I love that Loid was diagnosed with an ulcer. I think we all knew he had one, but the fact that it's actually made an official appearance in the story and has temporarily disabled him, especially at this moment where Donovan is so close, is so good.
Besides that, Twilight starts out the story as a cool, highly competent, flawless spy. But then, as the cracks begin to form in his facade, the same happens inside his stomach. He's being forced to confront his vulnerability on two fronts. And, it's possible that this arc will be Yor's. She may finally get the chance to help Loid, even unwittingly.
I wonder if Donovan, realizing Anya's significance when he runs into her at the hospital, initiates a relationship with the Forger family, using Melinda and Damien as his in. I'm almost positive this child will get kidnapped at some point, probably as the series climax, but I don't think that's coming yet. However, I think this may be the start of a closer relationship between the Forgers and Donovan, especially because Twilight is at his weakest. It would be the most narratively interesting point to bring the two men into prolonged contact.
Saw your poly masterlist, and started wondering... What would a poly relationship with Zayne, Sylus and Caleb be like? 🤔 I've seen SnowCrow a bunch and one AppleCrow fic, but never all three of them...
If you have any thoughts about being in a relationship with any of the couples too, I would love to hear them. But it's a lot of writing, so you don't have to! ☺️
OOOOH WHAT AN INSPIRED QUESTIONNNN idk why my brain never went there until i saw this ask but thank you for making it spiral with thoughts about this polycule for like a week straight lol i love you for that
Btw we may be unhinged but we're organized about it, okay (by we i mean me) so i've sorted these into categories/scenarios from most important to least important:
SnowAppleCrow x fem!reader poly headcanons
Sex life (priorities)
Yes, you do have 3 holes for a few reasons, and those are Sylus, Caleb, and Zayne...
Even though it's never spoken about, you notice there's kind of an unspoken rotation that goes on depending on their appetites and moods, but Caleb spends the most time with your mouth, Sylus spends the most time with your ass, and Zayne spends the most time with your pussy.
This dynamic has the perfect balance of 'provokers' (you and sylus) and 'punishers' (caleb and zayne). Sure, sometimes the lines might blur a bit but not one day goes by that Sylus (and you) isn't trying to get a rise out of the doctor or the colonel with provocative comments and pushing buttons. Or, that Zayne and Caleb aren't thinking of ways they might teach him (and you) the consequences of doing it.
Everyone knows when someone's had a bad day because the punishers punish harder and the provokers turn into ragebaiters.
Sylus and Caleb inappropriately use their evols the most. They love restraining and manhandling you and Zayne while they're biting, licking, sucking, etc. But! Zayne isn't above retaliating with a bit of blue balls (or blue nipples) from time to time.
Even though Caleb can be a bit bossy, Zayne is undoubtedly the one you guys obey the most, his voice is basically a leash for all of you, it's hard to resist (i may be projecting)
Example: Caleb has you writhing and begging in the throes of overstimulation? He finally stops (reluctantly) and gives you time to catch your breath when Zayne commands him to ease up.
I think Sylus resists and challenges Zayne the most (like, will he actually stop biting yours and Caleb's neck and thighs? No. But maybe he'll make sure the bites no longer draw blood to the surface). Zayne usually has the last word though.
Zayne 100% weaponizes this in public and private situations btw, one well-placeed 'behave' in That Tone at any of you will have all of you biting your lips in anticipation.
If you're not in the picture (which is basically only like... 10% of the time lbr), Caleb spends the most time inside Zayne, Sylus spends the most time inside Zayne's mouth, and Zayne spends the most time inside Sylus. The rest of the time everyone quite literally revolves around you.
The ones who like to watch most are you and Sylus. Sylus because he loves to... backseat fuck? and throw out goading little commentary like 'c'mon colonel, you know our doctor likes it more rough than that' and see the dominoes fall before him.
You love it because there's nothing more satisfying than seeing Mr. Know It All Caleb and Mr. I'm In Control of Every Situation Sylus reduced to pleading, sweaty messes at Zayne's feet.
Sylus brings the most toys into the bedroom and Caleb is the most reactive to them until it gets to a point where Sylus is only buying toys with the intent of using them on Caleb.
All three of them have 1000/10 aftercare abilities, but Zayne enjoys and does it the most because Caleb is usually too spent and Sylus is usually to caught up in kissing you to move.
Caleb has, at one point, been able to restrain all 3 of you with his evol.
Domestic life
Caleb is absolutely the designated cook and baker. All of you get personalized lunches packed for you (but only you get a little note from him in yours).
Caleb also gets a lunch but it's catered to his Fleet desk everyday courtesy of Mephisto lol
As soon as things become semi-official, Sylus and Caleb unknowingly set up their own spyware cybersecurity on everyone's devices. It takes them probably less than a day to realize this and do the spider-man finger pointing thing. This is what gets them to actually team up to engineer probably the most egregious and thorough spyware in existence all so they can monitor protect each other and you and Zayne.
Sylus also took a huge interest in Caleb's model planes, that's something they build together now while you and Zayne read or do a puzzle together.
Zayne is of course the health habit monitor, gets on you and Caleb for your hours of screen time while gaming and he gets on Sylus for his sleeping habits and the amount of time he spends straining his eyes to tinker with things.
You, Sylus, and Caleb retaliate against him by reducing the amount of sugar and sweets in the house (by eating it or stashing it away from his eyeballs) and by scheduling dentist appts for him against his will.
Sylus, of course, spoils everyone rotten by lavishing them in their favourite things.
Zayne and Sylus are the most difficult to take care of when sick, Caleb's had to use his evol on them many a time to make them listen and stop trying to work.
If it were up to Zayne, Caleb, and Sylus, your feet would literally never touch the ground. You genuinely debate sometimes on creating a schedule with how much time you're spending in a lap, on a chest, or carried around.
There's no assigned sleeping position but the one you guys most commonly find yourselves in is Caleb spooning you, Sylus spooning Zayne, and you and Zayne facing each other with your hands linked.
Less comfy but honourable mention sleeping position: You asleep on Sylus' chest with Caleb and Zayne on either side of him.
Miscellaneous
The group chat is primarily driven by you and Caleb sending memes or making fun of each other. Zayne and Sylus like to read and be entertained but usually only chime in if they're defending someone, themselves, or if there are plans being made.
Caleb and Sylus have tried to sneak Clopidogrel home on multiple occasions only to be thwarted by you and Zayne.
All of you have adopted Luke and Kieran. They love it because they play mind games with you guys all the time so they can get permission to do things they know they're not allowed to do, and so they can get stuff that they know they're not allowed to have. They also hate it because when they're caught there are now four adults to scold them instead of just one.
Caleb is even meaner to Gideon after this relationship is official because he and Zayne really click and Caleb is not okay with that.
All three of you have gone to the hospital with a fake injury just so you can spend some time with Zayne.
hi honey, could u possibly write something like reader and brendon go to a medical conference and there’s tension and the classic one bed trope?! and there’s smut and fluff ❤️❤️
Early Mobilization - Brendon Park x fem!reader
Summary: Dr. Park hates Dr. Park… But what happens at an orthopedic conference, stays at an orthopedic conference… right?
Warnings: SMUT, enemies to lovers (I tried my best), the hotel only has one bed, a little OC reader, since her last name is Park and she's a physical therapist who doesn't accept medical prescriptions (especially prescriptions not based on current evidence) (I might be projecting hehe).
The lobby of the Pacific Ocean Hotel shone with the cool light of LED lamps embedded in the ceiling, reflecting off the polished marble floors as if there were a thin layer of water across the entire surface. Directional signs pointed to different wings of the Annual Orthopedic Conference, one of the biggest events of the year.
Park adjusted the name tag hanging around her neck, where her name appeared in large letters: Dr. Yn Park, PhD, Chief of Post-Surgical Orthopedic Physical Therapy. She liked the full title. She especially liked "Chief." Not because she was vain (well, maybe a little), but because she had earned that position through sweat, study, and an almost unbelievable stubbornness.
On the other side of the lobby, wearing a navy blue suit that he wore with the ease of someone born to wear expensive clothes, was the reason for her pursed lips at that moment.
Brendon Park. Chief of Orthopedic Surgery at the same hospital.
Same last name. No family ties. No marriage. Just a coincidence that the interns loved to discuss in the hospital corridors. And that both professionals detested with equal intensity, albeit for completely different reasons.
She sighed, turned her face away, and headed towards the display area. She needed to see the new Stryker hip prostheses, especially the model that promised early mobilization in less than 24 hours post-surgery.
The problem was that Brendon also needed to see the same prostheses.
It was as if the universe were orchestrating a real-time comedy of errors. She approached the Zimmer Biomet booth, and he appeared at the Smith+Nephew booth next door. She went to the DePuy Synthes booth, and he was three meters away, examining a knee model with a digital sensor.
"Are you following me, Dr. Park?" she asked, barely concealing her irritation, when their paths crossed in front of a counter of hydroxyapatite-coated hip prostheses.
Brendon raised an eyebrow. His shark eyes grew even colder.
"I think you've overestimated your own center of gravity, Dr. Park. The world doesn't revolve around your pelvis."
"Creative." She rolled her eyes. "At least it's not 'you're defying my post-operative instructions for the hundredth time.'" She deepened her voice to provoke him further.
"That's tomorrow. Today I'm off from arguing with you." He continued walking. She watched him for a second, bit her lower lip, and turned her attention back to the prosthesis in front of her. The piece was beautiful (clinically speaking) with a porous surface that allowed for faster osseointegration. The company representative, a redhead in a white coat, perked up at the interest.
"This is the new Trident II, Dr. Park. We've reduced polyethylene wear by thirty percent and…"
"And what about mobilization?" she interrupted, because for her, that was what mattered. "The latest physiotherapy protocols indicate mobilization between four and six hours post-surgery. Does this prosthesis fit into that, or should we still follow the old protocol of twelve hours of rest before the first ambulation?"
"Absolutely! If the surgery was done correctly and without complications, passive mobilization can and should be done between four and six hours, while ambulation can be performed as soon as the patient has fully recovered from anesthesia, to avoid the risk of falls."
She smiled. A small, victorious smile, directed not at the representative, but at the broad back of Brendon Park, who was still standing beside her, visibly tense.
“See, Dr. Park?” she called, raising her voice slightly. “They also like early mobilization post-surgery.”
Brendon didn’t turn around immediately. For a moment, she thought he would ignore her. But then he spun on his heels with the precision of a surgical pivot, his arms crossed over his chest.
“I saw, Dr. Park. But you know passive mobilization is different from ambulation. Passive mobilization isn’t putting a total hip arthroplasty patient to walk two hours after leaving the recovery room.”
“He was fine to ambulate and you know it!” she accused, placing a finger on his chest.
“Mr. Wallace, seventy-two years old, severe osteoarthritis. I prescribed relative rest for twenty-four hours with limb elevation and isometric exercises!” He recruited, taking a step forward. The saleswoman took two steps back, clearly knowing that this was not a discussion for third parties.
"Are you listening to yourself? Elevation with isometric exercises? I knew you were stubborn, but I didn't know you were stupid! This rehabilitation protocol, besides increasing the chances of clots, is also outdated and weak! I got him walking, I made him lose his fear of standing up and sitting down!" she raised her chin proudly. "He left the hospital in two days, without complications, with a range of motion of one hundred and ten degrees at discharge. You saw the result."
"I saw that he had an episode of postural hypotension on his first attempt to stand up. " he retorted as if it were a great argument.
"Oh, for God's sake! If you lay there for hours and stood up all at once, you would also have hypotension! And you wouldn't recommend a wheelchair for yourself for that!" she retorted in a slightly louder tone. "Thanks to me, Mr. Wallace didn't have deep vein thrombosis, contractures, or adhesions, much less quadriceps atrophy or any of the other things that happen when you keep an elderly person in bed for twenty-four hours just because they're old!!!"
The few professionals near the booth began to look. The Stryker representative feigned interest in a pen that was on the counter.
Brendon stepped forward. He was taller than her, which irritated her deeply because it meant he was always looking down on her, literally.
"If I followed all your guidelines, Dr. Park, your patients wouldn't even be able to walk because they would have broken the prosthesis fixation before getting out of bed," he replied. "There's capsular stability to consider. There's soft tissue tension. You treat everyone like they're a twenty-year-old Olympic athlete. That's not how orthopedics works."
"Funny you should say that," she laughed without the slightest humor. "Because it really is, maybe not how orthopedics works, but that's how PHYSICAL THERAPY works," she emphasized the word as if it were a punch. "Evidence-based medicine, Dr. Park. Unless you've stopped reading the journals in the last five years, you know very well that early mobilization reduces hospital stay, reduces complications, reduces pain, and improves functional outcomes. You should thank me. And let's be honest, you just don't want me to get patients on their feet because you're afraid you've done a bad job!"
He snorted. A short, dry sound, almost a growl.
"I don't do bad work! And should I thank you for systematically ignoring my post-operative recommendations?" Now he laughed humorlessly.
"Yes. Because my recommendations are better than yours."
The silence that followed was charged with a tension that wasn't just professional. She felt a chill run down her spine, but attributed it to the low temperature of the lobby's air conditioning or his cold gaze…
Brendon looked away first. He opened his mouth, but said nothing. He just turned and left.
She stood there, her heart beating a little faster than normal, and forced herself to focus on the hip prosthesis. But her hands were sweating.
The afternoon brought a series of endless lectures. She sat in the second-to-last row of the main auditorium (her seat marked by her name) near the aisle, a strategic position to quickly leave if the content wasn't relevant. She already had a mental list of which presentations were worthwhile: Accelerated Rehabilitation in Arthroplasties, Early Discharge Protocols in Post-Operative Shoulder Surgery, and the controversial Squatting after Total Knee Replacement: Yes or No? The latter clearly unmissable.
She was writing something in her notebook when she felt a presence beside her. A large, warm body that emanated a scent of expensive perfume and black coffee.
Brendon.
He sat in the chair next to her. Not because he wanted to, she knew that, but because the congress registration system, which for some infernal reason organized the seats alphabetically by last name, had placed the two Parks in the same row since day one.
"Can't you sit somewhere else?" she whispered, without taking her eyes off the iPad.
"Twenty years of congresses, Dr. Park. I've learned that arguing with the seating system is harder than arguing with you. And arguing with you is already high-risk surgery."
She bit her lip to keep from smiling. She wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.
The first lecture began: an orthopedist from Chicago talking about Osteotomies in Varus Knee. She listened attentively for ten minutes, then began taking notes on an article she was writing about the influence of fear of falling on adherence to rehabilitation in the elderly.
The second lecture was on Reverse Shoulder Prostheses.
In the third lecture, finally, the topic she had been waiting for: Postoperative Mobilization in Lower Limb Arthroplasty.
The presenter was a German physiotherapist who spoke English with a heavy accent and used slides with colorful graphs. She straightened up in her chair, her eyes fixed on the screen.
"…and our data shows," the physiotherapist lecturer said, "that assisted ambulation within the first six hours after total hip arthroplasty, in selected patients without contraindications, reduces the average length of hospital stay by 1.7 days, without increasing the rate of prosthetic dislocation or scarring complications."
She turned her face to Brendon with a triumphant smile.
He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the screen, his jaw clenched, a muscle throbbing in his jaw.
"The study only included patients with an anterolateral approach," he murmured, without looking away. "It's not applicable to all my cases."
"Oh, sure." There's always an excuse, isn't there, Dr. Park?
"It's not an excuse. It's precision medicine. You treat everyone with the same recipe."
'Me? You must be crazy. I treat following evidence-based guidelines that I adapt to each patient's individual profile. But the principle is the same: movement is life. Immobility is slow death.'
Brendon finally looked at her. His eyes were tired; she suddenly noticed dark circles under them. He must have operated all night before catching the flight there.
"You're very dramatic, you know?"
"I'm realistic. You're the one who insists on living in the last century."
The lecture continued. The speaker showed range of motion charts, pain scores, functional questionnaires. On each slide, she leaned slightly toward Brendon, as if to ensure he was paying attention.
At the end, when the speaker opened for questions, she raised her hand before anyone else.
"Doctor, regarding geriatric patients with comorbidities, did you observe a difference in the rate of adverse events between the early ambulation group and the prolonged rest group?"
The German woman smiled. She was a woman with short gray hair and red-rimmed glasses.
"Excellent question. Yes, we observed a lower incidence of delirium and less muscle mass loss in the early mobilization group, even in the oldest patients. Age, in isolation, was not a risk factor for ambulation-related complications."
She sat down, satisfied, and whispered to Brendon without moving her lips:
"Did you note that, Dr. Park? Even in geriatric patients."
He didn't answer. He just took a deep breath, so deep that her shoulder touched his with the movement. The contact lasted less than a second, but it was enough for her to feel the fabric of his suit against the fabric of her clothes.
She moved away quickly, as if she had received a shock.
The rest of the afternoon was an exercise in mutual avoidance that seemed to have been choreographed by a sadist. She would go one way, Brendon would appear the other. He would try to hide behind a column in the coffee area, she would pass within two meters of him in search of brown sugar for her espresso.
At the last lecture of the day: Complications in Revision Arthroplasties, which she considered mediocre and he attended with hawk-like attention, they ended up sitting side by side again. This time, there were no provocations. Just a heavy silence, interspersed with the sound of keyboards and pens.
When the presentation ended and the applause echoed through the auditorium, she stood up with the speed of someone fleeing a fire.
"I hope not to see you tomorrow, Dr. Park. If fate allows," she said in a sweet tone, even though her face was bitter.
"He hasn't allowed much so far," he replied, and there was something in his tone she couldn't quite place. Tiredness, perhaps.
The hallway on the hotel's twelfth floor had a burgundy carpet that muffled the sound of footsteps. She walked to room 1217, swiped her card through the electronic doorknob, heard the click of the unlock, and pushed the door open with her shoulder, already mentally choosing which pillow she would hug first.
She froze.
The bathroom door was open. Steam escaped from the door, carrying the scent of eucalyptus shampoo and aloe vera soap. And in the center of the room, with only a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets of water still trickling down his muscular chest, getting lost among the strands of hair there, was Brendon Park.
His dark hair was wet, combed back with his fingers. The towel covered little, and what it did cover was debatable.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. It opened again.
"What are you doing in my room?!" he yelled, clutching the towel around his waist. She glanced at the door, checking the number. Then she looked at her card. The same number.
"What are you doing in my room?" she retorted.
"What?"
"I'm going to call reception," she said, entering the room, passing Brendon and ignoring his disapproving look at her presence there.
She spent the next twenty minutes arguing with reception. Enough time for him to put on some pajamas. Since he hadn't imagined there would be anyone there, his pajamas were dark sweatpants.
"The hotel, in the infinite wisdom of its computerized systems, saw two Parks and assumed we're the same guest. One reservation, one room," she said with a calmness bordering on the absurd, considering she was extremely angry. "I already called reception. They're fully booked. Orthopedic conference, midnight on Tuesday. There isn't a vacant room within a fifteen-kilometer radius."
"That's unbelievable." he said.
"I agree. At least I'll get a refund. " she commented, running a hand over her face. All she wanted was to sleep. "I'm not sleeping on the floor. " she declared, planting her feet on the carpet.
He looked up at her. Was she suggesting they sleep in the same room?
"You think I will? " he retorted.
"And I'm not sharing the bed with you." she crossed her arms.
"Then you'll sleep in the bathtub. I'm not leaving here." he stamped his foot.
"Why don't you sleep in the bathtub? Oh, right, it would be too cramped with that enormous ego of yours!" she sniped.
"My ego? Dr. Park, you spent the whole day provoking me about early ambulation, citing studies, sniping at every one of my clinical decisions as if I were a nineteenth-century doctor. And now you want to discuss ego?"
"This is different. This is work." she huffed and he laughed.
"That's stubbornness. Yours."
"Ours " she corrected. " It's our stubbornness. And you started it."
"I didn't start anything. I was peacefully looking at knee prostheses."
"You were breathing my air!"
He laughed. A low, hoarse laugh, so unexpected that she almost forgot she was angry.
"'That was the most childish thing you've ever said. And you've said some very childish things. " he teased with a laugh.
She threw her bag onto the armchair, crossed her arms, and stared at the bed as if it were an animal about to attack her.
"Fine. Let's share. But rules."
"Rules?" he raised an eyebrow curiously. His strong arms crossed in front of him.
"Yes. Rules. First: equal division of the bed. Mattress in the middle. You don't cross over." she spoke as if it were a contract.
"That seems reasonable."
"Second: no physical contact. None."
"That might be difficult considering it's a double bed, not a king-size." he said as if it were obvious.
"Then sleep on the edge."
Brendon sighed, ran a hand over his face, and shook his head.
"I accept. Third rule?"
''Third: this didn't happen. Never. If anyone at the hospital finds out we share a room, I will deny it until my last breath.''
"Agreed. " He stood up, grabbed one of the pillows, and placed it in the center of the bed as an improvised barrier. "Pillow barrier. Satisfied?"
"Not at all. But it's what we have. " She sighed, grabbing her clothes and going into the bathroom to take a shower before bed.
The problem was that she couldn't sleep. It wasn't the bed, although the mattress was too soft for her back. It wasn't the silence of the city, which was different from the constant noise of Pittsburgh. It was Brendon's presence thirty centimeters away, his body warming the sheets, his deep, regular breathing; he, unlike her, seemed to have fallen asleep in minutes.
She was turning over for the tenth time when her cell phone vibrated on the bedside table. A message from Lana, her senior resident, about a patient from the previous day.
She sat up in bed, pulled out her phone, and began to read. It was the electronic medical record of Mrs. Geraldine Murphy, 80 years old, a total right knee arthroplasty performed by Brendon the previous week.
Lava's message read: Dr. Park, Mrs. Murphy reports that Dr. Park instructed "no squatting under any circumstances" after discharge. She is confused because you prescribed progressive weight-bearing squats. Can you confirm this?
She felt a tingling of irritation run through her fingers.
"Brendon," she nudged his shoulder through the barrier of pillows. "Brendon, wake up."
He mumbled something unrecognizable to the human species and buried his face in the pillow.
"Wake up!" she nudged harder.
"What?" his voice was thick, hoarse with sleep.
"Mrs. Murphy. Did you tell her not to squat?" the indignation was clear.
Brendon sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with his hands. The digital clock on the radio read 2:07.
"You're waking me up because of a patient?" now he was indignant.
"Answer the question."
"Yes. I told you to." he snorted. "She's eighty years old, Dr. Park. Where is she going to squat? Did you see the X-ray? Her knees are on their last legs." Grade four patellar chondromalacia, marginal osteophytes, almost complete femoropatellar compartment narrowing. And you want to tell her to squat? Are you crazy?
She felt the heat rise up her neck. It was the same old argument, but now, in the dim light of the hotel room, with his breath still warm and the sound of rain outside, it seemed more intense.
"Are you stupid?" she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. "How do you sit without squatting? How do you use the bathroom without squatting? How do you get up from the floor if you fall? Squatting isn't just exercise, Dr. Park. It's function. Basic daily living activity. It's pure stupidity to tell her not to squat, and you know it!"
"I told her NOT to squat because she has a total knee replacement that's only three weeks old. The extensor mechanism is still adapting. Capsular healing isn't complete." If she squats with a load, she could rupture the patellar tendon or destabilize the femoral component.
"That's ridiculous!!!! Prohibition breeds fear. Fear breeds immobility. Immobility breeds atrophy, contractures, falls. You are condemning your patient to a worse outcome than the one you are trying to avoid" she spoke as if it were obvious (because it is).
"And you are putting my patient at risk with aggressive prescriptions that completely ignore the biomechanics of arthroplasty!"
"Aggressive?" she approached over the mattress, the barrier of pillows and the nothing now. "Putting four kilos of load for squatting on an elderly patient with good bone density and no pain is not aggressive. It's appropriate. And she was doing well before surgery, I trained her myself. Thanks to me, she will have less postoperative pain."
Brendon ran a hand over his face, frustrated.
"You're impossible".
"I'm competent. Those are different things." He fell silent, and that's when she realized. "You know I'm right."
Her shoulders tensed.
"You know I'm right, so well" she continued, her voice lower now, but no less intense, "that you keep asking for your patients to be seen by me. Not by my residents. By me. Personally. I know, Dr. Park. You call physical therapy and ask for my name."
Brendon looked at her slowly. His face was unreadable, a mask she had never been able to fully decipher, even after years working at the same hospital.
"Dr. Park…"
"So tell me" she interrupted, moving closer across the mattress. "What's the real reason for the animosity? Because incompetence isn't it. You trust my work. You know I know what I'm doing. So why? Why do you treat me like I'm a threat? Why does every instruction I give become a battle? Why can't you just accept that physical therapy is part of the team, not a subspecialty subservient to surgery?"
He stared at her for a long moment. The rain beat against the window. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
"You want to know? " his voice was hoarse, unlike anything she'd ever heard.
"Yes. I do."
Brendon Park, chief of orthopedic surgery at The Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, the man who didn't back down from open fractures, polytrauma, and prosthetic revisions, looked away.
"Because when you're in my operating room" he began slowly. "I can't think of anything else. And this is dangerous. And inappropriate. And I don't know how to deal with it."
She stopped breathing.
"What?"
"You heard me." He placed his hands on either side of her, pressing the pillow under his palms.
"I heard. I just didn't believe it." They were dangerously close now. She could see his eyes closer than ever, that arctic blue seemed more like a tropical blue, warm and welcoming.
"You want to know the real reason, Dr. Park? It's this. It's not the early ambulation. It's not the weighted squat. It's you. Your stubbornness. The way you tilt your head when you're explaining a protocol. The way you put your hand on patients' shoulders to reassure them. How you smile when you win an argument. How your hair smells when you run past me in the hallway."
She opened her mouth. No sound came out.
“I’m picking on you,” he continued, his voice faltering slightly at the end, “because if I don’t, I’ll end up doing something else. And that’s not professional. And you’re my colleague. And everything I’ve built… I can’t risk it.”
The silence that followed was so dense that she felt as if she were submerged in water.
And then, like someone leaping to the surface for air, she leaped to meet his lips. Her hands moved around Brendon’s face, feeling the shadow of his beard against her skin. Her fingers touched his hair, feeling the curls free from those surgical caps for the first time.
It was Brendon who pulled her against his body. It was Brendon who buried a hand under her pajamas. It was Brendon who made a low sound against her lips, a groan of relief, as if he had been holding his breath for years and could finally exhale.
And it was she who pushed him back onto the bed, who sat on his hips, who broke the kiss just enough to whisper against his mouth:
“If you tell me tomorrow morning that this was a mistake, I’ll make you squat with two hundred pounds on your back.”
He laughed, that low, husky laugh she’d never heard before that night, and pulled her back to him.
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She bit his lower lip gently. “Because you’re right about one thing, Dr. Park. I don’t like losing arguments.”
He rolled with her on the bed, switching positions, and for a moment hovered over her, his forearms resting on either side of her head, his dark eyes scanning her face as if conducting a thorough clinical assessment.
“Mrs. Murphy,” he said seriously, “can do supervised squats. With progression. Four pounds, as you said. But I want supervision. I want to see the videos of the execution. I want weekly evaluations."
She smiled. Not a small, victorious smile. A big, genuine smile, one that lit up her whole face.
"Okay. Now stop talking about patients and kiss me."
He obeyed.
The kiss was hotter. Her pajamas finally came out of the way, as did his pants.
Brendon dragged his lips down her neck, kissing and sucking her skin while listening to his name being said in such a pornographic way. Her hips moved against his, rubbing against each other, even though their underwear was still there.
She could perfectly feel the outline of Brendon's cock trapped in his underwear, she could feel how it hardened with each movement of her hips, how his weight made the fabric of his underwear stretch, and how, thanks to her, the fabric between them became wetter and hotter.
Brendon used his teeth to tease before kissing and sucking each breast while his hand went down inside her panties, using his strong hand and fingers, like someone who breaks and sets bones, to make her orgasm.
He began by using only the tips of his fingers, spreading her arousal fluid all over her body. Then he focused on that beautiful structure that existed solely for pleasure. And only when she wouldn't stop moaning his name, or moving in begging for more, did he use his two largest fingers to enter her body and curve into a precise spot.
Brendon was never a big fan of partners who moaned loudly… Unless they were Dr. Park. She could scream his name to the seven seas and he would still say it was too quiet, that she should speak louder.
"Brendon!!!" she never imagined herself coming to his name, but there's a first time for everything.
He didn't dare remove his hand, continuing the movements so that her orgasm would last as long as possible. But of course, this caused an almost painful pleasure, but it was incredible.
She pulled Brendon into another kiss, this one even longer and wetter. Their tongues battled for dominance, and Brendon only won when he lowered his underwear with his free hand and rubbed his magnificent body against her vulva. The wet sound seemed to echo in the room, too loud to be forgotten and too delicious to ignore.
Dr. Park moved her hands to Brendon's buttocks, squeezing and dictating a rhythm that made them both moan. Brendon moved a little further, letting his head penetrate her body. The moan that escaped her lips was swallowed by hers, and vice versa.
Brendon used one of his hands to continue stimulating her nerves, while his penis directly stimulated the base of her cervix.
She had never felt such delicious pleasure, needing to hold on to something to avoid exploding. Unfortunately, that something was Brendon's strong buttocks, marking the beautiful moons with his nails.
The sound of the rain falling outside didn't drown out the creaking of the bed with every movement. The thunder didn't hide their moans, and if before they were going to file a complaint with the hotel, now it was the hotel that was going to file a complaint against them.
Brendon came deep inside her. She came at Brendon's name, squeezing his body impossibly tightly.
They didn't move for a long time, both out of laziness and fear of breaking the bubble of calm that enveloped the room.
The rain continued to fall. The congress would continue at dawn. And Dr. Park and Dr. Park… They wouldn't continue to hate each other after this.
Epilogue (three months later)
The surgical center of The Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was a place of white lights, cold surfaces, and surgical efficiency. Dr. Park entered through the double doors at 7:32 a.m., scrubs impeccably clean, and an expression that Lana, her resident, had learned to recognize as "battle mode."
"Mrs. Donel?" she asked, picking up the chart.
"Discharge scheduled for tomorrow," Lana replied, smiling. "Squatting with eight kilos. No pain. No complications."
She smiled back. She turned to leave and almost bumped into Brendon, who was exiting the recovery room next door.
"Dr. Park. " His voice was professional, controlled. Nothing in his eyes indicated that he knew what had happened at the congress.
"Dr. Park" Her voice was also professional.
They stared at each other for three seconds. No more, no less.
"The patient in bed 14 " he said, lowering his voice - "Mrs. Kowalski, left total hip replacement. Ambulation prescription?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Are you asking my opinion?"
"I'm asking your opinion. As the responsible physiotherapist."
There was a pause. Lana looked from one to the other, confused. She didn't notice what Dr. Park noticed: the slight blush on Brendon's ears, the way his eyes drifted to her lips for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes.
"Assisted ambulation in six hours " she replied professionally. "Passive mobilization in two. Immediate quadriceps isometric exercise."
'Approved.'
"Always has been"She winked at him in response. He turned to do what needed to be done, but still let out a slight smile.
She could only imagine the gossip around the hospital when they found out that Dr. Park and Dr. Park were together.
I just love Jaskier having pre existing relationships with Witchers who aren’t Geralt.
“Wait—how do you know Lambert?” Geralt asked, the question slipping out sharp as a drawn blade, caught somewhere between suspicion and disbelief.
Jaskier blinked at him, entirely unbothered. “Oh, that? He’s my godfather,” he said, as casually as one might remark on the weather.
Geralt stared. Truly stared. His eyes widened until it seemed a wonder they did not tumble free and roll across the floor. “How,” he said slowly, “is that even remotely possible?”
“Well,” Jaskier began, with the air of someone about to recount a perfectly ordinary tale, “it all started when I was a baby, and a fae tried to curse me.”
Geralt’s brow furrowed. “A fae cursed you?”
“Tried,” Jaskier corrected, lifting a finger as though this distinction were sacred law. “Important difference. You see, the fae was hopelessly in love with my mother—tragic, really—who, inconveniently, was in love with my father. Then along came me, which did not improve matters. Jealousy, curses, the usual sort of thing.”
Geralt said nothing. He simply looked at him, face carved from stone, as Jaskier carried on, bright as birdsong.
“Anyway, it’s my first name-day, everyone’s celebrating, and this fae decides it’s the perfect moment for revenge. But—fortunate twist—Lettenhove had been dealing with drowners at the time, so my father had already hired a witcher.”
Geralt exhaled through his nose, the pieces clicking into place despite himself. “Lambert.”
“Exactly,” Jaskier said, beaming. “He dealt with the fae, saved my tiny, charming life, and my parents—being sensible people—rewarded him by making him my godfather.”
It would be so cool if patience-testing fanfics took place in the same universe, and while Maekar is with his daughter-in-law who teases him until he sleeps with her, Baelor also has the same problem with his own daughter-in-law. One fine day they both discover this and end up talking about it. Maybe because they're both in the office discussing kingdom matters and the daughters-in-law keep coming in to torment them as if it were a relay race hahahahahaha. I LOVE these stories! Thank you for writing. ❤️❤️❤️
Stop, this is far too funny. Firstly, thank you so much! I'm so happy you enjoyed it and messaged me about this!!!
And secondly, Anon, your brain is beautiful because this did not even cross my mind before. This made me think so many thoughts that I decided to write a little scene for it here: (mentions of smut...)
The original 2 fics:
Whining and Pouting (Maekar x Aerion's Wife!reader)
Patience Testing (Baelor x Valarr's Wife!reader)
Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader/s, I wrote it in both 2nd and 3rd person so sorry for any confusion lol, (significant) age gap, younger!reader-characters (20s), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
word count: ~2.7k
Baelor sighed as he settled down behind his desk, reaching over and pouring wine first in Maekar's cup, then his own. His brother grunted in thanks, grabbing the cup then leaning back in his seat with a groan, one leg crossing over the other.
Both of them looked a little weary, tired from their separate lives and happy to have this moment of peace under the guise of discussing governing matters. Baelor slowly drank the wine, enjoying the sweetness of the Dornish red, the distinct taste of home, he liked to believe. Maekar too was happy with his cup, humming in pleasure and draining half the cup in one go.
"Tired, then?" Baelor asked quietly, smiling at his younger brother who grunted and raised an eyebrow a little as he scoffed and nodded.
"Not a moment of fucking peace in this place," Maekar grumbled, taking another sip from his mug as he looked over Baelor's desk.
"Hm," Baelor nodded, pursing his lips, and neither realised that images which were far too similar flashed in their heads.
"Needy cunts," Maekar said, voice low and gruff and grumbling once more. And again, neither realised that immensely similar images flashed through their heads. Because though it sounded like Maekar was speaking about the vultures that descended on the royal family, the lords and ladies who wished to better their lot by means of flattery, both of their minds went to the very literal sense of the word.
Baelor thought of you, sitting at his feet, pawing at his legs, your wide glassy eyes blinking up at him. He thought of you, mouth sucking his finger like the most delectable treat as you moved yourself on his cock, aided only by his hand at your waist, your huffing and puffing whines. He thought of you, of your needy cunt, of the slick and the warmth and the way he could not quite get himself to think right in the presence of it.
Maekar thought of you draping yourself all over him, not a thought as to what propriety dictated. He thought of you bent over his lap, moaning and gasping as he smacked his hand against your ass, the bucks of your hips as you desperately chased him. He thought of your hands caressing his beard, you pressing your lips to his like a man traversing the desert having his first sip of water. He thought of your cunt, wet and hot and painted in his own seed.
Both men adjusted in their seats, their eyes lost to the memories of women who had whirled so unexpectedly into their lives and then into their beds. Of women who had taken their sanities firmly in their grasps and would now not let go...
There was a knock at the door, a few raps, then before either of them could tell the person on the other end to 'please come back later- fuck off!' the door opened and in whirled a girl in a dress of black and red. Maekar turned in his seat to face the door and Baelor watched his eyes begin to blaze. His frown turned into something of agitation and desire, as if he was already burning with rage merely at the sight of her.
Baelor smiled as the girl came forward, her own beaming smile aimed at him first.
"Your grace," she greeted politely, curtseying low and elegant, accepting his nod and smile before setting her eyes on her father-in-law.
Baelor liked Aerion's wife. She was chatty, sweet, a little girlish and always walking the line of propriety, but she made up for it with her pretty face and personality. He had never had cause to dislike her, though he knew Maekar had become fed up with her constant complaints and mission to seek him out for whatever petty reasons she found. Baelor could empathise with that, his own daughter-in-law had become clingy in such a way, though he had no cause to complain now...
"Father," she called, walking over to Maekar's side, gripping the armrest in both hands and getting down on her knees beside his chair so she could look up at him.
Baelor stared at the scene, a lump forming in his throat and a sudden tightness to the clothes around him. You called him the same thing, used that same breathy-intense tone that was both aggravating and endearing. Had this become a new custom he was unaware of? Did all young, promiscuous, women of Westeros make it their mission to torment their father-in-law's? He watched Maekar's hands tighten on the armrest and the cup, his eyes flitting down to look at her as his frown deepened.
"What is it?" He asked, gruff as always, and she just smiled up at him, placing her hands under her chin and blinking so sweetly that Maekar knew some absurd request was coming.
"Could I perhaps go into the city to visit the fabric market? I hear a convoy from Dorne has arrived with a new blend of fabrics that is said to be the most beautiful material! I would like to see it for myself." She was smiling so prettily up at Maekar that Baelor knew the man must have felt it in his chest. "Aerion says I cannot go because it would be 'stupid' and 'below my station' but it is only a quick trip, and I am sure we can spare one or two of the King's Guard for me. Ser Roland Crakehall has already said he would be happy to accompany me."
Maekar's scowl deepened, his cup being set down with a 'thump!' as he twisted his upper body to look right down at you.
"Yes, I'm sure Ser Roland would be more than happy to accompany you," his voice coloured with that angry sarcasm so characteristic of him. "I bet he dreams of accompanying you," Maekar spat, jaw tight with rage. He was glaring down at you, hands tense in his lap. "And for once in his life, that idiot of a boy is right. You cannot go galavanting into the city simply to see some fancy fucking fabric. Have you lost your wits?"
She pouted, brows furrowing as she leaned even closer to him, placing her chin on the armrest and clasping her hands tight together and placing them on his lap.
"Father!" She huffed, indignant. "The city is safe now, because of you and Prince Baelor!" She glanced toward Baelor, the barest gleam of a smile in her eyes. "And the King's Guard will protect me from whatever other possible dangers may lay ahead." And then her eyes brightened a little, her pout smoothing out just so as she raised her face even closer to Maekar's. "I wished to buy some and make a dress in red to match the one I wore that evening when you punish-"
"Enough!" Maekar had turned fully red, his beard shining stark and white against his skin. "Cease this at once." And he reached forward and gripped her chin tightly, between his thumb and forefinger, craning her head up until the back of her neck began to protest and she gasped. Her eyes were bright. "You are in the presence of a prince and the future king, and I will hear no more of this. Return to your chambers and test my patience no longer." Then he abruptly let her go, turning away and reaching for his cup of wine, finishing it off in one swoop before gesturing at Baelor to hand over the jug.
Baelor had raised his own cup to his lips, eyes wide and intensely focused on the scene in front of him. His mouth was parted just behind the cup, shock coursing through him. The girl stayed on her knees in front of Maekar for a few moments longer, simply staring up at him with bright eyes and parted lips before she pouted again, huffed, stood, and stomped out of the room without a farewell.
Baelor looked at his brother, his face finally turning a shade lighter as the flush faded. His eyebrows were furrowed and the anger still blazed in his eyes, his body rigid. Maekar had finished another cup of wine before he slumped in his seat, pressing one hand to his forehead and shaking his head. He glanced up to Baelor who had his eyebrows raised, a look of questioning and simultaneous knowing on his features.
"Do not. Say. Anything." Maekar grumbled, bringing his cup to his lap and twirling it between his hands, his head still shaking a little.
"She is..." Baelor began despite his brother's warning, but he could not find the words to finish his sentence.
"Insolent, demanding, improper, a brat to rival Aerion?" Maekar supplied, one eyebrow raising as he looked at his brother. Baelor chuckled, nodding and taking a big gulp of his wine.
"Yes, and..."
"Fucking irresistible," Maekar huffed under his breath, staring into his cup. Again Baelor's eyebrows raised, something dawning on him, and he adjusted himself in his seat, sitting up a little.
"Brother-" And before he could finish what he was going to say, there was a knock at the door.
"Father, may I come in?" And for a moment Maekar believed it was you returning. But when Baelor tensed a little in his seat, his eyes suddenly gaining an intense quality, he furrowed his brow and turned to look at the door as Baelor called out for the person to enter.
It seemed both daughter-in-law's were playing a game of tag. One of Maekar's brows raised as he watched Valarr's wife enter the room, closing the door softly behind her as she stepped daintily in. She was beautiful, like his own girl, but her fashions were a touch more modest (though she too seemed to favour the off-the-shoulder sleeves).
He had not known that she too called Baelor father, that she too was apparently a thorn in the side. Maekar glanced in Baelor's direction then back to her.
"My Prince," she first curtseyed to Maekar, then turned to her father in law.
"What is it, my girl?" Baelor asked, his face softening as he noted the gentle upturn of her lips and the crinkle of a smile at her eyes. Maekar's eyes glanced between them both, his mouth parting a little as the tension crawled over his skin. What the fuck was going on here? What was going on between Baelor and 'his girl'?
"I..." she trailed off, pursing her lips to suppress her smile before stepping forward casually, her dress swishing around her legs. "I have a request, and I fear you will be annoyed with me, but I must ask."
Baelor raised an eyebrow, and Maekar adjusted himself in his seat so he could lean further back, so he could get a better view of the two of you. There was something about this interaction that made him feel as though he was watching the most enticing performance curated by the most talented of playwrights. He sipped from his wine.
"Is it related to what your good-sister has just come to ask my brother about?" Baelor smirked, leaning back in his seat a little as the girl stepped forward again, her smile widening as she nodded, moving around the desk to stand closer to him.
"Yes," she dragged out the word, reaching down to grasp his hand in both of hers, running her fingers along the veins and the backs of his fingers.
Maekar's eyebrows shot up, a smirk pulling at his own lips as he watched the scene. Hm, perhaps he had misjudged Baelor all these years...
"We only wish to go straight to the market and back. We will go in the wheelhouse, and the King's Guard has men to spare." Her voice was soft, so immensely sultry that Maekar too felt his neck go hot as he watched her.
Maekar did not know Valarr's wife well, had only met her in passing at her wedding feast and she had smiled gracefully, kindly, accepted the hand he pressed to the top of her head and curtseyed low. This was not a side he had expected.
"You must know my brother has denied his good-daughter from embarking on this task," Baelor told her, allowing her to fiddle with his fingers. He watched her nod, watched her twist back and forth a little at the waist like a bashful girl.
"Yes," she dragged out the word again, averting her gaze to his hand instead of his eyes. "But... I suppose we thought, if we asked you, perhaps you could convince the prince. Or perhaps, you might be more willing," and Baelor huffed a chuckle at that as Maekar scoffed, rolling his eyes and taking a long drink from his cup.
"You thought wrong, my girl," Baelor told her, grasping one of her hands and tugging a little to force her attention to return to his face. "I agree with my brother, it is foolish and unnecessary. Send word to the merchants and have them attend you both in the Keep. I believe that is an acceptable compromise?" Baelor reached up and cupped her cheek, running the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.
Maekar watched this all from where he was slumped in his seat, his eyes following each little movement. He could see the girl preening under Baelor's attention, could see the fire in her eyes as she stared right into Baelor's. He felt as if he was intruding, as if she would jump on Baelor given another moment. Instead she nodded, licking her lips before turning her head and pressing a chaste kiss to the pad of Baelor's thumb.
Again, Maekar's eyes widened, eyebrows raising, mouth dropping open a little as he watched Baelor's figure tense, his eyes going hard. The girl giggled, leaning down and pressing a similar kiss to Baelor's cheek.
She whispered something in Baelor's ear but Maekar only caught the words "very grateful" and the way Baelor's eyes fluttered, his hands tensing on hers and the sudden shift in him. Then she slipped from his grasp, curtseying in farewell to Maekar and rushing from the room, allowing the door to slam closed behind her.
Baelor stayed frozen for a moment staring after her before his eyes finally landed on Maekar. The younger brother slowly began to chuckle, a deep sound right from his chest as he shut his eyes and shook his head. He slapped his knee once then leaned forward and poured a generous amount of wine first into Baelor's cup, then his own.
"I see now you are faced with the same problem as I, dear brother," Maekar told him, catching his breath and wiping at the corner of his eye where a tear had escaped.
"Tis a stubborn one indeed," Baelor sighed, though he had relaxed again, smiling as he slumped in his seat and drank from his cup, the wine finally beginning to have its effect, the warmth, the tingling under the skin, the haze in the brain only just settling.
"It seems insolence is bred into the young women of Westeros," Maekar grumbled, but Baelor just smiled and shook his head.
"No, brother, I do not think so. I think our house has been blessed with two very special maidens who have found a place to their advantage. I do not believe there is another out there to their likeness."
"To that I can agree," Maekar nodded, smiling a little as he thought of your fucked out dazedness, at the satisfaction that coursed through you when he put his eyes fully on you and answered your whims with sharp retorts.
Baelor thought of the way you softened around him, like a cat who began with the intention to scratch and instead curled up at one's feet, purred with pleasure and laved with love.
"But for fuck's sake, I am far too old to be keeping up."
"Seven hells, my back cannot take it. This is ten times as difficult as the Blackfyre Rebellion."
"...insatiable. No end to their desires and lust."
"...and she cannot breathe but she will still tell me to keep going..."
"...cannot hear a complaint and not go fucking mental now...so fucking annoying but so enticing..."
"...so obedient sometimes, yet so insolent others... one's head spins trying to keep up..."
May I humbly beg for more retired! Price and his wife who feeds him too good? Something about him being a bear of a man is just so scrumptious! I think id self my right kidney for some more tbh
Price gains a couple pounds (20) after retiring his abs softening, pudge spilling over his belt and shirts bulging at his beefy biceps, struggling to contain the weight he's gained.
You love it. You love how much softer he's become, you want to bite, to lick, to eat him up and his ego inflates because of it.
"Like what you see, love?" He chuckles gruffly, watching your eyes take him in, he's splayed across the couch, manspreading and making sure you see the huge thighs that practically suffocate in those slacks.
Later that evening you've got him tasting all of the baked goods you've made for the week. Red velvet cookies, brownies, muffins, you name it. Hes got it in his mouth, complimenting your cooking as he leans against u from behind.
"S'really good, making me fat though." He muttered in your ear.
"Not fat enough" you giggle, poking his abs which have a soft layer of meat over them.
He smirks, giving your temple a kiss. "Cheeky."
Cuddling with Price feels amazing. Soft naked bodies pressed together, warmth seeping through your bones as you both lay content in bed, the evening dusk casting a golden glow over your intertwined bodies.
Your head lays on his hairy chest, listening to his heartbeat, basking in the feeling of him just relaxed and holding you.
You would give everything to stay like this. So would he.
