#hbo

[gibsonsgirl]

the westerosi equivalent of #that quiet ride home after you and your bro almost died at an intersection

[kewaizii]

Anyone can cook 🧑🏼‍🍳🐀

[selkies-world]

HBO’s ‘Harry Potter’ TV Series Welcomes New Dumbledore, Snape, and Hagrid Actors

John Lithgow, Paapa Essideu, and Nick Frost have joined a “faithful adaptation” of J.K. Rowling’s novels that the controversial author will

To sum up: they still think that trans peoples human rights are an online conversation, and expect the series to run for 10 consecutive years.

So let's get ahead of this right now.

I propose a media-wide blackout of everything Harry Potter related when the first season is released. No tweeting about it, not even to trash it. No posting online about it at all - No Instagram stories or posts, no TikToks, no snaps, no memes on FB, not a word on here, nothing. They will not commit themselves to 10 consecutive years of something if the first season flops. They might attempt a second season, but we can shoot that down, too.

I cannot still be dealing with the hate this woman has for us in 10 years. I cannot still be having this conversation when I'm in my mid-30s. I need her to be dead & forgotten by then, or used as a cautionary tale after her death. We can revive the fandom after she has died, depending what her will stipulates will be done with her bloodmoney. Okay? Is that a good enough compromise for you? You just have to wait for her to die, and not leave her estate & bank account to anti-trans stuff, and then you can get back to loving Potter. Deal?

But in the meantime, we need Warner Bros. to see that they cannot make money from this show. We need them to lose money. We need them to lose enough money that even JKR funding the entire project won't be enough for them to take the risk. Right now, they're saying that JKR's reputation & blatant transphobia have not impacted their ability to find more than enough people to audition for the series. We need them to rethink that. We need them to see that this is not the next Marvel-length franchise to get rich on.

Since I know some of you haven't participated in a media blackout protest before, here's how it'll work:

Don't hype the series / fandom / author / cast up in the lead-up to the series being released. Don't trash it, either. Ignore it. Forget about it. || This means that they won't get good word-of-mouth rates online, which means they will need to really push advertising to get enough people interested.

Don't watch the adverts online. Don't like or comment on the videos, not even with hate or pro-trans stuff. || Engaging with online ads or videos in any way gives them positive data, because it feeds the algorithm & let's them make money from the adverts. We don't want that.

When the series is released, don't watch it. Don't talk about it. Don't tweet about it. Don't post about it. Don't tiktok about it. Don't complain about it. Don't trash it. Pretend it doesn't exist. Ignore it. Forget about it. || They need their launch to earn them money, and even if you're posting about how bad it is, or posting anti-JKR content using the show's hashtags, even if you're watching it in order to know exactly what to complain about & critique, you are still giving them money. They still earn royalties from you watching it, regardless of your intentions. They still get word-of-mouth and clout from you posting about it, even if what you're saying is negative. You know the expression "There's no such thing as bad press"? This is what that refers to. It doesn't matter if you're sharing love or hate for the franchise, because you're still promoting it by saying its name. Also, an overwhelming amount of negative press online can and does lead to other people deciding to watch it to see why everyone is complaining, and arguing about it online, all of which feeds the creators more royalties. We don't want them to earn money from this.

Spread news about other shows & films & franchises & books. Get a fandom which has been dead for 10+ years trending again. Get anime shows & Futurama & ATLA & Adventure Time & Owl House & Over the garden Wall & some really obscure franchises trending across all social media platforms. Get something from the 80s trending in the Top 3 on Twitter. Engage with fandoms you're not even part of. Get BL shows trending in Netflix's Top 5. || This will completely skew analytics online, and it will flood people's dashboards with cmenough content that they won't see promotional content for the series we are blacking out. It will also show spikee data for which genres & shows are more popular & getting more attention & more royalties.

Share media with transgender actors / directors / crew. Share media with LGBTQIA+ storylines. Share pro-trans & pro-LGBTQIA+ content. Share & donate to fundraisers which help Trans & LGBTQIA+ people. Share Trans & LGBTQIA+ history. Show & Share Trans & LGBTQIA+ positivity & love & pride. Do all of this without acknowledging the series or creator we are blacking out. || This will show overwhelmingly positive & inclusive analytics, which will prioritise showing more of the same content. This is what we want the data to show.

Do not give in to temptation to look the show up. Do not look up the cast. Do not look up the directors or producers or executives. Do not look up the soundtrack. Do not put anything remotely related to the series into a search bar of any kind. || Search algorithms still store data, and if enough people look the same stuff up, it will show positive online engagement. We do not want this.

Do not give the actors hate. Do not tag them in hateful content online. Do not abuse them & do not bully them. || This is just unnecessary.

Give the blackout a cool-down period. Continue to ignore it for at least 10 days after the launch. || This forces the show's analytics to fall into negatives. If you suddenly start engaging with something immediately after blacking out the launch, the analytics show a delayed uptake - but it still shows them that people will engage with it, and that they will make money from it. We do not want this.

After the cool down period, mock it. Remember the mocmery that the Velma show got? And you've seen the mockery of the Rachel Zeigler version of Snow White is getting? And how that is impacting the ratings for Songbirds & Snakes because people don't want to watch her, at all, in anything? That is what we need to create on purpose. || If a show gets hate, the creators can use it to feed controversial interest in the show - 'Come watch this to see why people are hating!'. It's as beneficial as positive reviews. They can recover from it. But mockery? Mockery & dismissal is far more difficult to recover from, as it does more damage to their names and reputation. People do not want to be associated with a project which was mocked after it lost them a lot of money. Audiences are also much less likely to engage with a series which has been publicly mocked, compared to hated.

Only mock it for the same amount of time as the cool-down period. || This prevents the series from getting a large spike in analytics.

After this, ignore it. Move on. Talk & post about other stuff. Watch other stuff. || This will result in the show's analytics returning to negatives, and remaining there.

This is a strategy which is proven to work. It has worked for multiple franchises. It is behavioural analytics. It will work for this, but only if we commit to it & get enough people taking part.

All we have to do is:

Do not watch the HBO HP series

Do not post about it online

Ignore it

Do not play, stream or buy any games related to HP

Do not rematch the movies on a streaming service - JKR will still earn royalties from that

Do not post about JKR during the media blackout

Share pro-trans & pro-LGBTQIA+ content & history instead

Support trans creators & actors

Mock the series after the cool down time & then move on

Stick to this method. It WILL work.

And to dispute any attempted justifications for engaging with it:

"But she won't be involved!" || She is listed as an executive producer for the show

"But it's not the actors' fault!" || Actually, it is. The adult actors should know better than to involve themselves with this franchise, and the child actors' parents should know better than to exploit their children's desire to be famous &/ or their love of the series, because the adults should be socially aware enough to know that this franchise will harm their children in the long run.

"But what about my childhood nostalgia!" || What about trans people's human rights & dignity? What about trans children who don't think they'll make it to 18? What about the fact our Prime Minister is selling out transgender rights of his people for Trump? Wht about all of the trans people in the UK who are now facing the possibility of losing more of our rights? What about all of the little trans girls & boys & envies who saw those TERFs celebrating stealing their legal right to identify as their gender, with champagne on national TV? What about trans children who won't be able to go on 100% reversible hormone blockers because JKR funded the vitriol which made them illegal? What about all of the trans women & girls who just lost their legal rights this week? What about our right to legally exist? What about privacy rights and medical & legal autonomy for women & afab people in the UK? What about all the trans people who just watched 21 years of work & progress go down the drain in one afternoon? Are we not worth as much as one of the many memories of your childhood?

Nobody is saying you're not allowed to watch the DVDs or pirate it or read the books or listen to CDs or records of it. Just do not use streaming services for any of it, do not use YouTube, do not talk about it on Twitch & don't post about it online.

We need this franchise to die. We need the producers to see they can't make enough money from this to justify continuing it after the first season. We cannot still be having this argument in the mid 2030s.

We need to get ahead of this right now and stamp the fire out before it kills more trans people.

You understand that buying a Tesla = supporting the Elongated Muskrat & Trump. You understand that buying McDonald's or Starbucks funds Isreal & harms Palestinians. You understand that watching Sandman supports Neil Gaimen.

So why is it so hard for you to apply that exact same logic to JKR, when you can see the harm she is causing in real time to real people?

[raskolnyxov]

saying “i hope you die” is basic. saying “i hope hbo turns your favourite game into a live action series where the original developers aren’t even involved” is real. it could happen to you. it happened to me.

[eufezco]

──୨ৎ PAGING DR. VALENTINE

synopsis – working in the pitt is already chaotic, but do it on the valentine's day week is even worse, especially when a pink box covered in glitter suddenly appears in the nurses' station, inviting everyone to drop an anonymous note. you never expected to write one, not for your attending, jack abbot. what you expected even less was jack writing one too.

c/w – medical inaccuracies !!

fluff

dana and emma had gone completely insane decorating the er.

pink and red heart balloons floated from the ceiling, curling ribbons dangled low enough to brush people's heads when they walked by, paper hearts were taped onto computer monitors, chocolate bowls appeared at every nurses' station. emma had been sticking tiny sticker hearts onto everyobody's id and dana had decorated the wheelchairs with pink bows.

the whole er looked aggressively cheerful against the usual chaos of the place.

and there was also a box.

a pink glittered box sitting right in the middle of the nurses' station that looked at you with guilt every time you walked by it. it shouldn't have been possible for a inanimate object to look judgmental, but somehow dana had managed for it to do so. there was the name written across the front in giant letters:

PAGING DR. VALENTINE

you laughed the first time you read it, and santos looked at you like you had officially lost it. next to the box sat different stacks of heart shaped little papers of three colors. pink for doctors, red for surgeons and white for nurses. underneath the tittle, in smaller handwriting, were the instructions:

pick a color.

write your anonymous love message.

drop it in the box.

half the er pretended not to care yet everyone was always paying attention to anyone that came close enough to the box. people slowed down when they walked past it and lingered at the nurses' station longer than necessary to have an excuse to stay close while someone folded a heart shaped paper and dropped inside the box.

javadi had been its first victim, she was pacing around it like a lost deer when everyone saw her picking a white paper heart and the entire day everyone spent it talking about her and, apparently, mateo. after seeing javadi mortified the whole day, nobody approached the confession box without witnesses which was exactly why you hadn't touched it.

since you first noticed the box, your eyes caught on it, and every single time, dana caught you looking.

—you still haven't put one in, —she accused you behind a chart.

you let out a laugh, leaning against the counter, —not planning on doing it.

—smart girl. this is hr paperwork waiting to happen, —jack appeared behind you, dropping a new chart onto dana's desk without slowing down.

—excuse you, this is team bonding, —she scoffed to him.

but jack was already walking away, barely glancing back, —this is exactly how lawsuits start.

—you still need to participate, abbot! —dana called after him

—hard pass!

you watched him leave. fresh out of trauma one, navy scrubs, sleeves pushed up his forearms, moving through the er with all the confidence in the world. he gave a single nod to a nurse as she passed him, said something to a patient that made her laugh, then disappeared around the corner.

dana looked up from her chart and you realized that maybe you'd been staring at jack too much. she smiled, then slightly pushed the glittery box toward you, —you know it doesn't have to be a love confession, most of these people have written words of encouragement to fellow coworkers...

you hummed like you weren't listening.

—but... —dana continued, moving papers around like she wasn't actively trying to ruin your life, —if you happen to have something to say to someone... —she looked at you over the top of her glasses, —this might be a good opportunity.

you shook your head, trying to ignore the sudden warmth growing on your face, —you can be incredibly nosy, you know?

she hissed through her teeth and nodded, —been spending to much time with perlah and princess. now i notice tension everywhere.

—there's no tension.

dana looked at you dead in the eyes.

—on your way out? —jack asked.

he spotted robby leaning on the counter at the charge nurse's station and assumed he was signing paperwork before living for the night. the er had finally fell into the night shift's pace, the waiting room was almost empty, lena had taken over dana's place and you left not long after the shift change.

but when jack got closer to robby, he realized his friend was writing carefully on a little heart shaped paper next to the glitter box.

—seriously?

robby didn't even look up, —don't distract me now. this is actually turning out beautifully.

jack noticed the color of the paper heart. despite acting like he couldn't care less about the whole valentine's day, he unfortunately knew what all colors meant.

—why's it white?

—well, i appreciate nurses, and dana put a lot on effort on this, i don't want her to not receive any messages.

jack crossed his arms against his chest, —i also appreciate nurses.

robby laughed and jack frowned. he finally folded the heart made of paper and dropped it into the box. robby clapped on jack's shoulder.

—we all know you appreciate residents more. so grab a red one and write something nice, okay?

what if you did it? the thought appeared one afternoon as you helped jack. he had just arrived for his shift and was catching up on cases before the change to the night shift. you stood beside him, updating a chart while he spoke to a patient, asking how he was feeling. jack walked to the check the monitor, grey curls perfectly messy and stethoscope hanging loose around his neck.

your eyes moved to the nurses' station for a second.

it wouldn't even have to mean anything serious, he hated that damn box anyways, maybe he wouldn't even bother reading it. besides, no one would have to know it was you. you could pretend you could pretend you accidentally dropped the stack of red little heart shaped papers and grab one while you picked them up.

what if he did it? no. it was stupid. he was too old for this. he should just ask you out like the grown man he was instead of thinking about anonymous valentine notes like a teenager. and yet, he imagined himself writing something simple, something that would make you smile when you read it. you were focused on the chart in your hands, humming at the patient's words. your eyes looked a little darker, tiredness sitting under them after a long shift and a pen tucked behind your ear because you kept losing it every other hour.

jack's eyes moved from you to the nurses' station.

nobody would have to know he did it. he was sure that you'd receive more than one note and that was why he was so pissed off about that pink glittery box. he noticed how the patients your age looked at you, how new residents followed you around and how nurses and paramedics said something nice while handing over patients.

his note would disappear into a pile of other anonymous notes from people who noticed the exact same things he did. it irritated him more than it should have. he was too old to be jelous.

except, apparently not.

—this is all yours, —you handed jack the updated chart, — and i'm leaving, my shift ended like an hour ago. if you see robby, tell him to not stay any later.

he took the chart from your hands, fingers brushing yours, —you sure you don't wanna stay?

—you asking me to work overtime or hang out with you?

—which answer gets you to stay?

you laughed and jack seemed pretty satisfied with himself for causing it. you shook your head, —goodnight, abbot. have fun.

jack watched you disappear, heard your quiet goodbye to lena at the front desk, caught one last look of you pushing your hair back as you stepped outside. then you were gone and he almost tripped walking to the pink box, as if he hesitated a second long, he'd talk himself out of it.

he left the chart in his hands on top of the red paper hearts and grabbed a couple, even though jack only needed one. he moved to his desk with the chart and the heart shaped papers, quickly, before somebody saw him, or worse, before he came to his senses.

jack dropped onto the chair at his desk and shoved one of the red paper heart from under the chart.

—damn abbot, you took multiple. how many people do you plan to write, —robby slid with his chair from his desk to jack's, —or how many notes do you plan to write to her?

jack didn't look up, pen almost freezing on the paper, —i have terrible handwriting.

—that's the excuse we're using?

—it's the only one you're getting.

what the hell was he even supposed to write?

he could't do a full love confession, not on a tiny piece of paper without his name on it. jack didn't want to say something that could've come from literally anyone in the department. anyone could tell you you were pretty, anyone could say you were kind, and smart, and... jack groaned and dropped his head into one hand. the problem wasn't writing the note, it was that when he started to think about what he truly wanted to say to you, it stopped sounding anonymous.

you arrived the next morning. february 14th.

dana and emma planned to open the box and hand out the notes to their owners during the shift change at 7 pm, when everyone was there, and yet you still hadn't gathered the courage to write something for jack. all week you'd al most done it but every single time, fear won, but today you woke up differently, braver, maybe because after today the box would disappear and everything would go back to normal.

before you could overthink it, you walked straight to the nurses' station and sat at dana's desk. god knows where she was but she'd understand. she's been a pain in the ass about it all week anyway.

you were analyzing the er from the charge nurse's place, half hidden on the spot. everyone was distracted enough for nobody to notice when you slowly dragged the heart shaped red paper from the counter and slid it in front of you. it shouldn't take you long, you knew exactly what you wanted to write, it's not as if you hadn't been thinking about it the whole week.

—i've been replaced as the day shift charge nurse and nobody had told me, —dana said, leaning on the counter, coffee in hand, as you sat half hidden in her station.

you tried to cover the red heart you were writing in as if you'd been caught doing something illegal. dana laughed.

—you know? it's good you decided to finally do it, honey.

—i don't know, i still might throw it away.

—oh, you better not. he's a little grumpy but he's gonna love it.

you lowered your eyes back to the note. the words you wrote felt too vulnerable now that somebody beside you knew they existed.

—breathe. it's cute, —dana's expression softened as she showed you a smile, —and now finish it, give me back my seat and get back to work.

you laughed and mumbled a yes, boss. you read the words on the heart paper one more time, checking that they weren't too cheesy or too obvious they were from you, which felt impossible because every sentence sounded like you. if you could hear yourself in those words, maybe jack would too.

before you folded the paper, you added a tiny heart by his name.

—okay, everyone, just a minute of your precious time!

dana's voice cut through the noise of the er loud enough for half of the department to turn around to look. she stood holding the glitter covered box and emma stood beside her. you came out of a patient room just as everyone stated gathering around them because despite all the mocking, everyone wanted to know.

across the er, jack looked at the scene leaning against a wall, robby next to him, looking far too entertained by what was about to happen.

emma started sorting the little papers by their colors on dana's counter. pink into a plie, white into a another and red...

—oh, —emma said. the entire er watched, waiting to see what caught her attention. she stared down into the box for another second before reaching inside. then, she pulled out two folded red hearts , —there's only two red.

dana exclaimed something about people in the department being boring and then something about nobody being in love with doctors because they are so emotionally exhausting. you wanted to run, preferably straight into oncoming traffic. somehow it felt like every single person in the department had already figured it out. your face burned hot yet you crossed your arms to stop yourself from visibly panicking.

—one is definitely abbot's, —trinity mumbled beside you, —if not the two of them.

—huh?

—abbot. everyone is crazy about him.

you nodded because yeah, you weren't definitely one of them. trinity kept staring across the er toward jack where he leaned against the wall beside robby, looking unimpressed by the entire valentine situation. which, unfortunately, only made him more attractive somehow.

—what do you think? —trinity asked

you swallowed, —i mean... he's cute and always nice, and...

—about the notes, —she clarified, trying not to laugh, —who do you think they're for?

—oh, —you cleared your throat, moving your eyes away from jack across the er, —yeah, one could be for dr. abbot, and the other one...

emma called your name with a smile.

several heads turned immediately to look at you, including dana's who looked moments away from ascending spiritually. you, on the other hand, were moments away from cardiac arrest. your entire body went stiff, heart hammering so hard against your chest.

emma still held the heart shaped note between her fingers, smiling, waiting for you to go an get it.

trinity gave you a little shove forward and your feet obeyed her. you showed emma a small smile back and mumbled a soft thank you as you grabbed the paper from her hands.

—well done, —robby mumbled next to jack side, a little teasing.

jack didn't answer. he just wished he could see your face as you read the note. unfortunately, you went back to your place back to santos and now all he could see was your back, though he wasn't gonna complain. santos had tried to peek once and you'd elbowed her and put the note inside your pocket. jack was trying to keep his composure, he tried not to think about whether if your silence was good or bad.

—dr. abbot, —emma announced next. again, the biggest smile on her face. in her hand sat the last red heart.

he pressed his lips together to everyone looking at him. as he approached emma, dana and robby exchanged a look. dana tilted her head toward you and robby immediately nodded toward jack. and at that moment they both knew, you had written jack's and jack had written yours.

—okay! fun for the doctors is over! now get back to work! —dana said as emma keep calling nurse's and surgeon's names.

you grabbed the note from your pocket as you walked to see the next patient, checked that nobody was paying attention and then you unfolded it:

i don't do valentine's day, but i'd love to take you out for dinner,

it was simple, just a few words, but they made your heart did a little jump after reading it. you stared at the note for another second while walking down the hallway, rereading it and biting back a smile while you tried to regain some professionalism before seeing your next patient. at least this had helped you to ease the panic of being one of the two people that had written to a doctor, to jack nonetheless. you put the note inside your pocket again as you pressed the hand sanitizer dispenser.

—oh! —you said when you stepped into the room, —dr. abbot.

—hi, —he said, turning off the monitor.

—where's the patient?

—robby took her to the scanner

you nodded, —i wanted to check up on her before leaving.

—well, she should be here in... fifteen minutes, —he checked the watch on his wrist.

you hummed. there were a few seconds of silence as you watched him work. you'd seen him like this hundreds of times before but you could never get used to jack abbot doing the most ordinary things because somehow he remained so attractive.

—someone wrote you, —he pointed out.

you pressed your lips together and nodded. you couldn't deny your heart did a little something when jack mentioned it, —yeah, —you murmured, —apparently.

jack frowned a little, —you didn't expected it?

you let out a breath, —well, not really. but let's talk about you, someone also wrote you, it's surprising that only one person did though... —you laughed, —i thought you'd receive like at least twenty of them.

—i don't think it's surprising you received a valentine letter.

you blinked, jack continued rearranging the tray with everything he'd need to treat the patient once she arrive but he lifted his eyes to yours from what he was doing.

—everyone likes you, —he added.

—jack.

—what? it's true. patients ask about you when you're off shift, nurses fight over schedules with you, half of the department looks happier when you walk by.

you shook your head, trying to laugh it off despite the funny feeling in your stomach. did he really notice all of that? —you're being dramatic.

—you also draw little hearts everywhere. on langdon's coffee cup, on kids charts sometimes, on your own name on the schedule...

heat rushed to your face, making your earns burns. god, how could you have been so stupid?

—and on my valentine's note too.

you covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms as the memory hit you again and it physically hurt you. sitting at dana's desk this same morning, looking around to make sure nobody was watching, carefully writing jack's name on the note and then adding the tiny heart beside it like an idiot. you had literally signed your own crime scene.

when you removed your hands from your face, still visibly embarrassed, you saw the look on his face. jack was watching you with a little sparkle on his eyes. got you, he thought.

—i'm sorry, jack. it was just... some stupid thing i did without thinking. i didn't mean it to come out weird or...

—it's okay, —he made a little gesture with his hand, brushing the apology like it didn't matter at all, —i wrote yours anyways.

you blinked, the words taking a second to register through the panic, —wait. you... what? —you reached inside the pocket of your scrubs and pulled out the note, —you wrote this?

—i do hate the box, i must say, —jack admitted, —and i am way too old to be dropping anonymous notes into valentine boxes like a teenager, but as much as i tried to ignore it, i couldn't stop thinking about you.

you wanted the room to open a hole in the floor and swallow you whole, just because you've been wanting to hear this for such a long time that now you didn't know what to do with the fact that jack abbot was standing just a few feet away from you admitting he thought about you often. your heartbeat was so out of control you swore he could heard it.

—sorry, i didn't mean to corner you with it, —jack said after not getting a response from you, —you don't have to say anything back.

—i'd love to go on a date with you.

jack frowned, a bit confused, and it made your stomach drop. oh no. you looked down at the note in your hands, —the dinner, —you clarified, —oh, i mean... if you didn't think about it like a date, i'd still...

jack didn't let you finish.

—i totally thought about it as a date.

you smiled, relieved, the tension leaving your body finally, —okay, —you laughed under your breath, —good.

—good, —jack repeated, —but now you should probably go home and sleep. i'd inform you tomorrow about your patient.

you nodded. he removed his gloves and tossed them into the trash. jack reached past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he grabbed the handle of the door and opened it, the chaos of the er on the other side of it but neither of you moved. you stood there, trapped in the space between him and the door frame.

with jack standing closer than ever, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the sexy wrinkles under his eyes, the scruff at his beard matching his salt and pepper hair... your eyes dropped, moving to his lips for just a second. a small smile appeared on them and jack looked outside the room to check if anyone was looking at both of you. after making sure that everyone was busy, he gave you a nod.

you bit your lip and also gave a quick look outside before leaning in and pressing your mouth against his. one of your hands landed against his hard chest for support and his instantly left the door handle and wrapped around your waist, even if the kiss only lasted a couple of seconds.

when you pulled away, you smoothed down your scrub and finally stepped back into the hallway. jack followed you out of the patient room, one hand rubbing his jaw as if he was also trying to collect himself too. he watched you very closely as he walked to the nurses' station. jack actually couldn't stop looking at you as you stopped santos on her way out and told her to wait for you.

jack leaned against the counter, eyes still locked on yours as you disappeared down the hallway to the lockers. dana looked at him over the top of her glasses.

—hr is gonna love this, —she joked.

—i told you that box was nothing but trouble.

[coligraven]

𝐓𝐈𝐁-𝐅𝐈𝐁

the pitt x reader | dr brendon "the shark" park x black! fem! reader

after snapping your leg while defending a friend in a bar fight, you are rushed to the pitt against your will. you refuse to tell the night shift your name in hopes of saving yourself from your husband's wrath, but it isn't long before he discovers what happened. and all hell breaks loose.

cw - wc: 4.2k, fluff, angst if you squint, protective brendon, jealous brendon, abbott is funny, reader is tough, brendon's a bit of an ass but justified.

a/n - send more requests if you want more pitt stuff i'm losing steam.

Years of loving an orthopedic surgeon had, quite naturally, turned a large part of ordinary life into forbidden territory.

Power tools were out.

Motorcycles, absolutely not.

Seat belts were nonnegotiable, lawn mowers were "death traps," and trampolines might as well have been medieval siege weapons.

Snowboards, mountain bikes, ladders, roofs.

Jet-skis, regular skis, bagel slicers, box-cutters.

Dogs with too much enthusiasm—every one of them had been blacklisted by a man who had seen too many fractures, too many mangled hands, too many limbs that couldn't be saved.

Even jogging too much had earned a suspicious side-eye from him, Brendon muttering darkly about cumulative joint damage and cartilage wear as if the use of your legs was a personal betrayal.

He had known long before marriage that you possessed a surplus of common sense the rest of the population seemed to mysteriously lack—especially in the realm of mundane, everyday tasks—and part of what had first drawn him to you was the cutting sharpness of your mind.

You were the first woman he had ever met who could truly keep pace with him, match his wit stride for stride, keep him honest, keep him guessing.

You never once allowed him to disappear too far into the polished arrogance of a surgeon's ego without neatly taking him down a peg and planting him back on earth where he belonged.

And yet, somehow, the sight of a mandolin slicer anywhere near your hands still sent his pulse into a frenzy, the same way he used to go visibly pale if you so much as reached for a meat cleaver.

It had always annoyed you—that suffocating, almost absurd protectiveness—because Brendon knew exactly who you were.

He knew you were careful.

Capable.

Sensible.

So for him to look at something as harmless as jogging and act as if your knees were one careless mile from catastrophe, it had always felt, if you were honest, just a little belittling.

But now, given your current situation, you had the creeping feeling that once he found out, he would never let you leave the house again.

"Thirty-two year old female involved in an altercation at a bar!" one of the EMTs piloting your gurney barked, breathless but practiced as the trauma team converged at the threshold of PTMC's emergency department. "Exchanged blows with an adult male, was knocked to the floor during the crowd surge, then sustained a compound tib-fib injury after being stepped on."

Jack Abbot was already at your bedside, gloved hands moving with cool efficiency over your face and splinted leg while Dr. Ellis and Dr. Shen flanked the gurney

"Active bleeding from the right temple, three-centimeter scalp lac. Split lower lip. Bilateral abrasions to the knuckles consistent with closed-fist strikes. Open fracture to the left tibia—visible bone protrusion lateral shin, splinted in field, distal pulse present before and after splint placement, foot warm, cap refill under two seconds."

You groaned, voice slurred but sharp with irritation as you pressed the blood-soaked pad tighter to your temple, "I told you guys to take me to Presby."

One of the EMTs exhaled through gritted teeth, exhausted. "Ma'am, please, this was the closest hospital."

John Shen's brows shot up as he glanced at the shredded knuckles and the blood on your lip, "You got into a fight with a man?"

Despite the temple blood trailing warm down the side of your face, you turned your head just enough to flash a crooked, drunken smirk. "You should see the other guy."

Your friend, Nicole, breathless and disheveled beside the gurney rail, immediately jumped in, "He pushed me off the bar while I was dancing. I was fine—she really didn't have to—"

"Shut up, Nic," you muttered, eyes half-lidded but fierce. "The bastard had it coming."

Jack's mouth twitched into a smirk as he palpated carefully around the temple wound, gaze laser-focused, "I like her."

Ellis leaned in, penlight already out as she held your cheek steady, guiding the light over your pupils, "What about the head lac? Did you fall into glass?"

You huffed a humorless laugh, "No. He clipped me with one of those ugly rings he was wearing."

You shifted, trying to lift the bloody gauze pad from your temple.

"I'm not concussed," you assured. "I just need some water."

"Keep that dressing on, ma'am," the second EMT said firmly, pushing the gauze back against your head.

The first nodded to the physician team.

"Intoxicated but alert and responsive, GCS 15. Oriented to questions. Respiration's normal, O2 sats 99,  blood pressure 128 over 82, pulse 112 sinus tach, likely secondary to ethanol, stress response, and blood loss. Pupils equal and reactive. Denies loss of consciousness."

"Open fracture site dressed with sterile wet gauze, leg immobilized with vacuum splint, bleeding at temple controlled with direct pressure," the second EMT added. "No narcotics administered en route because patient repeatedly stated she doesn't feel any pain and remained hemodynamically stable."

That made Dr. Shen glance up sharply."No pain?"

The EMT gave a grim look, "None. Not even when we aligned the leg."

You shrugged, "I got a high tolerance."

"Yeah, adrenaline and alcohol'll do that to you," Dr. Abbott confirmed.

Ellis's eyes flicked up, "Name?"

Your gaze immediately shot to the ceiling.

The EMT gave a helpless shrug, "She's refusing to state. Friend won't provide it either."

Nicole pressed her lips together apologetically and stayed silent.

You let out a sigh, muttering, "My husband'll kill me if he finds out."

John gave a short incredulous scoff, partly joking, "What, does he work here or something?"

"Yes."

Ellis deadpanned, already reaching for the side rail as they turned toward Trauma One, "That is the least of your worries right now. We need your name."

A drunken chuckle escaped your split lip, "Jane Doe."

Jack huffed a laugh of his own, then his voice snapped back into crisp command. "Let's stabilize the leg, pressure bag fluids, trauma labs, type and cross. Head strike plus temple lac buys her a one-way ticket to CT soon as she's secure."

The team surged forward, gurney rattling down the corridor at top speed.

As they whipped past the central desk, Dana stopped dead in her tracks, expression twisting into one of concern.

"(y/n)? The hell you doin' here, kid?"

At the sound of your name, you groaned, allowing your head to fall back against the gurney as it disappeared into Trauma One.

"Looks like we got a name," Jack smirked, quickly lowering the rail on his side.

"Goddamnit, Dana..." you huffed.

.

.

.

Up at Orthopedics, the air still carried that sterile, metallic chill unique to post-op corridors—chlorhexidine, cautery smoke ghosts, and the faint rubber scent of fresh gloves.

Dr. Brendon Park strode out of the OR like a storm front in navy scrubs, mask already long gone, hair still slick despite the cap he'd just stripped off.

Behind him trailed a small cluster of medical students, all of them bright-eyed in the way only the deeply sleep-deprived and painfully ambitious could be.

Brendon, meanwhile, looked about as thrilled as a man walking behind his own casket.

"Post-op for BKA," he said flatly, voice clipped and fast enough that pens nearly scratched through notebook paper, "is not complicated unless you make it complicated. Serial neurovascular checks of the residual limb. Monitor flap perfusion, capillary refill at the skin edges, temperature, color changes, any duskiness that suggests ischemia."

He calmly turned the corner, gait smooth and to-the-point like that of a dormant predator.

"Dressing stays clean, dry, and intact unless there's strike-through. Rigid removable dressing or immediate postoperative prosthesis if PM&R clears it. Elevation for edema control in the first twenty-four hours, but don't leave the knee in flexion unless you enjoy flexion contractures."

He cut a look over his shoulder so sharp it could have opened skin.

"And if you forget early prone positioning and aggressive hip and knee extension exercises, congratulations, you just bought your patient a future revision."

The residents murmured frantic notes.

Brendon hated this part of the job.

Not the surgery—never the surgery.

The amputation had been clean, efficient, textbook: posterior flap preserved, tibial cut beveled, fibula transected proximal to the tibia, myodesis secure, hemostasis immaculate.

No, what he hated was this.

The teaching.

The hand-holding.

The dead-eyed terror in learners who somehow survived anatomy and clinicals only to stand here blinking like livestock.

Teaching hospital, he reminded himself bitterly. Comes with the territory.

Without warning, he pivoted mid-stride, nearly causing the MS3 closest to him to trip over her own clogs.

"You," he snapped, fixing her with a stare. "Hypothetical. POD one, BKA patient spikes tachycardia, increasing pain out of proportion, tense posterior flap, drainage darkening under the dressing. Next step."

The student froze.

Actually froze.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her pupils went wide.

Brendon stared at her for one beat, then another, jaw flexing.

"Well?" he said curtly. "Go on. Quit wasting my time."

"I—I'd probably increase the opioid dose and maybe loosen the ace wrap to reduce—"

He cut her off with a sharp exhale through his nose.

"No," His tone was dry enough to desiccate tissue. "The next step is immediate dressing takedown to inspect the stump. Assess compartment tension, evacuate hematoma if present, and get the patient back to the OR for emergent decompression or hemostasis if there's any question of vascular compromise. Pain out of proportion after amputation is not treated by loosening bandages."

The student went pink with humiliation.

Brendon had already turned away, uninterested.

They rounded the corner into the Orthopedics charge station, the fluorescent buzz louder here over the drone of printers and distant telemetry alarms.

Charge nurse Sally was just hanging up the phone, expression pinched.

"Park," she called, "ED just called up a gnarly open tibial fracture. Sounds like a grade III, stepped on in some kind of bar fight. They're asking if you want to come take a look."

Brendon scoffed, already snagging the chart from the BKA he'd just finished.

He uncapped his pen and scribbled quick postoperative orders across the margin.

"Tell them to irrigate, start cefazolin and gent, tetanus if needed, splint, and wait." His tone was dismissive, eyes never lifting from the page. "I've got better things to do."

Then the elevator chimed.

A soft, ordinary ding.

But it sliced clean through the station noise.

The doors slid apart.

Nicole stepped out.

Brendon's pen stopped moving.

His head snapped up so fast the residents actually flinched.

His brows drew together instantly, dark and severe, eyes narrowing with a speed that telegraphed something far rarer than annoyance.

Recognition.

And then something colder.

Nicole.

Your best friend.

The two of you were supposed to be downtown right now, out celebrating her birthday.

For one suspended, electric second, the entire floor seemed to go still around him.

What the fuck was she doing here?

The instant Brendon's eyes locked with Nicole's, every trace of color drained out of her face.

Her mouth dropped open.

"Oh, shit."

The curse came out in a frantic hiss, far louder than she probably intended, and then she lunged for the elevator panel, jabbing the close door button with panicked, repeated stabs of her thumb.

Brendon moved before the doors even started to slide.

"Nicole!"

His voice cracked through the Orthopedics floor like a rifle shot.

Every resident at the charge station went rigid.

Sally's brows shot nearly to her hairline.

No one—no one—had heard that much raw emotion in Brendon Park's voice in years.

Not anger, exactly. Something sharper. Hotter.

Something terrifyingly close to fear.

He abandoned the chart in his hand without a second thought, pages fluttering against the counter as he crossed the distance in three furious strides.

His palm slammed between the narrowing doors with enough force to trigger the sensor, metal panels shuddering back open.

Nicole winced.

Brendon's face was taut.

"What the hell are you doing here?" The words came rapid-fire, clipped with fury. "Where the hell is (y/n)?"

Nicole's eyes darted left, then right, like she could physically outrun the question.

"I—I was just looking for the cafeteria," she blurted. "I got turned around."

Brendon's expression somehow got darker.

He leaned in, voice low and dangerous, every syllable razor precise.

"You know damn well that's not what I'm asking." His jaw flexed. "Why are you in a hospital, Nicole? Why aren't you out with my wife like you're supposed to be?"

She clammed up so fast it was almost audible.

Her eyes dropped.

Dodged.

Brendon barked her name again, louder this time. "Nicole."

Her chin lifted in stubborn apology, "I was sworn to secrecy."

Brendon's eyes widened.

"What do you mean sworn to secrecy?! What the hell happened?!" he snapped. "Is she hurt?!"

He stepped closer, voice dropping into something so cold it made even Sally flinch from across the desk.

"Nicole, so help me God..."

But she held.

Not a word.

Not a single word.

Brendon stared at her for one searing, vibrating beat, chest rising once, sharply.

Then he let the doors close.

The second the elevator sealed shut, he pivoted on his heel and stormed for the stairwell so fast the residents had to flatten themselves against the wall to avoid getting clipped by his shoulder.

Sally watched him go, wide-eyed.

The med students stood frozen in his wake, mouths parted.

Now that wasn't new.

This was Dr. Park the brilliant, merciless orthopedic shark who shredded residents for sport.

This was blood in the water.

And he was already hunting the source.

.

.

.

He hit the ED level in a blur of motion that made the elevator look lazy.

Fifteen flights should have left any normal person winded.

Brendon barely seemed to notice.

The stairwell door slammed open hard enough to ricochet off the wall as he strode into the chaos of PTMC's emergency department, eyes cutting through the movement with ruthless efficiency.

He scanned for one thing only:

Dana's blonde hair.

He didn't see it.

As Princess swept past carrying a stack of warm blankets, he turned sharply enough to stop her in her tracks.

"Where's your charge nurse?"

Princess blinked, eyes going wide.

He had never once, in the handful of ortho consults that dragged him down here, acknowledged her existence beyond the patient in question.

The sheer fact that he was speaking directly to her left her momentarily stunned.

Three seconds.

That was all the patience he gave her.

When she still hadn't answered, Brendon scoffed under his breath and moved on.

Across the pod, a cluster of male nurses and a couple of security guards stood in a loose knot, voices low and animated.

The second Brendon's expression came into view, the older nurses instantly read the room and scattered like prey.

Everyone except Ahmad.

New enough not to know better.

He looked up, grin easy. "Hey, man, you want in on the pool?"

Brendon ignored him, using the slightly raised vantage point near the desk to keep scanning the room.

Ahmad kept going anyway.

"Female in Trauma One. Bar fight, won't give her name but says her husband works here." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Abbott's the favorite since he admitted her, but weirdly enough Robby's pulling as a dark horse."

And then Brendon saw Dana.

He was moving before Ahmad finished the sentence.

Dana barely had time to look up before Brendon was in front of her, looming, eyes dark with something far more dangerous than his usual surgical arrogance.

She blinked once, surprised, then smirked, "Sally just called. Said you denied the tib-fib consult."

"I've got something more important," he bit out.

Dana folded her arms. "What can I do for ya, Shark?"

His response was curt, immediate.

"Park."

The smirk slipped.

"Did you admit a woman with the last name Park? Brown skin, brown eyes, curly hair." His throat bobbed once. "About this tall."

He gestured roughly to his own shoulder.

Dana frowned, already mentally running the board.

"No Parks."

His brows drew together so hard it almost looked painful, "Double check."

She held his stare, then shook her head once, firm, "No Parks in the ED today with that description."

For one second, pure frustration flashed across his face.

Then Dana's expression shifted.

"...Though," she said slowly, realization dawning, "there is that woman in Trauma One. Same description. The tib-fib from the bar fight."

The words hit him like blunt force trauma.

Brendon went still.

His heart dropped so violently it felt like it hit somewhere near his knees.

Shit.

You were the tib-fib.

Without another word, he turned and strode hard toward Trauma One, every step faster than the one before, fury and fear now fully braided into something lethal.

Dana watched him go, then slowly turned her head toward Ahmad across the room.

A grin spread across her face.

"Ahmad," she called.

He looked up.

She jerked her chin toward the retreating orthopedic surgeon. "Put fifty on Park the Shark for me."

.

.

.

The doors to Trauma One slammed inward so hard they rebounded off the stopper.

Both you and Jack Abbott jumped.

"For fuck's sake!" you yelped, your hand flying to your chest hard enough to jostle the blood-pressure cuff around your arm.

Abbott looked up from where he'd been checking the gauze at your temple, blatant displeasure flattening his mouth.

"Well," he drawled dryly, "look who finally came down from his ivory tower to join the rest of us."

Brendon didn't so much as glance at him.

His eyes found you.

Then your leg.

And every trace of color seemed to drain out of his face as his gaze landed on the mangled reality of your grade III open tibial fracture—the splint peeled back enough for the jagged cortical edge of tibia to protrude through torn skin and soaked dressings.

"Jesus Christ, (y/n)..."

His stomach visibly dropped.

He was at your bedside in two strides, all sharp motion and barely restrained panic, hands hovering before settling into practiced purpose as he took in the injury.

The second you realized it was him, your eyes screwed shut.

"Nicole," you hissed under your breath, "I'm going to kill her."

Brendon's voice came fast, rougher than you'd heard in a while, "Are you okay? Did you hit your head? Any dizziness, nausea? Can you move your toes? What the fuck happened?"

At the sheer informality of the exchange, Abbott's brows drew together.

Then it clicked.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"No shit," he said, looking between the two of you with delighted disbelief. "This is him?"

Brendon's head snapped around so sharply his curls shifted over his forehead. "What do you mean, this is him?"

And then, against his better judgment, something hot and ugly curled low in his chest.

Jealousy.

You... alone in a room with Jack Abbott for God knew how long, while you were hurt and vulnerable and half-drunk.

Not that he thought you'd do anything.

But Abbott?

He was a psych case with a stethoscope.

You turned to Jack with a pleading look, silently begging him not to say a word.

His grin only widened.

"The ED's been runnin' a betting pool on who her husband is," he said, enjoying every syllable. "Ever since she let it slip he works here and refused to give us her last name."

Slowly, Brendon's stare slid back to you, laser-sharp.

You visibly deflated.

Your glare cut to Abbott, "This is coming out of your patient satisfaction score."

He shrugged with an amused huff, "Worth it."

At the door, he paused just long enough to toss over his shoulder, "I'll take it we've secured that ortho consult."

Brendon answered with nothing more than a grunt.

The door shut behind Abbott.

Silence.

And then Brendon erupted.

"You deliberately omitted your name so I couldn't find you?!"

You scoffed right back, temper flashing despite the throbbing in your temple, "Because I knew this is how you'd react! Brendon, I am not made of glass!"

He took in one short, incredulous breath, anger still sharp but fraying at the edges with fear.

"I have every goddamn right to react like this when I find out from someone else that my wife nearly snapped her leg in half!"

His eyes dropped to the injury again, horror freshening as if seeing it for the first time.

"What the hell happened?!"

You exhaled through your nose, "It was just an incident at a bar."

That somehow made him look more alarmed.

"(y/n)," he started, voice low and serious. "Tell me what happened. Did someone do this to you?"

You held his stare for a beat.

Then sighed.

"Nicole and I were out celebrating. She was dancing on the bartop, we were having a good time, and this random asshole shoved her off."

Brendon's jaw tightened.

"She fell hard," you continued. "Really hard. So I punched him in the face."

His eyes widened a fraction.

"Then we got into it. Fist fight, cops got called, crowd rushed, people started pushing, I got knocked down..."

You gestured vaguely toward the leg.

"Yada yada, here we are."

For a moment Brendon just stared at you.

Then he almost stammered, disbelief cracking through the anger, "You got into a fight... with a man?!"

Your bandaged knuckles and split lip suddenly made awful, perfect sense.

You blinked at him, "Why is everyone so surprised by that?"

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I was thinking about my friend!" you snapped. "She could've cracked her skull open because of that guy. You of all people have told me enough stories to know people get seriously hurt from way less."

He shot back immediately, "Nicole isn't the one with the broken leg!"

You folded your arms over your chest and turned your face away.

"I'm not arguing with you about this," you said curtly. "It's already done. So you can either be my husband and leave until I find another doctor, or you can be Dr. Park and do the damn consult."

That hit.

It showed only in the brief tightening around his eyes, the smallest fracture in his expression, but it hit.

He wasn't trying to be that guy.

He'd spent the last ten minutes wondering if his wife was visiting a friend... or lying unidentified in the morgue.

And all because you'd hidden your name so he wouldn't get upset.

He exhaled once, slow and controlled, and forcibly redirected every ounce of emotion into the place he trusted most:

The medicine.

His gaze returned to your leg.

"Alright," he said, tone leveling into pure surgeon.

He snapped on gloves.

"I need you to answer everything honestly. Any numbness in the foot before EMS splinted it?"

"They already asked—"

"Humor me."

At his curt tone, you scoffed, but complied, "...No."

He palpated gently along the exposed margins of the wound, assessing the soft tissue and contamination. "Pain when you stretch your big toe?"

"A little."

He checked distal pulse at the dorsalis pedis, then capillary refill in your toes.

"Good distal perfusion. Toes are warm."

His fingers moved with meticulous care over the deformity.

"Obvious displaced open tibial shaft fracture, likely with associated fibular fracture. Significant periosteal stripping but the posterior soft-tissue hinge looks partially intact. No gross vascular compromise on exam, but I still need to rule out occult injury."

None of that sounded remotely reassuring.

He continued, snatching up the chart Abbott left and glancing it over.

"This needs urgent irrigation and debridement in the OR. Looks like broad-spectrum IV antibiotics were already started, but we'll need repeat tetanus verification, then likely external fixation. We'll also monitor closely for evolving compartment syndrome given the crush component."

You blinked at him.

Half of that might as well have been another language.

He finished the exam, stripped off his gloves with a sharp snap, and let out a breath.

Then his whole posture softened.

"Look," he said quietly.

Your arms loosened a little.

"I'm sorry for how I came in," he said first. "I'm sorry for how I spoke. And I'm sorry that you felt like you had to hide from me to keep the peace."

The anger had burned off, leaving only the truth beneath it.

"You scared the hell out of me," he admitted, voice lower now. "For ten minutes I didn't know if you were in the ED, visiting someone, or downstairs in the morgue. I was furious because I was terrified, and no one was telling me anything."

He rounded the gurney and gently took your hand, his thumb gliding carefully over the bandage wrapped around your raw knuckles.

"You are a strong woman, (y/n). You wouldn't be married to me if you weren't," he murmured. "But strong doesn't mean invincible."

His eyes lifted to yours, steady and sincere.

"And as your husband, it is my job to worry. I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you when I could've done something to prevent it."

Guilt curled warm and uncomfortable in your stomach.

Your arms fully uncrossed.

He reached up, cupping your cheek with a careful hand, thumb brushing beneath the uninjured side of your lip.

"But I'll try to be... softer about it," he said, the word sounding begrudging but genuine. "But you can't avoid me. Not in an emergency, and especially not when you're hurt."

You caved.

Slowly, you nodded.

For Brendon, the faint curve that touched his mouth was practically a beaming grin.

"Thank you," he muttered.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft.

Tender.

A world apart from the fury he'd entered with.

You hummed in pleasant surprise against his lips, the corner of your mouth quirking when he pulled back.

"Trying to bring up your patient satisfaction scores, Dr. Park?"

A quiet chuckle escaped him, forehead touching yours.

"Maybe."

.

.

.

[divinament]

OH OKAY FINN BENNETT, HE IS ALL YOURS.