won’t be…anymore.”

Finishing your sentence was a struggle. You wondered if you would ever see him again after tonight.

Park sighed, reaching for his phone. Unlocked it and scrolled for a bit. You didn’t mean to ruin the moment, but for once, you had to be negative.

“When do you start the new job?” He put his phone on his lap.

“I didn’t get a job offer yet.” You shrugged. “Still waiting to hear back. So wish me luck.”

He frowned at you, “you don’t need luck. You’re overqualified, you’ll get it.”

“I hope so, I really want the job.”

“Why?”

You smiled shyly and told him all about it. Why you liked it, why it worked for your mind perfectly, how you found purpose in it. He listened quietly, following along.

“You actually… enjoy working there,” he processed out loud.

You nodded proudly.

Park grabbed his phone from his lap and put it back on the stand. For a second there, he almost looked disappointed. Sad even.

“I will admit, though. Out of all the doctors I’ve worked with…” you tried to switch the somber mood. “You might be my favorite.”

His back stood straighter at your words, like pride was swelling in his chest.

“I mean no other doctor would keep me fed, drive me home or let me borrow his sweater.” You gestured to his sweater. “I might just have to keep it. It’s good quality.”

“It suits you,” he said quietly as he stretched out his hand and messed with the neck strings, straightening them. You hoped he couldn’t feel your heart speeding up at his actions.

“But you gotta give it back,” he added more seriously.

“I don’t know, Park. I th-“

“Brendon,” he cut you off, dropping his hand. “Call me Brendon. We’re not in the hospital.”

“Can I just call you Shark like everyone else does?”

“No, you can’t” he balled up the empty burger wrap and tossed it in the bag. “Sunny.”

“No,” you shook your head. “You can’t call me that.”

“You don’t like Sunny?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“I’ll report you to HR.”

He huffed loudly, holding back a laugh.

“Your buddies in the ED call you that,” he spat out.

“You had to be there to get it,” you teased him. “Call me something else… Shark.”

The side of his mouth curled up.

It shocked you. How quickly you two settled back into your old banter. Like nothing had happened yesterday.

“How’d that start anyway? The nickname?” You asked him.

He shook his head in amusement and told you the story. Surprisingly. It started back in his undergrad days and followed him to this day. Park told you a full story about himself with details. As many details as a man like him would give. You couldn’t believe your ears.

“That’s where it came from?” you rubbed your face with your palm in disbelief.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he warned you.

“I promise,” you extended your pinky towards him. He enveloped his pinky in yours and you promised each other.

You peeked at his palm as you shook his pinky, he quickly pulled away.

“Nice try,” he said sarcastically.

“Just a peek,” You balled up the burger trash and tossed it in the bag. “It won’t even take a minute.”

“No,” he shook his head and closed his eyes.

“First, you insult me. Then you tried to starve me.”

“I already apologized,” he said defensively.

“I’m thinking of retracting my apology.”

“You’re milking it at this point,” he shook his head. He huffed loudly, like it was the biggest inconvenience.

Begrudgingly, he extended his palm. You giggled as you held his cold palm in yours. Frankly, your knowledge was limited, but you were curious either way.

“Oh, I see. You’re a complicated one,” you lied as you examined his palm.

He hummed.

“This line is your life line,” you traced the line slowly from his thumb to his wrist. “You're gonna live a long healthy life for sure.”

You leaned closer to his palm, struggling to inspect it in the lowly lit car. The light above you turned on. You looked up to catch Park’s other hand retracting from the light switch. The light perfectly shined on his veined arm as he put it down.

“Go on,” he lifted his eyebrows.

You looked down again.

“This one is your Mercury line,” you traced the line under his pinky to his wrist, then lightly went over the small branches extending upwards . “You got a good sense of business. Success and opportunities coming your way.”

“Do I?” He mumbled.

“Oof, but this one” You looked up at him, he was staring at your face already.

You tsked, “you see it?” With your chin, you gestured to his palm.

He leaned forward, his forehead almost bumping yours. “Sure,” he said softly.

“This one means you struggle with expressing yourself,” you smiled at him teasingly, “but you already knew that.”

He looked up from his palm to you. His gaze was more intense than it had ever been, making it harder to breathe.

“Am I forgiven now?”

“Hmm,” you pretended to think. “I gotta think about that.” You absentmindedly traced his palm. His fingers twitched at your movements.

He huffed in amusement, his body still close to yours. You couldn’t take it anymore and you slowly dropped his hand. He retracted it and put it back on his lap, refusing to look anywhere but your eyes.

You broke away first and you looked out the window. Trying to take deep breaths and calm your nerves.

“Can we turn on the AC?” Your body felt warm.

Park nodded and turned on his car.

You glanced at the time.

3:33 AM.

You had been out with Park for five hours now.

“That’s the time?” You exclaimed. “I shouldn’t be out at this time, I should be in bed.”

“I kept you out pretty late. Sorry.” Park said without remorse in his voice this time.

“It’s haunting hour.”

Park jerked his head back in confusion, shifting the gear stick.

“You know, when all the ghosts come out to haunt the living.”

Park slowly turned to you, seemingly holding in a laugh. He put his arm on the back of your headrest, looking over his shoulder to back out of the parking space. The gesture made you dizzy.

“Let’s get you to bed then,” the side of his lips slowly curled up. “Ghost Girl.”

“No,” you covered your face. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“The ghost references, the palm readings. You did it to yourself.”

“Can I get another one instead?”

He didn’t answer you, just smirked, as he drove away from the parking lot.

—-

Park drove into your street to drop you off…for the second time that night. He slowed to a stop and parked the car.

“Thanks again for everything” You smiled as you leaned on the headrest. “I guess I’ll see you… eventually.”

“Eventually? You gotta return my sweater on Monday.” He said, confused.

“I won’t be here Monday or the whole week actually,” you revealed.

His face dropped. “Why?”

“Got bridesmaid duties and a bunch of outings.”

“What kind of outings?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, the usual. Bar hopping, skiing the alpines, bungee jumping,” you joked.

“You are not going bungee-jumping,” he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why? It’s fun,” you teased.

“Do you know how many bones you can break from bungee jumping?”

“Good thing I got me a great orthopedic surgeon,” you tapped his elbow.

He sighed with a shake of his head, extending his hand.

“Let me see your phone.”

Warily, you unlocked it and handed it to him.

He took it from you and started typing away on your contacts. His phone on the stand lit up, showing your number. He hung up and saved his number as a new contact, then handed it back to you.

“Brendon Park - orthopedic surgeon.” You read his contact name. “So formal…” you unclicked your seatbelt.

“They’ll need to know who to call to put you back together,” he tilted his head at you.

“Morbid,” you snorted, putting your phone away and grabbing your bag. You pushed the door open and stepped out. With your hand hovering over the car door, you leaned your head down.

“Good night…Shark.” You smiled coyly.

“Good night, Ghost Girl,” he responded.

You closed the door shut and walked away.

You were somehow right. It was the longest car ride ever.

———————————————-

A/N: this is the longest chapter I’ve ever written. 3.2k words of mostly dialogue. My thumbs are stuck in typing mode.

Love,

Lizzy✨

Taglist:

@generation-zero @melissa66orion @mayawainfleet @anonymouse1807 @isuckcigbuds @goldfishenthusiast67 @letstryagaintomorrow @lunadi1una @plummetingangel7 @jouska8656 @vesenia123 @tombraiderjones2505 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @lillysbigwilly @mel164 @dee-1-2-3 @laurel-inheaven @glossygirl666 @trulycayla @kearasaltynalapepper @piercethedee @snorklingfae @halfnvt @lala-berry @theradkid @iloveejackabbott @llovekats @barikawho @prettyflowerlily @moistointments @mirandameaniepants @fangirl125reader @karlawithacapitalk @shinebright2000

[lara777s]

[enslavedbyfaeries]

Version 1

Version 2

Paper: Fabriano Artistico 100% cotton/ 300 GSM/ cold press

Brushes: Da Vinci Petit Gris Pur mop/ Princeton Neptune rounds/ Princeton Aqua Elite 12

Paint: Daniel Smith, Poems About You/ A. Gallo

[sluttystranger-deactivated20260]

i'm cold, give me your hoodie and fuck me in it

[sylvia-plaths-fig-pie]

Don't Take the Girl ★ Jake Seresin x Reader

based on this post by @galaxy-of-stories

based on the song don't take the girl by Tim McGraw

I. The Creek Behind the Seresin Place

You were eight years old the summer your family moved in next door to the Seresins, out where the Texas roads turned to gravel and the land went flat and gold in every direction, and you were nine the first time Jake Seresin told you, in no uncertain terms, that you could not come fishing with him.

"It's a boys' thing," he said, with all the authority a nine-year-old could muster, hauling his tackle box down the porch steps like it weighed as much as he did. "My daddy's taking me to the creek. You'll just scare the fish off, crying and carrying on."

"I don't cry."

"You cried when Bobby Duncan pushed you off the tire swing."

"That's because it hurt, Jake."

He'd rolled his eyes in that particular way he had, the one that made you want to shove him straight into the nearest ditch, and gone on ahead without you — but you were a stubborn kid, stubborn enough to trail along at a distance through the scrub grass anyway, close enough to keep the creek in sight, because if Jake Seresin got to go on an adventure, you were not about to be left sitting on your own porch all afternoon.

It went fine, for a while. His daddy set up two lines and dozed off in a lawn chair the way grown men did on hot afternoons, and Jake stood out on the flat rock at the edge of the deep pool, showing off, casting his line further than he had any real skill to justify, and you sat in the grass twenty feet off pretending you weren't watching.

You never did find out exactly how you ended up in the water. One second you were standing at the edge trying to see what he'd caught, and the next the bank gave way beneath your sneakers and the creek swallowed you whole, cold and fast and a great deal deeper than it had looked from dry land. You went under once, twice, water in your mouth and your ears roaring, and you would tell people for years afterward that you didn't remember being scared so much as you remembered being surprised, like your body hadn't caught up yet to how much trouble it was in.

What you did remember, clear as anything, was Jake.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't call for his daddy, didn't stop to think about it — just went in after you, fully clothed, fishing rod abandoned on the rock, and got a fistful of your shirt and hauled you both toward the bank with more strength than his skinny nine-year-old arms had any business having. His daddy was already up out of the lawn chair and running by the time they broke the surface, wading in the last few feet to help haul you both up onto the grass, and you would swear afterward that you heard him mutter something under his breath the whole way in, quick and low and half a prayer — don't take her, don't you dare take her, not this one, not today — like the thought of losing the girl next door was one his own heart couldn't survive either.

"I told you," Jake said, when it was just the two of you again, sitting soaked and shivering in the shade while his daddy went to fetch dry towels, "it's a boys' thing. You could've drowned."

"You went in after me."

"'Course I did." He said it like it was the most obvious fact in the world, like there had never been another option on the table. "Wasn't gonna just let you drown, was I. Wasn't gonna be the one who let 'em take you."

You didn't know, at nine years old, what it meant that he'd said it that plainly, that certainly, like the idea of a world without you in it wasn't one he was willing to entertain even for a second. You just knew you stopped being scared of him teasing you after that, and he stopped telling you that fishing was a boys' thing, and by the end of that summer he was hauling you down to the creek right alongside him, tackle box and all, without a single complaint.

II. The Night of the Homecoming Dance

You were sixteen the year Jake Seresin got his driver's license and his ego at roughly the same time, and the two of you had spent the years between the creek and that fall doing what small-town kids did — growing up alongside each other so gradually you barely noticed it happening, right up until the night of the homecoming dance, when you noticed it all at once.

He picked you up in his daddy's truck, hair combed for once in his life, wearing a button-down that still had the fold creases in it from the store, and stood on your porch looking so nervous you almost laughed.

"You look nice," he said, too fast, like he'd rehearsed it.

"You look like you ironed that shirt with your hands."

"I did iron it with my hands. Didn't know we had an actual iron."

You laughed properly then, and something in his shoulders eased, and the two of you drove to the dance with the windows down and the radio too loud, and it was, for a while, exactly like every other night the two of you had spent together — easy, familiar, comfortable as an old pair of boots.

It stopped being comfortable somewhere around the third song, when he pulled you out onto the floor and put his hands, careful and a little stiff, at your waist, and you realized you'd never actually been held by Jake Seresin before. Pulled out of creeks, teased mercilessly, driven around back roads at speeds his daddy would've killed him for — but never just held, quiet, close, his chin nearly resting against your hair.

"You're awful quiet," he said.

"So are you."

"I'm concentrating. Don't want to step on your feet in front of the whole school."

"Since when do you care what the whole school thinks?"

"Since it's you I'd be stepping on." He said it lightly, but his hands had tightened just slightly at your waist, and when you tipped your head back to look at him he wasn't wearing the easy, cocky grin he wore for everyone else — he was looking at you like he was working up to something and hadn't quite found the nerve.

"Jake."

"Yeah?"

"You're doing the thing where you almost say something and then don't."

"Been doing that all night, have I."

"Every year, actually. I've just started noticing."

That got a real laugh out of him, startled and a little embarrassed, and he ducked his head, and when he looked back up some of the nerves had settled into something steadier. "Fine," he said. "Since you noticed. I like you. Have for a while, if I'm honest, longer than I've had the guts to say so. Figured I'd tell you before some other fool at this dance beat me to it."

"That's the least smooth I've ever heard you sound."

"I'm aware. Give me a break, I've never done this before."

You didn't make him wait long for an answer. You'd known, somewhere under the teasing and the creek water and a decade of growing up two houses apart, that this particular night was always going to arrive eventually — and when it did, standing on a school gymnasium floor under sagging paper streamers, you kissed Jake Seresin for the first time and felt him go still with surprise before he properly, thoroughly kissed you back.

"Well," he said, a little dazed, when you finally broke apart. "Wish I'd said something years ago."

"You had years. You spent them telling me fishing was a boys' thing."

"I was nine. Cut me some slack."

You were still riding the high of it an hour later, windows down again, radio low this time instead of loud, taking the long way home because neither of you wanted the night to end yet — until Jake pulled into the gas station off Route 9 for coffee neither of you needed, just an excuse to keep the night going a little longer.

The man came in about two minutes after you did. You noticed him before Jake did — the way he stood too long by the door, the way his hand stayed jammed in his jacket pocket like it was holding something he didn't want seen — and you'd barely opened your mouth to say something when he crossed to the counter, pulled a gun on the kid working the register, and told everyone in the store to get down, right now, hands where he could see them.

Jake put himself between you and the man before you'd even finished processing what was happening. Didn't think about it, the same way he hadn't thought twice at the edge of that creek years earlier — just moved, quiet and immediate, angling his body so that whatever came next would have to go through him first.

"Easy," Jake said, low, hands raised, voice steadier than you had any right to expect from a boy still wearing his homecoming button-down. "Nobody's gotta get hurt here. Take whatever you want out of the register. Take my wallet, take the truck keys, they're right here—" He was already working his keys out of his pocket, sliding them slowly across the linoleum. "Whatever you need. Just — that's it. That's all there is to take."

The man's eyes flicked to you, crouched behind Jake's shoulder, and something in his expression shifted, calculating, and Jake's whole body went rigid in a way you'd never seen from him before, not even the day he'd hauled you dripping out of that creek.

"Hey." Jake's voice dropped even lower, every ounce of his usual cockiness stripped clean out of it, replaced by something plain and urgent and entirely sincere. "Whatever you're here for, it's not her. You can have everything else in this store twice over. Take the money, take the truck, take anything you want — just don't take the girl. Please. Don't take her."

Whether it was the money, or the keys, or something in the flat, unflinching way Jake said it like he meant to make good on every word behind it — the man grabbed the cash from the drawer, snatched the keys off the floor, and was gone into the dark before the door had even finished swinging shut behind him.

For a long moment afterward, nobody in the store moved. Then Jake turned, dropped to his knees in front of you right there on the gas station floor, and pulled you into him so hard you felt the shake in his hands through your whole body.

"You're alright," he said, again and again, like he was convincing himself as much as you. "You're alright, you're alright."

"Jake, I'm fine—"

"I know. I know you are." He pulled back just far enough to look at you, and his eyes were wet in a way he'd have been embarrassed by on any other night. "Just needed to hear myself say it a few times."

You reached up and steadied his jaw with both hands, the way you had a hundred times since you were kids, and felt him lean into it, breathing like he'd just come up for air.

"You offered him the truck," you said, half a laugh, half something closer to tears. "Your daddy's truck. Same night you finally told me how you felt. Some homecoming."

"Would've handed over anything in the world," he said, quiet, rough. "Long as it wasn't you. Told myself that at a creek when we were kids. Wasn't lying then. Sure as hell wasn't lying tonight. Don't take the girl — that's the only rule I've got, and I'll say it to anybody who asks."

III. The Waiting Room

The years after that went the way years tend to go — fast, in the way you only notice looking backward. Jake left for the Navy the way you'd always half known he would, chasing something in the sky he'd been chasing since he was a boy standing at the edge of a creek daring the world to keep up with him, and you built a life that bent itself, without much resentment, around deployments and distance and the particular ache of loving someone whose job occasionally required him to be unreachable at thirty thousand feet. You married him in a small church outside the town you'd both grown up in, and Bradley stood up as his best man and made a toast that was somehow both filthy and moving, and life, for a long while, was as good as either of you had any right to expect.

It was supposed to be a normal delivery. That was the thing you kept turning over, afterward — every appointment had gone fine, every scan, every checkup, right up until the moment it very suddenly wasn't fine at all, and the calm hospital room turned into a blur of raised voices and moving bodies and someone telling Jake, very firmly, that he needed to step outside now, sir, right now.

He did not, by his own later admission, handle the waiting room well.

He didn't sit. Couldn't. He paced the length of it in his flight suit — he'd come straight from the base, hadn't even had time to change — boots scuffing the same stretch of tile over and over, jaw locked, hands shoved deep in his pockets like it was the only way to keep them from shaking. Every time the door opened he was halfway across the room before he registered it wasn't for him.

He wasn't a praying man, as a rule. Hadn't been to church regular since he was a boy, hadn't found much use for it out on the flight line where the only thing that saved you was your own hands and your training and a healthy dose of luck. But standing in that hallway, staring at a closed door he had no clearance to walk through, he found himself doing it anyway, low and rough under his breath, over and over, the same handful of words.

Take me instead, if somebody's got to go. Take whatever this costs out of me. Just don't take the girl. Please. Don't take her.

He didn't know how long he stood there. Time did something strange in hospital hallways, stretched and compressed in ways that made no sense afterward. He thought about the creek. He thought about a gas station off Route 9 and a night he'd once thought was the scariest of his life, back before he knew what real fear cost. He thought that if the universe was going to keep asking him to make the same choice over and over, it could at least have the decency to let the answer stay the same every time.

Don't take the girl. Take me, if somebody's got to go. Just not her.

The door opened.

He was across the hallway before it had swung halfway, already searching the nurse's face for whatever verdict she was carrying, braced for the worst the way you brace for turbulence you can see coming — and then she smiled, tired and warm, and said the words he would replay for the rest of his life like a mission debrief he never wanted to forget a single detail of.

"She's asking for you. Both of them are just fine."

He didn't remember crossing the room. He remembered the door, and then he remembered you — exhausted, pale, smiling at him like he'd hung the moon, a small, furious, red-faced bundle held against your chest — and he remembered crossing to you in three strides and dropping to his knees at the side of the bed like his legs simply couldn't hold him up any longer, one hand finding yours, the other coming to rest, feather-light, like he was afraid he'd break something, against the baby's tiny fist.

"Hey, flyboy," you said, voice cracked and hoarse and utterly delighted. "You look terrible."

"Feel terrible. Best terrible of my whole life." His voice wasn't steady, and he didn't try to make it be. He pressed his forehead to your hand, to the baby's fist, breathing like a man who'd just pulled out of a dive he genuinely hadn't been sure he'd survive. "I thought — for a minute there, I thought—"

"I know." You freed your hand just enough to card your fingers through his hair, the same gesture you'd been doing since you were kids and he'd come up from that creek soaked through and shaking, and it steadied him now the same way it had then. "I'm here. We're both here."

"Yeah." He let out a breath that seemed to come from somewhere very deep, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles, then to your temple, then finally — carefully, like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed — to the crown of the baby's head. "You're here."

He stayed on his knees at that bedside a long while, not saying much else, just holding on — to your hand, to a story that had started at the edge of a creek and very nearly ended in a hospital hallway, and to the two people in the room he had, in the end, never once considered a world without.

"Guess this makes three times now," you murmured eventually, half-asleep, teasing even through the exhaustion. "The creek. The gas station. Now this. You've spent our whole life telling somebody or something not to take me."

"And I'd say it a fourth time, a hundredth time, if it came to that." He pressed his lips once more to your hand, quiet, certain, the same nine-year-old conviction still sitting under every word. "Don't take the girl. Simplest thing I've ever known to be true. Just glad I get to keep saying it instead of meaning it."

★・・・・・・★

a/n: its been a while since i listened to the song to i had it on in the background while writing, country music is like the one thing i think that makes me yearn that i was a small town southern american girl like i love the accent ngl (and cowboys lol) (then i remember its america lol but allas)

[thefictionalmanswhxre]

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

𝑺𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒆𝒔 | 𝘸𝘤: 𝟏.𝟕𝑲+

𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘕𝘋𝘖𝘕 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘒 𝘟 𝘍𝘌𝘔!𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘋𝘌𝘙

summary: 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘬

warnings! 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘰, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘧𝘢𝘣, 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘴, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𑣲 𝘢/𝘯: 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦!𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘩 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶

Brendon is working on paperwork for a string of consults he had just finished when a laugh pulls him from his thoughts.

Not just any laugh.

Yours.

He looks up to see you laughing in conversation with Trinity Santos.

He’s immediately captivated by you.

Brendon’s had a crush on you for a few months now but is scared you won’t reciprocate the feelings or give him a chance.

You’re sunshine embodied. You wear your heart on your sleeve and have more empathy in one finger than anyone could have in their entire body.

Then there’s him with a brooding attitude, resting bitch face, and intimidating demeanor that is completely opposite of you.

He sees you look over at him, your smile getting bigger,

You wave at him before saying something to Trinity before making your way over to him.

“Hey shark!” you say while propping your arms on the desk counter.

He can’t help but smile back, completely smitten with you.

“Hey star” he greets while giving you his full attention.

The nickname was specifically picked by Brendon in reference to your bright and glowing personality. 

It was special and you loved it.

You loved more than the nickname.

You loved Brendon.

Some of the pitt crew tried encouraging you to say something to him but you couldn’t.

What if I’m annoying?

Does he think I’m ‘too happy’?

What if I don’t look good today?

Would he even feel the same?

Those were just a few thoughts that held you back every day from pursuing your favorite surgeon.

You gently tap his hand as you start to back away.

“If I don’t see you before shift change, have a great day and a good night Brendon.”

“I told you it’s okay to call me Bren, sweetheart,” he raises an eyebrow playfully at you “but I hope you have a great shift too, star.”

Your heart skips a beat from him calling you ‘sweetheart’.

“Thank you Bren. See you when I see you” 

Then you hurry away to find Robby for your next line of cases.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re currently catching up on charts when you glance over to a room close to you. There’s a patient there, just resting. But something is telling you to go check on them. You’re not sure why but you trust your gut and make your way over.

You pull his chart from the end of the bed 

Samuel Kingston, age 57

You close the chart and go to his side.

“Mr. Kingston, I’m a nurse and I just wanted to check and make sure you’re doing alright tonight.”

Mr. Kingston can barely open his eyes. He can barely respond and you notice his shallow but slightly rapid breathing.

“Mr. Kingston? Are you feeling okay?”

You quickly examine his eyes. Unfocused.

You can see sweat start to form on his hairline.

Quickly you take his blood pressure manually.

Fuck. It’s low. Way too low.

You reach for his chart and check his medication doses since being admitted.

The chart states he is on strict blood pressure medication for hypotension.

Then you see the medication doses.

He was supposed to have a dose earlier this morning and the space is blank.

No time administered or an initial to indicate he was checked on.

The resident on his case was Dr. Menton, a newer resident.

You quickly make it to a supply cart and find a bottle of Midodrine. As you start administering it, a voice enters the room.

“Hey Mr. Kingston, It’s Dr. Ment– HEY!”

As you finish the medication dose, a hand grabs your arm and pulls you back and grabs the syringe from you.

“What do you think you’re fucking doing?”

You look at him bewildered.

“What am I doing?” you start “Where the fuck have you been? Mr. Kingston wasn’t given his morning dose of meds for his hypotension. You’re lucky I was even over here. He could have d–”

“What the hell is going on here?” Robby’s voice cuts through the chaos.

You both turn towards the chief attending as he rushes in with another resident on his heels.

“I came in and I–” you’re quickly cut off by Dr. Menton

“I came in, Dr. Robby and found Mr. Kingston suffering symptoms of his hypotension. Whoever was supposed to administer his medication this morning didn’t . Luckily I was just outside to notice him suffering the consequences of that missed dose.”

Menton gestures towards you “your nurse here, gave me attitude and tried telling me how to do my job.”

Your eyes widen in absolute shock.

“What are y-”

“ENOUGH!” Robby shouts as he shakes his head.

“Thank you Dr. Menton for stepping in and helping Mr. Kingston. Star, go find something to do and please show more respect for your resident.”

Dr. Menton glances at you with a smirk and follows Robby out of the room after Mr. Kingston is stabilized.

You stay stuck to your spot and stare at nothing.

Tears start to fill your eyes as your breathing becomes uneven.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Brendon is on his way back to the orthopedic floor, hoping to pass you on his way.

Just as he’s about to turn the corner he hears sniffling.

He stops momentarily to listen closely.

There’s more sniffing followed by muffled crying.

Brendon walks towards the noise and pulls back the curtain to the room it’s coming from.

Who he sees standing there makes his blood run ice cold.

There you are, his star, face wet from tears, eyes red and lips trembling as you silently cry.

“Star…” he can barely get the word out.

You look up and see Brendon.

His face softens at your distressed state as his anger simmers inside.

Whoever did this to you would suffer greatly.

“C’mere sweetheart,” he walks to you and pulls you into his arms.

The gentle gesture makes you cry even harder.

“Shhh star, I’m right here.” 

His low and soft tone soothes you and makes you feel safe. 

After a few minutes he slowly pulls himself back and lifts your chin to meet his eyes.

“You know you’re not leaving this room without telling me who did this and what happened.”

You huff lightly “I know, Bren” you say in a whisper.

You then spend the next twenty minutes explaining to Brendon what happened with Dr. Menton

As you do, he can’t help but clench his fists and hope he gets the chance to meet Dr. Menton and give him a tip or two about how to not upset his crush favorite nurse.

He wipes a tear from your face as you finish.

“I just wish I had said something and not let him think he could do that shit.”

You say in frustration.

“I know I'm not intimidating but like I could learn to be tough, I think.”

Brendon smiles at you pacing while talking to yourself. You’re definitely not intimidating by a mile. That’s fine with him because he’d prefer to defend your honor and you just stand back and look cute.

But he understands your frustration.

“Okay star, listen,” he grabs your shoulders and turns you towards him.

“You’re gonna find this jackass. When you do, you look him in the eyes and you tell him that shit won’t fly anymore. You might feel scared and that’s okay because you’re standing up for yourself and getting the respect you deserve. I don’t think Dr. jackass will try that shit ever again.”

You tilt your head a little and look up at him with your big sad eyes.

“You think so?”

He smiles wide, “I know so, baby.”

Standing on your tiptoes you kiss Brendon’s cheek “Thank you Bren. You’re the best.”

The touch of your lips on him has his whole body go still but feel on fire.

Yeah, he’s definitely head over heels for you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s getting close to the end of your shift when you pass a room and you see Dr. Menton looking at some paperwork.

You take a deep breath and walk in.

“Dr. Menton…”

He looks up and immediately rolls his eyes.

“Well if it isn’t miss ‘can’t mind her own business’. What do you want?”.

Your eyebrows furrow at his tone.

“Listen here Menton,” you get in his face “I did my damn job today. Actually no, I did your damn job. You’re lucky Mr. Kingston didn’t die from your negligence. So, as of today, that shit won’t happen again. I won’t tolerate your shit.”

Dr. Menton chuckles in amusement, about to not take you seriously at first but he sees something in his peripheral. Glancing over your shoulder he sees something truly intimidating.

Brendon Park. 

Also known as the shark and for good reason.

Getting on his bad side is waiting for a bomb to go off so most people steer clear.

Brendon stands around a corner outside of the room in the distance, arms crossed with a scowl. When he makes eye contact with Brendon, he gives a stare that screams “listen to her or I’ll make you”

Menton’s eyes widen as he looks back to you.

You poke a finger into his chest “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to find Robby and tell him what really happened. You’re going to give me the credit I deserved. And lastly, you’re not going to pull this shit ever again. Not with me and definitely not with anyone else. Are we clear?”

He briefly looks back to where Brendon is. Scowl still in place he starts cracking a few knuckles for emphasis.

Menton nods his head quickly as he looks back to you

“Y-yeah I got it. I’ll go find Robby now and tell him. S-sorry.” He says quickly before leaving the room in a hurry.

Park smirks from his hiding spot at the resident scrambling to hopefully make corrections.

He walks from around the corner and acts as if he didn’t witness a thing.

You smile at how Menton seemed to take you seriously. As you leave the room you see Brendon walking from the hallway.

“Bren!” you call his name

He smiles and makes his way towards you.

“Bren! I did it! I told him to tell Robby the truth and not do that shit again. And I think he got the memo. I can’t believe I did that and he seemed like he genuinely heard me.”

Brendon beams at you with pride “I told you, star. I’m proud of you.”

You smile wide, not knowing you had more help than you were aware of but he wouldn’t ruin your glow.

As far as you knew, you had a ‘scary’ streak now.

A scary streak that was madly in love with you

You’d know soon enough.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉: @kmc1989 @zeynire @livlovesfastcars @lospy41 @annabellq @ilocuras24 @thehockeynerd30 @straykids1011 @gf4lwt @itzpixiebabe @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @barcelonaaababe

[shadowedwolves-blog1]

Oh how I love this take on Brendon. Just wanrs the girl he's crushing on to sit back and look cute while he puts his knowledge of cracking bones to use. Uggghhh my heart

[theinkbleeds]

Bleachers, Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call

[goodieprocter]

This one was made by working backwards from the idea of a hostage note.

Live Grace reaction:

[justcakethanks]

This is incredible because it started differently so I did NOT. see it coming.

[slow-motion-double-vision]

Your smile, Your ghost (part 18)

Pairing: Brendon Park x femReader (nurse reader)

Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?

Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.

Chapter Summary: you try to give Dr. Park the silent treatment… but it just had to rain.

Part 17 | Masterlist

—————————————

The rest of the day had gone by in a blur. Park got stuck in meetings and was sent elsewhere after lunch. You didn’t see much of him. Which was good, considering you didn’t want to see him anyway.

You couldn’t sleep that night. For the past two hours, you had been tossing and turning in the dark, hoping that you could trick your brain into falling asleep.

Park’s words had stuck in your mind. Insults aside, he said you didn’t think it through. Like it was a terrible decision.

He made it sound like the Emergency Department was the worst workplace in history. It wasn’t. You liked working there.

And even if it was the worst workplace, wasn’t it your choice at the end of the day? You were smart and experienced. You stood your ground when you needed to and your patient care was outstanding. You knew you were more than capable.

You thought you were a good nurse and you assumed Park thought so too.

That’s what hurt you the most.

The way he spoke with such anger and conviction, like you weren’t capable. Like he knew better than you. Well, he didn’t. Because it was your choice and it was final.

Final if you actually got the job, at least.

Park didn’t even wish you good luck! He basically jinxed you now. If you didn’t get it, it’d be his fault.

With a huff, you turned over and forced your eyes closed.

—

It was your last day and you were determined to avoid Park, unless it was absolutely necessary. So you got up earlier, to stop by a coffee shop and get your coffee. Just to avoid him in the break room during his morning coffee.

You saw him for the first time that morning at the scrub station. His steps were loud and confident like they usually were, as he approached the sink.

Park nodded at you in greeting and you turned away, to get everything you needed. Skipping your usual chatter. You heard the water running and him washing his hands vigorously.

With the towel in hand, you turned back around to find him watching you, almost expectantly.

You didn’t say a single word.

Not when you handed him the towel, not when you helped him with his gloves and not when you helped with the gown either.

He just stared at you the whole time. Quietly too. Not until you finished tying his gown, you heard him clear his throat.

“Thank you,” he muttered. You nodded without a verbal answer.

He wanted you to listen to him more anyway, right?

Difficult patients weren’t really anything new. You knew how these things would usually go. You would note his refusal and ask for help if it got bad.

Park stepped in. Defending you and calling you his nurse. You ignored the small tug at your heart when you heard the phrase.

He could call you his nurse all he wanted, you wouldn’t be anymore. Not as of the end of today’s shift.

You tried to get ahead of Park before lunch time.

You’d grab a coffee and make your way to the trusty, old vending machines. The coffee was brewing slowly over the cup as you pulled out your phone and wired earbuds. If Park showed up earlier, you’d pretend to be in a busy phone call.

You mentioned to Roger earlier you had a headache. He blamed wireless earbud radiation as the cause for your headache. Instead, he recommended a switch to wired earbuds instead. The only wired earbuds you found were some old, tangled things from 6 years ago. You barely were able to semi untangle one of them to stick it in your ear.

The stupid thing kept falling out of your ear. No wonder you stopped using them. In your annoyance, you wrapped the tangled wires twice around your ear so it’d stay put.

You clicked on the audio your friend sent. She was getting married in a week and had sent several voice notes about the upcoming bachelorette party.

With your coffee done, you turned off your phone and tried to pull out your earbud. Only to be met with a horrible sting.

Oh no.

You forgot you wrapped it around your ear and the tangled mess had somehow become even more tangled. You pulled at it again and felt it tug at the baby hairs on the side of your scalp.

Fuck! You tried to pull a little more gently.

“Ouch!” You yelped.

“You ok?” Park’s voice came from behind you. Damn it.

You turned to him, quick to cover your ear.

“You need help?” Park approached and stared at your hand gripping your ear.

“No,” you snapped at him.

“You sure?” He asked frowning as he reached for your ear.

You pulled away from his reach, tugging at the baby hairs again by accident.

“Ow, no.”

“Let me see,” his eyes scanned your face. His hands hovered close to your ear, waiting for your permission. “Just let me see.”

You uncovered your ear and showed your tangled earbud being held up by your fingers.

“I’m tangled.”

The side of his mouth quirked up and he shook his head amused, reaching for your earbud. He took it from your fingers and leaned closer.

He tentatively pulled at the earbud.

“Park!” You twisted your head to look at him.

“I got it,” he muttered and narrowed his eyes at your ear. “Stay still.”

Park carefully turned the wired thing around, treating it like an intense surgical procedure. His fingertips brushed softly over your ear and around it, his knuckles touched the side of your cheek.

“There you go,” He slowly pulled the earbud free. Without pulling your hair out, thankfully.

He stayed close, holding the earbud in front of you. You extended your hand and he carefully placed it there, all while studying your eyes.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, looking away from his intense gaze. Angry or not, it still made you nervous.

“I’m-“ he cut himself off and placed his hands on his hips. “I’m going to get lunch ready.”

Park turned around and started grabbing the plates from the cabinets, like he always did. He could pretend to act like everything was normal between you guys, but you couldn’t.

“I’m not hungry,” you spoke up. Then walked out without waiting for his response.

You just had to hang on until the end of shift and not worry about him ever again.

———————-—-

Dr. Park was not an indecisive person. Still, he wasn’t sure how to approach this situation.

The rational part of him argued he didn’t do anything wrong. He was looking out for you. Advising you even.

When he tried to step in as the patient was harassing you, it was a cruel reminder of what was to come. You were probably about to experience much worse when you left him.

Who was going to defend you? Certainly not the old guy that called himself the chief of emergency medicine.

You were still his nurse, even if you were leaving. Of course, he spoke up.

The small part of him that felt guilt knew he had to apologize for how everything escalated. His mother had called him out on it for as long as he could remember.

“It’s not what you say, Brenny. It’s how you say it.”

It was right on the tip of his tongue after helping you in the break room.

He was going to apologize. Say how his wording could’ve been better. It was just him trying to give you good advice. He was still sure if you gave him a chance, he could convince you to reconsider another choice.

Instead, he moved methodically, struggling to let go of his pride, as he prepared the food.

You left before he could even try again. Clearly, you weren’t ready to talk yet.

Dr. Park walked out of the break room with his container in hand. Turned down the hallways to the door labeled with his name.

For the first time since you started working here, Dr. Park ate alone in his office.

——

Shift had ended later than usual and Dr. Park was dragging his feet to the elevator. He pressed on the elevator button to go down, it thankfully opened immediately.

The doors opened to reveal you standing there. Your eyes went wide as he stepped in. He sighed deeply as the doors closed.

You remained quiet. Making it clear you were still upset with him. He cleared his throat and tried to break the ice anyway.

“It’s going to rain tonight.” He glanced at you, hoping to gauge a reaction.

You nodded.

“Did you bring an umbrella?” He couldn’t help but ask.

You hummed.

He examined you. The tiredness was evident in your body as you slightly slouched with your bag on your shoulder. You only had a bag with you, no umbrella in your hand. Liar.

The doors opened and you walked out, making your way to the exit.

That was it? He’d never get a chance to even talk to you if you didn’t talk back to him.

As he got closer to the raindrop-stained doors, he realized the weather report had been right. The doors swung open and he regretted not bringing his umbrella. You were standing next to the door, putting on a hoodie.

“You don’t have an umbrella.” He stated, rather than ask, as he approached you.

“I’m fine,” you said over your shoulder as you adjusted the sleeves.

“I have one in my car, you can have it.” He pointed to the parking lot.

“I said I’m fine,” you pulled the hood over your head and started walking away.

Not only were you going to walk to the bus stop alone at night, you were going to walk in the rain.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Park jogged to his car, turning it on and swiftly pulling out of the parking space to catch you on your trek to the bus stop.

He spotted you walking with your arms crossed, your hoodie looked like it was already drenched. Slowing his car down next to you on the sidewalk, he turned down the window of the passenger seat.

When he yelled your name over the rain, you stopped and turned to him.

“Get in the car,” he said.

“What? No!” You looked at him confused.

“It’s pouring, just get in.” The car behind started beeping at him.

“I take the bus. I’m almost there” you pointed to it.

“I’ll take you home,” he insisted.

“No, I-“ the whole sky lit up and roared with thunder, making you jump. The car behind him swerved and passed him. He pushed firmly on the break and turned his emergency lights on.

“Can you please just get in the car?”

You uncrossed your arms and approached his car, opening the passenger door.

“I’m gonna get water all over the seat,” your head bent down.

“I don’t care. Just get in,” he waved you in.

You finally got in the passenger seat and shut the car door.

————————————

A/N: the weather app said there were rain and thunder predictions for this week in Pittsburgh. I don’t live there, so if it’s not true. Blame the weather app NOT me

Love,

Lizzy✨

Taglist:

@generation-zero @melissa66orion @mayawainfleet @anonymouse1807 @isuckcigbuds @goldfishenthusiast67 @letstryagaintomorrow @lunadi1una @plummetingangel7 @jouska8656 @vesenia123 @tombraiderjones2505 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @lillysbigwilly @mel164 @dee-1-2-3 @laurel-inheaven @glossygirl666 @trulycayla @kearasaltynalapepper @piercethedee @snorklingfae @halfnvt @lala-berry @theradkid @iloveejackabbott @llovekats @barikawho @prettyflowerlily @moistointments @mirandameaniepants @fangirl125reader @karlawithacapitalk

[crescentalice]

girl with ptsd voice: hey, so something really bad is gonna happen, right? you guys are picking up on that too, yeah? The other shoe is about to drop, I just know it.

[depsidase]

[moonstonejpg]

f/o who talks you through your orgasm, a gentle “good girl” and “yeah, that’s my girl” spilling past his lips as he works his fingers in you, eyes stuck on your face as you tip over the edge, something akin to wonder as he watches you with rapt attention

[thombalan]

More on my Patreon 💙

Link in bio☝️

[brucespringsteen]

There should be more hours in between midnight and 5 am because I am a night owl and also an early riser morning enjoyer and I need 8 to 10 hours of sleep also

[thedegu]

I think whenever Grace dies, his gravesite would always have a guard posted. So that for as long as he sleeps, there is someone watching him. I think there would be a very long waitlist to be the Eridian who gets to watch the site, but it is also not a task to be taken lightly. Not only are you tasked with watching Grace sleep, but one also has to keep the area clean, calm, and protected, and maybe be able to answer a few common questions about the hero. It's not quite a holy sight, but it also holds a certain amount of reverence.

When they learn about the program, the second humans to arrive on Erid take shifts watching Grace sleep. They are allowed to skip to the front of the queue. They find that, surprisingly, it isn't a large memorial or anything monumental; they had seen the large statues of Grace and Rocky across two worlds. But this one is small, intimate, a hollow chamber with a few places to sit scattered throughout. It is not a traditional gravesite; instead, it has the layout of an Eridian-style classroom.

[slow-motion-double-vision]

Your smile, Your ghost (part 17)

Pairing: Brendon Park x femReader (nurse reader)

Warning: This is my interpretation of Park’s character, considering the 30 seconds of screen time he got. No medical knowledge from the writer. slightly suggestive?

Summary: Brendon Park feels like he’s being haunted by a pretty girl in scrubs who seems to always show up when he needs her.

Chapter Summary: what happens when two really stubborn people think they’re both right about something…Did you get that hint?

Part 16 | Masterlist

——————————————

The day had been long and grueling. You felt like you couldn’t catch a break and your feet ached more than usual. It was also a little bit… boring. On such shitty days, a person needs some harmless entertainment to make up for it. It was only fair.

So there you found yourself. Leaning against the window, spying on the nurse and doctor.

The doctor was bold and touching the nurse’s waist in the hallway now. It was a little too intimate to have an audience, but it was a car crash you couldn’t look away from. It was kind of cute, like a live reenactment of cheesy medical dramas.

You heard Park’s steps coming up behind you.

“Really? Again?” He asked.

You turned your head to him, “there’s been new developments.”

He narrowed his eyes at you as his chin dipped to his chest.

“She’s seeing another doctor now, at the same time” you stifled a laugh covering your mouth.

He frowned, “What?” Then stepped closer to you, pulling the curtain slightly wide. His chest was flush with your back. “There’s another man?”

“Yup,” you nodded and turned to him again. “You know this one time, downstairs in the ED. A lady who broke her arm had two boyfriends at the same time. I made the mistake of asking her in front of one guy if she wanted to see her other boyfriend. Fight broke out between the boyfriends and I got caught in the middle. I almost got a concussion,” you laughed at the memory. It was a stupid mistake you made as a beginner.

Park shook his head at your story and exhaled loudly out of his nose.

“I think there might be a third guy involved soon too. I saw her giving the eyes to another doctor downstairs.” You tilted your head further for a better view. “She’s got a whole roster of options on rotation.”

Park leaned forward and pulled the curtain shut in front of you.

“Hey!” You snapped your head to him.

He pushed you gently away from the window, his palm on your shoulder. Touchier than normal.

“Peep show’s over and so is our shift.”

“It’s just snooping, it’s entertaining.”

“You can’t live through others for entertainment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just because you’re not dating, doesn’t mean you can use that nurse as entertainment.” He patted your back in mock consolation.

“I date,” you shrugged.

He jerked his head back slightly, taking a couple of steps away from you.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do,” You nodded at him.

“Since when?” He scoffed in disbelief, searching your eyes.

“This is a workplace, not a soap opera,” you repeated his words back to him in a poor imitation of his voice. “You know what sounds really good after a day like today? A nice bowl of pasta.” You smiled at the thought. You couldn’t wait for the weekend.

Park hummed behind you. You quickly walked away to the lockers, not sparing him a glance. The day was over and you couldn’t miss your bus.

Park was funny sometimes. He obviously didn’t care if you dated or not. Most days, he probably wished you’d shut up already. You figured since your dating journey started that you’d be nice and spare him the details. It was still insulting he insinuated you weren’t capable of it, though. As if you weren’t a catch. Please.

—

The next day, you were a little jittery for someone who hadn’t had lunch yet.

Switching your weight from one foot to another, while talking to Gilroy by the white board. Your mind was on other things, you couldn’t even think of any funny questions to write down on the board. You peeked at the clock on the wall. Any minute now you should be getting a call. If you let yourself think too hard about the phone call, you’d freak out. Gilroy was the perfect distraction.

“So, how’s your dream man?” Gilroy asked as he wiggled his eyebrows at you, teasing you.

You wouldn’t necessarily call him that. “He’s there. He said he'd call me later,” You smiled and looked down.

Roger actually wasn’t that bad anymore. He had calmed down on the texts when you explained your schedule was hectic. He seemed understanding and suggested you guys should finally meet in person. You were kind of excited. But you knew not to get your hopes up too high this time.

“I knew you’d like Roger,” Gilroy leaned against the wall. “He’s a happy guy. You’re a happy gal. It just makes sense.”

You saw Dr. Park walking with his lunch bag in hand towards the break room. He caught your eye and gestured with his head towards the break room. Lunch time.

You really couldn’t miss that phone call, though. Park was going to have to eat by himself. Who knows? He might even enjoy a silent lunch today. If he asked, you’d apologize for that after.

A lightbulb almost flashed on top of your head. You turned to write the new question on the board, uncapping the marker.

The marker had barely been set down when your phone rang. You quickly pulled it out and checked the caller id. Sure enough. Right on time.

“See ya later,” you waved.

“Does this have anything to do with your man?” Gilroy asked suggestively as you walked away.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes at him as you walked down the hallway to the stairs. Away from people so you could talk in peace.

The phone call only took 15 minutes of your time, surprisingly. It went by fairly quickly and perfectly too. By the end of the week, you should get THE phone call if you were lucky.

Park’s head snapped to the side the moment your frame peeked through the door.

You couldn’t help but walk into the break room with a smile on your face.

“Hi,” you glanced at the table. His plate was half full while yours sat untouched in front of your chair. A plate full of pasta, your heart tugged at the sight.

“Is everything ok?”

“Yeah,” you nodded and sat down. He looked down and stared at his plate.

“Your food’s cold.”

“I don’t mind,” you shrugged and pulled your chair closer to the table. “This looks so good. Thanks!” You grabbed the fork and started twirling it into the pasta.

“Could’ve said something,” he twirled his fork around. “Your food wouldn’t be cold.” His eyes still refused to meet yours.

“Sorry, I got stuck on a phone call,” you took a bite. “This is really good, Dr. Park.”

“You could’ve taken a call in here,” his eyes could make holes in the plate with the way he stared at it.

“I don’t want to bore you with my personal calls,” you laughed softly.

Park stayed quiet for a few seconds, twirling the food on the plate. He cleared his throat.

“You shouldn’t take personal calls on shift. It’s a liability.”

“Oh come on,” you rolled your eyes. “Everyone takes personal calls. Don’t you?”

He shook his head. “Not unless it’s an emergency.”

“Well, it was an emergency. I got a hot date, so,” you answered playfully. You figured he’d roll his eyes or sigh like he always did at your stupid jokes.

“A date?” His eyes finally looked up at you.

“A Tinder date, actually,” you joked.

“Have you seen the news?”

“Hey that’s my line,” you pointed the fork at him.

“Don’t date a stranger from those,” He gestured with his fork, “dangerous apps. It’s what they say.”

“I’m kidding. Roger’s not a stranger from the apps.”

”Roger? That’s your date?” Park raised an eyebrow.

You nodded.

“What does this…Roger do?” Park crossed his arms and leaned back on his chair. “Is he employed?”

“Yeah. He's an herbalist and a part-time yoga instructor.”

Park burst out laughing. He was actually laughing. Out of all the times you tried to joke, the time you’re serious was the one that broke him.

“What’s so funny?” You questioned, offended.

“Nothing,” he said, covering his mouth. Cleared his throat, “Not funny. Just didn’t peg that as your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” you shrugged.

“You sure about that?” He smirked at you in a way that could only be described as cocky and amused. Stupid handsome bastard trying to distract you at the worst moment.

“Forget the dating thing,” you rolled your eyes. “I’m trying to tell you something.”

He lifted his hands in surrender.

“It’s not set in stone so I hope I don’t jinx it,” you started.

You wiped your mouth with a napkin and figured you’d give him the good news already.

“I was actually on a phone call for a job interview. I applied for a full time position in the Emergency Department.”

The grin on Park’s face dropped immediately.

“You got a job downstairs?” He asked slowly.

“Well, I’m hoping to. Did the first two interviews, they called my references. This was the third round of interviewing. So…wish me luck,” you beamed at him.

He leaned back on his chair. Turned his head to look everywhere: the ceiling, the table and back at you. Then squeezed his eyes shut, almost painfully.

“You want to work in the Emergency Department? Willingly?"

“Yeah.”

“The same department where you were almost caught in a fight?” He leaned forward on the table.

You nodded at him smiling.

“The same department where you almost got a concussion?”

“You could’ve just wished me -“

“You want to go back to where someone almost took your eye out?” The table shook a little as his knee was bouncing.

“Yes, but you’re taking that -“

“The same place where half of the people in the field burn out?” His frown was somehow getting deeper with each question.

“Well that’s -“

“Have you seen the suicide rates? Are you crazy?”

Now it was your smile that dropped. He pushed it too far.

“Did you even think this through?”

You held your hand up. “Why do you keep asking things if you’re not gonna listen?”

“Maybe you should listen more and talk less today.” Park scoffed. “Listen, I found -”

You dropped your fork and loudly pushed your chair back. This time you interrupted him.

“Well it’s a good thing tomorrow’s my last day then,” you said as you stood abruptly.

“What?” Park’s frown eased up.

“My assignment here ends tomorrow. So you won’t have to listen to me anymore.”

You grabbed your phone and walked out. Leaving the half-eaten plate of pasta behind.

Who the hell did that man think he was? All he had to do was wish you luck on your possible new job. Not ramble on about all the negatives. What right did he have? Questioning you on your decisions, calling you crazy, and telling you to shut up and listen?

Maybe you did have it right this whole time. He was a jerk and he was a jerk you wouldn’t work with again as of next week.

——————-

Dr. Park wasn’t even sure how everything escalated.

You were late to your lunch together. You didn’t tell him because you had a phone call. Fine. You apologized. But there was now less time and it was disrupting his planned lunch time with you. You could’ve just let him know.

He actually thought you were joking when you mentioned dating, which is why he brushed it off the night before. Then you mentioned Roger. Fucking Roger. A joke really. A stranger who probably thought plants and sunlight healed a broken bone. Roger didn’t even have a real job. He had a real job.

Then the straw that broke the camel’s back: your new job.

The deadline of your assignment had started weighing on his neck. He was looking into job possibilities for you. Somehow, your ridiculous belief in wishes worked and his came true, a position had just become available. It was the department right next door, you’d still be working up here with him.

Park had it all perfectly planned. He’d send you the link, walk you through the questions, help you fluff up that resume and prepare you with the interview questions. It was him looking out for you and what was best for you. Knowing your talents and how they shined here.

You didn’t even give him a chance to explain that to you. You were leaving, just like that.

But what pissed him off the most was that he didn’t know about any of these thoughts of yours, because you didn’t tell him.

You had always talked his ear off about anything and everything. But this, you kept a secret from him?

And knowing fucking Robinavitch, he was probably to blame for this job in the first place. Robby probably overworked the nurse that quit in the first place, which then made the job available to you.

Park threw away the half-eaten lunch plates. As he walked out of the break room, he glanced at the white board as he passed by. It had a new question on it.

“Ask for forgiveness or ask for permission?”

Your timing was impeccable sometimes.

—

You were treating him differently the next day. He could feel it. You were quieter and less warm. More professional than ever.

If he wanted to tell you to give him a chance and hear him out, you wouldn't let him. Quickly speed walking away from him and only talking to him when necessary. Fine, he wasn’t sure what he would tell you anyway.

What was so wrong about him wanting to still work with you? What was so wrong about him trying to make sure you were safe in your workplace?

He pushed away the thoughts as you walked in front of him, not next to him bumping his elbow like you usually did.

Your face was serious as you walked into the room, quickly replaced by a small smile as you approached the patient.

Park stayed outside, he’d give you space. Let you take care of what you needed to take care of first, then step in when he had to.

He was leaning on the door when he heard your cheery voice going through the rounds, asking the typical questions. Your voice, sweet as ever, trying to provide the best patient care. He’d start recording your voice mentally if he could.

“Shut the fuck up!” He heard the patient’s voice erupt from outside the room.

“Sir, I’m just trying to-“ you started.

“You’re so fucking annoying. Jesus Christ!”

Park pushed his back off the wall and slowly walked into the room. Your back was turned to him as you were leaning down, checking on the patient.

“Sir, I need to know-“

“Just hurry up and do your fucking job” The man was red in the face from raising his voice at you.

“Enough.” Park stepped in with gritted teeth. Everyone’s movements stopped. You stood frozen, the other nurse stood frozen and the man remained frozen with his mouth wide open. The room had gone so quiet, he was sure he could hear the patient’s heartbeat from where he stood.

“Stop berating the staff,” Park said in that voice. The one reserved for biting.

“Doc,” the patient clutched his chest. “I’m just in pain.”

“Get escorted out by security or let her do her job.” He pointed at you. “Stop disrespecting my nurse.” His voice was deeper than ever. His eyes were cold and unforgiving. Giving his usual shark stare that made new residents shake in fear.

It worked well enough since the man nodded frightfully. The other nurse tended to the patient herself and the patient turned to her instead. Talking softly and pretending nothing happened.

Park looked up at you. You were looking at him already. He swallowed forcefully.

If he could let go of his pride in the moment, he’d say something. That he felt guilty. That if you gave him time, he could explain why his thought process made sense. He was looking out for you. He always was.

But he couldn’t.

He stared at you and hoped it communicated enough.

You remained expressionless as you walked past him out the door.

————————————

A/N: I’m PMSing so now we ALL gotta suffer the consequences!!! I noticed a lot of new people joined and like the sweet cutesy moments and then I write this? In my defense, I planned this moment since I first drafted the story a month ago. But… sorry yall lol

Love,

Lizzy✨

Taglist:

@generation-zero @melissa66orion @mayawainfleet @anonymouse1807 @isuckcigbuds @goldfishenthusiast67 @letstryagaintomorrow @lunadi1una @plummetingangel7 @jouska8656 @vesenia123 @tombraiderjones2505 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @lillysbigwilly @mel164 @dee-1-2-3 @laurel-inheaven @glossygirl666 @trulycayla @kearasaltynalapepper @piercethedee @snorklingfae @halfnvt @lala-berry @theradkid @iloveejackabbott @llovekats @barikawho @prettyflowerlily @moistointments @mirandameaniepants @fangirl125reader

[shadowedwolves-blog1]

I wanna reach through my phone and shake Park. Dude is so far in denile about how he really feels about Sunny. Uggggghhhhh. So excited for the next part