shark eyes (dr brendon park aka park the shark x reader)
im pretty sure this is gender neutral but lmk if not and ill edit the title. angst with fluff?? no smut. writing a man who was on screen for two (2) minutes)
more park the shark here
"what do we have?" a stern voice asked, sending a shock of awareness down your spine. you didn't move your eyes from the patient, too aware of the voice you were not supposed to ever hear again being two inches to your left.
"santos, present," you replied. she followed, citing a motorcycle versus pedestrian accident with the motorcyclist's leg having been stuck under the vehicle. al-hashimi appeared at the trauma doors, silently asking if you needed help, and you shook your head.
park was still circling behind you, taking a look at the injuries as whitaker tried not to shake under his gaze. you kept your own steady, answering park's questions confidently while checking on your patient.
park the shark got his nickname in med school. you would know - you were there. but it was only five something years later, residency in california complete and a sparkly new attending badge clipped to your scrubs, did you remember how he got it.
he knew how to smell blood.
you'd been at the pitt for a few shifts already, but you never had park consult on ortho until now. he picked up the leg that was on ice, asking questions about infection and double bagging that you answered without a second thought. his attention shifted, you let yourself look at him for the first time since he'd entered the room.
he'd gotten older. there was always an age gap, having met him at the bar where med students and residents sometimes crossed paths, but you'd never seen the difference physically until now. his voice had gotten impossibly deeper as he questioned santos and whitaker about what infection prevention measures they took, unnecessarily lecturing them on what he should and shouldn't do.
that was the thing. still a dick.
if he keeps swinging his dick around, he's gonna hit something. you thought. of course, that's when he chose to look up.
there was no romantic moment. an orchestra didn't appear from behind the gurney and launch into a sweeping overture. your patient didn't coo, with his meds still keep him very much knocked out. he looked, and you looked, and there was something electric between you and the man you'd kissed only once, and that was that.
"go for replantation. irrigate with three liters, then call me." park grunted, putting the detached foot back in the bag. he walked back around the room, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.
and that was it.
the door swung after his exit, your patient woke up and started screaming, and you took care of it.
you always did.
-
hours later, the pittsburgh night cloaked you in a newly familiar darkness as you squinted at your screen. you hadn't bought a car yet, so the bus it was, but the map apps had conflicting information and the designated bus app itself refused to work, even with your four bars of service. holding it up to the sky did nothing except make you look like an idiot, and you quickly put your arm down before someone could see.
someone grunted, and you sighed. looks like someone already saw.
"park." you greeted him without turning around, eyes tracing the silhoutte of the park across the road. his scrubs didn't betray his steps, but when you looked to your right, there he was. hulking, eyes black as the night before you.
"didn't know you moved to pittsburgh," he said, your greeting still hanging in the air. you turned your gaze back to look forward, his purple scrubs like a beacon in your peripheral vision.
"i didn't know you were here. thought you landed at presby." a lie. well, not in whole. you did think he landed at presby, but after you accepted your attending job at ptmc, you looked him up. just to see. just to know. and there was his linkedin profile, no picture, with PTMC in the bio.
and you'd come anyway.
"worked at presby for a year, then moved here," he responded. a breeze rushed through the air, and you curled your arms around your waist to fight it. "what, you scare too many people at presby that they didn't want to work with you?" you joked, remembering how all the other med students had been terrified of him.
he'd survived a shark attack. no, he'd killed a shark on purpose. no, it didn't have to do with sharks at all - he was actually an underground fighter. no one ever agreed to the origin of his nickname, but there was no denying it. when you turned again, you could see the shape of his jawline, predator personified.
a shiver wracked down your spine, and it was not one of fear.
"i'll drive you home." he did not pose it as a question, and you knew him well enough to not take it as one. there was no point in arguing. you simply sighed and turned to follow him, making the unfamiliar journey to the staff parking lot.
his car was a massive black suv, fit for a secret service agent more than an orthopedic surgeon. the step up was high, the leather seats cool, not a speck of trash to be seen. you plugged in your address to his gps and he drove in silence, navigating the pittsburgh streets with a smoothness you could only hope you'd learn in time.
"you still have no perception of tone, by the way," you said after five minutes of silence. he huffed, hands steady on the steering wheel. "those residents have no idea what they're doing," he replied. you rolled your eyes, his disgust for anything less than perfect as familiar as an old worn coat.
"you know, if you swung your dick around a little less and taught them a little more, they might not be half bad." they were actually pretty good, in your opinion, but you didn't want to add more to your point. there was a line here, but you were navigating blind, hoping he could hear the teasing in your voice.
the blinker ticked as you rolled up to a red light, two minutes left to your destination on the gps. "you started a week ago and think you know everything." his reply made you grin, glad to get a reaction out of him, before the reality of what he said hit you.
you hadn't told him when you started.
there were no other newbies when you started, the position being open by a way of new funding from a private donor. that meant he couldn't assume when you started; had to know it was you.
the staff newsletter gloria had asked for a picture and blurb rose to the forefront of your mind.
"you knew. you got the email. why'd you lie?" he parked in front of your new apartment building, bicep bulging as he shifted the gear. you didn't move, instead crossing your arms over your seatbelt, your intentions clear. he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes still ahead instead of meeting yours.
suddenly, it made sense.
"you've been avoiding me. that's why i've been here for five shifts and haven't seen you yet - you've been sending someone else down for consults."
"don't be insane, i wasn't avoiding you."
"you were, park. one or two shifts, okay, but you're telling me we had no overlap for five shifts? i thought we were friends, once." your tone shifted from indignation to hurt without your permission, and you cleared your throat to get rid of it. your arms dropped, hand fumbling with the seatbelt until it clicked.
you bent to pick up your bag from the floor, fighting one of the straps that got caught in the seat. when you finally rose, victorious, it was to him staring at you.
"we weren't friends."
your heart dropped. there you were, assuming things had meant more to someone else than they truly did. you should've known from that ill-fated kiss outside the library, four months after you'd met. he'd finally said yes to your pleas for tutoring, and it was 2am when you'd left the library that night. it was him with an intern shift in six hours, but it had been him that forced you to stay until you'd gotten every one of your anki cards right.
and then you'd kissed him, and he'd stood there, and you ran away when you couldn't bear to see the pitying look in his eyes.
you didn't talk for another two months, becoming cordial when you'd pass each other on nights out. then his internship got busy and med school became harder and it was easy to pretend to forget the guy who'd pulled away when you had the medicine that never would.
"thank you for driving me home." your hand rose to find the handle, but something clicked, and when you turned, his finger was on the lock button. "park?" you asked, suddenly worried he wasn't the man you once knew.
he shook his head, just once, and his hands flexed with effort at his sides. blood rushed in your head, filling your ears with noise.
"friends implies platonic. it wasn't platonic for me," he murmured. you blinked, brain not working.
"you pulled away. i said i had fun and i kissed you and you pulled away." he laughed then, in the same tone you imagined he used when his residents got something wrong. apprehension curdled in your stomach, the thought that this was all some prank. but brendon didn't joke, barely laughed, and only smiled when his rival got something wrong.
or so you thought.
"you were young and we'd been up all night and you said it was fun. i couldn't do that if you thought it was just for fun, a one night stand." it hadn't been. but he hadn't asked and you didn't clarify and this jerk of a man was too stubborn to say more.
"you're an idiot," you announced. you turned to him, bag on your lap, hoping he'd understand you.
"you're a brat," he replied. something curved at his lips, but surely it wasn't a smile. you'd need to do a medical examination if that was the case.
"you are rude and full of yourself and it wasn't just for fun. it wouldn't have been, if you simply asked." he cocked his head, scanning you up and down as if taking in new information. you matched his eye contact, unafraid in the face of danger.
"you're not dating anyone," he said.
"no."
"no ring on your finger."
"nope."
"you don't have work tomorrow."
you shook your head to his last non-question. with a curious finger, you traced the lines of his knuckles on his right hand, examining the nimble joints that saved legs and hands and lives. he let you, stoic in his seat.
"you're coming up with me," you finally said.
his hand turned over and you laced it with yours, squeezing once. his thumb left your hold to trace the veins of your wrist, stopping to circle on the fragile bone there. park pushed down gently, as if testing you, then loosened his grip.
"yes."
-
i actually hate this but its been a brainworm. i have no clue what this man's voice is sorry.
i am 99% this is gender neutral but im out of practice writing gn so if you don’t think it is, lmk so i can change the warnings! 18+ SMUT, lots of shark allusions, i cant stop thinking about park, etc etc
If you are receiving this, you have been selected as a trial participant in the hospital’s new Attending Feedback Program. For the next 12 months, you will be paired with a cross departmental attending partner that you interact with regularly and give monthly feedback on their performance.
Below is the name of your randomly selected partner:
Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery
Month 1 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.
Gloria Underwood
Chief Medical Officer, PTMC
You stared at your inbox in disbelief. This is what you got for taking a rare thirty seconds in the ED to check your email instead of doing something useful, like wolfing down a granola bar.
You were now expected to give monthly feedback on the one man you couldn’t stand in surgery. You had an understanding with Garcia, actually liked Walsh, approached Shamsi with respectful caution, but Park? The stupid man with a stupider nickname, his canines slightly longer than an average person that made your head spin a little whenever they flashed.
You’d learned to stay out of his way in the past year as a new attending. To not comment on his rudeness to your med students, his inability to teach residents. Everyone was either perfect or a failure, and since the first was impossible, it seemed the general public fell into the second group.
Then there was…the other part.
The first month mistake. The dive bar near the hospital, the inability for you to remember anyone’s faces or names, let alone their positions in the hospital. The three- no, four gin and tonics, the shitty bar speakers, the cigarette break outside, the borrowed lighter from the man you thought was a stranger, and his all-too-familiar purple scrubs he’d donned that next morning, with a hungover you in his bed. The bite marks on your thighs that took far too long to stop aching.
Like you said, a mistake.
A feedback form was fine. It required mere observation, nothing more. It’s not like you got frequently brutal ortho cases that Park the Shark deigned to come down for. You barely saw the man more than once a week.
Two weeks later, you were regretting that thought. Four. Four overeager chemical engineering Pitt undergrads versus one lab experiment gone wrong. Multiple fingers in plastic bags and three unlucky toes from the one man who’d ignored lab shoe protocol.
“Present.” The trauma doors opened with a bang, Park walking through with his gloves already half on. “Ogilvie,” you said, spurring the newly minted intern into action.
“Some sort of chemical reaction, they’ve refused to say what they used. Five fingers across three patients, three toes from the last. Bagged and on ice, but there are suspected glass fragments. We haven’t sorted through all of them yet.”
“You called me down here without fully evaluating the patient?” Asked Park, his annoyance evident. “We called you down here because we have multiple appendages that need to be reattached. Whittaker has it sorted with the ones we’ve gotten through versus the ones we haven’t,” you replied sweetly. Dark eyes, the same shade of stone you imagined castles were built from, glared at you.
“Let me guess. One of these idiots got their hallux blown off too.” Of course he would say hallux and not ‘big toe’ like a normal person.
Instead of answering, you walked around one of the gurneys to find the bags you were looking for. They’d been specially labeled by your instruction, just for this.
You held up the two bags, extra stars on them noting their importance.
“Not just one hallux, Dr. Park. Looks like you get extra practice on big toe reattachment today.” He snatched the bags from you, huffing loudly. For a brief moment, your gloved hands brushed. It was faster than you had thought possible, his movements like a predator cutting through water, and yet you still felt the echo of his presence long after he rounded the gurney. Your pointer finger hummed, as if in memory of that brush.
More instructions were barked out to your residents present, and while they were delivered harshly, they certainly weren’t incorrect. More sedative was pushed, some extra for your toeless student, before Park finally seemed satisfied with the state of the room.
Then he turned. Movements slick, neck pulsing slightly with awareness. His eyes, a gray so deep they could be black, met yours. It was a poor replica of the look he’d given you in an alley that night of the mistake, the churning waters that made you want to swim a little closer just to find out if you would drown.
They dipped. His pupils widened and his eyes dipped and caught on your lips, snagged like fabric against a nail. You forced yourself not to turn around, not to tighten your gloved fists.
Park’s gaze (Brendon, you’d called him once, throat raspy with smoke) stuttered, lashes blinking slow like an amphibian. If you squinted, you could imagine a double lid there.
”I look forward to being your feedback partner, Dr. Park.”
You didn’t know why you said it. But there was something there, something searching that you didn’t want him to find. He didn’t stutter, didn’t blink harshly like he’d been caught off guard. Park simply nodded, once, steady, and left the room.
Whittaker exhaled loudly. Ogilvie’s eyebrows lowered to their normal height. You rolled your shoulders and got on with calming four undergrads and their inevitable parents.
Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.
Feedback from Brendon Park:
“Needs to create a more serious work environment instead of coddling residents.”
Your feedback to assigned partner:
“Doctor Park is a highly skilled individual. He could consider taking a more educational tone when conversing with medical students and residents, keeping in mind that this is a teaching hospital first. Keep up the great work!”
Month 2 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.
Sincerely,
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department
You’d promised yourself, sometime back in your intern year, that you would never let an email impact your day. That you could continue onward even with bad news on your shoulder, that that was the mark of a professional.
Today, you decided to forget that promise.
It wasn’t even your trauma. Al-Hashimi was running it, bicycle versus electric scooter, and hadn’t needed your help to keep going. But a flash of purple scrubs caught your eyes, and you weren’t going to let him go. He insinuated you weren’t a professional, that you coddled your students, and there was no way you were letting that get on your permanent file with the hospital.
You left the board in Dana’s capable hands and crossed through the hallway next to the trauma room, emerging just as Park left the room. He turned his neck toward the elevator and suddenly he was there, all encompassing in his presence. You didn’t let yourself take in the strand of hair that freed itself from his usual slick back, dangling in front of his eyes as if daring you to reach up and feel it.
”Park,” you said without preamble. Any other person might be startled as to your emergence from the hallway, but he wasn’t any other person. He said your last name back, low and soulless in his mouth. You wondered if he said it before, had spun the syllables in his head or if it was just a word to him.
Just a name.
”You said I wasn’t serious.”
A beat. Then, “That’s not what I said.”
You sighed, hitting the button for the elevator with more force than necessary. There was no reason for you to go up to ortho, but the conversation needed to be had, and he clearly wasn’t nice enough to stop and wait to finish it.
”That’s what you insinuated. That I coddle.” The elevator dinged open and you both stepped aside, letting the two nurses out before stepping in. He pressed the number for the ortho floor, and you didn’t yourself look at his fingers while he did it. You’d been able to work diplomatically with this man for months, but the moment feedback was needed, it seemed that your cordiality imploded.
”It’s not just you. The entire emergency department coddles,” he replied. You sighed, suddenly achingly tired of the argument you were trying not to have. “No matter your personal feelings on the pedagogy of the ED, you can’t take it out on me. My one year review is next month, and I can’t have something that throws a wrench in it, okay? My spot’s still technically temporary.” You didn’t think Gloria liked you, and you were certain Robby wouldn’t know how to give a genuine compliment if his life was on the line. Al-Hashimi and Abbot were your favorites, but you knew it was admin needed on your side.
Park didn’t answer for a moment. You peeled your eyes away from the elevator doors, the two of you only a floor away from his, and found his face. Something in his cheek twitched, as if he were swallowing hard.
You tore your eyes away.
The elevator jerked to a stopped, the doors dinging open. Just before you could ask for a reply, he turned his heel and met you head on. His eyes on yours, gray depths attempting to swallow you.
”You’re a great doctor. They would be fools not to keep you.”
You blinked, mouth open. Purple whirled in front of you, Park walking back onto his floor. He was gone before you could say thank you. Before you could point out the loose strand of hair that would definitely need fixing before his next surgery.
Someone walked in, nodding at you before hitting the button for the ED. You swallowed hard, and got back to work.
Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.
Feedback from Brendon Park:
“N/A.”
Your feedback to assigned partner:
“My comments from last month are still applicable. Other than that, I’ve enjoyed working with Dr. Park!”
Month 3 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.
Sincerely,
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department
You needed to be on your couch, in your sweatpants. This was a fact. It was 7:43pm on a Friday night and handoff still hadn’t happened, with the five traumas that came in at 6:55pm. MVC, mini van versus a happy hour drunk couple on an electric scooter. A kid who’d had their hand out of the window when the car crashed. Abbot worked next to you, Mohan at his side, but you couldn’t save either of the scooter riders.
When Ortho came down to consult on the kid, you couldn’t even bring yourself to give Park more than a nod. There was a crick in your neck that had been there since that morning, and an ache forming in your lower back that required a heating pad. Deeper than that, an utter tiredness had made its way into your bones.
It was 8:12pm when you finally left, your bag tugging down your right shoulder considerably. It had been nice outside this morning, so you walked to work like an idiot, and now you had to pay for it. Bus or train or your own two feet, none of which sounded appealing.
You turned towards the parking lot, your goal the bus stop that came after it. As you left the ambulance bay, a black SUV stopped in front of you, blocking your path to the lot. A tinted window rolled down, and you were confronted with the sight of an after-work Park.
His hair was still in its usual gel, a look that you couldn’t imagine any other man pulling off. But there was something there, behind his eyes, that told you he was wrung out by the day. The smudges under thick lashes were a shade of lavender, brought out by his scrubs.
”You didn’t drive to work today,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer it, shoulders about to buckle from the weight of your bag. All you could do was tilt your head, a sigh of confusion leaving your lips.
”Get in.”
The bus was delayed. The red clock on your phone map said so.
It wasn’t the reason you got in, but it was plausible deniability.
He drove you to your apartment, and you did not comment on the last, and only, time he’d done it. How you’d sat in this very passenger seat, slightly nauseous from the alcohol and head spinning from what you’d done. From the purple scrubs and the shift he had at 8am and the stop he’d made to get you a breakfast sandwich, nothing for himself. Peeling yourself off of the crisp leather, you hadn’t let yourself meet his eyes, simply murmuring a thank you and trying to not hate yourself for messing up your new job.
Now, you curled into the car like it was yours, tucking your head into the curve of the window. Silence thrummed like its own kind of music, the only sound the occasional instructions of the GPS. The only movement was the swing of the air freshener from the backup mirror. Lemon, bright yellow.
The swinging of it gave you a pattern you never could find in the ED. Something reliable, something steady. Your eyes fluttered, six minutes left on the virtual map on the screen. Just a moment, just a second to close off from the rest of the world and rest.
When you opened your eyes, the clock blinked a steady 9:36pm back at you. The car was still moving, and when you turned left, Park was still there. For some reason, you hadn’t expected him to be. His spine was still straight, hair still in place, hands still quiet.
”Park?” Your voice cracked, dry from the water bottle you emptied halfway through your shift that you never had the chance to refill. He procured a plastic one from the side of the driver door, passing it over without taking his eyes off the road. You gulped it down greedily, emptying half of it until your stomach hurt. No food since that protein bar at 3pm, and you were paying for it.
He didn’t respond to your murmured thank you, and you took the chance to look outside your window. To take in the dark backroads, city streets long gone from your view. Streetlights passed by, blipping in and out of existence like floating stars.
”I’m sorry for falling asleep,” you half-whispered. He didn’t shrug, but it was something close to it. Park seemed to be content to keep driving, so you tapped the screen of his GPS and plugged it back to your apartment address.
Thirty three minutes away.
There was something here, in the warmth of his car, that made words bubble up from your throat. You straightened slightly, eyes ahead on your enivitable return back to the bright city streets. “I had my meeting with Gloria today,” you said. Brought up the memory of her mahogany desk, the office on the eighth floor you’d only been once before for your final round interview.
”I know,” Park replied. Your head snapped left, a question on the tip of your tongue. “I was asked to provide feedback. Temporary attending to permanent requires input from more than just the ED.” You exhaled sharply, gaze on your bag on the ground. On the newly updated badge within, one without an expiration date on it.
“Congratulations,” he murmured. “Thank you,” you replied, letting a small smile make a home on your face. The evaluation had wrecked your nerves, and it was only now that you truly let yourself feel the weight of your accomplishment. The raise, the steady paycheck, the fact that tackling your student loans actually felt achievable.
Time passed quickly after that, and it seemed you were outside your apartment within moments. He parallel parked in a way you could never quite get the hang of, the doors unlocking as the moment ended.
His knuckles gripped the steering wheel so hard they went white, a stark contrast against the purple hues of his body. Plumb scrubs and lavender eyebags turned the veins of his hands into a faint violet, something you’d have to search for to find. There was something in his mouth, his jaw working hard, but no words came out.
Like this, stripped from the OR, he was no less a predator. He was simply at rest, teeth retracted for a moment.
Maybe that’s why you did it. Pure curiosity, reaching out your hand until it met the soft skin of his lips. Your thumb found the edge and pulled, exposing his mouth until you could see his teeth. Pristine white, smooth as you ran your finger over his canine. It wasn’t longer than any normal one, but still felt sharper as you pressed the pad of your finger against him.
No blood.
You removed your finger, and it was like a spell was broken. Your bag was gathered, the door opened, your feet finding the familiar concrete of your sidewalk. When you turned back, only his silhouette was visible past the tint of the window, and yet you burned under the feeling of being watched the rest of the walk to the door.
Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.
Feedback from Brendon Park:
“Satisfactory work.”
Your feedback to assigned partner:
“Dr. Park is an asset to the hospital, but he could work on his communication skills.”
Month 4 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.
Sincerely,
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department
Two weeks, six days, four hours and eleven minutes. That’s how long it had been since the car ride. That’s how long it had been since Park had talked to you outside of a trauma room.
It had never bothered you before. In the months before the feedback form, you went out of your way to avoid any situation where you might be alone with him. Survival, a small fish against a bigger one, swimming to safety.
But now circumstances had changed. Now you jerked at every shade of purple, flinching from a patient with a NYU sweatshirt on. Despite that, your patient satisfaction scores were higher than ever, Robby had called you a hard worker last week, and you had plans to get drinks with Al-Hashimi next week. The Pitt felt more like your home than ever, and yet every corner seemed to haunt you with flashes of dark fabric.
And then came Garcia’s birthday invite.
She was nowhere near your closest work friend, and yet the invite had seemed genuine. Or perhaps it was Santos asking if you were going to come, the R3 almost eager to have shitty beer at the bar all Pitt birthdays happened to be celebrated at.
It was not, at all, the possibility of another surgeon being present. It’s not like he partied.
The date was one you didn’t work, so you showed up to the bar looking more human that your coworkers usually saw you as. The door opened and Princess was there and you were being swept into arms and handshakes, a smile making a permanent residence on your face.
The birthday girl herself wore no crown or sash, just a satisfied smirk as you wished her a happy birthday. You left her to make your way to the bar, ordering a hard cider, determined to not repeat your last dive bar mistake.
The night swirled around you. You talked with your fellow attendings, said hi to your residents, and shared a few quips with Walsh. The entire time, a presence seemed to haunt the corner booth. You’d seen Garcia go in and out of it, other people in purple scrubs stopping by.
You left to go to the bathroom, and when you emerged, he was gone.
The back door with a sign titled Smoke Here seemed like the only logical conclusion. Your feet changed course, your hand pressing the door open before you could fully prepare yourself.
He was there.
”You’ve been ignoring me.” The door slammed behind you, ushering you outside into the alley. Someone had hung Christmas lights along the brick wall, basking the area into a hazy sort of golden glow. Park held no cigarette, no preamble to being outside; just leaned back against the brick wall like he had all the time in the world.
”We saw each other yesterday.”
”You were holding a foot. I don’t really count that,” you replied. Park sighed, crossing over his chest. He was still wearing his scrubs, seemingly coming straight from the hospital, and the sight made your blood heat.
You left the doorway and took up the place on his right. The coolness of the brick seeped through your thin sweater, and yet your spine melted into it, letting the wall hold you up.
Maybe you’d read things wrong. He was your coworker, your not-friend, one of the people you saw on a regular basis. Perhaps it had all coalesced into something you’d invented, a book that wasn’t met for you to read. You were practically throwing yourself at a man you’d already fucked, and the memory made you shiver in response.
You pushed off the wall, feet already turned back to the door. “I’ll see you at the hospital, Park.” Maybe you could stop by that Thai place you liked before going home, get yourself a pity meal to commemorate this last attempt at what you thought was something more.
A cold hand grabbed your wrist before you take one more step.
Icy fingers, life saving fingers, wrapped around and took hold. His thumb found the bone of your wrist, pressing inward like he needed to feel it to continue. Park tugged and you went, coming to stand in front of him, his hand wrapped around yours like a vine.
”I’ve been ignoring you,” he admitted. His eyes burned into yours as you looked forward, caught on the dip of his scrub neckline.
”Why?” You rasped, throat dry despite the drink you nursed earlier. The hand around your wrist tightened, surgeon fingers digging at skin to get at sinew. The night settled around you as he pressed, releasing just as quickly when he found whatever he’d been looking for.
”My sheets smelled like you for weeks after that night. Even after washing them. You know what that’s like?” You shook your head, finally brave enough to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze. Sea storms looked less violent than his eyes, a tempest swirling as you took him in. He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘feedback’.
You tucked your fingers into the neckline of his scrubs. All he did was let you, staring as you traced the seam of the fabric. The skin under was pale, smooth like, well, a shark. You wondered if he’d been on a swim team, or if he was just born half-sea creature, something hidden from the depths of the ocean that became curious about human life.
He grabbed you again, this time clasping your fingers with his own. His thumb, calloused from years of holding scalpels, stroked the skin of your knuckle reverently. “We do this, you don’t leave my bed again. It’s not a one time thing,” he ordered. This man couldn’t imagine sharing his OR, let alone his residents. You weren’t surprised he refused to share his partner.
You turned his fingers until they interlinked with your own, soft warmth pulsing through your chest. It was your time to give orders this time, nuzzle your cheek against his until your mouth was to his ear.
“Take me home, Brendon.”
-
You’d forgotten the utter carnality of his presence in bed. The bites on your neck, soothed with an unforgiving tongue. He demanded nothing less than skin against skin, so you’d wrapped a leg around his hip and dug your claws into his back as a way to keep him exactly where he was.
Brendon nipped the skin of your ear lobe, bringing you back to the moment. “Do they call you Shark because you bite in bed?” You asked, running a hand through his hair. You’d been wanting to mess up his hair for months now, and finally got the satisfaction of seeing him utterly disheveled. Dark strands framed his face, affection shuddering through your core so powerful you bucked against him.
“I haven’t fucked any of my other coworkers, if that’s what you’re asking. Shark is from med school, and it stuck,” he replied. The words were murmured to your skin, wet from his kisses as he made his way down your torso. You mourned the loss of his warmth, nipples pebbling in the cold he left.
You found his hair and tugged, enough for him to raise his head from the crease of your belly to capture your lips in a kiss. A clever hand, a steady one, a surgeon’s, trailed down your stomach to work you open. He started you on one finger, a smirk on his lips as your mouth fell open. Two left you panting and three had you biting down on his shoulder, claiming his nickname for your own.
“Brendon, please,” you whined, sliding against his fingers in desperation. His cock was right there, brushing against your entrance as you canted against him, and yet you were deliriously empty.
“You want my cock, baby?” He asked in that same condescending voice he used to order med students around, like asking if you could tie your shoes without help. You nodded fiercely, thighs trembling from the three fingers that seemed to carve something from you to make space for something new.
Brendon slipped out from you, shushing you as you whimpered. Something blunt tapped at your entrance, one of his big hands gripping the underside of your knee to spread you wider. His low grunt filled you with heat, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed forward.
“‘S too big,” you slurred, even as you pulled him further into you in encouragement. He didn’t laugh, but it was something resembling one, a slight chuckle meant for your ears only. Heat curled in your belly, possessiveness rearing its ugly head as you were determined no one else would receive such a sound from him.
He finally slipped in, his mouth hot against the crook of your neck as you panted. Brendon started to move, finally, and you never wanted him to stop. It took a few stutters, a few pauses where you giggled and he gave you a wry smirk, but you found a rhythm that hit all of the right spots.
His right hand cradled your head from the headboard while his left snaked downward, slipping in between your sweat soaked bodies. He found the top of your curls and pressed down, sending you keening beneath him. The heat that had been simmering since the alley heightened to a roar, pleasure coiling under his hand.
You came with a moan, muffling yourself against the smooth skin of his neck. Park, for he was Park for a second, that killer look in his eyes reminiscent of an ortho evaluation, soon followed you with his own orgasm. Wet heat flooded your insides, quickly coating you both.
He didn’t collapse on you, but it was a near thing, his forearms bracing his body as he slowly lowered himself down. You stroked the thick muscle of his back, noting the red marks that had already started to form from your ministrations. His cock softened inside of you, but neither of you moved to take it out, content to sync your heart beats as your breathing slowed.
His thumb swept against your temple, a constant reminder of his presence as you stared at the ceiling. Your room was the same, same sheets and same books and same window that stuck when you tried to open it more than an inch, but it seemed its owner had changed drastically.
“You think this will get me a good month four feedback form?” You joked, a reminder of the form you needed to fill in before the week ended. “Hopefully more than satisfactory work,” you added, stiffening slightly when he didn’t respond. His thumb left your temple but not your face, moving down until he could cup your chin and meet your gaze.
“Better than my communication skills, according to some,” he answered. You grinned, your hand back in his hair, smoothing it back until sweat made it stick into its normal form.
“There’s always room for improvement,” you agreed, shrieking when he nipped your chin.
simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.
he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.
simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.
you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.
simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.
simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.
“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.
instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.
it's snowing outside, but that's the least of your worries. seems like the power has gone out at your asshole!neighbor's flat (but just his, yours is somehow doing fine) and now it seems simon is everywhere. his ashtray balanced on the arm rest of your cheap sofa, his cigarettes seemingly never ending despite your pointed coughs.
you would complain, not the type of person to be walked over, but this is the same man that fixed your pipes when the landlord ghosted you. scared off your ex when he wouldn't move from your door, forcing you to call in sick at work until simon came and got rid of him with one menacing stare. and of course, it's been snowing for hours now, and you're sure the poor man has nowhere to go.
it doesn't hurt that he's determined to make it up to you carnally. yanks you into his lap the moment you take a tentative seat on the couch, shuffling limbs and fabric until he's laid out, one foot planted on the ground and the other hanging over the arm rest. he's got you hovering over his face, the pajama shorts you were wearing tugged to side and your cunt somehow already dripping.
"'s payback, love. c'mere." a steel grip at your hip pulls you down and your hands flounder until you can get a handle on the arm rest you face. you squeak at the first lick, your lifestyle practically a nun's for the past while. he seems to eat pussy like he was put on earth to do so, licking around your hole like his goal is to lick you clean instead of getting you off. it's almost annoying, and you're about to smack him for the pointless interruption, when he finally pays your clit some attention.
"pretty little button, ain't ya?" you putter at the language and get a smack to your ass for it. "interruptin' my meal, love." a reprimand would usually be in order, but he grinds you down on his crooked nose bridge and suddenly, you can't think straight much longer. it's all instinct after that, riding his nose while his tongue cleans up the mess left behind. his hands, more meat than human, guide your path.
fire that had been burning soft and low suddenly turns into a raging furnace, and all you can do is follow it. your hole winks and flutters at him, more adept at showing your need than words ever could be. distantly, you think of what it would be like to ride his cock, surely thick enough to break you in half, and with that thought your orgasm sneaks up on you without notice. your core clenches and your walls flutter around nothingness, all while you intend to break his nose again with your pace.
it's only when you nearly collapse over the couch and onto the floor does he stop. you're moved from his face to his lap, and get that answer you were looking for with the feeling of his clothed cock under you.
"you figure the power's back?" you murmur, almost shy with your juices running down his face. you turn your shoulder and sure enough, the snow has stopped. snow plows will be out soon, and no doubt his power next. but when you turn back, simon's wiping his face and licking the residue there. "'ow about a meal and a fuck." it's not a question, more of a demand. he grabs your chin and pulls until you meet in a messy kiss and the idea of power lines leaves your mind.
"i think i'm available." you whisper, and he grins that crooked grin of his all over again.
tw: STALKING, this is NONCON BECAUSE HE STALKS HER, but when they get together reader is a willing participant, DADDY KINK LIKE MAJORLY, SIZE KINK, this is lowkey one of the more nastier things ive written, SMUT, you and your **** are not the same person, john price is NOT a good man
He notices you in the cafe first.
Not the timid prey he usually catches. A smile for the barista, a placating laugh when your oat milk is accidentally replaced with almond. You command the room with kindness, nothing meek about you. Bare ring finger, no notifications on your phone, just you and your laptop at that table.
Prey.
John typically likes an easy hunt. Something quick in between deployments, a rabbit to feast on for those three weeks he pretends to be something more than a battle machine. Tearing sinew from a warm body, drawing out orgasm after orgasm, coming home with someone and never leaving. He's got a string of contacts on his phone without names, just places they met and addresses.
Practical.
But you shut your laptop off before he can sink his teeth in. No headphones, a sensible look back and forth on the street as you cross it. He watches from the cafe window, feet still, mind blank. A single-minded stare Laswell would appreciate. Your booted feet scrape against concrete, and it's only when you turn the corner does he grab his still-warm coffee and make his way towards his new home.
Your apartment is easy to find. Better security than his last pretty thing's building, but still no match for a man who carves the fate of the world with a well-placed bullet. He stays away from the cameras today, just enough to guess what floor you reside on. He doesn't allow himself to find the unit number -- the hunt must be drawn out for it to be satisfying. Nothing easy is rewarded, or whatever his old man used to say.
He'll come back another day, content to imagine your scent still hanging in the air.
A month later and there's a new groove in his arm, courtesy of a hostile's true aim. Nearing forty and he has chest candy to show for it. No warm bed to crawl into at night, no womb to fill full, a legacy blacked out by Confidential stamps. Empty.
You appear like a mirage at the grocery store, hoodie nearly hiding your entire face. It's your fault he notices really. Was too focused on how much cooking he can bear to do in the next two weeks when he hears the grunting beside him.
You, reaching for the pasta on the top shelf. Expensive stuff, gluten-free non-GMO vegan bullshit, probably pumped full of chemicals. He'll teach you better once he has the time, tell you what isn't good for the baby. It's not getting ahead of himself if he's sure it will happen, what with how he slides next to your side and plucks the blue box off the shelf.
"All yours, love." His first words to you and they're truer than you realize, if only you could take a second to look deeper. Instead, you smile politely and take the box from his hand, taking care to not brush fingers. "Thank you."
And that's it.
No shimmer of interest in your eyes, no coy look back, no added sway to your hips. Strangers are meant to help and that's all he did, forever relegated to a singular box in your mind. You continue on your path, plucking a marinara jar at the end of the aisle before turning out of sight. It's not a complication, rather, a test. Higher effort, higher reward.
He makes a note of your unit this time, a two bed one bath you split with a roommate who isn't there for weeks on end.
The 'in' appears to him in a dream, sweat-soaked and dripping in want. An orchestrated meeting, this time in an environment that can't be mistaken for anything else. No, a cafe was too platonic, a grocery store too functional. What he needs is a bar.
You barely require any coaxing. Another week at your office job, following your coworkers like a duck as they trek to a nearby happy hour. It's too packed, the floor sticky and the liquor heavy. John came early, a corner booth in the back giving him a perfect vantage point of your little group near the window. Four birds, tittering over manager woes and life stories. Your Mona Lisa smile is ever-present, eyes glazed over with the need to socialize, even if it hurts. You have nothing to contribute, no bad dates with how empty your bed looked last week.
Your bathroom break comes when your drink turns to melted ice. It's almost kismet, how your heel catches on the cracked floor. How you fall into John's arms like it was scripted. Your cold hands meet his chest, fingers digging into his deltoids as you brace yourself.
"I'm so sorry! I just..." You gesture incomprehensively, as if your sputtering is a valid explanation. John cocks an eyebrow, letting the moment drag on as your embarrassment looms. It builds and builds, in the pinch of your brow, the pitch of your voice. Just when you're about to crack, a wet sheen in your eyes, does he seal the deal.
John drops to his knees, ignores the resounding crack, and finds your heel in its trap. A sticky substance coats the floor like honey was spilled recently, trapping anyone in its web. He finds your exposed ankle bone and brushes it with a callused thumb, wiggling the material of your shoe until it unsticks. John rises slowly, brushing your shin with the same finger until he reaches your knee. You burn bright under him, practically pulsing with need.
"Don't worry about it, sweetheart." He finally replies, only when he's standing straight at attention. Your eyes go wide, and he can practically smell your cunt, wet with desire. It's been too long for her, he knows, and he's here to make it right.
"I know you." You murmur, scanning his face for an answer you can't find. All he does is raise an eyebrow. Wide eyes take in his beard, his stature, his voice, and all he can do is bite back a grin. "You handed me a pasta box the other day." You conclude, eyes dropping and cheeks warming. How silly, to remember a handsome man from a store that clearly forgot your existence. You take a step back, as if to flee to your friends, and of course he can't have that. Not when he's got you where he wants you.
"Penne." He replies. You stop. Frown, quirk your head.
"I'm sorry?" One step back and he can't have that, so he follows you, one booted step forward.
"I handed you penne."
Your smile is like the break after a storm, unrestrained and earthly. It seems he's found your meekness, where it hides behind that shield you wield.
"Penne's my favorite."
-
He almost slips up, almost hits your floor number in the elevator before you do, but you're too wrapped around him to notice. He finds your neck before your lips, to remind you that this is primal. Preordained.
(The other thirty-something women before you must've been universal mistakes, then.)
You giggle into his hold, allowing him to grab two handfuls of your ass as he crowds you against the metal bar. "John," you pant, music to his ears. You don't notice how he opens your apartment door like he's been there before, a gold key on his keyring in the same shape of your own. You don't question how he knows to turn left for your bedroom instead of right towards your roommate's.
Instead, your heels dig into his back as he lifts you around him. He ignores your protests, too focused on molding himself into you until you're made of the same stardust. Something rumbles out of your throat, but he's too busy nipping at it to hear.
Fingers squeeze his shoulders and when he opens his eyes, you're frowning at him from where you're pressed against your bedroom door. "Somethin' wrong, sweetheart?" He grumbles, annoyed his activities were delayed. A fumbling hand finds the doorknob from your perch, and you let him into your sanctuary, displeasure still etched into your features. You're keeping him away from his prize: the warmth of your thighs.
"Your beard is scratchy." You murmur, soft hands rising to groom through the very thing you're annoyed at. He smirks at that, how he's reduced you to a version of yourself you never let others see, all in the course of an hour. "Makin' you hurt, baby?" He asks gently, laying you down on the sheets he'd sniffed last week, jerking his cock to your scent. You nod with doe eyes and it's like you're no longer a woman but something pliable.
Putty in his hands. His to remake.
"Bet this little cunt's dripping." He cups the warmth between your thighs for emphasis, fingers running along the seam of your work slacks. There's nothing little about you, all wide eyes and big heart, but it does something to his core to see you blink at his words. He finds it there, carving knife splitting you open, insides dripping out into his callused hands.
You part your thighs shyly, tender under his gaze. Raw meat, his mind whispers, as if Simon were right there next to him. He takes his time, toying with zippers and buttons. Once he peels the polyester fabric off of you, there's a wet spot on the front of your sensible gray panties. He presses it with his thumb until you keen, back arching in that blouse you still somehow have on, heels dropped back at the entrance. He finds that spot over your shoulder where his cam is hidden, no conspicuous red light like in the movies to blink back at him.
Practical.
"Just need someone to take care of her, hm?" He asks, your answer irrelevant to how he runs his finger against your clothed slit. You whine again, lower this time, some place deep under your ribs. He takes pity then, pulling off your underwear with such force that you don't see him pocket them. Your fumbling fingers find the hem of your blouse and pull up, and for a moment your view is sheer darkness. John could do whatever he wants.
He waits.
Your curls are slick with want, honey on his fingers as he takes his first taste. One broad forearm bands against your belly to prevent your thrashing, the other prying your thigh open so wide it aches. But you take it well, patient little thing as he eats your slick like a meal. He can taste the hours you spent at work, and the hours before spent alone, a concoction of loneliness so strong he's nearly hit by the force of it. This will be different. You need him as much as he needs you, and it's like all of the pieces finally fit to the puzzle he couldn't see. You are his future.
Your opinions about it are, frankly, not relevant.
He wrenches one orgasm just like that, the flat of his tongue against your puffy clit. Another on his fingers, your cunt squeezing him like a vice. Probably haven't had anything up here in a while except that dildo in your drawer, poor thing.
But fucking has always been his favorite.
It's there his brain slows down. Your nipples, hardened and shiny from his spit, shine in the moonlight. Your chest heaves with the effort of doing nothing but being good for him. He starts to unbutton his jeans, but a trembling hand stops the zipper from going forward.
"I want..." You trail off, eyes swiping up and down his body. He'd be more annoyed if his cock wasn't like the heat of your palm through the fabric. Still, he barely holds back when he growls. "Spit it out."
It's too much and he knows, your eyes flashing with something new. Survival instinct, maybe. But your legs already caught in the trap and you're too desperate to gnaw it off, needing the attention even it kills you.
He breathes out once, then twice. Leans you forward until the denim of his jeans presses into your messy cunt, your hand stuck in between. He thumbs the soft skin under your eye, thinner than gossamer, before speaking.
"Tell me what you want, baby." You blink, resetting. Your hand is freed, and it flops against the bed. But your lips don't move and honestly, he needs to be in your cunt sooner rather than later. So he finds what he saw later, the bit of rot in your soul that's mirrored in his own, and digs.
"Tell Daddy what you want."
There it is. You inhale sharply and your hand twitches, but you don't slap him. In fact, he can feel the blood pulsing through you warm. Finally, your lips part. "I want you to take your shirt off. And...I want you to keep talking like that."
He grins.
The Henley is ripped off in a second, revealing the fur of his grizzled chest. You whine appreciatively, and he doesn't go so far as to puff his chest, but something in him loosens. The jeans go next, yanked down to his socks and left on the floor. Boxers are last, and he can finally grip his cock and give it the pressure he's been aching for all night.
"Look at this." Your thighs spread, knees dropping to the mattress. He taps his cock at the entrance, coating it in the wetness he's been coaxing out of you. He doesn't carry a rubber and he doesn't ask. Will put it on if you had enough thoughts in that brain to ask, but you don't and well, he's not here to spoil the fun.
His tip catches on your clit, and you moan, chin tucked to watch your own cunt betray you. "Such a little cunt, honey. How's it going to fit?" He jerks forward and catches on your entrance, feeling you suck in a breath as it all becomes real. "I think you're made to take your Daddy's cock, though." He notches in and pushes, pressing down on your stomach to remind you to keep breathing. You start nodding, as if he needs encouragement.
John's thumb finds your clit again, circling until he can sink in, inch by inch. "This mini toy cunt. Barely bigger than a pocket pussy. Should I fuck you like one?" You gasp, but he's too busy drowning in the blood rushing in his ears to hear. One paw finds your hip and tugs until you're flush against each other. "Such a slippery little thing." Your wetness squeaks as if to agrees. John starts to move his hips and all you can do is hang your mouth open, in shock at your own enjoyment. Every thrust gets closer to that spongy part of you, sparks of something dark gathering in your core.
"My perfect girl." John says, eyes on how your cunt sucks his cock in. "Say it, baby." His eyes flick up to, as if to finally acknowledge your participation. Your mouth opens, then closes. "I'm..." A brutal thrust cuts off your words as you moan, but John takes no mercy. His hand finds your jaw and turns you until all you can do is watch his cock sink in and out of you.
Another circling of your clit and you go slack in his arms. "Say it." He grunts, a little meaner this time. You take a deep breath. "I'm your good girl." He humphs, unsatisfied. Your brows furrow. His thumb leaves your clit to find your nipple, tweaking it as if in admonishment. You clench around his cock, and all you receive is a heavy pant from his chest.
"Whose good girl?" There. Just behind his pupil. There's no spark in his eye. Just a need to function. A need for compliance. The loneliness in you aches like you've been shot.
"Daddy's good girl. I'm Daddy's girl."
He smirks, thumb back on your clit to circle it until you keen. "Daddy's good girl and her little baby cunt. Isn't that right?" You'd agree, but the orgasm hits you like a train, your back bowing against the bed. The world goes white, and your eyes close so hard gravity swirls. And then you're back down, just in time to feel warmth flood your cunt. John keeps thrusting after, as if required to not waste a single drop. You're too wrung out to argue, becoming one with the mattress.
John keeps your hips tilted, watching his seed stay inside you. He doesn't pretend to mention work or the morning or anything else inane. Instead, he plants you against him so you're still in the position he needs, hips high and face tucked into the crook of his neck. He rubs at your back, encouraging you to meld further.
In the morning, he'll make you breakfast. He'll tell you to call off work with his cock in your mouth, then reward you with a thumb to that other hole. He doesn't leave for a week, then two, then three. Goes on his last mission just to see, to test, and is pleased to find you barreling into his arms at the airport. A desk job after that, a baby in your tummy by next year's end. Never tells you about the camera or the hunger in the chest, and likes when you don't mention how he knows more than he should.
simon riley with a very american girlfriend who gets very flustered at every british endearment he throws her way.
“yeah, love?” youre a puddle in his lap, even when you’re just telling him about your day. you tuck your chin and bite your lip to hide the embarrassment but he’s always too cognizant of you, tilting your chin up so he can see the look on your face. “like tha’?”
“here ya go, sweetheart.” all he’s really doing is feeding you a bit of pasta but you moan anyways, the sound going straight to his cock. your tongue peaks out to lick the sauce on your bottom lip, giving him doe eyes. “i like when you call me that.”
“alright, cheeky” he likes calling out your attitude, especially when you’re on your period. knows calling you cheeky will get you to stop talking back as your cheeks warm with a combination of embarrassment and arousal. you’re tucking your face in his neck to hide your feelings as he chuckles, pulling you in further, never letting you go.
shoutout to @peachetteprice who’s been teaching me british (LOL)😌
divorced couple, THEY HAVE A KID, just imagine park donated his sperm or something, no allusions to motherhood! 18+ SMUT, sorry this took so long, angst
more shark fics at the bottom of my masterlist
"Dr. Park? Your phone is ringing."
Park didn't let his gaze drop from the leg in front of him, muscle and sinew unfolding in a gruesome mess of red and white.
"What did I say about interrupting me?" he growled, resisting from rolling his eyes. "Scalpel," he muttered to the surgical tech next to him, who immediately handed him the tool without question. At least someone here was competent.
"But--"
"It's your emergency contact, Park," a familiar voice stated. When he looked up, his favorite OR nurse was practically glaring at him, the baby nurse who interrupted looking cowed at her side.
"Why the fuck didn't you start with that?" No one answered, predictably. "Go find the other attending. Wake her up if you have to." A flurry of movement occurred, pagers buzzed and scalpels handed off. Within ten minutes, Dr. Stevenson appeared to take over, and Park had the fastest scrub out of his life.
"Here." His phone appeared in his hand, two missed calls from you on his screen.
He pressed respond immediately, heart pounding more than it had in months. You never called, let alone twice. Perfunctory texts were the norm now, only about the custody agreement for the divorce papers that were signed twelve months ago, ink as black as the cloud that hung over his head on a daily basis. The tone clicked, and suddenly it was you on the other side.
"I'm downstairs," you said, voice steady. "You're in the ED?" he asked, already turning to find the nearest exit. Elevators were, of course, in the farthest direction, so stairs it was.
"They moved us to a room, I think..." you pulled away, seemingly to step out to check, then returned with a whoosh, "North 15."
"We?" Blood rushed in his ears as metal stairs clanged, the eight flights of stairs between Ortho and the ER feeling impossibly like 100. "Is Bug there? Are you okay?" An echo of what he'd asked you a year ago, coming home to white paper on the table and a stone-cold face. This time, though, you didn't stay silent.
"Don't freak out, Brendon, we're fine." You must have said something else, but he opened the floor-level doors with such a bang that he couldn't hear. Gurneys passed, with one frightened intern looking his way, but Park ignored all as he passed the hub to find North 15.
"Dr. Park? The arm in South 8 has been waiting forever." The med student's voice (Ogland? Olive? Park didn't care to know) jolted him like a pat to the shoulder, irritation climbing under his scrubs.
"Who is in North 15?" Park growled, whirling past Dana to continue his path.
"Um, let's see, five-year-old with allergic reaction at after-school program. Came in with the ambulance, but we gave her some epi and we're keeping her under observation before next steps." Oscar (?) shook his head, that ever-present know it. "Parent just got here, can't believe people don't know their own kid's allergies--"
Park stopped then, outside of North 15. "Say one more word, and you won't see this ER again." Olliver (?) gulped, eyes wide enough to be medically impossible, and promptly vanished. Park turned on his heel and pushed through the curtain before he could think twice.
Bug's too small for that bed.
His first thought echoed through his mind as he took in the scene before him, his heart ricocheting through his ribcage. You, eyes red and face wet, looked up at him, and for a moment, it was as if the past year hadn't happened. It was the same look you gave him after he came home from an on-call shift, having abandoned your bed at some inane hour to go fix a limb. Bright eyes and a soft smile, like you were genuinely happy he was here.
"Daddy!" A little voice broke him out of his reverie, turning his attention back to the bed. His daughter made grabby hands at him, and he couldn't help but scoop her into his chest, cognizant of the pediatric IV in her arm. Bug giggled into him, squealing when he pretended to bite her ear. "Bad shark!" she yelled, whacking his shoulder with her free arm. He let her go with one more kiss to her hair, scanning her face and neck for injuries as he let her go.
"Turns out she's allergic to pomegranates. Who would have thought?" you murmured, drawing his attention straight back to you. You hated pomegranates. Something about the acidity, the texture of them bursting, so they'd never been in your house. He hadn't eaten them in nine years.
Despite your calm tone on the phone, it was clear you'd been holding it together out of sheer will. Your lips twisted and pursed, a telltale sign of impending tears. The universe knew how many times he'd seen that face, had been the cause of it more than once.
The curtain squeaked open, bringing back the blinding light of the ED. "How are we- oh! Dr. Park!" It was Perlah, one of the only ED staff members whose name he cared to remember, since she was actually competent at her job. The nurse in question seemed to take in the scene rather quickly, most likely due to Bug's matching eye color to his own, or the protective hand he had on her shoulder.
"Just here to check on some vitals and deliver this." Perlah pulled a sticker pack out of thin air, one of those small ones they gave out at restaurants. When Park looked back at you, your eyes glittered, and his heart felt like it had been carved to pieces.
"Perlah, do you mind staying here until we get back?" The nurse nodded with a smile, and when he turned to look at his daughter, she was already reaching for the stickers. Typical.
"What do we say, Bug?" Park murmured, catching your eye and nodding to the door.
"Thank you!" Bug shouted gleefully, already depositing a sticker on his arm, uncaring of the hair there. Perfect.
You followed him outside without comment, arms wrapped around your waist. Your work shirt was a light blue, a new one he hadn't seen before. It nipped in at your waist, currently covered by your fingers, and he ached to replace them with his own.
He found you a quiet hallway, and the moment he stopped and turned, the story seemed to burst out of you.
"I was at work and they called me and said there had been a change in the snack because of some substitute caretaker and Bug broke out in hives and the school nurse was gone because it was 5:30 so they called the ambulance and she was taken here and-" Tears leaked down your cheeks and past your chin, turning the sky-colored fabric a stormy sort of blue. Park wrapped you in his arms, tucking you under his chin as your tears soaked his scrubs. He rocked you slowly, one hand cupping your head to him while the other found the small of your back.
He hadn't touched you in so long that your warmth seemed more like embracing a furnace. Twelve months, three days, and four hours, to be exact. Your conditioner still smelled the same, a coconutty scent he hadn't been able to get out of his nose, even when he'd move to the soulless apartment that was now his home.
“It’s okay, baby, Bug’s fine. She’s probably covered the whole room in stickers by now,” Park assured you, pulling back to kiss the top of your head before tucking you into him again. Your sobs turned into sniffles, but neither of you separated even once the tears stopped.
“Were you in a surgery?” you mumbled, unwrapping from his hold to wipe at your tears. Park shook his head, the white lie coming easily as to assuage any guilt. You sniffled, a little clearer now, and focused on the plum-colored scrubs in front of you instead of his face.
Something left your lips, but it was too quiet for him to hear, like you were talking to yourself rather than him. "What?" he coaxed, hands still around your waist, playing with the belt loops of your slacks. You shook your head, hands twisting in the space between your bodies, before tipping your chin up again.
"I asked if you wanted to stay at the house tonight? Bug only has an hour left of observation, and now that she's seen you, I'm not sure if she can let you go. Or wait until it's your week with her, even if that starts in 48 hours." Park nodded, already thankful his gym bag was in his locker with a clean pair of clothes. He hadn't been inside the house since the papers were signed, but he'd do anything to wash that destroyed look from your face.
-
The house was just like he remembered it. Bug's artwork on the walls, little shoes next to adult ones by the door, and the scent of lavender candles recent burnt in the air. Bug shifted in his eyes, clearly ready to stop being worried over and eat the dinner she usually devoured by now. He had her most of his off days, the closest he could get to a 50/50 arrangement without scrambling her schedule too much.
Consistency was important, the therapist had said, but when his daughter blew a raspberry into his shoulder, it was much easier to reminisce back to when the three of you were a family. When he didn't have to worry about neutral pickup spaces, or how you wouldn't look him in the eyes whenever he asked how you were at drop off.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Let's wash our hands before we eat dinner," you said. Park let his daughter scramble to the kitchen sink and her butterfly stool while he detoured to the bathroom, quickly changing out of his scrubs into the shirt and gym shorts in his bag.
Dinner was a silly affair. Bug requested cheeseburgers to solve her illness, and he couldn't help the burst of warmth that sat in his chest as the three of you sat around the breakfast table, sharing fries and napkins.
Bedtime was a quick event, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of his old couch with a pillow in hand. The same couch he'd made love to you on the day you moved in, the same couch you'd first felt Bug kick in your womb, moving his hand to cover your belly to feel it. Slightly battered, a piece of furniture that held more stories than he could recall.
"All settled?" When he turned, there you were, silhouetted by the nightlights plugged into the wall. Warm light lit your white t-shirt up, and for a moment, he imagined an angel.
"How are you?" he asked instead of answering. There were many things he could fix: all four limbs, an intern's mistake, an incorrect diagnosis. But he couldn't fix the frown on your face, or the way you scratched your foot up and down your calf, looking like you wanted to bolt as soon as possible. To his surprise, you made your way down the stairs, coming to stand at the bottom one. His feet moved without permission, pillow still in hand, and delivered him to stand in front of you.
"I'm fine, Bren," you answered, eyes more on the ground than on the man in front of you. Despite the answer, he wasn't at all satisfied with it. One steady hand found your chin and tipped it up, forcing you to look at him. To see him, for once, when it felt like you hadn't in a year. He felt you inhale sharply, the tensing of your neck muscles, the wide-eyed look plastered on your face. "You don't seem fine," he murmured.
Several things happened at once.
You batted his hand away from your chin, stepping back to leave his grip. Unfortunately, you forgot the stairs directly at your heel, and before he could blink, you tipped backward. Instinct kicked in quickly, Park catching you before you could even make it halfway down.
And then you started crying.
He moved the two of you to the floor, unsure of how much comfort you would allow him to give you. But the tears didn't stop after the first few seconds, and it seemed like the lines were already crossed enough. Park tucked you into the crook of his neck, running a gentle hand down the flank of your thigh, his other hand on your back.
It seemed to work for a moment, the tears slowing slightly. And then you stiffened in his grip, already pushing him away before he could let you go. "Stop it, stop holding me," you muttered, scooting away on the ground as he let you go. "I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable," he apologized, arms still warm with the memory of your presence.
"That's just it, isn't it?" you lashed out. "You're just so sorry, and you're doing fine, and you can take Bug whenever. Suddenly wondering how I am and what I'm doing and how work is. Where was that a year ago, huh?" You shook your head, eyes still on the floor as his skin prickled with goosebumps. "You, you never asked how I was, then. When I didn't see you for days, Bren, and when I did, all you did was grunt! You stopped being the man I married two years ago, and now you're him again. How am I supposed to deal with that?"
He moved without thought, turning to cradle himself in between your thighs, splayed on the floor. "I'm sorry," he murmured, cupping your face. You grabbed one of his hands by the wrist, anger laced in your every movement. "Prove it," you ordered.
Park spit in his hand, then moved downwards, under your cotton shorts. "I'm sorry," he said again, finding that sweet spot between your legs he hadn't felt in ages. "I'm sorry," he murmured against your jaw, slipping two fingers into your waiting hole. You clenched around him reflexively, and he didn't move until you relaxed again. He fingered you slowly, using his years of knowledge of your body to make sure every motion brought you pleasure.
"Brendon," you whined as he kissed your jaw, mouthing at your soft skin that tasted like sugar. His cock pressed against his shorts, but he didn't pay it any attention, content to move his fingers in the way you liked. You tightened around him faster than any time before, your thighs squeezing him closer into you.
"I got you," he promised, smiling against your skin as you came, a little moan leaving your throat, just for his ears. Perhaps this meant you were pent up too, hadn't gotten with anyone else after the divorce. He certainly hadn't, and even now, he wondered if this was just a cruel dream.
Your thighs loosened around him, and he took his fingers out of your shorts, taking time to stroke your skin as long as you would allow it. "Let me try again," he requested, kissing the soft skin below your ear. You didn't nod, but you didn't shake your head either.
"Maybe," you replied, tightening your thighs around him until he got the message. "Maybe."
mild dubcon, 18+, john price x f!reader, breeding kink
lord!john price who takes your flirtations at the first ball of the season a little too seriously. despite your age, older than the maidens who've finally grown out of their sister's skirts, your family's lack of wealth meant your father had to make a few underhanded business deals before you could afford pretty dresses.
but now you're flirting at the ball like the rest of them, trussed up in ribbons like frosting and dancing an inch too close to lord price. an absolute bear of a man, a decade older with a body so opposite the men around him. no leisurely feasts or overindulgence here -- lord price is as sharp as a hawk.
maybe that's why you say it.
"it's a wonder you haven't found a wife yet, my lord. surely you have ladies prostrating themselves at your feet." his hand on your back pulls you closer, chest to chest, despite the space between partners currently required by the dance you're dancing. "are you offering for the role, my lady?" he asks, a twinkle in his eye.
"well, i wouldn't be opposed." you reply, demurely. successfully. now that you've practically peacocked yourself, maybe you'll take a walk tomorrow or visit the opera-
except when he guides you to the gardens, there's a horse waiting. the moon flies and the stars glimmer and suddenly you're sitting astride on your way to gretna green, a three hours ride away. the closest place for you to be legally married before morn.
"my lord, this is not what i meant!"
"why waste time?"
the one thing you can't complain about are your new wifely duties. to sit there and take it while he splits you open on two fingers, in the biggest room the traveler's inn had open. lord price john has been divested of his money quicker than you predicted, what with bribing the blacksmith to marry you after nightfall and paying extra for the biggest room the inn had. it's all worth it now as he growls over you, panting fiercely while you kick at his back, overwhelmed by the intrusion of his fingers.
"my lord, i-"
"john, wife. best call me john while i've got you whining on my fingers." he's so crude, so unlordlike as the fur of his chest brushes against your naked tits. the friction is unbearable and you keen further as he finds a sensitive spot so deep within you, you didn't know it existed. "john, i- what's happening..." you trail off as the space below your belly throbs harder, the slick sounds of your wetness thwapping against his hand.
"let it happen, sweetheart." you relax slightly under the conviction in his words. like he has knowledge about everything in the world. "that's it, there's a girl. come for me, just relax now." something clicks and you fade out of time for a moment, your body singing like a wind chime.
when you come to next, it's face down on the bed. he tucks the pillow under the pudge of your stomach, arching your back in the air as he practically smothers you like the beast he is. "john?" he's all around you and yet you can't see his face and you think it might be a dream. "where are you?" a massive hand finds yours and tangles with it, at the same moment something thick taps at your entrance.
"ah, oh..." you moan as he pushes in further, letting you do none of the work as he lays his weight on yours. his face finds the crook of your neck and he pants harshly, murmuring curses under his breath. his free hand finds those nerves hidden by the pillow. a callused palm presses hard and you gasp as he rocks further into you, smothering you between his cock (the word, you've heard, passing pubs on your rare nights out) and flattened hand.
"such a sweet wife, waitin' for me to find you." he grunts nonsensically, and you don't remind him you come from money so new it's still warm from being minted. that he's the first titled man you've ever spoken to, upgraded from your station so violently it was like being yanked by the ear. instead you push back and take it, your core rocking with every thrust as the pleasure builds and builds. or maybe it's his words that get you to the brink of it.
"take instructions so well. this cunt made for me?"
"we're makin' a babe now, sweetheart."
"won't stop until we've got a litter of 'em."
you clench at that and he pinches that bundle of nerves and you're sent over a cliff, careening towards a death made of pleasure. you bite the sheets under you as he thrusts once, twice, until warmth fills you like honey spilling from your fingertips. he stays there a while, stroking your sides as his cock softens within you. only after you yawn does he slip out.
and suddenly you're empty, whining for him. "here, pet." his thumb pushes his spend in until you imagine it taking, nearly rubbing it into your walls. "not movin' for an hour, you hear?" you nod at his words, already exhausted from your day.
a wet cloth wipes your upper thighs, but doesn't touch the spend that drips out. you like it better that way, quite content with your new husband. countess has a nice ring to it.
