Summary: Your daughter fakes a stomachache to surprise her parents at work on Take Your Kid to Work Day, never realizing the panic it would cause.
Word count: 4.2k+
Warnings: fluff, tiny angst
A/N:
this was co-written with my friend Nora! We actually wrote some other stuff together too, but this is the first fic where she wrote the most of it. She also wants to write fanfics but is a little hesitant. Can’t wait for you to open your own blog and share your talent with tumblr Nora, this one’s you!!!💓
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
When your daughter Lucy heard about Take Your Kid to Work Day, she came home convinced it was going to be the greatest day of her entire six-year-old life.
Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.
So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.
"Mama!"
She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.
"Daddy!"
Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.
"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"
"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."
You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.
"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.
Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."
Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.
"And I get to come with you."
The silence that followed was tiny.
Barely a second.
But it was enough.
Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.
You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.
Lucy noticed immediately.
Her smile wavered.
"...What's wrong?"
You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.
"Oh, sweetheart..."
Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.
"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."
She frowned in confusion.
"But I can still come, right?"
Jack let out the smallest sigh.
"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."
Her forehead wrinkled.
"Why?"
You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.
"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."
"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.
"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."
Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."
Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.
"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."
Your chest tightened.
"I know you would."
"I could sit in the corner and color."
Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You probably could."
"I wouldn't touch anything."
"We know, sweetheart."
"I wouldn't even talk."
Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."
For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.
"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"
The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."
Her eyes filled almost instantly.
"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."
Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.
"I know."
"I wanna see where you guys work."
"I know."
"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."
Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."
"I could help."
Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.
"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."
Lucy blinked. "...Really?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."
"I would not."
"You absolutely would."
She crossed her arms.
"No."
"No?"
She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.
"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"
Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.
"There it is."
You couldn't help laughing too.
"Our little charge nurse."
Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.
The moment was warm.
Light.
Comfortable.
Until it wasn't.
Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.
"...But I still don't get to come."
Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.
"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."
The room fell silent.
You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.
Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
"How about this?"
She peeked up hopefully.
"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."
Jack immediately caught on.
"We'll show you the cafeteria."
"My locker."
"The ambulance bay."
"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."
"The empty waiting room."
"My office."
Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.
"...Can I push a wheelchair?"
Jack looked over at you.
You shrugged.
"If nobody's using it, sure."
She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.
"...Okay."
It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
It wasn't even close.
But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.
You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.
Children had an incredible ability to move on.
Or so you thought.
Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.
She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.
She hadn't.
To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.
That simply didn't seem fair.
By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.
By Thursday she had improved it.
By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.
Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.
"Grandma..."
Your mother looked up immediately.
"Morning, sweetheart."
Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.
"I don't feel good."
The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.
"What's wrong?"
"My tummy hurts."
"Oh no."
Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.
"It hurts a lot."
Your mother frowned with concern.
"Can you show me where?"
Lucy froze.
That...
She hadn't prepared for.
She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.
Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.
"...Everywhere."
Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.
"Everywhere?"
Another solemn nod.
"Mhm."
She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Do you feel like you have to?"
Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.
"...Maybe."
"Do you have a fever?"
"I don't know."
"Hmm..."
Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.
No fever.
That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.
Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.
She needed to make it more believable.
So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.
Your mother's face softened immediately.
"Oh, you poor thing."
Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.
After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.
"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."
Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.
"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."
Lucy's heart sank.
"...But my tummy really, really hurts."
"I know it does."
"We should go."
Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.
But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.
She didn't want to overreact.
She also didn't want to ignore something important.
Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.
Your mother sighed softly as she stood.
"Alright."
Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.
Really?
It worked?
Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.
Almost.
She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.
"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"
Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.
"...Okay."
As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.
Her plan had worked.
In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.
She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.
The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.
Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.
His own last name.
At first his brain didn't process it.
He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.
Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.
Accompanied by: Lucy.
The world seemed to narrow into a single point.
His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
No.
No, no, no.
His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.
Car accident on the way to school.
She'd fallen from the playground.
An allergic reaction.
A seizure.
Appendicitis.
A ruptured appendix.
Internal bleeding.
She'd stopped breathing.
His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.
He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.
"Jack?"
Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.
"You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Couldn't.
His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.
Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.
Your last name.
Pediatric triage.
Lucy.
Everything inside you went cold.
"No..."
The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.
Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.
You didn't bother picking it up.
Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.
Not my baby.
Please not my baby.
You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.
The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.
Now you understood it from the inside.
Jack reached pediatric triage first.
He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.
Then he stopped.
Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.
The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.
"Hi, Daddy!"
Jack didn't answer immediately.
He couldn't.
His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.
Skin color okay.
Breathing normal.
Alert.
Talking.
No blood.
No bruising.
No obvious deformities.
No signs of respiratory distress.
No altered mental status.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.
He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.
"Jack?"
Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.
"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."
You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.
"Lucy!"
Your daughter beamed.
"Hi, Mama!"
You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.
"What happened?"
Your mother looked apologetic.
"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."
"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.
"Honey?"
Lucy nodded solemnly.
"It hurt."
"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.
She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.
"...Here."
"How bad?"
She held up eight fingers.
"On a scale of ten..."
"...Eight."
"When did it start?"
"This morning."
"Did you throw up?"
"No."
"Feel sick?"
She hesitated.
"...Maybe."
Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.
Neither of you relaxed.
Because children lied about vegetables.
They didn't usually lie about pain.
And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.
You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.
"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"
She nodded.
You gently palpated one quadrant.
"Does this hurt?"
"No."
You moved to another.
"How about here?"
"No."
Lower right.
"No."
Lower left.
"No."
Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.
Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.
You noticed it too.
Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.
"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"
Silence settled over the four of you.
Jack closed his eyes.
Very.
Very slowly.
Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.
"...Lucy?"
Your daughter's grin only widened.
"It worked."
Jack opened one eye.
"...What worked?"
"My tummy."
Neither you nor Jack said a word.
"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."
For several long seconds, nobody moved.
Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.
Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.
He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.
"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"
Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.
"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."
Your mother's mouth fell open.
"Oh my goodness..."
Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.
"I wanted to see where you work."
Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.
"You scared ten years off my life."
Her smile faltered.
"...I did?"
Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.
"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."
You nodded quietly beside him.
"I thought my little girl was hurt."
Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.
"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."
Of course she hadn't.
She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.
She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.
"I'm sorry."
Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.
Lucy climbed into them immediately.
He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.
"I'm not mad."
She looked up uncertainly.
"...You're not?"
He shook his head.
"I'm relieved."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"So unbelievably relieved."
He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.
"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."
She nodded immediately.
"Okay."
"I need a real promise."
"I promise."
You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
You squeezed her little fingers.
"I know."
"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."
Your heart ached.
"We know, sweetheart."
"They all got to go."
You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.
Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.
Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.
You smiled back.
"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."
Jack nodded solemnly.
"I agree."
He looked back at Lucy.
"So I'm officially discharging you."
Her eyes widened.
"You are?"
"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."
She giggled.
"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."
Lucy's mouth fell open.
"Really?"
"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."
"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.
Jack nodded.
"But that's it."
"No treatment rooms."
"No sick patients," you said gently.
"And you stay with one of us the entire time."
Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.
"I promise!"
"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."
"What?"
"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."
She nodded.
"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."
The smile slipped from her face.
"...Okay."
"I mean it, bug."
"I know."
She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.
Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.
"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."
You laughed.
"No."
"Our stubbornness."
Lucy looked up immediately.
"I heard that."
"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."
"I did not fake being stubborn."
"You absolutely did."
That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.
As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.
But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.
He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.
rookie!reader x lt ghost in which you realise you dont know how to address these feelings for your lieutenant
no cw, fluff, romance , mentions of a stab wound, very silly and fluff.
a/n: this takes place after they kiss and rookie wants to address it but doesnt know how, but idk after that. It’s a silly chapter and also not completely proofread but it’s fluffy and soooo much romance i heard your call guys i deliver
Rookie Masterlist
——
“You like him, dont you?”
“No— it’s not like that!”
That’s what you’ve been telling yourselves for weeks now, especially after he had kissed your head just before leaving for a mission. There’s nothing casual about that— surely? You brushed it off, wallowed over it while he was gone, then tried to ignore it altogether when he came back and didn't act all that different to you at all.
He was a lieutenant— you should’ve known there was absolutely no way, a rookie and a Lieutenant? Yeah, no chance.
So you’ve been forcing it down the back of your mind since, not letting your cheeks burn even for a second else you ruined a perfectly good relationship you already had with him. That’s right, you couldnt possibly afford to mistreat his kindness for something like that— he’d think you’re a freak for real this time and actually call HR. He had threatened already when you stupidly said he was hot but you refuse to regret that too much— you’re allowed to acknowledge a man’s attractiveness. A compliment if you will.
All your reservations came crashing down that fateful week of his injury, insecurities boiling up and making you threaten to leave. That wouldnt even be the worst thing, if he hadnt chosen that time to kiss you, and then you asked for more?!
“Why did I do that?!” You groan loudly, rolling over to hide your face in your pillow in hopes it’ll knock you out enough to forget all this. You kissed your Lieutenant and you have no idea what the hell you’re going to do about it— what the hell even are you meant to say?!
“Sir i just had romantic relations with can i eat breakfast with you and the team without my face burning up every five seconds?”
“Hey Lieutenant i just kissed, do you mind if i sleep in your bed and i get clammy and freeze up every five seconds like a right idiot?”
“Hi guy i just kissed, do you mind if we do it again?”
You groan louder this time, using your hands to push the pillow against your face because this really should be the death of you. How did you even get yourself here?
“Poor method of killin’ yourself, bird. Recommend ya at least add some water first.”
You sit up immediately in horror to see him standing there in the doorway, stature sluggish from a trip out, duffel bag in his arms. As soon as he could walk again, he had to go down with the 141 somewhere, not that they made him do anything too strenuous.
“What’s with the deer stare? I’m fine, promise.” He raises a brow at your terrified face.
“Y-you’re early.” You eventually manage to squeak out. You’re not worried about his injuries this time— he was supposed to be back next week. And you were still figuring out what the hell you were gonna do.
“Thought it’d be a good surprise, or not? If you want to have a bath today you still can.” Surely he must’ve encroached upon some plan you previously had, but you just meekly shake your head.
“No, it’s okay. How long are you back for?”
“A while, wrapped up somethin’ big so nothing for a while.”
Shit.
—————————
“Sergeants want to watch a movie in the rec room, you comin?” He had just finished up in the shower when he got the text from them, apparently spontaneously deciding when they got a good deal on a takeaway too.
“Umm..” You’re playing a game on your phone, clearly having not even processed his question yet as you narrow your brows at the screen in concentration.
“Hello? You lost in your pretty little head again?” He waves his hand in your face, effectively making you miss your attack and you quickly swat his hand away. “What is it?”
“Movie night, yes or no, love?”
“Depends, are you going?” You repeatedly tap the screen and yet the boss is still standing, what is this thing made of?
“Yes, and they bought snacks. So that’s basically a yes from you, wash up and we’ll go.”
The game ends with a success on your end and you grin, letting it drop to your lap as you finally look up and register all the words he had just said to you. “Oh, sure, a movie night sounds good. I mean i’ll watch what— wait, what did you say before?”
“I said you’re lost in your pretty head again.” He repeats so casually like it didn't just rewire your entire brain chemistry. You watch as he tucks away some of the papers he was working on earlier, locking them in his draw before walking over to you. “You good, love?”
“Y-yeah, just deciding if i need to uh.. check my armoury or something, yeah..” You mumble out, quickly standing and heading into the bathroom with the soft slam of the door. You were not surviving tonight.
———————
You passed out on the couch almost immediately after that to save yourself from any more embarrassment. Except, now you couldn’t help but crave for even more of his attention like that.
It didn't hit you until a week later, in which you joined them on a mini operation of a sorts. Really you were just in charge of watching the cameras for them since the usual soldiers were all caught up on something. It all went smoothly, and you started the drive back to base except.. a storm had started thundering down and having the heating racked up caused the petrol to run out faster than planned. So you all stopped off at a petrol station in the dead of night, the rain still pattering down as you and the sergeants rushed in.
“Not always safe in there, i’ll be outside, okay?” Simon mumbles, following you to the woman's cubicle, and you sleepily nod knowing that some creeps liked to linger in these places.
Thankfully you had no such troubles, and it was even actually clean! You grin to yourself as you wash your hands, already thinking about the bag of m&ms you were just about to buy for the way back.
“All done!” You hum as you step out and he stands from where he was leaning against the wall.
“Gotta grab some stuff first, car’s acting up a bit.” He starts walking and you follow, watching him look at a rack of engine oil and coolants. Truly you probably would be able to help, but you’re kind of tired right now so you just leave him to it. Instead you over the top of the aisles, noticing the lack of anyone around. Johnny’s mohawk seems to peek out near the fridges, along with Kyle’s cap, but that’s it apart from the cashier.
You turn your attention back to Simon again whose picked up one of the coolants, looking it over at rhe details. His other hand hangs useless at his side but with his gloves off for once— and yours cold from the rain— you can't help but stare at it a bit too longingly. Before you can really think twice about it, you lightly tap your hand against his, before gently slipping your palm against his. He glances at you for a moment, but you keep your gaze stuck to the floor, half expecting him to pull away with a roll of his eyes.
Instead, his fingers lock your hand in place, pulling you along to the next aisle with him as you let a smile spread across your face. His hand warms the chill in your body, making even your face start to feel warm too. “What d’ya want?” He’s pulled you into the chocolate section, mandatory for any late night drive.
“M&Ms please.” You squeeze his hand as you crouch to look at the offers on the bottom shelves. “Reckon we have to get some sour gummies too.”
He nods, and then cocks his head towards the bag of wafer rolls and you practically look at him with stars in your eyes. You grab all of them, his hand still in yours as he heads to the counter. It’s even harder to push down the rising warmth as the cashier smiles at your romantic display despite the late hour. Maybe Simon was just doing this just to make you seem more normal, just like the cash he fishes out his pocket and places on the counter. Cover the tracks, right?
You notice Kyle’s hood as he stands by the door, waiting for you too and embarassed, try to pull your hand away from Simon. Unfortunately for you, he just squeezes it tighter, giving you a knowing look. “Wha’s wrong? Eager to hold it before, why not now?”
“Simon!” You hiss and he chuckles, waiting until the very last moment to finally let you go, making you grumble at him.
“Price said the weather will clear up in a bit, then we can call Laswell and share some info.” Kyle hums as he walks beside you two to the car. He pauses for a second, and then a cheeky smile lifts across his face. “Lt, I’m gonna take your place in the front, you can take the middle seat.”
You don't even get a say in the matter as you’re immediately squashed against the window, the weight of him constant beside you. The car starts moving again, snacks open and pass around, and then just as he passes you the chocolates his arm settles around your head. Just resting there, like a personal pillow.
“Uh.. rookie?”
You snap out of your thoughts, looking up to see Kyle staring right at you. “Y-yeah?”
“Just was gonna ask to have some but you look a little too comfortable there.” He teases, a smirk rising on his lips before you shake your head adamantly, practically shoving the chocolates in his hands.
“I’m being squashed. It’s all your fault for sitting upfront.”
—————
It’s been a few days since, and thankfully he’d been so caught up in other work he forgot to even address that at all. Wait, were you supposed to be the one to address it? Did it need addressing?
Regardless, he’d been called out for another mission and so a few days spans into two whole weeks. Usually you were fine with him being gone, so why did your chest ache every time you saw his neatly folded sheets? It got to the point you had to mess them up, sleep in his bed for one night even if it killed you more laying there without him warm beside you.
All of a sudden, you were noticing his abscense everywhere. The lack of his stupid alarm that made you groan into your pillow, none of his clothes hanging to dry in the bathroom, the bathroom always available for you to use. And yeah, you had friends you could hang around and often did while he was here, but there was something so incredibly lonely about returning to a quiet room with not even a sign of him there. Not even one of his spare masks hanging off his chair.
Even when you got pissed off at a cocky soldier, said somethings you probably shouldn't have and had gotten glared at by a superior, his office door was still locked shut. You couldnt even go in there and get scolded by him.
You officially cant take it anymore after another week goes by with absolutely no news at all; it’s not like you exactly had an outlet to get information from either. So you sulked, and spent your evenings sitting on his desk chair, on his bed, maybe even wearing the old hoodie he had chucked out months ago.
“Wait! Are you seriously throwing that out?”
“Well.. it’s too small for me. Nothing i can do about it unfortunately.”
“Can I have it?” He raised a brow at the time, but you knew how soft they were from the odd chance you were sorting a muddled laundry pile. It was really good quality, better than you could ever splurge on.
“I mean.. my title’s faded anyway.” He had shrugged it off, leaving the room before you even got a chance to slide it on yourself.
It was warm, so warm, and even though it’d been a while you could still make out the one cologne he swears by. You made a few small adjustments so it’d fit better, damn men’s clothes and sometimes fitting weirdly, but now it swallowed you perfectly.
Something startled you awake tonight, making you wearily blink as you roll over to check your small clock. Only twelve am, it wasnt even that late. Must be the foxes mating again. You groan at the thought of their noises all night, before trying to fall back asleep again. Except you cant, at all. You toss and turn and toss and turn to absolutely no avail. What frustrates you even more is than when you roll back over, his bed is still as empty as ever.
Even better, you totally forgot to refill your water bottle before knocking out. So now you have to get out of the warm covers, grab your shoes and water bottle and walk the three whole minutes to the rec room. You suddenly stop right outside, seeing light peeking out from the crack beneath. Only you and the rest of them had the key, or well that was what you were told. Maybe that CIA agent had come by?
Laswell you think.. or maybe not. You’re too tired to care, what are they gonna do, sue you?
You push the door open, immediately freezing in place. Simon is stepping towards the counter, stripped down from his gear and clearly having recently returned. His hair is still damp from a hot shower, a few streaks of black still smudged around his eyes. Worst of all, his hand is hanging wrong, and you can see the way his shirt doesn't sit on his arm as well as it should.
It makes tears prick in your eyes, because regardless it is still him, and he’s here after what? A month? A whole four weeks, thirty or so days away?
You barely make out more than a squeak before the door swings shut behind you, the soft sound of your slippers pattering against the floor. Then out comes his immediate huff, the air forced out of his lungs when you suddenly throw yourself against him.
“Love—“
“It’s been a whole month! A month! And you come back now— randomly- and you didn't even wake me up!” You curse him, contradicting your arms that are tight around his middle as you hug him with all your might, utterly determined to take everything you’ve missed for months.
“Though you were sleepin’. It’s late, bird.” He chuckles at your angry words before his uninjured arm strokes down your hair.
“So is this like..?” Johnny is the first to break the silence, and it’s only then that you realise the other three had been settling down on the couch when you barrelled into Simon.
Quickly, you scramble back, completely awake now as you frantically glance between Simon and Kyle’s phone that had been directly pointed at you too. “I- i— he’s injured! I wanted to make sure he’s okay!”
“So you arent wearing his hoodie right now?”
Now that you had stepped back, the sight of you was all Simon could focus on. Your hair tousled and tucked beneath the hood, eyes drowsy and slippers tucked on beneath your cozy pajama bottoms. Of course, his hoodie swallowing your upper half, his surname written across your back and front.
You swallow hard, would he get angry at you for being so careless. What if he didn't want them to know about your relationship? What if this wasnt even a relationship?!
“I didn't even know you had that..” He mutters, making you blink back towards him whilst desperately trying to defend yourself. For once in your life he genuinely looks somewhat speechless, just staring at you.
“Well?” Kyle is pushing, you know it from the cheeky smirk across his lips that you want to let your fist collide with.
“She’s mine.” Simon says, leaning down to kiss your lips right before them, not even a care in the world. You’re speechless because you thought he wouldn't be as shameless as that and clearly the sergeants have similar thoughts from how they immediately shut up aswell.
Price finally breaks the silence with a fake scoff. “I thought I was in charge of soldiers, not a bunch of teenagers.” He directs the last bit towards the Sergeants who still have their jaw gaping in disbelief.
“You knew about this, didn't you?” Kyle huffs, offended and Johnny nods in tandem.
“Simon- stop!”
You groan, wiping your cheek with your sleeve after he presses another kiss to your cheek, practically smacking his lips on purpose to piss off the other two.
“Just showing my love for you.”
You all give him practically the exact same look, and you’re positive that if someone had their thermal scope on you they’d see a fiery red and you’d encourage them to take the shot.
“Y’want tea, bird?” He pulls away to attend to the kettle that just finished boiling— of course, he did.
“Hot chocolate, extra sugar.” You grumble which he only chuckle at, pulling out the bag of marshmallows from the cupboard.
“Ye know ye cant go out with us anymore, right?” Johnny suddenly says, arms crossed over his chest and giving you a look like he came straight out of mean girls.
“What?” You raise a brow and Kyle dramatically nods along, turning away from you to grab himself a mug for his cuppa.
“Our pub nights are for the single people, not the ones lipsing our friend.”
“He’s the one lipsing me!” You argue, unsure if they were really joking. The single thing was supposed to be a joke, right? “You cant kick me out!”
“Well, we’ll consider your place with one condition.”
Johnny adds, snatching your hot chocolate before Simon can hand it to you to take much more than a sip, earning him a glare. His lips lick off the whipped cream coating his top lip, chocolate sticking to the bottom one as you steal it back. “You gotta introduce us to some of your friends. Your nurse one is a real bonnie lass…”
“No way!” You shake your head adamantly, not because you dont want your friends to be happy, you really do. But these two..
“You dont even wash your hands before you eat sometimes! And who knows how often you even clean your clothes.”
“Oh come on, Lt wears one bloody mask, he probably stinks.”
“Why’re you complaining at me? Every time we go out, Kyle gets asked for his number at least twice.”
As you direct your squabbling to Kyle, Simon hands Price his own steaming mug which he takes gratefully. “So, you finally told ‘er then?”
Simon grunts in return, even as he chooses to sit right next to Price, knees touching him as he watches you point a finger right at Kyle and argue. “When I got injured.” He reluctantly says, pausing to take a long sip of the tea. “She got really upset— said she was only burdening me ‘cause she doesn’t have experience like i do.”
Price chuckles at his words, since it was a situation he could imagine fairly quickly with you who wore your emotions more openly than the rest of them. He was glad that Simon had you, the Lieutenant had worked hard for too long without a reward, and of course the sergeants got a taste of normalcy when they interacted with you.
“I want front row seats at the wedding, son.” He pats Simon firmly on his shoulder, already having finished his drink and now standing to place it in the sink. It was time to get some sleep too.
Simon doesn't roll his eyes at the implication, nor does he even grumble at the teasing tone. Price had a habit of getting what he wanted, and this time he couldnt deny this request.
————
“I can’t believe you got hurt and you’re just walking around no problem. I mean, is it not kind of fun complaining?” You raise a brow at the thought, knowing the hard way how much his stab wound hurt.
“Reckon Price would laugh in my face if I asked him for a day off.” He grunts and you snort, because you know he totally would. Not because he wouldn't give him one, but more so the fact the Lieutenant would have to be joking to ask for that.
He steps out of the bathroom, caught immediately on the sight of you sitting against the pillows of his bed. You’re picking at the insignia on his shirt, a simplified version of the taskforce symbol, as you wait for him to come and join you. But the fact is that you look gorgeous dressed in his clothes, the way they seem to make you just glow from their dull colour.
“Sorry for keeping you up.” He mumbles, turning off the mainlight and shrouding the room in darkness. He pats the bed first, making sure he wont squash you as he slides beneath the covers. The duvets move as you do the same, until your hand finds his uninjured arm and soon enough you’re clinging on.
“If i knew you’d be back, i would’ve waited.”
You huff, and he knows you’ll get annoyed tomorrow that he didn't give you better updates. It’s not his fault he prefers surprises. The both of you fall silent for a moment as you readjust, you curling into his side as his arm settles behind your head— his bicep a very comfortable pillow.
“Cant believe i almost didn't see you in my hoodie.” He grumbles suddenly, and you groan, feeling your cheeks warm all over again.
“I told you i didn't mean to! It was my last sleep shirt.”
“Doesnt matter, it’s a bloody sight.” You feel his lips press against your cheek again, a silent reassurance.
“Si?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” His hand rubs your waist gently, the warmth of him radiating so hot it makes you melt even further. You cant believe you almost missed out on this tonight.
“Think i got a crush on you.”
That makes a laugh rumble through his chest and your hand that lays across it, the breath he exhales blowing the top of your head. “I must be bloody whipped then, huh?” You feel him relax properly now, making your smile only grow knowing you’re the sole reason for that.
“You gotta say if you like me back.” You feign annoyance and he huffs properly this time, kissing your head.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
He feels your finger stutter against his chest, like you froze up just from the confession, before your nose pushes into him as you hide your face.
“I love you too, Si.”
——————————-
Rookie Masterlist Buy me a coffee!
OH MY DAYS I ACTUALLY DID FLUFF FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A HOTTTT MINUTE now i need someone to get brutally injured so the scales are balanced
Also the taglist is now unfortunately closed because i have 2 and im scared im gonna get like attacked for tagging too many yk
(fem!rookieroommate!reader x lt ghost, romance, NO smut, cw kisses) rookie masterlist
The Lieutenant is injured.
You heard it first from Soap, the text coming through close to eleven pm. They were supposed to come back even later, but plans changed and they were here now. You barely get to throw a fleece over your pajamas before you’re making your way to the infirmary.
As you near the door, you hear hushed voices inside, the most familiar bearing a Scottish accent. “Hey, Bon. You okay?” Soap turns to you as you peek your head inside the room, noticing Ghost leaning against the wall, sitting on the creaky beds, nurses still flitting around him.
“I just..”
You stare at Ghost, really stare. Sure you’ve been on deployment, but it was never really that dangerous. Most times you were stationed to defend and nothing happened anyway. It was a given really, being younger, inexperienced and a much lower rank. He was in the special forces, not some kind of battle buddy to make jokes with, and sometimes you failed to remember that.
“You mind staying here, kid? We got a debrief in 5. It’s okay if not, the nurse is here.” Price asks you, making you blink in surprise before quickly nodding.
“Yeah- yeah of course i can.”
The door clicks shut against as they disappear down the hallway, leaving you to step closer to where he sits. “Lt..?” He was a bit out of it, you could tell, but his shoulders relaxed when he realised it was you talking to him. Probably some strong anaesthetic they had him on— you couldn’t imagine the number of injuries he had.
He doesnt respond immediately, eyes closed beneath his mask as a nurse injects something else into his arm. It’s secured with a cotton ball and tape, his arm limp when the rest of the medics leave to deal with other injured. The door clicks softly, and you approach closer this time, eyes softening as his cracks open.
“Rookie.” He grunts, teeth grazing each other from the strain in his lungs. “Help me back to our room, will ya?”
You blink, surprised, mainly because he definitely shouldn’t even be allowed out of the infirmary in this state. “Huh? Wait, let me ask the nurse first-“
“I’ll just do it myself then—“ He shakes his head and lets out a low groan as he pushes himself upright, swinging one leg off the bed. That immediately makes you panic, quickly coming to his side to catch him. “Okay! Okay i’ll help, lets go. Lean on me, okay?”
You’re suddenly thankful for all your training, because he is heavy. The hallways are empty at this time, only the stray soldier practically running down the corridor for something or the other. He leans against the wall as you click your key in, opening the door and helping him towards his bed.
“Thanks.” He lets out a huff, and you straight up frown at him, fists clenched. He notices, obviously, looking up at you with narrowed eyes.“What’s yer problem now?”
“You said you’d come back safe!”
For a moment he genuinely raises a confused brow at you, one hand tugging off his mask and tossing it onto his desk. “I’m breathing, no? Do you want me manicured or something?”
You deadpan at him and he just rolls his eyes, reaching for a t-shirt hanging off his chair to slide over the multitude of bandages— hiding them from you. “Could’ve come back a bit cleaner at least.” That gets a laugh out of him, lips tugging up into a small smirk as he fixes the t-shirt over him. He’s not usually this.. relaxed, which is weird.
Tonight, you curl into your own bed, although still watching as he leans back, stretching his legs on the mattress. You can't keep your eyes off of it at all even if it makes your gut clench every time a sliver of red peeks out. Something about this tells you that you shouldn't do too much trying to help him like you usually do. Despite Price and Gaz insisting he at least has some fondness regarding you, this is the first time he’s actually been injured like this in front of you. And it looks bad.
This is not tidying his side of the room, or getting him a meal post op, it’s not even the same as when you convinced him to let you make him a ‘healing’ smoothie. You snap out of it as his head sinks into the pillow, the light flickering off soon after.
—-
The next day your eyes are glued to him whenever he enters the room. Annoyingly, he was pretty good at ignoring the pain and was already happy to ignore most of the medical advice apart from the medication and advised foods. You had yet to see him hit the gym thankfully, but he did take a leisurely jog around his usual route. Still, you couldn't let go of it, lips always set in a soft frown as he walked around without a care.
“Does he always do that? Just carry on even after those injuries?” You ask Gaz at lunch, whilst Ghost talks to Soap opposite you.
“Yeah, we’ve tried to change him, trust me.” He sighs, patting your shoulder before shovelling another forkful in his mouth. It’s not only Ghost who looks worse for wear though, they all do. Gaz is practically forcing the food down and Soap’s mohawk is tousled and damp, strands weeping sadly— it’s not a good sight for any of them.
You wish you could do something, but everytime you get a bright idea all you can think about is how naive you probably are. This wasn't normal exhaustion, this was bone deep. It could be the weight of a hundred lives on their hands, hell even millions. What the hell could you do? And if you even so happened to mess something up, you can't stand the idea of giving them more work. Especially after Price and Gaz had to bail you out of that fight only a month ago.
So you do what you believe to be the most rational thing— avoid them all like the plague. You can't do any harm when you’re not near them, right? Plus, you didn't want to admit it, but when asked why they weren't eating as much Soap had just sighed, saying “Don't worry about it.”, and it hurt more than it should’ve.
They’re not wrong you suppose, technically you don't understand it at all. After all, you’ve never experienced what they have.
Every night you take a quieter routine in your room, making extra care to be very fast in the bathroom and then keep to your side after. You curl into bed, pretending to sleep as you watch Ghost move around. His steps are heavier now that he’s injured, no longer quiet and he only falters just slightly, and only ever in the confines of this room. Sometimes he looks over and you have to quickly shut your eyes, but he never approaches either, always heading to his desk or his bed. It reminds you of when you first met him, the nights you were terrified of him getting annoyed and just tucking yourself into the uncomfortable couch. It’s been forever since then.
He’s out for most of the next day, you heard from Gaz in passing, so you sit in the room during the day for the first time in a week. Your side is tidy, not quite neat, but nothing that could trip him or even make him huff about. He’s clean as well, but you can't help but walk over, setting all his things in the rightful places before sorting and dusting the room.
When you’re all done cleaning his side, you settle on his bed for a breather, the sheets reminding you of the times you spent curled up beside him. No— you cant give into temptation. You would surely harm him if you did, putting pressure on his injuries, or you’d kick him in his sleep or wake him up at odd hours. Besides, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you really weren't in any place to wish for these things. It’s only by a stroke of luck that you ended up in Ghost’s room, and then even more that he let you talk to his team.
Something sickening forms in your stomach as you sit there, eyes drooping at the thoughts eating you alive. It doesn't help seeing the soaked bandages in the bin next to his desk, or the empty painkiller packets. The fear was only half of the reason, truthfully you couldn't stand seeing him so injured either— but what kind of soldier did that make you? Probably a weak one. Only further proof you were way out of his league.
———-
“Hey kid, you doing okay?” Kyle’s hands are tucked tight in his jacket as he comes to where you’re sat on a bench outside during the usual mealtimes. You’ve been avoiding the mess hall and eating your lunch out here, so naturally you looked at him with wide eyes and stuffed cheeks when he caught you. “Looking like a squirrel there, huh?” He chuckles, sitting down next to you with his eyes still trained on you.
“ ‘m fine…” You mumble through the food in your mouth, hands clutching your box as his gaze washes over you entirely.
“Dunno, you’re acting kind of funny recently.” He adds, eyeing you suspiciously and then flicking open the lid of your takeaway box. It was only Wednesday, and you really shouldn't be having the greasiest food known to man in the middle of the week, but you also had a habit of stress eating.
“Dont tell Ghost.” You plead, groaning when he starts to chuckle and just steals a chip with a nod.
You were hoping that would be all there is to it, until he shakes his head and leans back. “Nice try, I know that's not all it is. All week you’ve avoided us, private.”
You hated when he called you by that, making you groan again especially now you had to confront the truth.. or at least part of it. “I’m not avoiding you. Just keeping out of your way— it’s clear you're busy.”
He blinks, not really buying the excuse, but it does make some weird sort of sense he supposes. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You stuff another forkful in your mouth, and he just nods, slowly. When you look over you still see that exhaustion lingering, evident by how he turns his head to hide his yawn.
“Alright. But.. you don't have to. At least come and sit with us, don't have to say anything if you don't wanna.” He hums before slowly standing, mumbling something about getting a good night's sleep and then he’s off again.
————————-
His words had left you wondering if you were going overboard with all this, after all you’ve barely exchanged more than a sentence with any of them for days now. So when you come back to the room that evening, you’re disappointed to find no sound of anyone within the room. With a soft sigh, you drop your bag by the door– a shower would surely pass the time until he returns again. He must be getting better by now too, so at least you won't have to feel queasy just seeing his bandages wrapped around him.
You find out halfway through soaking your hair that your shampoo is completely empty, not even a backup one in the sink cupboard. He’s not back yet.. right? As carefully as you can, you get out of the shower, drying your feet on the mat and wrapping your body with your bathrobe before peeking out the door. “Ghost?” You speak out just incase but luckily there’s no sign of him at all, making you breathe out a sigh of relief. You rush through to your wardrobe, kicking your bag and accidentally splattering water everywhere from your wet hair. Oops.
In the end you get your shampoo without Ghost sneaking up on you— you’d never live that down.
Wait, why the hell were you even acting like this?
Ghost is the same person who wrapped his arms around you in his bed less than a month ago and the same guy who kisses your head everytime before he goes on leave. You were totally fine, hell you could just go ahead and hug him right when he enters. You towel dry your hair off after redressing, already thinking about how you’d approach him after being distant all this time.
“Hi Ghost sorry i avoided you like you were going to infect me can i please sit next to you as you do your work but of course if i annoy you please tell me to fuck off!”
Right, no, he’d definitely just give you a very strange look..and find you annoying like those privates who butter up to any higher rank they see. Most soldiers on base have already whispered that you are one of them and you do not want any more allegations.
Infact, it’s been like that for a.. while. You dont know when it actually started, just that it did, and it swallowed you. Every snicker, every point, every word too far for you to hear— it started to mix into one. Barracks Bunny. Boot licker. Suck-up.
No one has ever actually directed it at you, but you can feel the stares. Why would a girl like you, know a taskforce? How does a girl like you move up so easily?
And it’s all too easy to get consumed by it, after all, it’s all the chatter going around. Nepo baby soldiers being able to do whatever they want, the rumours about night services that no one can actually attest to and now this— now it could be you.
You’ve dragged them all into it— havent you? That’s what they’re all saying, ‘seducing’ them to your every whim. Manipulative, catfishing little—-
A loud thud echoes in the room, making your eyes snap to the bathroom door, especially when curses follow as well.
Quickly you open the door, panicking. Forget the rumours you’d get no more hugs, no more team lunches, no more sitting in the rec room and using his card for uber eats when you’ve killed off your lieutenant.
You look towards where the thud echoed, only to find Ghost upright. A sigh of relief escapes you as your heart starts pumping normally again until you realise you had just killed Sergeant Mactavish who is on the floor and cursing bloody murder.
“Are you okay?!” You hurry over as he rubs his face, grumbling as he looks up at you.
“Yea, just bloody peachy— who the hell leaves water puddles all over the floor?”
You, that’s who, but you choose to ignore that part as you help him upright from where he had face planted onto the floor. His nose is bleeding, probably a noticeable bruise there tomorrow too, and you only notice now that Ghost is clutching his side. He lifts his shirt, cursing under his breath as he kicks the Scot with his foot. “You bloody idiot, why’d you start swinging when you fell huh? Now you ripped m’stitches.”
Your mouth widens in horror now that you realise you injured both of them in the span of one stupid mistake. In fact you think you might just burst into tears, beg for them to have mercy and forget you then ask for the next solo mission out of here. The only reason you wouldn’t quit is because that’d be the cowardly way out though you will have to consider releasing a public apology video.
“I didn't mean to- i didn't—“ You stumble on your words but he just shakes his head, Ghost snatching a tissue from the box on the dresser and pushing it towards Soap’s nose.
“It’s his bloody fault for charging in— I tried to warn him but he was too focused on other things.” He rolls his eyes only for Soap’s jaw to drop, spinning around to him.
“Ye did not warn me!”
“Not my fault you can't hear.” He retorts, grabbing his shirt and tugging him back out of the door.
“Well, we’ll be back later. Looks like a medical trip is due.”
And then, before you can say anything more, they’re both gone and leaving you standing here like a fool.
-
You pack your backpack hastily, swallowing down the guilt each time a new wave comes. After they left, you chased after them, only to hear Kyle telling them what he had talked to you about. You didn't stay after that, afraid they’d agree you’d only messed up things more and instead went around asking your friends if you could stay at theirs for the next week. If you stayed here any longer you’d only cause trouble and it’d be more like babysitting. Besides, you’ve long since passed your stay, the new barracks block was due to be ready any moment or so you heard.
Stepping into the bathroom, you put your usual products in the bag, before hesitating on the shampoo. Even though it was technically yours, Ghost regularly used it as well. It’d sort of become a thing now, especially since it came at a cheaper discount when buying in bulk. You pick it up, running it over your hands and remembering the times he let you have baths for a whole hour. Sometimes he did have to knock and you’d hide behind the shower curtain whilst he grabbed the mask he hung up to dry, but even then you’d still yap his ear off and he’d listen.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
You drop the bag as you spin around, met face to face with Ghost as he stands in the doorway. The last time you were caught like this was when you had accidentally seen him without the mask for the first time.. and you suddenly grow embarrassed remembering how you told him your opinions on his looks.
“I’m staying with my friend.. for a bit.” You say, trying to make it seem like it’s any other day and not because you’re actively escaping him.
“No— no way. I’m not letting you.”
“Ghost—“
“Simon.” He corrects you and you didn't even realise you’ve been only thinking about him with his codename recently. “You’ve been avoiding me all week. Why?”
“You’re so busy, i’d totally get in your way! Besides.. I’ve been outstaying my welcome long enough now..” You smile, phrasing it like its something to be expected but he only scoffs, stepping closer.
“What? Is this what Kyle was talking about?” His mask is off, and you realise you don't often see his face truly harden like this. You wonder if this is what his enemies feel like, even if you’re seeing the whole of it rather than just the eyes. Either way, it’s intimidating to say the least, leaving you frozen in place as you stare up at him. “That’s bullshit, we’ve been fine for months livin’ like this. Tell me the truth.”
“W-well.. I couldn't stand the sight of all the bandages at first and then I saw the team, and they were equally exhausted and..” Each word makes you want to swallow harshly, but you owe him this much to say the truth and nothing but it. “You all walk around with the country on your shoulders.. I barely get asked for more than recon. Must be a little bit irritating— i must be so insensitive all the time scolding you.. about sleeping with wet hair.”
The poorly disguised insecurities doesn’t go unnoticed, neither does your own damp hair from the same shower that sent him to the infirmary. “So? I can't make a souffle, but I can tell when one is pretty shite. Don’t need to be a war general to know that the wet hair thing is bad..” His arms cross over his chest, challenging you to tell him more— the complete truth.
“It’s not like that i..” You don't want to say he’s wrong, and you don't want to have this conversation right now when he’s so tired already. “I can't relate to you, I can't understand what you’re going through, and I know you’ll brush me off if I worry over your injuries.. I-i’m going to end up getting on your nerves.”
“Tha’s just stupid, you know i only stop you from fussin’ because i can handle it. Never said it annoys me.“ Stepping forward once more, he’s only inches away than the last time and though it should make you blush, you cant help but buzz with even more anxiety.
“You don't need to say it— I know I’m nowhere near your reputation! Everyone knows how pathetic I am, of course it's my own damn fault for trying to look past it too.” With one last groan you shove the shampoo bottle in your bag that’s still on the floor, frustrated that he couldn't see the obvious truth.
You start to walk forward, ready to move past him and get out of this room. Look at you, making him argue with you. If anything this was just proving you even more right than before. You really were useless when it comes to this.
“Tha’s it, I've had enough.” He puts an arm out before you can walk past, hand low and not even tensing his muscles.
“Go away, ‘m going.” You huff out, ruder than usual in an effort to get him to give up. However, you kept trying to move his arm only for it not to budge in the slightest. Dammit he had a t shirt on too so it was practically laughing in your face that he wasn't even straining his muscles. “Move—“ You try again but to no avail, letting out a huff before promptly trying to duck under his hand.
He hoists you up by the scruff of your shirt, effortlessly placing you against the wall to your right before letting you go. Then, just as you’re about to argue he steps closer, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me how to make it up to you.”
You stare at him dumbfounded, had he still not realised it? Maybe Lieutenants were immune to all rumours around this base, actually it’d make sense. Guess there’s one thing he’d never get about you.
“You’re not the problem—”
He pinches your cheek as you start to speak, making you frown and rub at the reddening mark left behind, instantly quietening down. “Clearly am if you’re leavin’ me. ” He sighs, but all you can do is continue to look at him in utter confusion, his face holding nothing but regret. “ ‘m sorry I havent been talkin’ with you either. I didn’t want you to see me like this— all bloody y’know?”
“A-arent you going to mock me for getting upset about that..? We’re soldiers, i should be used to blood and injuries but..” All you can do is fall quiet as he chuckles, shaking his head.
“Mocking ya wouldn't do anyone any good.” He leans in a little, just enough to make your eyes lock onto his. “I wouldn't want to see you like that either, for the record.” He’s still got you trapped against the wall as he speaks out the soft words, regret swirling in his eyes, one hand coming up to gently play with the free strands of your hair. Finally he lets go, settling on cupping your shoulder, and then grazing down to your waist.
“Want you right here, rookie. You cant give me yourself for this long, and then snatch it away cause’ of a load of rubbish goin’ around base that you know isnt true.”
Your eyes lock onto the dog tags hanging around his neck. The metal glints in the low light, reminding you of the burden he carries; you could never get one big enough to compare to him. “I..” You begin, a million things on your tongue, yet still your brain and heart conflict with one another. One side doubts everything, wallowing in the ‘truth’ of all of this.. the other wants to desperately believe every word he says.
When you still don't finish, he swallows sharper, gently clasping your hand. “You do know that, right?
Your eyes immediately snap up to his again, the genuine concern in his eyes pulling at the blood vessels surrounding your heart. You’d be a damn liar if you said it hadn't already synced with every change of his mood.
“I’m not anything special anyway.” The shrug of your shoulders is soft, like how quiet your voice is. It kills him more that its more acceptance than insecurity now, like this is something you’ve prepared for and known your whole life. “You dont have to..”
Lie. Pretend. Sugarcoat it.
That’s what you want to say to him, and to somehow soften the blow for yourself. Because you know it's coming, that he’ll get frustrated with you one of these days, that you won't just get it like everyone else. If you do the harm first then no one gets hurt— it's the easiest way out.
His watch buzzes where his hand grasps yours, grip only getting firmer with each of your words. You both glance down at the text from the Captain, something urgent maybe, who knows.
“You’re busy— i’m sorry for keeping you..”
You pull your wrist back but he only grabs your other hand too, stopping all your movements. Then, just as quick as he had done it, he crowds into your space, body stopping you from wriggling away. “Bullshit.” His hands abandon yours, leaving them to frame your cheeks instead.
“Simon—“
Its soft at first, his lips against yours, until the tips of his fingers gently grasp at your hair, drawing you in. It makes your limbs go weak, your heart overpowering any conflicting thought until your eyes are closed shut in the hopes he’d never let go.
“I’ll say this a million fuckin’ times if ‘ave to.” He breathes out, the rough scar on his nose brushing yours as he lets go, the calluses on his fingers brushing your face. “I want you. Here, right now, and it wont fuckin’ change. Yeah?”
“Y-yeah..” You practically squeak, anxiety quelled by his firm reassurance.. and the physical one too. Your hands reach out before you can stop them, finding home in his dog tags as you plead for more, desperate for him to take every last drop of air in your lungs.
He notices your eagerness, but also the tremble in your voice and in your fingers as they clutch the tags. “C’mere.” So, he pulls you in, your hands finding comfort in clutching at the back of his shirt as he holds you close. “You fuss anymore, hm? Wont believe the rubbish going around?” You nod your head, nose brushing his chest, soft promises falling from your lips. He can feel your fingers fidget as he easily flattens your concerns— even your breath trembles slightly.
“If you have a problem, you come and talk to me about it. No more running away— we handle this like the damn soldiers we are.”
“I.. promise. I- i will.” You nod quickly again, blood pumping even faster with being so close to him after something so.. sudden. You cant help but replay it over and over in your head, face burying into his shirt to hide the burning warmth in your cheeks. He tightens his grip in response, nose tucking against your hair and breathing the scent of you in, the strawberry shampoo and the perfume you liked. He hasnt touched you since he left for the mission a month ago— it feels like heaven to feel you like this again.
When you fidget again, moving back to tilt your head up and nervously look up at him, he raises a brow. “Go on, tell me.”
“Can we do that again?” Your hands slide to drape around his neck, eyes soft and almost watery. “Please?”
The plea makes even him soft, and he nods, pushing you back against the wall as he leans in once more, your eyes already shut as you grab fistfuls of his shirt.
—-
“Simon!” You squeal as he throws you over his shoulder, forcing you over to his side of the room. “You’ll rip your stitches.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. You can check ‘em for me.” He sets you down on his bed, turning around briefly to tug off his old shirt and replace it with the soft sleepshirt you bought him on a one off. For some reason you insisted he had dedicated sleep clothes like you did, and well, he couldn’t let them go to waste.
You frown at his lack of care, and he groans playfully, sliding onto the bed before effortlessly manoeuvring you beneath the duvets with his arms wrapping around soon after. “Oh come on, sweetheart. The whole week you ‘avent let me touch ya once and you still wont cause of some stitches?” He groans, burying his nose in your hair as he pulls you flush against him, pulling another yelp from you. It’s silent for a little while he takes in all he’s missed like he’s been starved— technically he has you suppose. It should just make you roll your eyes, but this time your stomach is all queasy and cheeks still hot.
“I made you rip them..” You wiggle in his grip, managing to roll around to face him.
“That was Johnny, not you.” Unlike you, he wasn't fazed at all at the fact you two had just had your very first kiss. Meanwhile you were barely keeping yourself from running into the bathroom in an attempt to get your face to cool down.
He notices it though as his arm reaches past you to click off the main light, only the soft lamp behind him glowing now.“You look nervous— like I'm gonna eat ya.”
“Well how would I know? You could.” That makes him chuckle, especially as your petty frown still stays, harsher almost.
“Alright, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He appeases your complaints, hand rubbing your shoulder as you get comfortable next to him. “I should’ve asked beforehand but to be fair.. You looked like you wanted to eat me too y’know–”
“You freak!” You groan, slapping your hand over his mouth and turning his words into muffled gibberish, his eyes creasing as he smiles. Still glaring at him, you drop your hand and let your head thump against the pillows, rolling onto your back. He props himself up as you stare at the ceiling, his eyes watching every soft movement of your body. This time he waits for you to speak, letting the silence sit comfortably. “Can I see them..?”
He raises a brow, following your gaze to where his shirt has risen, showing the bandages peeking out. He nods, sitting more upright before lifting his shirt properly, letting you see the clean white wrapping around his body. The shallower cuts are left uncovered, and your fingers reach out, not quite touching but instead tracing the scar as it deepens. “Do they still hurt?”
“Pretty used to it now.” He murmurs, surprised by the way you handle him so delicately. He always assumed that someone worrying over him was cowardly. Someone to be pitied was someone who needed protecting, and he swore he’d never rely on someone like that ever again. But now you’re here, only afraid of causing him harm, because you know that you would hate it if it were you.
Finally you trace the edge of the last bandage, humming gently as you tug down his shirt, like the entire process of checking him over soothed the nerves eating at you. You blink tiredly, suddenly feeling the weight off your shoulders now that you weren't terrified of disappointing him, nor harming him. It was so freeing. “So, can I sleep here on weekdays too now?”
“Just using me for my bed, aren’t ya?.” He feigns annoyance, grumbling as he tucks the blankets up to your neck. “And no, I told you, I'll miss my alarm.”
“It's called taking advantage of what you have.” You lean into his hand that pats down the duvet behind you, making sure there's no gaps for cold air to sneak in. “One day a week? Please?”
You were definitely taking advantage of how weak he was for you, that was for sure. So, he closes his eyes, like a sailor covering his ears from a siren’s spell, and you’d be a very pretty one at that. “Mmm… no.”
“Bastard…” You scoff, and he holds back a smile, but you wrap your arms around his middle anyway, settling your head against his neck as you let out a small sigh. He’ll agree tomorrow, you’re sure of it. Cornering him can't be that hard.
Summary: You take Brendon to the aquarium for his birthday. Brendon tells you it’s a stupid idea. Brendon spends two hours staring at fish.
WC: 4,548
Warnings: established relationship; oral (f! receiving); unprotected piv (don’t do this in real life kids); overstimulation; hint of d/s dynamics for the desperate (guys, it’s me, I’m desperate); why would you talk about your feelings when you can just fuck about your feelings
A/N: grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); this was supposed to be short and sweet and PG fucking slutty muse whoops; technically part of the Gremlin universe, but can 100% be read alone; if you live in Pittsburgh, don’t come for me over the aquarium inaccuracies
Masterlist
—————————————————
“I swear to fucking god if you start singing happy birthday, I will throw you out of the car.”
“But I’m the one driving. We would both die.”
“I said what I fucking said.”
You smile in delight. Brendon scowls back.
The day has been pretty unremarkable up to this point. He left home before you were even awake and spent the day operating and terrorizing surgical residents. You attended some meetings on campus in the morning before moving over to the hospital to work on your model. Very normal. But despite his best efforts to get you to treat this like any other Tuesday, you’re fairly vibrating with energy. It’s his birthday after all.
Well, technically tomorrow is his birthday. But he’s on call tomorrow, and you never plan things when he’s on call. It’s like saying it’s quiet in the ED — there’s no empirical evidence to suggest any negative causal effect, but everyone knows you just don’t do it.
So here you are, driving your silently-fuming boyfriend to a mystery destination, while he tries to kill you with his eyes for daring to celebrate him. You beam and wonder, not for the first time, if there’s something wrong with you. It’s probably not healthy to enjoy antagonizing him so much. But the longer the two of you are together, the more you realize that the more annoyed he gets, the more fun you’re probably having. And right now, he is livid.
“You can’t be mad yet — you don’t even know where we’re going,” you remind him.
“That’s the first issue,” he snaps back. “The fact that you’re the one driving.”
“Hey! I’m a perfectly good driver. I’ve never gotten a ticket.”
“Because giving you a ticket would be like kicking a sad puppy. Doesn’t change the fact that your spatial awareness skills are shit and you can’t park to save your life.”
You reach over and smack his arm without taking your eyes off the road.
“What the fuck?”
“See? I didn’t even have to look. I have great spacial awareness.”
“I will murder you in your sl-“
“Oh look, we’re here.”
He pauses mid-death threat as you turn into the parking lot, sees where you are, then resumes said death threat with vigor.
“I will kill you while you sleep. Why are we at the aquarium?”
It seems like a pretty obvious question, so you ignore him and his steadily rising blood pressure while you park. You’re not nearly as bad at it as he likes to pretend, but it does take a fair amount of concentration to get the car parallel to the lines. He waits like a gentleman while you focus, then immediately resumes his grumbling once you cut the engine.
“This is stupid,” he snipes.
“Have you ever even been to an aquarium?”
“No. There are better ways to waste my time.”
Then he gets out of the car, rounds the hood, and opens the door for you. He also doesn’t immediately back away after he helps you out. Instead he crowds you against the door, bracing his hands against the hood and caging you in.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters lowly.
You hum in response. Having anyone else this close would make you feel nervous, but right now all you feel is safe and loved. Especially since he dips down just enough to press a kiss on top of your head. You do take a moment to search his eyes for any sign that he’s actually unhappy, but you don’t find any. Instead, there’s a spark of interest buried beneath five layers of false affront. God, you love him.
“Come on,” you say, ducking under his arm and dodging his attempt to snag your waist. “It’ll be fun.”
“You think coding books are fun. Excuse me if I don’t trust your judgment.”
But he turns and follows you, and after a few steps of dignified distance, he slips his hand into yours.
When you first met Brendon Park, you got the impression that he tolerated few people and liked even fewer. You had been correct. You also would have put money on him being incapable of basic niceness, and you had again, been correct. Even after a couple of months together, he’s still more likely to say have you always been this annoying when he sees you instead of I missed you. But what you never would have guessed and what you weigh far more than his verbal hostility, is his seemingly pathological need to be physically close to you.
If the two of you are sitting on the couch, he tugs you against his side. When you’re eating dinner, he hooks one ankle around yours under the table. Sharing a bed with him is always an exercise in patience, since you don’t like being touched when you sleep, and he would like nothing more than to fuse himself to your back.
His need to touch you persists even in public. Maybe especially in public. He thinks most people are idiots, and he doesn’t like idiots near you. Ergo, he keeps you tucked close when you’re out together. He always has a hand on your waist or the small of your back, and he uses his size as a buffer between you and everyone else. You’d teased him once, saying he wouldn’t die if you wandered into the next grocery aisle without him, and he’d referred to you as annoying-ass gremlin for the rest of the night. He’d also continued keeping you glued to his side.
He does the same now, using your hand to anchor you as you navigate the entrance to the aquarium even though there aren’t many people here. You’d chosen a weekday evening purposefully. He’s surprisingly tolerant of children, but you know he’ll still enjoy himself more without fifty million families running around.
“I still think this is stupid,” he grumbles once you pass ticketing and security and enter the main atrium. “I want it on the record that I’m only staying because you would pout otherwise.”
“Mm hmm. Come on, I want to see the sharks first.”
“You think you’re fucking funny.”
You do, actually, and you’re also right.
Brendon Park doesn’t like celebrating his birthday. Brendon Park thinks aquariums are dumb. Brendon Park spends the next two hours looking in every single tank and reading every single sign in the aquarium you took him to for his birthday.
The aquarium is attached to a zoo, but he seems completely uninterested in both land creatures and marine mammals. He doesn’t even venture into the zoo exhibits, and he walks past polar bears, sea lions, and seals like they’re not there. He does pause by the crocodiles for a minute, but he moves on quickly.
The fish are the only thing that hold his attention. He stands in the coral reef exhibit, arms crossed and unmoving, for a solid twenty minutes. Just his eyes shift, tracking the fish as they dart around the display. At one point you find him zeroed in on a clown fish hovering around an anemone, and you ask him if it’s because he likes Finding Nemo. He tells you to mind your own business.
The thing he loves most though is the open ocean exhibit. All the practice he gets standing for hours during surgery pays off, because he parks himself in front of the massive tank and then ceases acknowledging the outside world. The only things that exist to him are the 90,000 gallons of water, the sharks inside of it, and occasionally you when you nudge him before he tells you to leave him alone.
You’re not nearly as fascinated by the fish as he is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s happy despite his best efforts not to be, and you’re happy just watching him. You watch the way the tension in his shoulders gradually drains away, the way the corner of his mouth keeps threatening to tilt up. It makes your heart do something mushy.
He’s always focused, always serious. He’s freakishly disciplined, and you don’t think you’ve ever once seen him skip a workout or meal prepping or anything else you consider highly optional. Getting to see him slow down and just enjoy himself feels almost sacred.
Later, much later, when the two of you are walking back to the car, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss there.
“So did you like it?” you ask.
You already know the answer, you just want to make him say it. He, predictably, does not.
“No.”
You laugh and pretend you don’t see him looking at aquarium memberships on his phone in the car.
When the two of you get back to his place, he goes upstairs to take a shower, and you make an excuse about needing to clean the kitchen. He glances over at the spotless kitchen, looks back at your thrilled smile, and mutters fucking unbelievable under his breath before disappearing up the stairs.
You wait until you hear the shower turn on before you scramble into the den. It takes some effort to retrieve the bag you’d stashed under the couch earlier in the week, but you manage it. Inside is his present and the wrapping paper you swore you’d take care of yesterday. You absolutely had not. So now you’re racing to wrap the small package before he finishes his military-speed shower, and you’ve barely finished when you hear the water shut off.
Triumphant, you race up the stairs and catch him just as he steps into the bedroom. His hair is wet, and there’s a towel wrapped around his waist, and you admittedly get sidetracked for a minute. It’s not your fault though. There’s a water droplet making its way down his chest and abs. Anyone would be distracted.
“Imp,” he prompts, amused.
“Right, sorry. Happy birthday!”
You pull the present from behind your back and hold it out with a flourish.
“I said no gifts,” he says slowly.
“Yup!”
Interest, annoyance, and resignation pass across his face in rapid succession. You beam. You watch as he makes his way to the bed and perches on the end of it like he’s ready to bolt at any given second, then place the parcel in his lap.
A moment passes where he just looks at it, and you see something vulnerable flit across his expression. Your heart squeezes. You know his mom died when he was young, and his dad was an objectively terrible parent. He’s dated here and there, but nothing ever serious, and all of his friends from med school and residency live in other states. You wonder how long it’s been since someone gave him a birthday present.
“I can hear you thinking sappy thoughts from here,” he grumbles when you lower lip does something traitorous.
“Am not,” you counter with absolutely no conviction.
You don’t know why, but you’re suddenly nervous for him to open your gift. It’s small, simple. Maybe he won’t like it, or he’ll think it’s stupid. Actually, he’s probably guaranteed to think it’s stupid, but maybe he’ll think it’s unacceptable levels of stupid. What if this is the first birthday present he’s had in years and it’s not-
He picks it up and starts unwrapping it.
He does it slowly, methodically. In fact, he takes the time to peel off the tape instead of tearing the paper, and you smile despite your nerves. Ridiculous man. Eventually though, he gets to the actual box, and you hold your breath while he opens the lid.
Inside is a scrub cap. It’s plain — solid navy like the scrubs all surgical staff are required to wear. But when he picks it up, the inside becomes visible, and he pauses. Sharks. The inside of the cap is lined with sharks. There’s also a tiny block of embroidery that says To Shark, From Imp, and he just stares at it. Silence fills the room, and your pathological need to fill it kicks in full force.
“I know you secretly like being Park the Shark, but I know you would rather die than tell anyone else, so I thought maybe the inside of the cap would be okay since no one but you would know it’s there well except for me I guess but if you think it’s dumb I can-“
He kisses you.
He drops the box and the cap on the ground and yanks you into his lap. Your gasp of surprise gets lost against his mouth when it slots over yours, and then he’s kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t. There’s no warning, no gentle ease-in — just heat and intensity and the immediate feeling of being consumed.
His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he bites punishingly at your lower lip. Arousal flares, sharp and sudden. You shift until you’re straddling him, delving your fingers into his still-damp hair and pressing yourself as close as humanly possible. The towel around his waist comes undone somewhere in the shuffle, and you gasp. You’re wearing a floaty sundress, and suddenly the only thing between you and his rapidly-hardening cock is the thin material of your panties.
“D-do you like it?” you stutter. “I-“
He rolls his hips up into you, and you break off on a moan.
“It’s fucking ridiculous,” he snarls back.
Then he’s standing with you in his arms and turning to deposit you on the bed. You hit the mattress with a faint oof, but you don’t have time to complain before he’s shoving your dress up and dropping to his knees.
“Fucking shark cap,” he spits as he yanks your panties down.
Then his mouth is on you, and you forget what words are, let alone complete sentences. He doesn’t waste time teasing. He just latches onto your clit and sucks until your back bows off the bed. Your legs attempt to snap closed at the sudden overload of sensation, but he just growls an approximation of behave against your pussy and keeps going. You whimper.
Brendon Park gives head the same way he performs high-risk surgery — with laser focus and devastating precision. He tracks every minute twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breathing and change in your expression. He’s almost clinical about it. Like you’re a computer program, and he’s trying to figure out the right inputs to make the model work.
His tongue traces a particular pattern against your clit, then does it again when your leg tenses. He pauses to suck a bruise onto your inner thigh, then repeats the gesture when you flex into the pain. He presses one finger inside of you and crooks it with perfect memory, and he makes a pleased noise when you moan.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and your cunt clenches violently.
He takes this as his sign to add another finger. Then he’s licking and sucking your clit again, and you grab the sheets so hard you’re surprised they don’t tear.
You come embarrassingly fast.
He fucks you with his fingers bent at the perfect angle and scrapes his teeth across your clit, and your orgasm tears through you like a freight train. You choke out his name as pleasure arcs like lightning through your body. Your hips grind down against his face of their own volition, and he hums in approval. He also doesn’t stop, and he works you through this orgasm and well on your way to another.
“Bren,” you gasp. “N-no more.”
He doesn’t even pretend to listen. You both know that if you actually wanted him to stop, you would use your safe word. But you don’t, and neither does he. He keeps fucking his fingers directly against your g-spot with ruthless accuracy, while his tongue alternates between lapping at your folds and sucking on your clit. Your blood turns to lava in your veins.
You feel a second orgasm fast approaching, and you try to squirm away from him.
“I said behave,” he grunts. “Y-“
“Want you inside.”
That finally makes him pause. He looks up at you, and you flush at the sight of your release on his lips and chin. His pupils are blown, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises, and there’s something feral in his gaze. The fingers in your cunt deliver a slow, almost thoughtful stroke.
“I don’t think you should be making demands when it’s my birthday.”
His thumb moves to your clit, and your legs spasm.
“Br-“
“I suppose I could accommodate you though if you beg.”
You whine, high and helpless. It’s not the first, the second, or even the tenth time he’s said something like that to you, but it hits you like lightning nonetheless. Your cheeks go nuclear, and your brain goes liquid. You also obey without thinking.
“Please,” you gasp.
He cocks his head.
“Please what?”
“Brendon.”
“Hmm, you’re going to have to be specific, sweetheart.”
His voice is condescending and just a touch cruel, and for a second you’re worried you’re going to come again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers. He smiles viciously, well aware of the effect he has on you, and waits. You whimper. You just came on his face, but you’re somehow still embarrassed as you say-
“Please, can I have your cock.”
Satisfaction, swift and possessive, lights his face, and then he’s pulling his hand away from you and crawling over body.
“So pretty when you beg. I should make you do it more.”
This time your pussy clenches around nothing, and he actually laughs at you.
“Desperate little thing.”
Any protests die in your throat when he yanks one of your knees up around his hip and drives into you with one, harsh thrust.
You’ve already come once, and you’re so wet you’re nearly dripping, but the intrusion still steals your breath. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him. His cock is long and thick enough that every time feels like the first, and you moan at the feeling of being stretched until it’s nearly pain. Then he grinds his hips against yours, forcing himself impossibly deeper, and the ache sharpens until it’s just this side of unbearable.
The orgasm hits you out of nowhere.
He’s not touching your clit, isn’t even thrusting. You’re just sensitive enough from having his mouth on you and lost enough in the feel of him that the final bite of pain pushes you over. You clamp down on his cock so hard that he chokes and sob as your release tears through you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, your hips jerking uncontrollably like they’re unsure of whether to push closer or pull away.
“Are you-“
His jaw goes slack with shock for a second, and he freezes.
“You’re-, fuck.”
Something dark and violent and possessive crosses his face, and then he’s fucking you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You think you might if he does. Because you’re still coming, delirious with it, and the feel of him suddenly thrusting his cock into you nearly makes you cry.
“Bren,” you sob, shoving against his chest.
He just fucks you harder. Grabs both your hands in one of his and slams them to the mattress above your head like your overstimulation is just a mild inconvenience to him.
“Greedy little thing,” he snarls. “Pretty pussy is so desperate for my cock, you can’t even wait for me to fuck you properly.”
You make a noise that’s half agreement, half whine. You think you’ve finally stop coming, but you don’t really know. Everything is hot and wet and too much, and he’s so deep you can feel him in your throat. He grinds deep every time he bottoms out, the movement scraping his pelvis against your clit and punching an embarrassing ah, ah, ah out of you each time. You’re too gone to care. The pleasure is a razor sharp blade tearing its way through, and your entire body feels like a raw, exposed nerve.
You can feel every ridge and vein on his cock as he bullies his way into you, and his tip hits something devastating at the top of each thrust. The intensity of it threatens to make your eyes close, but you force them to stay open. He’s beautiful like this. Cheeks flushed and brow damp with sweat, mouth open on a wordless groan when he shifts your leg to open you wider.
It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s everything. The feel of him above you, in you, his taste on your tongue and his voice whispering filth in your ear. Vaguely, you’re aware of your hands falling limp at your sides, your eyes drifting closed. Words leave you, and your brain goes fuzzy.
“Fuck, sweetheart, stay with me.”
His voice somehow reaches you and doesn’t at the same time. You try to answer and can’t.
“I know, baby, it feels so good. Just- shit, stay with me.”
You try, you really do. But you’re floating somewhere above your body, and you can’t find your way back down. Every thrust shreds a little bit more of your sanity. You’re so wet you can hear it every time he pulls out. Your body is a live wire, your brain is full of static, and nothing feels real anymore.
“Y/n.”
His voice is sharper this time, more demanding. A pathetic whine escapes your throat. You want to be good for him — you always want to be good for him. Desperate, you fumble around until you find his hand and place it on your chest. Maybe if he holds you down, you won’t float away.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
His hand slides up to collar your throat, and you keen. You crash back into your body like a falling star, and awareness returns to you all at once. The sound of his hips striking the backs of your thighs with every thrust. The smell of sweat and sex and soap on his skin. The taste of him when he leans down to kiss you. He’s everywhere, he’s everything.
“There you are,” he grunts when your eyes fly open. “Good girl.”
“P-please,” you whine back.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just that you need it more than you need your next breath. But he knows, he always knows, and he bends to kiss you again. You sigh into his mouth.
“Doing so well for me,” he coos.
You preen, arching your back to get even closer.
“That’s it. Such a pretty baby.”
“I love you,” you gasp.
His expression goes feral.
“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”
“Y-yours.”
“Now my pretty girl is going to come on my cock.”
You whimper and shake your head. You don’t know how you can possibly come again. You’ve already come twice, and it feels like the second orgasm never ended. Your pussy is clamped down around him like a fist, and every thrust shoots lightning up your spine. Any more sensation and you’re going to pass out.
“I can’t.”
He makes a disappointed noise and fakes a pout at you. Your heart stops.
“I thought you were my good girl, what happened, baby?”
You whine, devastated, and he shushes you.
“You just need to come, you can do that for me, can’t you?”
You nod your head frantically. You can do it, you can be good. You’re always good for him. You reach a shaking hand down between your bodies to your clit, then flinch at the first brush of your fingers. The pleasure is so sharp it’s like a knife. Your pussy tightens until it hurts, and you can’t-
“Fuck, that’s it.”
He shudders, head dropping into the crook of your neck. The groan he lets out is filthy, and the sound of his pleasure is enough to make you keep going. You force your fingers to resume their movements even if it feels like fire traveling through your veins.
“T-there you go, feels so good. Fuck, that’s my girl.”
He shifts his hips, and his cock shreds up against something electric in you.
“This perfect goddamned pussy. Just want to stay inside you for the-“
He makes a sound like he’s in pain, and your vision whites out.
“God fucking damn, the r-rest of my fucking life.”
You sob out an approximation of his name, legs clamping around his waist like you want to push him away and keep him close at the same time. Everything where you’re joined is a wet mess. Your fingers are barely keeping up their stiff movements, and you think you might be hyperventilating. But you can also feel the beginnings of another orgasm pulling at your exhausted body, and you fairly cry in relief.
“G-gonna come,” you whisper.
Savage satisfaction lights his face.
“That’s it. Come for me, sweetheart, I want to feel it.”
His hand tightens around your neck, just enough to make you work for the next breath, and you shatter.
Your whole body spasms, and your cunt locks down like a vice. It tears through you, stealing sight, sound, and thought as it goes — nothing is real except the pleasure. It hurts this third time around, and that combined with his grip on your neck is enough to send you spiraling.
“Good girl, shit, so damn gorgeous c-coming on my cock.”
And then he’s coming, too. He groans brokenly, face twisted in a snarl as he empties inside of you. He doesn’t stop, either. He keeps rutting his hips against yours, riding out the orgasm and fucking his come into you like he’s trying to brand you. The thought prolongs your own high, and you’re actually crying from overstimulation when he finally, finally stops.
“Bren,” you whimper.
“I’m here, baby. Shh, you’re okay.”
Your senses return to you one by one, your eyes opening last. You blink slowly at the sight of him still above you, wild and wrecked and so, so beautiful. His expression gentles. He bends down to give you a slow, lingering kiss, one that’s comfort as much as it is affection.
“I’m going to pull out, okay?” he murmurs.
You shake your head immediately and cling to him.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It takes a second, but you eventually nod and loosen your grip. A distressed whine leaves your throat when he withdraws from your body, but true to his word, he doesn’t go anywhere. There’s come dripping out of you, and you’re both sweaty and disheveled, but he just curls around you and tucks you against his chest. The two of you lay there like that for a long time. Neither of you speak, content to just trade soft touches and breath.
His hand runs soothing patterns over your back, and his lips keep brushing kisses over your temple. That along with the sound of his heart beating underneath your ear is enough to relax your whole body, and you’re nearly asleep when he finally speaks.
“Imp.”
“Hmm?”
You crack open one eye to see him staring at you with devotion so intense it’s violence.
I don’t see enough PTMC Secretary!Reader fics, so I’d love some Brendon Park x Secretary!Reader fluff/meet-cute type fic
hi!! thank you so much for requesting <3 I actually love this one a lot so i'm excited haha, hope you enjoy!
dr. brendon park x secretary!reader who needs to know who he is ✿ 1.5k words
summary: no one will tell you anything about the handsome doctor you saw on the ER floor. turns out they don't have to.
cw: fem!reader, secretary!reader, implied sunshine!reader, reader is implied to be newer at the PTMC, everyone wants to protect reader
the pitt masterlist
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“Woah.” The word leaves your lips involuntarily, pressed from your lungs with something akin to awe. You move a little to the left, escaping from the bar on the window that was obstructing your view.
The doctor you’re watching is stunning. You feel like he’s walked right out of one of your late night fantasies and into the real world.
“Who is that?” You ask, your voice suspiciously thin like you’re out of breath. Lupe looks up at you, then follows your gaze. Her lips purse and she shakes her head.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Your brows furrow, eyes meeting hers before glancing back to the ER floor, only to see that the doctor has vanished.
“I was just asking a question.” You try innocently, taking a seat in your chair again. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“It’s probably better if you didn’t.” Lupe assures you before she turns back to her monitor with no further explanation.
You turn your head back one more time, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You sulk back into your chair, shoulders slumped in defeat, and move on. Well, as much as you can while his silhouette and sharp jawline stay etched in your mind like a wine stain in carpet.
By your next shift, after a night of dreams haunted by a tall, broad, handsome stranger, you decide to go on a hunt for more information despite Lupe’s warning.
You don’t get far before you run into another obstacle. Setting down your coffee at your desk, you slip through the door into the ER and approach the nurse’s stand. Dana looks up at you over her glasses, a chart in her hand that’s forgotten as you approach.
“What’s goin’ on?” She asks, smacking her gum. You run your hands over the counter, nails tapping against the flat top as you try to piece together your question.
“There was a doctor down here yesterday that I’d never seen before.” You play innocent, though there’s something in Dana’s gaze that makes you think she can see right through you. You try not to fold immediately. “I just think it’s a good idea that I know everyone’s name…”
Dana is silent for a long moment before she places the chart down in front of her. She leans back in her chair, taking a long breath, before she sighs and leans toward you again.
“Listen, kid.” The tone of her voice immediately dampens your enthusiasm. She continues, her eyes having an almost motherly gaze when she looks at you over the nurse’s station counter. “I know who you’re askin’ about. I also know that Lupe already told you askin’ after him is a bad idea. And I’m going to reiterate that for you. He’s not nice, he’d eat you alive.”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your shoulders curving in on yourself. You wish you could disappear into the floor. Had they talked about you? Did Lupe tell her you’d been watching him? Does everyone know?
By the time you meet Dana’s gaze again, there’s a pitying smile on her lips. She stands, picking up her chart with one hand and patting one of yours with her other. “It’s better if you drop it.”
But you couldn’t drop it. You found your eyes drifting on more than one occasion toward the emergency room floor, tracing for any familiar details that might suggest your the doctor had returned. He lingered in your dreams, imbedding himself in every fantasy. You didn’t even know his name but you’d imagined him doing things to you that would make anyone else blush if you said them out loud.
You decide to try one last resort. You know you can’t ask any of the doctors, mostly because they’re too frantic and fast-paced for you to have any chance to. But nurses… nurses are fair game, especially ones who have been nice to you since you started working in the ER.
You arrive early, another iced coffee clenched in your hand as you wait like a predator stalking prey. You watch some of the night shift leave, some of the day shift doctors arriving before dawn to take their place. Your victim arrives shortly, and you scramble to exit your car at the same time she does, jogging to reach her side as you shout her name to get her attention.
“Princess!”
She looks up with wide eyes, but then her lips turn up in a smile with only a hint of confusion beneath it. “Hi!”
“I have a question for you.” You say, keeping in step with her as the two of you approach the building. You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you continue, “There was a doctor down here the other day. I’ve never seen him before, and I was wondering-”
“Oh no.” Princess shakes her head, holding up a finger in your direction, “I was told explicitly not to tell you anything about a certain evil orthopedic surgeon that you seem to have your eye on.”
Orthopedics. Well, that’s more information than you’ve gotten out of anyone else. You conveniently ignore the other adjective she’d used to describe him.
You try to push for more, “Not even his name?”
“Not from me.” She shakes her head again, lifting her fingers to mime zipping her lips closed. You groan in defeat, but you still hold the door open for her as you walk in.
You keep your eyes peeled for him, this handsome doctor who has somehow wedged his way between the folds of your brain. But as shifts pass by, days and days of them, you lose hope. Maybe he was just visiting, and that’s why no one wanted to tell you anything? Or had other women like you fallen into the same trap and gotten burned, and that’s why no one had entertained you, even for a moment?
Your brain goes around and around, shifting between fantasies of the mysterious man and disappointment that you’d probably never see him again.
And then, one early Saturday morning, fate decided to intervene.
You’re off work surprisingly, not trapped between white walls or engulfed in the scent of antiseptic. You’re enjoying a nice walk, breathing in the fresh air, and splurge a little with a stop at your favorite coffee shop halfway across town.
You’re waiting at the counter for your order to come out, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Your ears perk up when you hear one of the baristas call out your coffee order, placing in on the counter. You make a mad dash through the small crowd of people also waiting, your hand clasping around the cup. You give a quick ‘thanks!’ to the staff working behind the counter, beginning to lift the straw to your mouth for a drink.
A throat clears behind you. “I believe that’s mine.”
You turn, and to your horror… it’s him. The doctor from the ER, the one who has been present in every fantasy and every dream you’ve had since you first saw him. You’re gaping at him, mouth slightly parted like a fish, and a look of annoyance crosses his face.
“That’s my coffee.” He says again, and some part of your brain must finally reset and work because next you’re practically shoving it into his hand.
“Sorry!” You tell him, trying to put on an apologetic face while simultaneously urging your heart to slow down. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t give you a smile, doesn’t give you any kind of acknowledgment at all. Instead, he begins to turn away.
You can’t let him escape again, you think. Not without at least knowing who he is.
“Hey,” You take a step forward to get his attention again, but it doesn’t work. So instead, you just blurt out, “Do you work at the PTMC?”
This does make him pause. He turns back toward you, his eyes more narrowed but less annoyed this time when they meet yours.
“I do.” He says. He gives you a once-over, his head tilting just the slightest bit to the side. “Do you?”
“Yes.” You tell him with a nod. Your mouth opens for you to speak again, though you aren’t able to get anything out before the barista is calling out your order. The exact same as his.
No wonder you’d gotten them confused.
His eyebrows raise, eyes glancing back at the counter where your coffee sits. “You have a good taste in coffee.” He gives you a nod, and you feel like you won a battle. He doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave, and the giddiness of the interaction has you on a high that almost makes you feel like you don’t need a coffee after all.
It’s not until later that you realize you still never learned his name.
It happened only one time and now here you are. Having gotten tired of your sweet, yet very nosy and persistent neighbor that kept trying to pair you up with one of her sons, trying to stage "accidental" meetings and always inviting you for dinner, one day you just had enough. So when she stops you again outside, gushing about her lawyer son and how cute the two of you would look together, you politely tell her you have a boyfriend. At first she doesn't believe it and asks to see a picture of him so you pull out the photo you secretly took of a slightly drunk Ghost, head slumped over your shoulder and his mask halfway off.
The picture has the desired effect, the image of that behemoth of a man whose biceps don't even fit into frame and mean look on his face are enough to make anyone back off. The problem is that news travel fast in small towns and now somehow everybody and their mother knows about your military boyfriend and can't wait to see him around.
Because fate has a twisted kind of humour, your lieutenant ends up temporarily living in your home after his apartment gets flooded. You only made the offer because he saved your ass during the last mission, not expecting him to actually accept it. And it's just your luck that the same neighbor happens to see him was spying through the blinds and decides to say hello and how good is to finally meet him.
It's just your luck that Ghost's taciturn demeanour cuts the conversation short, but the look he gives you is not encouraging. You try explaining the situation to him, apologizing every three seconds until he finally stops you and tells you that he's willing to pretend to be your boyfriend until his apartment gets fixed. You're so happy and thankful that don't even notice when he steps out on the balcony to make a call and break the lease for his old apartment, already planning to move the rest of his meager possessions here.
Ghost that gets very comfortable into his role as your fake boyfriend and maybe leans a bit too much into it under the pretense of "having to sell the picture". Suddenly he calls you "luvie", getting a special kind of satisfaction from seeing your embarassed expression when he does it that around other people. He pulls you into his lap while on a picnic, a hand on the small of your back when walking down the stree, even stealing a kiss or two after asking for permission of course.
You're not safe even inside your own home, finding Ghost only in a pair of boxers with a beer in his hand while watching a game on TV. The little patting motion he does on the spot next to him having your body moving on its own. It's him getting out of the shower with only a towel wrapped around him, watching that one drop of water falling down his neck, over his Adam's apple and then down his chest. He watches you back with a smirk curling on his lips. He sits too close behind you while looking for something in the upper cupboard, his body pressing flatly against yours, staying there for a moment too long to be accidental. It's only when the contact is over that you finally remember how to breath properly.
Ghost that enjoys teasing you so much, had his eyes on you for a while now and couldn't believe his luck when the opportunity to insert himself into your life came from you. He wonders just how much he can get away with and how much longer will it be until you'll let him be your boyfriend for real.
Summary: The aftermath of the research gala hits you hard. Insert Brendon Emotionally Constipated Park and his attempts to comfort you. (ft. Jack Daddy Abbot)
WC: 3,396
A/N: direct follow-up to Hurricane Season/continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); ft. Jack raw-next-question Abbot (in my mind, because Abbot’s wife is still alive, he’s likely working day shift)
**sorry for reposting -- IDK this wasn't showing up in tags anywhere for some reason, so trying to fix it, also new Brendon pic so
Masterlist
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The alarm goes off way too early.
It’s technically not your alarm, it’s Brendon’s, but that doesn’t matter when he’s sleeping right next to you. Even though he’s up immediately like always and silences it before it finishes its second ring. It wakes you anyways.
“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs when you roll over to face him.
You respond by burrowing into his chest.
It’s the morning after the gala disaster, and you don’t feel ready to face whatever today is going to be. You’re going to have to talk to your department chair, maybe Nayar, and you’re going to have to recount everything that happened last night. Part of you wants to just ignore everything and pretend it didn’t happen, but the other part of you knows you can’t do that.
“Five more minutes,” you mumble against his shoulder.
You’re feeling clingy and disinclined to deny yourself. It’s too dark in the room to properly make out your wrist, but a quick poke at it confirms it’s likely bruised. There’s also a bandage on your thumb from where you’d sliced it open on your broken phone screen, and you feel like you deserve to be a little needy today.
When you’d gotten home last night, Brendon had examined your minor injuries like they were battle wounds. He’d snarled approximately fifty death threats against Jeremy while carefully moving your wrist around, then said you were banned from phones while bandaging your thumb. You hadn’t minded too much though. He’d followed you into the shower and fussed over you, then taken a hairbrush and diligently detangled and dried your hair. It was somehow both completely in and totally out of character for him.
Sappy you’d teased him.
Reckless, clumsy-ass gremlin he’d snapped back.
Then he’d given you one of his shirts to sleep in, even though you had your own, and wrapped himself around you in bed like you would disappear if he let go.
The sentiment has clearly carried into this morning, because instead of being his usual practical self, he just nods and tugs you impossibly closer. In fact, he lays there holding you for much longer than five minutes, far beyond when he’d usually get up and start getting ready. You whine in protest when he finally sits up.
“I know, imp. It’ll be okay.”
He brushes your hair back from your face and strokes your cheek.
“Should I be worried you’re still being nice?” you ask with a wan smile.
“You’re a fucking menace to yourself and to my blood pressure, better?”
You turn your face to kiss his palm.
“Much.”
He clips you gently under the chin and then disappears into the bathroom. You lay there a while longer, gathering your will to live, but eventually get up, too. You would normally go back to sleep for a while, but you know you won’t get any rest without him this morning. Might as well head to campus early.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom. Brendon is standing at the sink shaving, and you wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek to his back. You take a moment to enjoy the feel of his muscles shifting under your touch, then drop a kiss on his shoulder blade and pull away to find your toothbrush.
You get ready together in easy silence, though he does pause to look at your wrist again. The skin there is indeed starting to bruise, even if it’s only faintly, and his jaw nearly creaks with how hard he clenches it.
“I’m fine,” you say softly.
He growls something under his breath but doesn’t push the issue.
Ten minutes later, you’re both dressed and downstairs in the kitchen. You crack some eggs into a pan on the stove, while he throws some bread into the toaster and turns on the coffee machine. The domesticity of it soothes some of your nerves and makes your pulse flutter at the same time. He’s so imposing at the hospital, sharp and confident and larger than life. The thrill of being the one to see him in these quieter moments is one you don’t think will ever go away.
Breakfast passes quickly, and it’s too soon before you’re both in the mudroom putting your shoes on. You feel like you’re getting ready to walk in front of a firing squad. You haven’t done anything wrong, and you’re not in any trouble, but your body is still pumping out adrenaline like it’s getting ready to fight a bear.
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks quietly.
You look up so fast you give yourself whiplash.
“Seriously? You have consults all day.”
“You’re more important.”
A lump forms in your throat, and your lower lip starts wobbling.
“Shit, new rule. You can’t cry before seven AM.”
But like always, his actions betray his words, and he wraps his arms around you.
“Bossy,” you huff into his shirt.
“You like me bossy.”
The words send a small pulse of heat through your body, and you swat half-heartedly at his shoulder. Menace of a man. But you make no move to extricate yourself from his grasp, and you feel your shoulders slowly relax and inch down from your shoulders.
“You should go to work,” you finally decide.
He hugs you a bit tighter but doesn’t question you.
“Call me if you need to,” he says instead.
Which is how you end up alone on campus half an hour later, staring at the computer engineering building and regretting your earlier burst of independence. This would be way easier if you had Brendon scowling people into submission next to you. But he’s miles away doing rounds with his residents, and you’re just wasting time standing here. Reluctantly, you make your way inside.
The walk to Dr. Kavis’ office takes forever and no time at all. You know he doesn’t teach class until nine, so you’re unsurprised to see him sitting behind his desk, sipping a cup of tea and playing Wordle on his phone. He’s so focused he doesn’t notice you at first, and you shake your head fondly.
Peter Kavis is a balding man in his forties who loves word games, ornithology, and patterned bow ties. He’s an associate professor who splits time between computer engineering and health administration, and he always, always, always is carrying a cup of tea. He doesn’t often take grad students, but when he does, he treats them like family.
You’d interviewed with several programs before settling on CMU. Great programs at great schools. But in addition to the quality of the program itself, you knew advisors could make or break your graduate school career, and Kavis is what had ultimately sold you on CMU. You’d been grateful for that decision every day of the last four years.
He and his wife had you over for dinner regularly. You watched their kids when they had date nights, and he threw you a bird-themed party when you got your masters and again when you passed your quals. They were your family, and the sight of him and his ridiculous sloth-patterned bow tie calm the worst of your nerves.
“Peter?”
“Ah! Y/n! I just beat the Wordle in three!”
You manage a smile and walk in to take the seat in front of his desk. The smile must not be very convincing though, because he tilts his head and asks-
“Is everything alright?”
You let out a nervous laugh.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
He sets down his tea, which is how you know he’s deathly serious. He nods.
You proceed to spend the next twenty minutes recounting your run-in with Jeremy at the gala, as well as all the times he’s approached you in the past. You make sure to mention Everett, Brendon, and anyone else who has directly seen him interact with you, and then show Peter the bruises on your wrist. Peter listens to it all in solemn silence.
“-and then he threw his drink on me and walked away.”
This is the third time you’ve recited the events of last night. The first was the abbreviated version to Brendon over the phone, then the extended one when you got home. That second time, you’d spoken in between showering and dressing and getting into bed. Brendon had been wrapped around you basically the whole time, and you’d had his touch to anchor you. Right now, you’re sitting by yourself under fluorescent lighting, feeling like you’re on the witness stand, and you pick nervously at the hair tie on your wrist while you wait for Peter to respond.
“Oh, my dear girl.”
He gets up and rounds the desk. Something in your face must tell him you’re not particularly eager for a hug at the moment, so he settles on placing a hand on your shoulder instead.
What follows is what you expected — immediate care and concern, followed by some additional clarification questions. He makes sure he understands exactly what happens, then tells you he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. What you were not expecting is his complete lack of interest in Jeremy’s accusations. In fact, he breezes so smoothly past them that you’re not sure he heard you.
“Um, did you-, is it going to matter what Jeremy said about me?” you ask hesitantly.
Jeremy’s actions had left you with two choices: one, pretend nothing happened or two, report him. You would have been more inclined to choose the first option if he hadn’t grabbed you. The physical imprint on your wrist made it hard to pretend everything was a misunderstanding or blown out of proportion. It also made you wonder if Jeremy acted like this with other students. That left the second option, which would inevitably involve people asking whether or not his accusations held any truth.
You and Brendon had discussed all this the night before. He had, predictably, been much calmer about it than you.
“I have no supervisory, practical, or operational authority over you. There is no HR violation. The only reason we kept it quiet was in case it affected your ORD Director application at PTMC, but reporting this to CMU shouldn’t change anything. Better you write the narrative than Jeremy.”
You understand his logic, believe it even, but that doesn’t make the situation any less nerve wracking.
“Will it affect my chances for the Weslier?” you continue. “Jeremy said something about that, and I, uh…”
You take a deep breath.
“I am dating one of the surgeons at PTMC. But I swear he hasn’t interfered with my application or anything and I would never ask him to and we don’t even overlap at work at all and-“
“Y/n.”
You freeze mid ramble.
“Y/n, you could be hosting swing parties for the entirety of the PTMC staff, and it would not excuse Mr. Hayes’ behavior towards you.”
He’s looking at you with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen on his face. Your shoulders drop several inches and tears prick your eyes. You didn’t realize how important it was to you to hear him say that until now.
“Does this surgeon have anything to do with the university’s research program or your work?”
You shake your head vigorously.
“Then I don’t see why it should matter.“
The rest of the conversation is mostly logistics. Yes, Everett will likely need to submit a statement. No, Brendon doesn’t need to be involved. Peter will take care of bringing this up to Dr. Yarrich, the department chair, and you need to focus on written documentation and photo evidence of your wrist. Your head is spinning by the end of it. This was not on your 2018 bingo card.
“Thank you,” you say at the end, when you’re picking your bag up from the floor and getting ready to leave. “I’m sorry I-“
“If you apologize for Mr. Hayes’ poor decisions, I will cancel your graduation party.”
That pulls a small, tired smile from you, and you finally accept a hug from him.
“We’ll take care of this, Y/n. Now go home and take the rest of the day off.”
You would normally object but one, you don’t actually want to work and two, you have other things to take care of. So you take the offered out and leave his office with a promise to let him know if anything comes up.
You wait until you’re out of the building and on the way back to the parking deck before pulling out your phone to text Brendon. He’d given you one of his old ones to use until you can replace your own. You tell him things went well with Kavis and that you’ll fill him in later — it’s just after eight in the morning on a clinic day, which means he’s undoubtedly in the middle of rounds right now. You’re shocked when your phone rings not a minute later.
“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching right now?” you ask when you pick up.
“Reid isn’t completely useless. He’ll be fine babysitting for five minutes.”
Reid is one of the orthopedic fellows, one you know Brendon actually kind of likes even if he’ll never admit it.
“Peter said I can go home,” you tell him. “I have to type everything up.”
“You should stop by the hospital first.”
His voice drops.
“Go to the ED and ask for Abbot. He’s expecting you.”
A bolt of discomfort runs down your spine.
“You said my wrist is fine.”
“It is, but you should have it documented in your medical record.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. In case Jeremy calls you a liar. Your heart thumps too hard. You don’t know why the thought of going to the ED makes you nervous, but it does. Maybe because going there will make everything feel official, because it’ll mean you really are serious about escalating things.
“Do I have to?” you whisper.
“No.”
His answer surprises you.
“If you don’t want to, we’ll figure out something else.”
It’s a Monday. You’re wearing your ugly, comfy bra. You barely slept and look like it, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to start your period. It’s an objectively terrible time to make life changing declarations, but your brain clearly didn’t get the memo. All it can focus on is Brendon took care of you last night. Brendon is still taking care of you. Brendon said we like he doesn’t mind if you act like a child and refuse to go see Abbot. We will figure it out. We will-
“I love you,” you blurt.
Your own words startle you so badly that you almost drop your borrowed phone.
“I mean-, I don’t-“
You’re just going to kill yourself now. Which, admittedly, is kind of dramatic given the two of you have basically agreed to marry each other at this point. But getting married is practical. It’s quantifiable, tangible. Saying I love you is an amorphous, abstract concept that makes your logical brain spasm. Besides, he’s the one who initiated the not-a-proposal-yet conversation. You don’t feel mature enough to pay rent let alone declare your love unprompted to-
He sighs.
“I love you, too, now are you going to see Abbot or not?”
He says it the same way he says I have a late surgery or you shed like a fucking cat. Matter of fact. Like it’s a forgone conclusion. Like he hasn’t just altered the foundation of your person.
Typical.
“I’ll go?”
It comes out sounding like a question, because you’re still not sure you actually want to. But just the knowledge that you can change your mind and he’ll be okay with it settles some of the nerves. He’s micromanaged a plan into place, but it’s your choice to follow it or not. You feel taken care of. You feel loved. You say it again, stronger.
“I’ll go.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Jack Abbot is a dangerous man.
Not because he’s bigger than you, which he is. Not because he’s apparently a combat-trained Army vet, which he also is. But because he’s handsome and kind and just charming enough to make it clear he’s mostly unaware of the effect he has on women.
He’s standing next to the exam table, typing something into your chart, while you try not to stare too obviously at him. You don’t know why you’re so flustered. Everett has objectively more symmetrical features. Brendon is objectively more muscular. Abbot is also probably close to twenty years older than you and is one-hundred percent married. But there’s something about that mischievous smirk and those kind eyes and that raspy voice.
It’s annoying really.
“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together and turning to you. “Let’s take a look at that wrist.”
That sobers you a bit. Meekly, you hold out your arm and allow him to grasp your wrist. He rotates it a bit, flexes the joint and presses lightly on it. It doesn’t hurt, but you still shift uncomfortably. He smiles gently.
“Well nothing’s broken or sprained. It just seems like some light bruising to me, but I’ll still take some pictures to put in your file if that’s okay with you.”
You nod.
“Thank you. I feel bad taking up your time when there’s people who actually need help.”
The lady at the front desk had sent you straight back when you said Dr. Abbot was waiting for you, and you’d felt guilty walking past the full waiting room of sick and injured people. You’d felt even worse when you realized you were monopolizing an attending’s time for essentially nothing. Abbot isn’t having it though, and he shakes his head firmly.
“Happy to help. Besides, I owe Park.”
He tacks on the second part when you make a disbelieving face at the first.
“Are you two friends?” you ask to distract yourself when he starts taking pictures.
He snorts.
“As much as he has friends, I guess.”
That makes your lips tilt. Brendon has a couple people from med school and residency he still talks to, but he’s not exactly the most outgoing person you’ve ever met. He’d rather stay home reading a medical journal than go out and socialize any day of the week.
“What about you? I’ve never known him to call in a favor for someone else.”
You can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. You also can’t tell if he already knows something and is just pretending not to. Your hesitation must speak volumes, because he wraps up taking photos and shoots you a smirk.
“Don’t worry. I’ve already been threatened into silence.”
You feel your cheeks heat.
“He seems to be doing a lot of that,” you say weakly.
“It’s sweet if you think about it.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.”
He laughs and goes back to typing in your chart. You’re just starting to relax despite all the beeping and shouting and general chaos going on outside the exam room, when he turns to you with a serious expression, and your heart drops.
“I’m required to ask. These bruises look like fingerprints, Y/n. Do you feel safe at home?”
You nod your head so fast you think you strain something in your neck.
“Yes, Dr. Abbot. Absolutely.”
“Jack, please. And is there anyone at-“
“It was a coworker. I'm taking care of it.”
He looks at you for a long moment, maybe weighing the truth of your words, maybe weighing their impact. His hazel eyes are warmer than Brendon’s but somehow just as sharp, and you fight the urge to squirm. You’re relieved when he finally nods and looks away.
“Alright. We’ll get this wrapped up and get you out of here then.”
You expect him to call a nurse or maybe an intern in, but he stays in the room. Finishes charting everything himself and gives you discharge instructions that seem more like common sense than anything else. Brendon’s words from the first time you met return to you — I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot — and you smile to yourself. Jack notices but doesn’t comment, and he gives you the green light a moment later.
“You’re good to go, kid. Don’t hesitate to come back if you need anything, alright?”
He shoots you a crooked grin, and your pulse does something traitorous.
Summary: You attend the CMU/PTMC research gala without Brendon. You have a terrible time. Brendon predictably takes issue with this.
WC: 5,993
Warnings: side character harassing reader
A/N: there’s so many tropes and cliches in this I’m sorry the muse does what she wants; direct follow up to Shark Bait/a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); sorry this took forever to put out, I got a sewing machine, and the hyperfixation really fixated
Masterlist
—————————————————
“Lose the boob tape. A good nip slip will liven things up.”
You fight a smile and continue to secure the neckline of your dress into place.
“Seriously, I’m sure some of those old bats haven’t seen a nipple since the nineties. You’d be doing them a favor.”
This time you laugh out loud.
You’re in the bathroom getting ready for the research gala. Your phone is propped up on the vanity, and Chelsea has been offering increasingly ridiculous commentary over the past half hour. She’s grading papers on her couch at home, working her way through the bottle of wine and the bar of chocolate next to her.
“I think I should probably graduate before flashing the faculty,” you grin.
“Nonsense, flashing them will probably help you graduate. You look hot, babe.”
“You think?”
Doing your hair and makeup is a rare occurrence for you, and you’ve been fighting your eyeliner for what feels like forever. You’re only thirty percent sure your hair is going to hold all night, and you’ve already given up on lipstick in favor of some clear lip balm.
“Smash, next question.”
You know she’s obligated under the laws of friendship to hype you up, but it still makes you feel better. You smile. She’s an associate professor in gender and women’s studies at Chatham, and you listen happily to her chatter about her students while you finish getting ready. When you finally step back and show her the completed look, she lets out a low whistle.
“Damn, babes. You sure you don’t want a date to this? I’m happy to volunteer, since the stick in the mud isn’t coming.”
You don’t even have a chance to answer before Brendon calls from the bedroom-
“I can hear you, you fucking harpy.”
Far from looking embarrassed at being caught, Chelsea looks delighted.
“Oh, hey dipstick.”
He doesn’t respond, and you smile fondly.
“Be nice,” you tell Chelsea.
“But he’s so fun to annoy.”
You kind of agree. But you can’t tell her that, or she’ll double down on the antics, and then Brendon really might commit murder. So you give her your best stern face, which predictably does nothing, and resign yourself to a lifetime of playing referee.
“Alright,” you say. “I have to get going, but I’ll tell you about it later?”
“What do you mean later. Text me during. I want the running commentary.”
You agree with a laugh and hang up. You double-check that the Uber is going to get here in ten minutes, then put your phone in your clutch. You’re not planning on drinking much tonight, but you’re a lightweight, so better safe than sorry. Ready, you take one last glance in the mirror.
You’re wearing a jade and gold fit-and-flare gown with a square neckline and delicate straps. The fabric is close to a brocade and reminds you of your grandma’s ancient floral couch — you’d seen it in the store and loved it immediately. Your jewelry is simple, just a delicate gold bracelet and some small gold hoops, and your clutch isn’t an exact match, but close enough.
Brendon is sitting in the armchair by the window when you walk into the bedroom. He’s flipping through some notes on his tablet, but he looks up when you walk in. You smile hesitantly at him. He’s never seen you in anything but work clothes or casual wear, and you’re admittedly nervous for his opinion.
He looks you over slowly, starting from the tendrils of hair framing your face, down the length of your body. The same anxiety you felt while waiting to hear if you passed your qualifying exams takes root in your belly.
“Y/n,” he says quietly.
“Mm hmm?”
He puts the tablet aside and stands before slowly walking over to you. He pauses just out of reach.
“You’re beautiful.”
Oh.
It’s not that no one has called you beautiful before. Your parents do, and there was the one time your younger brother said it, even if you were pretty sure he was being sarcastic. Chelsea does on occasion, though she’s more likely to say you look hot or ten-out-of-ten-would-fuck. But there’s something about it coming from Brendon that makes you feel like you’ve never heard the word before.
He says it like a truth, like a promise. He says it with the same certainty he says reduction is still sitting four millimeters short or I’m seeing twelve degrees of posterior angulation on the lateral. Like it’s an immutable fact and not an opinion.
So of course you clam up and give him an awkward smile in response.
“Um, thank you?”
His lips quirk, and he closes the rest of the distance between you two. His arms slide around your waist, and he drops a light kiss on your cheek, careful of your makeup.
“We’ll work on it. You’ll learn to like compliments eventually.”
“Why? You like them enough for the both of us.”
His lips curl further at your jab.
“That’s my girl.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The gala is exactly the same as it was last year and the year before that.
The hospital and university rent the same ballroom in the same hotel, and the same faculty give the same speeches. Dr. Nayar is a fan of tradition, and you don’t think things have changed in the two decades he’s been in charge of the program. You are giving a presentation this year, but the fifteen minute lightning talk is only a blip in the otherwise monotonous evening.
It’s not that you’re having a bad time. You’re the only computer engineering student, but Fritz and Harris from biomed are here, along with a few people you know from clinical psych. You’ve had plenty of people to talk to, dinner was actually pretty good, and your talk had gone exceptionally well. It’s just…you miss Brendon. You miss his stupid smirk and his stupid glare and his stupid life-altering comments said in his stupid matter-of-fact voice.
You haven’t been able to stop thinking about his not-a-marriage-proposal since yesterday. There’s no law against dropping lines like that on a random Saturday with absolutely no follow up, but there should be. Diabolical is what Chelsea had called it. So now you’re trapped in a conversation with Dr. Polt about the merits of factor versus principal components analysis while your mind is stuck in an old house in Squirrel Hill.
“-why you wouldn’t want the latent constructs.”
Dr. Polt pauses, and you realize he’s expecting you to say something.
“I completely agree.”
It’s a shot in the dark, but thankfully it seems like the correct answer. Polt nods vigorously and launches off on a tangent about structural equation modeling. It’s at least ten minutes later before you’re able to extract yourself with the excuse of talking to your advisor. Dr. Kavis isn’t even here. Polt is a little too inebriated to either notice or care, and he waves you off before setting upon another poor, unsuspecting student.
You’re walking back to your table, wondering if it’s too early to leave, when it happens. First, you spot Everett Edwards. You saw him earlier in the night but had promptly bolted in the other direction. You plan on doing the same now, but when you turn, you catch sight of Jeremy Hayes. For a brief second, you consider faking a heart attack. Then you remember that you’re in a room filled with medical doctors and nix the idea. Your acting isn’t that good.
Both of them have caught sight of you by now, and you feel like you’re facing down death by drowning or burning at the stake. A desperate glance around tells you that no, Brendon has not magically appeared in the last five seconds to ward off unwanted suitors with his death glare, and you panic-choose the lesser of two evils.
“Hey, doc,” Everett grins when you turn to face him.
He might be a persistent charmer, but at least he’s always been respectful. Jeremy gives you the ick. He’s a bit too forward, a bit too comfortable entering your personal space. Since the time he brought you coffee when Brendon was in your office, he’s visited PTMC twice more to see you and has sought you out at every departmental function. He’s clearly trying to do the same now, but he pauses when he sees you with Edwards.
“Hi Dr. Edwards,” you say, hoping your smile looks genuine and not alarmed.
He looks fantastic, you’ll give him that. He’s wearing a classic black tuxedo, tailored perfectly for his athletic frame. His hair is slicked back except for one raven curl on his forehead — Chelsea would call it slutty, you call it artful — and a simple but elegant watch sits on his wrist. He looks like the heir to some old money fortune.
“Looking beautiful as always,” he says. “I saw your talk earlier, it was excellent. I’d be interested to discuss the applications for emergent vascular operations in trauma cases.”
You spot Jeremy out of the corner of your eye, still making his way over.
“I would love to,” you blurt. “Is now a good time? Can we drop by the bar first? I need some water.”
He looks bemused if not a little taken aback, but he covers it up quickly and offers you his arm. You only hesitate for a second before taking it, and you let him lead you across the ballroom.
The official part of the night is over, but the room is still packed. There’s few things academics like more than getting drunk with other academics. In fact, you’re pretty sure that’s the clinical psych chair doing shots with her grad students in the corner, and Dr. Nayar and his fourth glass of wine are holding court at one of huge round banquet tables.
“Is that Nayar?” Everett asks, following your gaze.
“You know him?”
“Of course. He’s been director for twenty yea- just how old do you think I am?”
You blanch and take a sudden, pointed interest in the ugly blue and gold carpeting. Brendon is a good bit older than you and has been an attending for only a few years. You just figured if Everett was head of a sub department, he must be older than that. He also went to CMU for undergrad not grad school, so he would have been there even earlier. But maybe not? Maybe you just deeply offended one of Brendon’s coworkers. A coworker you can’t escape, because he’s your escape from Hayes.
“Um, not very old? You, uh, you look great?”
A brief pause before you chance a peek over at him, and you wilt in relief when you see the smirk on his face.
“Well, I’ll take the compliments where I can get them.”
You nearly choke on air.
“Are you serious? You want me to believe that you are short on compliments?”
He answers with a rakish grin that could make a nun faint.
The two of you reach the bar, which is packed. You catch sight of a few people you know also waiting for drinks, and you wave hello at them while ignoring the way they stare at whose arm you’re on. To be fair, it’s not just them. Everyone is staring at Everett. It makes for an awkward wait, and you’re relieved when you finally get your drinks and head to a quieter part of the room.
“So,” he says as you walk. “Do you think we’ve lost him yet?”
“What?”
“The guy you’re using me to avoid.”
You do choke this time and spend the next thirty seconds coughing yourself to death. Several people turn to look at you, only some of them with concern, and you flush harder from the scrutiny than from the lack of oxygen to your brain. That and the fact that Everett is looking at you with wry amusement written all over his face. You can’t even deny it. You lost all plausibility along with your dignity when you started hacking up a lung.
“I-“
You cough some more and briefly hope that you just die from hypoxia on the spot.
“I wasn’t-, he-“
“Relax, doc. No offense taken.”
You cast him a disbelieving look since you still can’t talk properly, and his lips twitch.
“Okay, maybe some offense taken.”
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt when you regain your voice. “I wasn’t-, I’m sorry.”
“I’m guessing we don’t like him?”
“No-, not really? He’s a post-doc, and he’s weird. Not that being a post-doc is weird, just that he is and happens to be weird-, I’m really sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about the model, because I do. I really do like you and I don’t want you to think I was just using you even though I maybe was a little I’m really really sorry.”
You say all of that without taking a breath. He doesn’t answer right away, and you force yourself to down a giant gulp of water, so you can’t word-vomit anymore. Everett watches it all with a quirked brow and the expression of someone who knows they have the upper hand and is trying to decide how benevolent to be with it.
“Is he a problem?”
The same words Brendon asked so many months ago.
“I don’t think so? Um, he just follows me places sometimes? Wait, that sounds creepy, he just uh…is bad at leaving me alone.”
He looks unimpressed, but he nods.
“Well I guess I’m okay with being used to escape weird stalkers.”
“Stalker is a strong word,” you say weakly.
A pause then, and you’ve never had to work so hard not to fidget or start saying random things to fill the silence in your life. To make matters worse, you’ve moved far enough away from the main crowd that there’s not even enough people around to be adequately distracting. It’s just you, Everett, and the most uncomfortable stare down you’ve ever experienced.
“Well,” he says, just before you start vibrating out of your skin. “I guess that answers my question.”
“Huh?”
“I was going to ask you out, but I’m guessing I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Oh! I, um…”
That was not at all the direction you thought things were heading — the evening is quickly getting away from you. You scramble for something to say, but all you can hear is Brendon in your ear saying tell him to fuck off. You flush.
“I-, no thank you?”
Another pause, and then he laughs. Full-bellied, head thrown back, genuine laughter.
“This is the weirdest and most polite way I’ve been turned down in my life.”
“I’m s-“
“Please god do not apologize to me.”
“Sorry.”
He shakes his head and laughs again.
“I’ll take that as my cue to bow out with my remaining dignity. You going to be okay with your stalker running around?”
You nod.
“Yes. Thank you. And sor-“
He makes a distressed noise.
“Seriously, please stop apologizing.”
“I-, okay. Does this mean we…”
You trail off, unsure of how to ask, but he thankfully seems to understand anyways.
“I’m a big boy, doc, I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Relieved, you agree and then watch as he turns and walks away. You stare after him for a while, trying to process whatever it is that just happened, before heading in the opposite direction.
The two of you had wandered to the far side of the ballroom while you talked, and the bar is clear on the other side of the room. There’s basically no one over here, which is actually kind of nice, especially when you slip down the hall to the bathroom and find it empty. Your people-meter has been filled for at least the next two business days.
Once inside the bathroom, you stand at the sink to run your wrists under cold water and look at your reflection in the gilded mirror. Your hair has held up surprisingly well, but your makeup is slightly smudged from you forgetting you’re wearing it and touching your face. A quick blot with a paper towel fixes the worst of it, but you’re eager to wash it off completely.
You check your phone as you leave the bathroom, ordering an Uber. The event is scheduled for another hour and will likely continue for another hour beyond that, but you want to go home. Your talk is done, you schmoozed an appropriate amount with donors, and you spoke to all the important faculty members. No one is going to be upset if you leave.
Somewhere over the last few weeks, home became wherever Brendon is, and you text him that you’ll be back soon. Three dots appear almost immediately to signal that he’s responding, and you’re so busy looking at your screen as you step into the hallway, that you don’t see who’s waiting for you until it’s too late.
“Is that your new boyfriend?”
You jump and nearly fumble your phone. Jeremy is standing in the otherwise-empty corridor. He’s dressed sharply in a dove-grey suit, though he’s loosened his tie, and his sandy hair looks like he’s run his hand through it a few times. He’s holding a generous glass of whiskey in his left hand, and he takes a slow sip while he looks at you.
“Oh, Jeremy, hi. Um, is who what?”
“Found yourself another doctor — the last one wasn’t enough?”
He must be referring to Everett, but it takes a second for you to realize he’s also talking about Brendon. The two of them met once, months ago, and even calling it a meeting was generous. Brendon had never introduced himself; he’d just silently glared Jeremy into submission. But Jeremy clearly remembers it, and he doesn’t look happy. In fact, he looks kind of angry and kind of drunk, and you shift uncomfortably.
“Dr. Edwards isn’t my boyfriend,” you tell him.
“Just your meal ticket then?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Weslier Fellowship.”
Well now you’re confused on top of being uncomfortable. The Weslier fellowship is awarded to one graduating doctoral student and one post-doc at CMU every year — it provides funds for the first year of independent research as well as a pretty generous living stipend. You’d applied months ago, but you haven’t heard anything yet. Honestly, you’re not expecting to. There are hundreds if not thousands of applicants across the entire university, and you only really applied because Dr. Kavis told you to.
“I heard Nayar talking the other day— apparently some people at PTMC are pushing for you to get the Weslier. Seems like you’ve got some fans there.”
You shake your head.
“I don’t know anything about that. And I definitely haven’t asked anyone at PTMC to put in a word for me.”
He sneers, and it’s so malicious looking that you take a physical step back. This is not the Jeremy you’re used to. He’s usually incredibly friendly, edging into flirty, and he’s all about smiling and being overly-helpful. Right now though, he’s glaring at you with a mixture of resentment and agitation.
“So you just happen to be fucking two attending surgeons for no reason, right?”
Your jaw drops.
“Who-, what are you-, excuse me?”
There’s nothing going on with Edwards, and there’s no chance he actually knows anything about you and Brendon. Besides, he technically ranks above you in the departmental hierarchy, and there’s no way he should be talking to you like this. The alcohol is probably to blame, but still.
“That’s completely inappropriate, Jeremy.”
“You know what’s inappropriate? Leading me on for months and then changing your mind once you realized you could sleep your way to the top.”
You open and close your mouth several times like a landed fish. You’re not the most self-aware person out there, but you’re five thousand percent sure you haven’t been leading him on. It’s also never crossed your mind to sleep your way into the fellowship. In fact, you and Brendon have made it a point to actively prevent your relationship from affecting your career.
“That’s a serious and unfounded accusation.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Then stand somewhere else! This is ridiculous. I’m going to-“
He takes a sudden step towards you, and you back up instinctually. You regret the move immediately when his lip curls, and he presses forward again until your back is hitting the wall behind you.
“You need to stop,” you say, pleased when your voice doesn’t shake.
You’re deeply aware of the fact that you’re the only two people in this hallway. Sure, someone would hear if you screamed, but no one is actively paying attention to the two of you. And while Jeremy isn’t anywhere near as physically intimidating as Brendon, he’s still a good bit bigger and taller than you.
“Listen,” he says, close enough now you can smell the expensive whiskey he’s been drinking on his breath. “I won’t tell Nayar what you’ve been doing, but that means you owe me.”
“What-, you can’t-, I haven’t done anything.”
Which, okay, isn’t technically true, because he’s technically right that you’re sleeping with an attending surgeon. But not in the way he’s implying.
“It’s an easy choice, Y/n. Risk the ethics committee, or owe me a tiny favor. I don’t-“
“Is there a problem here?”
Both of you turn at the same time, and you nearly faint in relief at the sight of Everett standing at the end of the hall. He’s just as sharp and beautiful as he was ten minutes ago, but gone are the charming smile and laughing eyes. Now his golden gaze is sharp, and that perfect cupid’s bow is curled in disdain. He looks more like a Bond villain than a socialite.
“Fuck off,” Jeremy spits.
If he looked angry before, he looks furious now. Whether it’s from being interrupted or being interrupted by this specific person, you don’t know.
“Y/n, come here,” Everett says, ignoring him completely.
You’ve never jumped to obey a man who has no authority over you so quickly. But before you can take more than a step, Jeremy grabs your arm and yanks you to a stop. You startle so bad you drop your phone.
“We’re not done,” he bites out.
Fear hits you for the first time all evening. As a woman in a heavily male industry, you’re more than used to men trying to intimidate you. You’ve been talked down to, ignored, shouted at, and everything in between. It barely phases you anymore. But this is the first time anyone has physically put their hands on you, and your heart starts racing in your chest.
“Let go of me, Jeremy.”
You yank on your arm to no avail. All it does is make him tighten his grip until you wince.
“Jeremy.”
“I said we’re not done. Tell your boyfriend to-“
“Let’s make things very clear.”
Everett takes several steps towards the two of you, voice pleasant and expression deadly.
“You are a post-doc with a history of harassment, who is currently drunk and physically assaulting a student. I am an attending surgeon and head of vascular surgery at one of the best trauma hospitals on the east coast. If you don’t let go of her, I will be the one you deal with. And trust me, you don’t have the credibility, the status, or the money to win against me.”
Jeremy’s face goes apoplectic, and his grip tightens until you’re pretty sure he’s cutting off your circulation. Then he and Everett have a silent, very testosterone-y staring contest, during which you do your best not to move or breathe too loud. It lasts forever. You’re starting to lose feeling in your hand when Jeremy finally scoffs and releases you. He shoves you away hard enough you stumble.
“We’ll talk about this later, Y/n.”
“No, I-“
He throws his drink at you.
He empties his very full glass of whiskey all over the front of your dress, spits an expletive at you, and storms away. You stand there staring after him like an idiot.
“Well that was unpleasant.”
Everett speaks from right behind you, and you jump about a foot into the air. Your heart rate, which is still sky high from Jeremy, kicks up even further, and you feel like you’re well on your way to heart attack you considered faking earlier in the night.
“Whoa, easy doc.”
You turn to see him holding his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry,” you manage.
“No need to apologize. Are you alright?”
Your immediate instinct is to say yes. To smooth everything over and act like that didn’t shake you as badly as it did. That would be a complete lie though, and you settle on something slightly more truthful.
“I’ll be okay,” you say with a hopefully convincing smile.
You even kind of believe it, too. Right up until you look down and see your phone lying on the ground with a shattered screen.
In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a big deal. Phones break all the time. But right now, with whiskey dripping down your neck and chest, with the ghost of Jeremy’s grip lingering on your wrist, it feels like the end of the world. You have to fight to keep your lower lip steady while you bend down pick it up, and you nearly lose the fight when you slice your finger on a shard of glass.
“Shit, let me see that.”
Everett reaches for your hand, and you flinch. You don’t mean to, and you feel terrible when you see the stricken look on his face.
“I’m sor-“
“If you apologize, I’m going to feel worse.”
Your mouth snaps shut. The two of you just look at each other for a minute — you trying not to cry, and him clearly trying not to make you cry.
“Can I walk you to your car?” he eventually asks.
“I took an Uber.”
Which reminds you of the ride you definitely just missed, and which you can’t rebook now courtesy of your shattered phone screen. He must arrive at the same conclusion, because he says-
“Can I drive you home then?”
You hesitate.
You have a few of options. First, you could ask to borrow his phone and either call Chelsea — who lives clear across town — or another Uber. You could also accept his offer, but you don’t know if you want to get in a car with someone you don’t actually know that well. Sure, he rescued you from Jeremy, but you’re not feeling particularly generous towards the male species right now. What you really want is for Brendon to come get you, but you know that’s not possible. That leaves the last option.
“Um, could I borrow your phone? I’m just going to call B-, my boyfriend.”
Your apartment is within the hospital’s twenty-minute on call radius; you’ll call Brendon and tell him to meet you there after you get back. It’s roundabout, but there’s no way you’re going to ask Everett to drop you off at Brendon’s house. The last thing you need right now is for someone to have proof the two of you are together. Also, this way someone knows you’re getting into Everett’s car in case he turns out to be crazy.
The plan is foolproof. There’s also no possible way this evening can get any worse. You are incorrect on both fronts.
Everett hands over his phone no problem. He hovers close, clearly wanting to help in some other way, but mindful not to touch you again. You don’t mind too much as you focus on dialing Brendon. That is, you don’t mind the closeness right up until his phone recognizes the number, and a big fat “Calling Brendon Park (PTMC)”pops up on the screen.
You take a hurried step back, but a glance at Everett tells you it’s too late. He definitely saw who you were calling, and his eyebrows just about hit his hairline. Your soul leaves your body. Why does he have Bren’s personal number? Brendon certainly doesn’t have his. How did he even get it? How-
“Park.”
You don’t know if the sound of Brendon’s voice coming from the speaker makes things better or worse. You do your best to pretend Everett doesn’t exist and raise the phone to your ear at the same time you back even further away.
“So funny story,” you start.
You can hear the tension enter his body. He’s probably in his office, going over case notes, and you can imagine the way he just straightened and shoved his files aside.
“Y/n?”
“Don’t be mad-“
“Too late, where’s your phone?”
Wincing, you go through an abbreviated version of the nights events, starting with running into Everett and ending with how you just accidentally outed your relationship to the same man. Brendon listens silently while you talk. He makes no noise, doesn’t even change his breathing, but you just know he’s glaring at the wall like he can set it on fire.
“What do you need?” he asks when you finish.
The question catches you off guard. Maybe it’s just hearing his voice, maybe it’s him knowing that you needed him to be gentle even if you didn’t say so. Whatever it is, you make an embarrassing sound and bite your lip hard to keep from crying.
“I d-don’t know,” you whisper. “I just want to come home.”
Another silence, this one weighted. You hear him inhale sharply and then nothing for what feels like forever.
“Bren?”
“Give the phone to Edwards.”
“What?”
“It’ll be okay, imp. Just give him the phone.”
His voice is the softest you’ve ever heard it, and you suddenly want him here with you so badly it hurts.
“Okay.”
You turn to face Everett, who has been studiously examining the ceiling, and hold out the phone. He takes it like it’s a bomb and raises it slowly to his ear.
“Edwards.”
You can hear the low murmur of Brendon’s voice, but you can’t make out anything he’s saying. You just stand there awkwardly while Everett also stands awkwardly and listens to Brendon. It doesn’t last long though, and it’s only a minute or so later when Everett hands the phone back.
“Bren?”
“Edwards will bring you home.”
“But what about-“
“He already knows, and it makes things simpler. He’ll keep his mouth shut.”
He says it with such certainty that you have to laugh. It’s strained and slightly hysterical, but it’s still a laugh.
“Did you threaten him?”
“Not much.”
Another laugh, this one a little more real. You feel slightly better as you hang up and give Everett his phone back.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “For everything.”
He smiles, and you think it might be the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.
“You’re welcome, doc. Now let’s get you home before your very-platonic-absolutely-not-your-boyfriend friend kills me.”
The two of you find a side exit, and your shoulders crumple in relief. The thought of walking back through the ballroom and having people stare at you makes your skin crawl. Leaving through this door means you have to walk a bit further to get back to the parking lot, but you don’t mind. It’s a relief to breathe fresh air and feel the breeze. You follow dutifully as Everett leads you to a sleek, black Mercedes, but hesitate when he opens the door for you.
“I don’t want to ruin your seats,” you tell him, gesturing at your whiskey-soaked dress.
“They’ve been through worse, trust me.”
You have no idea what he could mean and decide you don’t want to know before getting in.
The ride to Brendon’s is quiet. Your normal need to fill silences has been squished by exhaustion, and he seems content to leave you be. Brendon must have given him the address. It’s maybe fifteen minutes later when you turn onto a familiar tree-lined street, and then you’re pulling into the driveway.
The garage is open, and Brendon is standing there waiting. His arms are crossed, his jaw is set, and his eyes are burning a hole through the windshield. He looks ten kinds of pissed off and half a step from murder.
You’re out of the car before it’s fully in park.
All the adrenaline and fear and discomfort from the last hour breaks open at the sight of him, and you throw yourself into his arms hard enough that he grunts at the impact. Neither of you care about your dress. His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he drops his chin to rest on top of your head. He’s warm and solid, his heart beats strong and steady under your ear, and he smells like home. You finally start crying.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
You give a watery laugh.
“You’re being nice.”
“I’ll call you an idiot tomorrow to make up for it.”
There’s no heat in the words, and you relax even further into him. Vaguely, you’re aware of Everett getting out of the car and coming up behind you, but you don’t have the energy or the dignity to move. As far as you’re concerned, you’re going to stay here forever. Especially when one of Brendon’s hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, and you basically start purring.
“Edwards.”
“Park.”
You don’t need to see to know they’re having some sort of masculine staring contest. You mumble be nice into Brendon’s chest, and he heaves an annoyed sigh.
“Fine. Thank you.”
“Not like you gave me much of a choice,” Everett replies, but he sounds amused.
You turn your head just enough to be heard and say-
“Thank you, again.”
“For my favorite doctor? Anytime.”
His voice is teasing, not flirty, but Brendon still makes a disgusted noise.
“Thank you rescinded. Now fuck off.”
You sigh and fight a smile, and Everett chuckles under his breath behind you.
“Right, fucking off. See you guys tomorrow.”
You should probably do a better job of expressing your gratitude for everything he’s done tonight, especially since Brendon’s clearly not going to do it, but you’re too tired. You’ll just bring him coffee tomorrow or something. Right now, the only thing you care about is getting out of this dress, getting clean, and then curling up in Brendon’s arms for the rest of the night.
“Come on,” he says once Everett pulls out of the drive way.
He slips an arm around your shoulders and guides you into the house. You feel yourself fully relax for the first time all night. Your sweater is hanging in the mudroom, you can see your laptop on the coffee table along with his tablet in the den, and the familiar sound of classical floats through the air. Home.
Brendon’s words from yesterday run through your head — I’m all in — and a wave of emotion hits you. They overwhelmed you yesterday, made you worry and overthink. But right now, with your wrist starting to bruise and your hair falling apart and tears drying on your cheeks, they settle differently. They feel right.
“Bren?”
“Yeah?”
He’s bent down to help you with your heels, and he undoes the delicate straps with the same focused precision he uses in the operating room. Your heart squeezes. This giant, grumpy, sharp-tongued surgeon is on his knees without prompting, shirt front damp with whiskey from your dress and brows furrowed in concentration while he removes your shoes.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Your not-a-proposal-yet.”
He looks up then, and you feel like you could drown in the blue of his eyes. You’ve never meant anything more in your life.
18+ how to sexually harass your hot law professor, higuruma !
1. HRSS 1O1 : YA LIKE MY TIDDIES, PROF ?
law professor! higuruma hiromi is lecturing a class on courtroom ethics while you sit front row & flash your tits in his face.
let me rephrase: professor higuruma is pressed tweed suit / half-loosened tie / hair damp & sticky with afternoon sweat. you’re a third year law school student with translucent excuse for a button-up shirt & an ego bruised from being rejected by your law professor one too many times.
it’s always “you’re too young,” or “this is inappropriate.” never ‘yes y/n, i’d love to put my balls in your jaw !’
so you take matters into your own hands.
no one who’s anyone attends the 4PM lectures. so when higuruma hiromi watches you stroll in at 4:11 PM sharp, hair tied back & blazer on & looking uncharacteristically presentable, professor higuruma can’t hide the way his eyes flit to you & back to the half-empty class again. suspicious.
you sit front row & center. hiromi doesn’t react.
not until you’re flashing your breasts in his face, that is.
sweat beads on your perky nipples & you can only thank the midsummer heat. higuruma hiromi is staring—wide-eyed now, as his least favorite, much too perverted student pinches her nipples with her thumb & index & gives them a good rub for him to see.
& because that’s not enough—it never is with you—you have the audacity to soak your fingers in the wetness of your tongue & play with your pebbled nipples right in his face! two rows to your left in the half-empty classroom is a boy named mike ross who’s caught on to what you’re doing yet keeps his eyes trained straight. he’s just here to graduate. what the fuck is happening?
“class is dismissed. you may all leave.”
the lecture soon comes to an end. you’re packed books & buttoned blazer now, boobs tucked away & the picture of perfection.
“not you, y/n,” you freeze.
“meet me in my office in five.”
2. HRSS 2O1 : TUMBLR SMUT ABOUT YOUR LAW PROFESSOR ? SRSLY ?
professor higuruma isn’t paid enough for this.
that’s what he concludes as he fails the nth essay of the night. it’s 9:15 pm & he’s in the discomfort of his home, back bent over his desk & blue light glasses perched low on the hook of his nose.
one more paper to grade before he goes to bed tonight. that’s what he tells himself, at least.
and behold, the paper is yours! law professor higuruma hiromi knows he should save himself the trouble & give you a big fat F. girls like you are only good at picking slutty skirts & bending over just far enough that he can get the perfect view of your ass mid-lecture. not writing reports or drafting thesis statements.
but law demands fairness, so higuruma opens the document anyways.
LAWP-302 — THE BURDEN OF PROOF : PROXIMATE CAUSE IN PERSONAL INJURY CASES.
beyond the title, the document is completely empty.
hiromi higuruma counts himself lucky. empty doc means earlier bedtime. so before closing his laptop & putting his things away, he reopens your assignment thread to send a new email:
———-
Subject: RE: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
helloooo professor here’s my research paper!!! finally on time for once :p if u don’t mind could u call me a good girl for my efforts??
xoxo,
[Y/N] 💘💓
————-
hiromi winces. he’d already had the misfortune of reading your email before, but accidentally skimming it a second time makes his stomach curl with disgust. he purses his lip, nose scrunched, glasses slipping down his cheek as he steadies the keyboard.
———-
Subject: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER
From: Higuruma, Hiromi
To: [L/N], [Y/N]
Y/N,
Your submitted assignment was completely empty. Lucky for you, there is still a day to the deadline. Complete the paper and resubmit as soon as possible.
Also, you are a student of a prestigious law school. It is expected your assignments are completed in due time, and I will not “praise” you for your “efforts.” They are expected, and asking me to call you a ‘good girl’ is extremely inappropriate. Not that you seem to care about what’s inappropriate and what’s not.
I’ve also told you to stop emailing me with such casual language. Signing your name with heart emojis is extremely informal and inappropriate. I can only issue so many warnings. May God’s plan for your life be bigger than your breasts, else I can assure that you will never make it.
Higuruma Hiromi
———-
hiromi sighs, body limp & bone heavy. perhaps the late-night frustration has gotten to him—he knows he should delete the last part, but his thumb slips (or not?) & he sends it anyways.
he’s about to close his laptop when an email notification pings. he makes the mistake of refreshing his page, & unfortunately the email comes from you.
———-
Subject: RE: RE: LAWP-302 RESEARCH PAPER
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
Professor 😟,
whatttt are u doing awake at this time. not that i’m complaining!! if you’re emailing me this late because you’ve FINALLY decided you’re interested in me & my big breasts (i’m so glad you noticed their size! the fenugreek must be working 😇), you can message me at 42-42-564 <3333
alsoooo my bad i think i sent the wrong draft </3. the actual paper is attached below!!
night night prof 🌙💤
[Y/N] 😇☺️ (no heart emojis this time bcoz im a good girl :)
——-
law professor higuruma hiromi doesn’t get paid enough for this.
that’s what he tells himself for the third time today. he chooses not to respond to your email, instead opening up the file to get things over with. it’s nearly midnight now & the chill of his office is unforgiving, but with red nose & freezing fingertips hiromi opens up the doc regardless.
at this point, higuruma hiromi should shut his laptop & retreat to bed. this is clearly not your research paper, & whatever you write in your free time is none of his business.
but his name in the first paragraph catches his eye.
“hahh—hiromi,” you whine, a mess of shaky thighs & flushed cheeks. “can’t do it—need your help, please”
higuruma only grips your hips harder, big hands bruising at your thighs. he wastes no time lapping at the juices that spill from your achey cunt, giving your pussy a wet lick before his head tilts back so his nose digs right into your puffy clit. above him you’re half dressed & fucked dumb, mouth hung open & boobs spilling from your bra cup. you’re writhing on his nose, but hiromi doesn’t fucking care.
“you asked for this, no?” his voice is hungry, guttural. “ride, baby.”
what the fuck?
now, professor higuruma should definitely stop reading. he can already feel heat crawling up his throat & itching at his ears. he should step back. mark the document as "Inappropriate Content" & forward it to the disciplinary board. say a prayer & repent, if you will.
instead, his eyes snag the last sentence of the page.
hiromi pulls back, breathless & sticky with your slick, to look at the mess he’s made of his favorite student.
”good girl,’ he murmurs, “look how much you’ve leaked for your professor.”
he slams his laptop shut.
and his heart hammers with a rhythm that has nothing to do with justice. he knows monday will come, & so will your slutty skirts, half buttoned tops, shaky thighs—
he’ll have to see you in his office again. & he knows—with a sorry sense of dread—that it won’t be to fail you.
3. HRSS 3O1 : GET ‘EM BANNED !
monday comes & so does your slutty skirt.
it’s 5PM midsummer & the office air is sticky with heat. a fan hangs heavy in the center, creaky & aching, just loud enough to mask how hard hiromi’s shoe taps against the wooden floor.
in front of him you’re bright smile & pink nose & lace bra peeking from your button-up. hiromi doesn’t let his eyes dip. he doesn’t know how you’re beaming—perhaps it wasn’t clear he’d called you into his office for literal sexual harassment.
“professor,” you coo. “is this about my email on friday? you’re taking up that offer about my breasts?”
two desks to the left, history professor nanami kento clears his throat. on the opposite side is professor giyu tomioka who isn’t paid enough for this & just fucking leaves.
higuruma clears his throat, skin itchy. “i have no idea what you’re talking about, y/n. mind your mouth while in my presence.”
“did you read the smut fic i wrote about you?”
nanami exits the office.
hiromi drags his palm over his face; tired, weary, utterly embarrassed. in all his years of teaching never had he encountered a student as shameless & perverted as you, & even now he’s pretty sure you’re turned on by his exasperation as well because your skirt crinkles from your thighs squeezing beneath his desk. god.
& perhaps hiromi is equally perverted; because some sick, twisted part of him, the part that likes watching you bend over for him to see your panties dig into your pussy, or the part that likes stroking his dick to the memory of you palming your pebbled nipples that one day of class—doesn’t hate it. & he really should. & he really ought to teach you a lesson for fucking with his head & riling him up the way you do.
“professorr,” you sing-song, patting your chest shamelessly. “my breasts? you wanted to take up my offer, right?”
“enough.”
his voice bangs like gavel, and the sound shocks you—he knows because you’re looking up at him now with flushed cheeks & glossy eyes. like you’d never expected him to actually get mad.
and to make things worse, your thighs are squeezing like you like it.
and in that moment, hiromi decides he will take you up on that offer. he’s towering now, jaw tight, palms firm on the mahogany table.
“strip.”
and you waste no time, honestly. hiromi can tell you’re excited, even though you bite your cheek like you’re trying not to show it. your fingers are clumsy against your button-up, pathetic & half-shaky, and hiromi wastes no time before leaning over & snapping your shirt open himself. you let out a squeak as he unclasps your bra. cute.
but he doesn’t lower himself to your perky nipples—nope. higuruma hiromi would rather die than give you exactly what you want. he grabs you by the hair & forces you over his desk instead.
“professor—“
“quiet.”
but girls like you are stubborn as fuck & whine against him anyways. higuruma decides he has no time for that—his palm shifts from your hip to your mouth, keeping you shut & steady against him as he fiddles with his belt. god, you’re already writhing against him, ass rubbing against his already hardened cock. & hiromi doesn’t groan—he’d rather die than give you the satisfaction—so he bites his lip & ignores the taste of blood in his mouth instead.
“f-fuck…”
hiromi takes his sweet time. only his boxers separate you now, clothed dick dragging up your cunt. and he goes slow, painfully slow, like he’s punishing you for all the times you got him rock hard mid lecture & he had to jerk himself off with only the image of your panties digging into your folds or your perky nipples glistening in the fluorescent light.
you’re moaning against his palm now, voice a muffled, damp mess. your hips jerking against his cock make his thighs twitch. god, he’s wanted this so long.
and he finally decides to give it to you.
his dick practically springs from his boxers, heavy & thick & dripping with precum. fuck, he’s aching, practically twitching to get inside you. fuck fuck fuck.
“inside—“ you groan into his hand. “please,”
he’s barely done anything & you’re already a whiny mess! god, what a pervert you are. and hiromi would be a liar if he said he didn’t like it. his palms grip you roughly, lining you up & pressing into your back so you lean far enough to give him the perfect view of your ass.
hiromi doesn’t let you slip your skirt & panties off beforehand because he likes the idea of your skirt fluttering around each time he digs inside you. who says he can’t be a pervert, too?
and he does exactly that, bony fingers sliding your panties over your cunt. & you’re already soaked, wet & sticky so when he slips his fingers aside they’re already dripping with slick.
hiromi doesn’t give you time to adjust.
you don’t deserve it, so he simply doesn’t give it to you. he slides himself in, teeth gritting as your pussy flutters & grips him much tighter than he expected. truth be told, he hadn’t expected your aching cunt to give him such a hard time. dumb sluts like you came easy & pre-stretched, right ?
& he’s half-right, because your folds adjust to him. eventually. just when he lets his palm shift from your hip to your breast to grope them roughly & caress your nipples with his fingers. & god you squeeze with every rub, & you feel so fucking good & hiromi’s not sure how he didn’t give into your pretty pussy much sooner.
well he’s here now, & he wastes no time ramming into you. he digs in deep, hands working your perky nipples as he thrusts into your aching cunt. & he can barely muffle your moans now & he should be concerned about someone walking in but how can he when your whiny moans all go straight to his dick?
& because hiromi’s not easily satisfied, his right hand leaves your lips & sinks to your thighs instead. & god you’re so wet, & he only dips his hand to finger your swollen nub but you’re already a sloppy mess on his palm & fuck he loves it. loves how your ass twitches & hips jerk as his fingers graze your clit, fast & rough, like girls like you don’t deserve warm pace & gentleness.
“hah—ah…hiromi!”
you squeeze him tight, walls pulsing & hips stuttering against him. he thumbs your sensitive clit even harder through your high, thumb digging as you spasm & twitch against him, palms still heavy on your perky nipples. & only when you relax against him, pussy still fluttering, does he slip out his cock to cum on your ass with heavy pants & a breathy “fuck.”
girls like you don’t deserve aftercare or ‘are you okay?’ so hiromi doesn’t give it to you. he’s already buckled belt & smoothed out hair in his seat, watching with lazy eyes as you struggle to shift your skirt over your ass.
you’re still buttoning your shirt when you beam,
“see, prof? that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
except it was, & the post-nut clarity hits him like a bullet. fuck. he should’ve never let a perverted thing like you get under his skin.
hiromi breathes, pulls a drawer from his desk. “i have something for you.”
18+. the many times you & higuruma get caught at work.
I. case one: the evidence locker ( 8:12 PM )
higuruma hiromi is dark pressed suit, two rings on his long fingers & a moral compass that always points north. you’re a paralegal with skirt 3cm below the dress code & a magnet in your molars that has hiromi’s compass swiveling south.
you’re tugging on his tie now. “come onnn, ‘ruma. please?”
a paralegal should not be referring to their boss as ‘ruma. they also should not be dragging him into the evidence locker at 8PM to look for a ‘missing file’ he swears doesn’t even exist. you’re currently doing both. and higuruma lets you.
your lips are summer sticky & far too hot. your hand’s in his hair now, nails on his nape, his palm bunching at the folds of your skirt. your breath’s ridiculously hot in his mouth as you huff & puff against his tongue, shoving him against the lockers. hiromi slaps your ass when you dare to let out a whine.
BANG !
the loud sound jolts your bodies apart. higuruma’s palm is still on your thigh—“hiromi ?!”
“the auto-lock,” his palms drag over his face. he breathes, “it’s eight-thirty. the basement seals automatically till the morning shift.”
he lets out a low, frustrated groan that vibrates through your rib. even now, you’re still pressed against him, half-clothed tits pressed into his chest as his thumb grazes circles on your hip. he dials a number with his other hand, ignoring the sloppy, gloss-drenched kisses you leave on his jaw as he speaks to the security desk at the end of the line.
half-an-hour later—after higuruma’s stewing & you calming him down with apology head, complete with your hair tied in a sympathy bun of course—the heavy metal door drags open. a security guard armed with a flashlight walks in. he’s greeted with the sight of higuruma buttoning your shirt, sympathy bun long come undone.
you’re free. and you’re in so much trouble.
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: UNAUTHORIZED AFTER-HOURS ACCESS & BREACH OF SECURITY
punishment: Written warning & $500 Penalty fine for Emergency Override.
issued by: Levi Ackerman, Chief of security.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi, [Y/N] [L/N]
‘the evidence locker is no place for ‘private deliberations.’ and keep in mind all audio is recorded. in no world should the word ‘tight’ be moaned in an emergency distress call.
II. case two: encrypted outlook thread ( 12:21 PM )
higuruma hiromi ought to teach you a lesson.
frankly, you’re the worst paralegal he’s had the mispleasure of working with since joining pearson hardman. he can’t help but envy his rival, phoenix wright, and his paralegal, maya fey!
you’re much too forgetful, too busty, too disorganized. at 9AM today the files for the high-priority danganronpa case were due on his desk. they didn’t reach him till eleven, and you had the audacity to add on a sticky note labeled ‘sorry!’ and ‘meet me downstairs for some apology head ;)’. higuruma hiromi has concluded that you never learn.
so he decides he’ll teach you himself.
Subject: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: Higuruma Hiromi
To: [L/N], [Y/N]
Y/N,
Not only were the documents I requested for prep late, they were also extremely disorganized. This is a serious case regarding kidnapped and murdered children, and I suggest you exercise some more seriousness and be more meticulous in your conduct. You also left an implicit sticky-note attached to the files. I suggest you come visit my office, lest I file a formal complaint.
Regards,
Higuruma Hiromi
—
Subject: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
Counselor,
Are you threatening me with a complaint? I’m just doing my job. I did notice your tie was a bit crooked today, though, so I’d be happy to come fix it for you when I swing by your office. Or take it off completely. Let me know when you’d like me to drop in and fix those files!
Regards,
Y/N L/N
—
Subject: RE: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: Higuruma, Hiromi
To: [L/N], [Y/N]
Y/N,
You can come fix it now. And then I’m going to fix the way you think you can talk to a Senior Associate. I will lock the door, and you will not be released till you admit exactly how much of a headache you’re deliberately trying to be. Don't test me, [Y/N]. I’m a very patient man, but even I have limits.
Higuruma Hiromi.
ー
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
ruma,
i suck at corporate speak 😭 are u saying ur gonna eat my pussy orrrrrr
—
Subject: [SECURITY ALERT] KEYWORD FLAG / SERVER SCRUB
From: Hange Zoë (IT Department)
To: Higuruma, Hiromi; [L/N], [Y/N]
CC: Human Resources (General Inbox)
Hi Hiromi, [Y/N],
Just a friendly heads-up: I’m running the quarterly server audit and the 'harassment/explicit' keyword filter just went off like a fire alarm on your thread. Specifically because of the word 'pussy.’
Sorry to intrude on your corporate sexting session! I’ve paused the sync to the main server, but the automated log has already been forwarded to the Senior Partners. You guys might want to check your calendars. Erwin at HR just opened a new 'Conduct Investigation' folder with both your names on it (uh oh!)
Best of luck to you both! And Y/N, I could be wrong, but I think his last message was implying BDSM; though I don’t doubt he’d be willing to eat you out as well!
Happy eating!
Zoë Hange
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: MISUSE OF COMPANY COMMUNICATION CHANNELS / EXPLICIT DIGITAL CONDUCT
punishment: Mandatory 2-hour 'Digital Ethics' Webinar & temporary monitoring of all outgoing firm emails.
issued by: Erwin Smith, Head of Human Resources.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi, [Y/N] [L/N]
‘It has come to our attention that the Danganronpa Case thread was used for ‘personal negotiations,’ that which our investigative committee has concluded were most likely inappropriate. Please refrain from using the firm’s Outlook servers as your personal Wizz/Tinder moving forward. And Higuruma, we expect better from you. Please report to room three on floor six after lunch break. The door will not be locked.’
III. case three: company zoom meeting ( 5:04 PM )
higuruma hiromi thinks he’s so fucking smart.
he also thinks he’s the king of calendar invites. so when he tells you to send out an email for a company zoom meeting for 6PM but set the zoom’s actual time to five, he supposes his intellect rivals god.
“you’re late, y/n,” higuruma’s voice is close to guttural. he’s laid back on his desk chair, tie loose, legs spread, hair impossibly messy. and you’re knelt on your floor, laptop on your thighs.
you’re sporting the cutest little bath robe higuruma has ever seen. you’re grinning at the screen, cheeks peach-dappled & lips bent in a clumsy smile,
“hi, ‘ruma! wanna see my tits?”
lord, how higuruma adores you !
and who is he to say no? he leans back against his seat, swivel chair groaning with a creeeaaak. he’s already unzipping his pants as you begin to shrug off your pretty pink robe, breasts glazed over & supple in the fluorescent light.
a tiny, bright green notification pings at the bottom of the screen.
[Participants: 48]
higuruma freezes. then rises up, palm curling off his shaft & inching towards his keyboard.
slowly, agonizingly, he clicks on gallery view.
forty-six pearson hardman employees stare at him back.
erwin smith looks like he just witnessed a war promised to him 2000 years ago. hange zoë has a measuring tape held up against the screen. his rival, phoenix, is making a face that reminds him of the many memes of that one streamer you’d often send him—i show meat? levi ackerman has already left the meeting—he knows because the notification flashes at the corner of the screen.
and right there in the center box? harvey specter, senior partner of pearson hardman ltd, has his chin in his hand & eyes intensely locked on to the screen.
is he looking at your breasts ?
oh right, you! you’ve been calling out for the past one minute now, completely unaware of the other forty-six employees watching your wet nipples glisten in the light.
“‘ruma? ‘ruma? ugh, is this thing on?”
higuruma slams his laptop shut. it bangs louder than the gunshot that killed charlie kirk.
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: PUBLIC INDECENCY / TOTAL BREACH OF FIRM REPUTATION
punishment: Termination of Employment (Effective Immediately)
issued by: Harvey Specter, Senior Partner ; The Board of Directors.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi (RESIGNED), [Y/N] [L/N]
‘Hey guys! Harvey here. So after a meeting with the rest of the board, we’ve come to the decision to terminate your employment. Higuruma, your resignation letter has been duly received. Gonna be completely honest, that was the last thing I ever expected to see in a corporate meeting. But you two really spiced up my evening, thanks! I tried to negotiate with Jessica and the other directors on your behalves, but sadly they weren’t having it.’
P.S: ‘Nice cock, Hiromi! Very impressive both length and girth wise. And sorry for sneaking a peak at your chest, Y/N. At the very least, your boob job looks very natural. Best of luck to you both!’
PT2 to my neglected beta!reader x toxic 141 (excluding simon), gn!reader
WC: 7.7k part 1 here
Simon thought Johnny was bad enough getting into his head and convincing him to indulge in an actual friendship for once. It didn't help either that getting along with Kyle was as easy as making a remark and laughing together over it. The team created a perfect dynamic, almost unstoppable.
Then came you.
You were always hanging around them, fitting in easily, practically always smiling at his jokes even on missions. Maybe a snide remark back here or there, but it was never more— always balanced. He supposed it was in your nature, as a beta and all, to be perfectly in between like that. Not that Simon was the one to pay much mind to societal matters like that anyway— the battlefield was very different to social gatherings, and the only language he knew was that of violence. It wasn't like he couldn't get by either; it felt like everyone grew up with that small talk ingrained in them from the start. The weather, the latest mission, annoying recruits, the bloody royal family if he really had to.
So, when he started to notice the change around you, he decided to stay out of it. It was plain obvious you felt disappointed when Johnny got an omega, Simon felt a little pang even if he didn't want to. But he didn't know what that feeling meant, and he sure as hell wasn't going to call you out on it. So, he didn't.
Then it was Kyle, and your scent only grew even more sour. Still, you didn't show it on the outside, so he chose not to comment on it again. He probably never would’ve really— after all, who wants to be ‘comforted’ by someone who can't even fix himself?
When the Sergeants hung out, you were no longer in their little circle, always off somewhere else. He asked Johnny once, why you hadn't gone to watch a movie with them, only for him to just blink at Simon. “Oh— them? Guess we kinda just forgot to invite them. We’re not that close, an’ we got an omega ‘n all now.”
Is that what happens? When an alpha gets an omega? They forget everything they ever knew and just.. lock in on that? Still, Johnnys relationship with him never changed, not like he did with you. Something was wrong about all of this but what was he supposed to do, force the Scot to hang out with you again? This wasnt bloody nursery, besides, matters like this meant nothing with the weight of the nation placed on the team. Well, rather on the four alphas, since he soon learnt you were being taken off their shared missions too. For the first time, he faltered during the briefing with Price.
“You’re not bringing them for this one?” He heard about you being taken off of Johnny’s but this was a whole team mission with your file not in it.
“We have to spread resources efficiently. Technically we dont need them anymore, with two mated alphas. They’ll be placed with the extraction team.”
Ghost wasn't stupid, he knew that part of the reason for you being on the team was because of the regulation effects of having a beta on an all alpha team– it’s the same bias that got him into the SAS anyway. Omega’s never got this high in ranks either. But that’s exactly it, it’s meant to be a part of the reason not enough to throw you off an op.
“When we need to go solo, they’ll be on that op. It’s not that bad, Ghost.” Price reassures him, and all he can do is sigh and nod along. He already anticipated how your scent would tighten upon the news, a hint of sadness seeping in. This time he couldn't help himself– this was something he knew. So, he immediately secured your place the second he received orders of his mission, stationed beside him like you belonged. He’d always been able to recognise the change in scent, from the smallest degree, something that was forced into him at a young age. This time, it was clear you were much happier like this, beside one of the 141, on a mission, doing something.
That he could definitely relate to. He’s no stranger to feeling out of control when he can't contribute to an objective.
Having you beside him had a much better effect than he perceived anyway. Not only were you skilled and efficient, but he felt he just worked better beside you. And so he decided to set up a trip to the pub— give you a chance to hang out with Kyle and Johnny too. He was convinced that they had just gotten to in their heads with their new omegas– a honeymoon phase he supposes.
He kicked himself for not saying more at that fiasco, not forcing Johnny to regret those cruel comments in the moment. But you had already retreated back to your barracks at the end of the night, and he was left staring at your closed door with a chest aching with regret he hasnt felt since he was far smaller. The next day he hounded Johnny until he went to apologise to you, listening from the other side of the door in hopes that’d be enough. Still, he had figured you might’ve still been annoyed after yesterday, wouldn't even blame you really, but instead the acceptance was one of a prey who stopped fighting. It didn't satisfy the wound in his heart even for a second.
“Why have you denied my team for the next mission?” He stands before Price’s desk, an anger boiling in his chest that he hasn't felt for years. He swore to himself he wouldnt let his happen again.
“You know I'm mated, Simon–”
“But i’m not.” His palms press on the desk as he stares at his Captain, the man who gave him a reason to keep going ever since this force had started. But he cant defend this, not when he’s taking away your purpose. “Price..”
“If i dont do it now, they’ll force my hand later. It’s a better opportunity for them to work with other teams too–”
“Bullshit.” He knows there’s no more arguing when Price gives him that look. It’s not like you’d be happy in your new omega team– he wouldn't be surprised if you grew envious of them from how their existence had thrown you out of the entire team. He knows something violent would burst if it happened to him.
————-
There’s a heavy haze on your mind when you try to blink your eyes open, like it’s muddling all your thoughts into one. You’re extremely hungry.
A small groan escapes you and when you finally open your eyes, it’s like they’re forced to droop. You can feel dried stains on your cheeks which explains why your eyes feel tired themselves. What happened?
There’s a small rumble behind you, startling you but you hardly have control of your body right now so there’s not much you can do but blink in confusion. The last thing you remember is training for the mission with the team, and by the pain rippling across your body, something must’ve happened during it. Still, your chest doesnt pump with fear, in fact you feel calm, like your body is well aware that you’re safe wherever you are.
Again, you try to move, inhaling a sharp breath as you force yourself onto your back. The pain is instant and you have to breathe out slowly as if you dont feel like there’s tears across your arms. When you finally sober up, you stop scrunching your eyes so tight and finally notice the weight next to you. Or rather.. around you.
“W-what the—?”
———
He had woken up to the feeling of you shuffling beneath his arm, but the muffled pained sound is what made his eyes snap open. It takes him a few moments to realise the predicament he had found— or rather put himself— in last night. One arm draped across your stomach protectively with his nose pressed as close to you as he could manage.
“You’re up early.” He glances at the clock behind you, sat on the dresser, the early time of eight am flashing beside ‘Saturday’. Even though he knows he should be questioning why he’s even doing this, his body feels strangely at ease. It’s even better than the day after a successful op.
“Lieutenant.. why are we in bed?” You croak out, trying to sit up from the embarrassment of it all but his arm tightens to keep you from going too far. It startles you, against his intentions, leaving you even more confused than before. “Wasnt i on a mission..? And— and there was a hostage.. is she alright? Did anyone else get seriously hurt—”
“Mission went sideways ‘cause of a bomb strapped to a hostage, everyone’s out alright. You got the brunt of the damage saving them, the rest of them are already going home safe.”
His alpha isnt as fiery as he remembers it the night prior, the ache in his chest now a warm thrum with you so close. Still, you look uncomfortable, and that hurts his alpha more than being away from you. So he pulls away, letting you sit yourself upright against the headboard.
You take a long breath of relief at his words of reassurance, and he can only assume it’s your own instinctive need to keep others safe. “And how I ended up here..?”
“You had surgery to remove shrapnel and a stray bullet that skimmed you. When you woke, the anaesthesia had you terrified, flailing about like a fish outta water.” He murmurs, gesturing towards the bandages peeking out from the hospital gown you still wore. It had ridden up in the night and now showed the gauze and bandages wrapped around your middle. There were some on your calves as well and the way you wince he supposes you realised about the one on your back.
“They called me in to help stabilise you— figured you’d recognise me. You did, calmed down a bit and then..” He trails off for a moment and you look up at him curiously, watching as he leans back against the headboard. He pauses, unsure whether to tell you about what you had confessed to him in your drugged state. “Jus’ started crying… not sure what about.” He swallows and then glances back down to you. “And well, y’know how we’d get, when another got injured”
They’ve always had their fair share of injuries, usually due to their own brashness as alphas. He remembers when Gaz got shot like it was yesterday, the three of them wouldn't leave his side. It took you all the strength you could muster to force John to let you treat him, even if Ghost had been glued to his side anxiously throughout the entire thing too.
“I took you away from there, brought you here. Stayed till you fell asleep, and then I must’ve passed out myself.”
It’s obvious you’re extremely confused right now, and to be honest, even he is. He’s never felt a pack instinct so strong in his life, not even towards the rest of the 141– it’s still shocking him, and yet, he still cant feel anything but calm.
“Sorry.. for the trouble i caused.” You mumble out but he shakes his head immediately.
“You didn't cause any. Just glad you’re okay.” He gets off the bed, mattress creaking from the relieved weight and springing immediately after he stands. “I’ll go grab breakfast. You shouldn't move too much.”
—————
It took everything in him to force himself to leave you to head towards the mess hall. Doing so also cleared his mind from the tranquility forced upon it, letting him finally go over the events of last night to just five minutes ago.
He had forgone all professionalism, and snatched you from the infirmary like it was what he was meant to do.
When he got back, you practically shovelled the food in your mouth whilst he restrained himself from telling you to eat slower. Still, he offered to help you clean up, since seeing all those wraps didn't make his chest any lighter regardless of instinct. Though,that was enough for you to adamantly shake your head and accidentally shut the door straight in his face.
“Thanks for making sure I was okay.” You say gratefully, dressed in some spare clothes and picking up your phone in your bag to see for any messages about reports or briefings. “ I should head back to my room though.”
He freezes, you weren't supposed to just leave straight away. Well, technically you didn't have a reason to stay, but a burn in his chest makes it physically impossible to watch you step away now.
“Stop.”
You listen to his command, turning to meet his eyes as you wonder what else he could really want. The chair creaks as he stands, making his way over to you until he’s just standing there, scrutinising you.
“You smell.. off.”
“Well.. I'm not using my usual shampoo obviously.” You give him a meek smile, and even though it’s not enough to settle the craving he just nods— accepting it.
“Should probably check by the infirmary just in case.” He mumbles, fighting every urge to scent you before he lets you go.
“I will.”
———
Three days.
That’s all that’s passed since that night, and still his mind is a turmoil he can't unravel. As much as his brain insisted you needed some space, he found himself insistent on making sure you’re okay.
That’s exactly why the second he saw you alone in the mess hall today, he was beside you in seconds.
“Are you feeling any better?” Your shoulders jump in a way that makes him wince, but you relax just as quickly when you realise and smile at him.
“What, better than yesterday when you asked me in the hallway?” He likes seeing you tease him like this, as if the pain wasn't eating you from the inside. You hadn't got the opportunity to talk more than in passing, so you answer more when he looks at you attentively. “The nurses gave me ointment for the burns, and I'll be back on regular training soon. Just taking it easier with lighter gym sets, and running instead to keep my body moving.”
Right, he remembers the significantly less damage on your lower half; running must be a bit easier than any other activity for you.
“Good to know, I’ll keep an eye on you too.”
You look embarrassed by his words, quickly turning your head away as you hurriedly step forward in the queue. “I’m not going to exert myself, you don't need to do that.”
All he can do is shrug, trying to push down the feeling that bubbles with your reaction. Instead he steps in front of you to dish out your portions of food for you. Not too much, or too little, just the way you’ve always liked it. He even skips the sides you don't like.
“I do, actually. As a lieutenant, you’re under my care. And as my beta, I need to make sure you’re well.”
It slips out so easily before he can stop it and he pauses, waiting for you to narrow your eyes in disgust. Who is he to claim you like that? Although.. you don't even seem to catch it, but he does notice the small quirk of your brow when you finally process a few moments later. “Wait–”
“Im on grocery run on tomorrow— havin’ a team movie night on Saturday. You should come too, get some steps in instead of being in this stuffy base for so long” Before you can even answer he places your utensils on your plate and then locks onto the exit. “Meet me by our usual car, alright? Eight amsharp.” And then he’s already weaving through the crowds, leaving you standing on your own.
————————-
For the first time in his life, Simon Riley was excited to see you. He hadn't really had time to question it, between the brand new load of paperwork dumped on him today alone and a million other problems in his mind. And yet, every time he glanced at the time ticking towards tomorrow, his instincts roared.
Would you allow him any closer than before? Although, sleeping beside him was already past many boundaries he had only considered he’d need to ease through now. He’s sure you’d flash him that exact smile when he saw you waiting by the car, positive you’d be embarrassed when he no doubt did something for your sake.
Or you’d back up in fear, your eyes flashing with the same hurt you directed towards Soap that day. You’d realise he’s no different than the rest, infact probably just as cruel as they are.
“Bit late to still be working, Lieutenant, even for you.”
“John.” He murmurs, voice on the quieter end as he watches from his seat on the Captain’s couch. There was a small wad of paperwork clutched in his hands like he needed reason to be here, and not solely for the true purpose.
“Simon.” Price returns, walking over to his desk to light a cigar before returning to sit infront of him. “Got a feeling I know why you’re here.”
It’s silent for a few moments and John is convinced he’ll have to lure the question out himself. But it never really is that simple with Simon Riley. Straightforward as ever, he can't help but jump right to the point “How did you.. know? Your omega.”
Price raises a brow this time, having not entirely expected that, but nods regardless as he breathes out smoke. “Feel it in your chest first. Like your instincts are controlling you really… pulling you towards them. It’s not like you can even try to stop it either.”
“And then what..?”
“The mating bite. The feeling will come soon after, fast even— you’ll get violent. But it’s what’s expected, nearly every alpha goes through it. Just advise your omega to not fight back and there won't be much to clean up.”
He pauses when the air in the room suddenly becomes tense, taking another inhale of the cigar.
“The sooner you do it, the easier it’ll be. You don't know when you’ll see them again with our schedules. I don't want to see you actin’ feral on a mission desperate for their scent.”
Soon enough, it was the next day, and he had driven you to the nearest Tesco Extra. Luckily you had come just in time for a sale.. although that meant there were a lot more people than usual. Despite offering to hold it, the basket dangles in his right hand while you glue yourself to his left side. The explosion had left your senses much more sensitive, so sticking to him was the best option.
“Anything else you want?”
“Maybe another biscuit?” You tease since he’s been filling up the basket with them so far, making you snort a little. When you did hang around the team, him and you were the only ones who’d eat them but you didn't know he liked it this much.
He rolls his eyes at your teasing, and leads you to the next aisle. “Grab what you want and meet me over there.” It’s emptier here, so you nod and watch him go towards the tinned food, now facing the shelves of crisps he left you with.
Well you know Soap and Gaz’s favourites already, and Simon loves kettle chips. You’re not sure if the Captain would also be there, so you grab a mixed bag for him. Would it be weird after not seeing them for so long? Strangely enough, you really can't bring yourself to resent them for what happened.
Was it really their fault? No one ever seemed to have the same problems as you. There was only one time you confessed it to a fellow beta on base, although he had quickly become defensive, shaking his head at you. ‘We’re colleagues at the end of the day. As long as it doesn't affect work, it’s totally fine.’
“Didn't get the crisps you like.” You jump as he appears, grabbing your favourite and tossing it in the basket. “Come on, we’ll get some drinks and go.”
You trail behind him as he carries on, noticing an obvious hunch in his shoulders. He’s tense, which for some reason you find entirely out of place despite you not even knowing him that well. It’s just that, ever since that morning in bed with him, he felt soft, and warm, like everything you’d find comfort in. Surely those same clenched muscles aren't the ones that laid beside you?
You’re about to spiral further into analysing his behaviour when you realise you’re at the checkout with him. “O-oh, do you mind if I run to the beta section quickly? I just need to grab—“
“Already got you one.” He picks up the scent refresher from the basket, scanning it through, as well as other medication he’s also seen you use before. You can only blink at him in surprise—the prices had hiked even higher recently, and you had to debate over buying one or being able to afford morning coffees anymore
It brought a sense of relief to your heart though, that comforting feeling settling in your gut once more. He’s alright, probably just a tough mission coming up.
———————
The past few days it’s like a switch had flipped inside him, too similar to how the others reacted after their new omega. You’re at a loss really, it’s not like he’s being rude, but he’s being distant. Like he’s cautious of you. To be honest, you were half expecting him to tell you not to come to the movie night anymore.
Though maybe you were judging him too quickly— it’s not all alphas, right? It was almost sickening every time the small bit of hope bubbled up though, like it was stupid to think he’d actually be the one to stay longer than the rest. You just hope the reason for this wasn't because of something they told him about you.
You were.. surprised to say the least when you entered the rec room alongside Ghost. The both of you had retrieved the bags from his car after he surprisingly called to make sure you were still coming.
Soap and Gaz weren't lazily sprawled across the couch like they usually would—if anything they seemed antsy. They were both sitting there, shoulders tense, Gaz’s leg even bouncing slightly. You did hear they all came back from a mission recently but they were never this agitated, all pent up like this, back when you were with them.
“Oh, hi.” Gaz looks upon hearing two sets of footsteps and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. You just nod, awkwardly fiddling with the plastic bags you grabbed from Ghost’s car. “What’re you here for?”
“Ghost and I went to grab the snacks the other day”
“Y’can call me Simon, y’know.” He takes the plastic bags from your hands and you nod sheepishly, not even realising you had been using his codename.
“Oops, sorry.” He shakes his head at your apology and you quickly help him unpack all the snacks onto the coffee table for tonight.
“Completely blew a mission and now ye come ‘ere for a movie night?” Soap must’ve gotten up at some point, now brushing past you. His arms are like rocks when they hit into yours, and his tone is heavy— almost accusing.
It catches you off guard, and you freeze, watching as he walks around the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water to swallow in one gulp. “Well.. we did always have the best ones, no?” Surely he didn't mean to be that harsh, clearly something had been holding their bodies in a tight limbo. It must be a poor joke, even if it dug deep.
He doesn't take your words in the tone you intended though, brows narrowing down at you in contempt. “Don’t see why we ‘ave to entertain the fuck ups. My omega was in tha’ mission, she could’ve died ‘cause of you.”
“Johnny—“ Simon cuts in, voice low as he steps in front of you, his scent wrapping around you, weak enough to not fill your head too much. He’s being careful for you.
Though before Simon can say anything more, you let out a soft huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s the risk of every mission, Soap. I thought as a demolition expert you would know that. Or are you forgetting the time you almost killed me?”
“That was a calculated risk. And yer still standing, aren’t ya?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your supposed argument. “You were being reckless and stupid out there.”
“That’s not what you said when I was on the team.” You snap back, anger starting to simmer inside of you too now. After all, they had constantly sung your praises when you were here. It’s their own fault for throwing you into an omega mission when you weren’t prepared enough.
“You left the team.”
“Because I was forced off!”
That pisses him off, because your words feel like an attack against him, and he walks right up to you, inches away. “We never needed you anyway— just a beta to balance us alpha out. Clearly you’re useless otherwise.” Though suddenly his nose scrunches, stepping back a moment before his eyes narrow into a glare. “Ye fucking bastard. Coming in here, stinkin’ omegas, stinking of her?!”
Your jaw clenches as you watch his body language, something you picked upon living around alphas. They get explosive, very strong quickly. First his fists start to clench, the veins in his forearms starting to show. Then his scent starts getting thicker with anger, pumping into the air like a burning building. It’s bad enough that it makes your own anger start to fizzle, hitting your head in waves of pain and you almost stumble backwards. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, his hand rising upwards, the touch of skin against your cheek and the implosion of pain that spreads across your head.
Simon grabs you before you end up dropping altogether and pulls you away from him immediately, shielding you with his body. “I dont know what the fuck has gotten into you Johnny but you need to sort it out— now.” His scent is thicker than you’ve ever smelt it, in fact this is the most you’ve ever been able to make of it. It smells like gasoline, sharp and lingering, and ready to destroy something completely. So toxic, it forces you to gasp for a breath.
“Both of you, stand down, now.”
Price’s voice echoes across the room and you instantly shudder, leaning against the counter weakly as you grasp your face. The bruise will darken tomorrow but you can already feel your cheek starting to swell. What really has you is the mix of scents all around, filling your head so strongly.
“Captain—“
“No.” Price doesn't hesitate to march over, standing in between them as Ghost thrums with anger. You look over to the doorway, hearing the small creak as it closes Gaz standing there with his arms crossed. “You are soldiers, not fucking children.” He argues, pointing an accusing finger towards the Scot before turning to give Ghost an equally sharp glare.
Then his eyes find you. All you can do is stare back, wondering how he’ll react. Would he blame you for all this? Would you be the scapegoat to keep his perfect little pack intact?
Would you let him humiliate you once more?
You’re a soldier, a beta one, but a fighter nevertheless. Missions you’ve fought through, almost died on, saved lives during. For this? To end up like this? You push yourself to stand despite the heavy scents weighing you down, regardless of the stare his alpha is directing to your beta. Everything tells you to submit, the haze in your head and the throb across your cheek.
“You should go, I'll talk to you about this later.” Price commands, nodding his head towards the door. Surprisingly, his words weren't as harsh, in fact more exasperated than anything.
“Enjoy your movie night.” You murmur, grabbing your jacket where it was on the chair and throwing it over your arm.
“Wait—“ Simon starts, backing away from his offensive on Soap instantly to follow you. “Don’t” You hear Price stop him, his hand wrapped around his forearm to stop him chasing after you.
————————-
If that wasn't enough of a reason for you to give up on all of them, you don't know what is anymore. They’ve treated you so horribly, it was hardly arguable anymore that you shouldn’t have even tried with them again. This was all so stupid—you’re so stupid for even thinking this time it could end differently. You could never coexist.
As for Simon, all you feel is a deep regret in your stomach. It was obvious really, of course he must’ve just been smelling omega on you this entire time. It was just a biological confusion, not a genuine interest in you. He didn't care about who you were, his alpha smelt an omega, and that’s all that really matters. It makes you feel sick to your stomach, knowing that you had in some way probably tricked him. His alpha probably had him strung up all week, no wonder he looked so uncomfortable in that shop and every day past.
The chat with Price never happened. They had been briefed almost immediately after you left for an op, and you heard the chatters of their departure the next day. So with them all gone,it was time to get back to work. You had briefings to attend, reports to fill and to forget about everything that happened. Or what didn't happen between you two.
Except you can't.
Everytime you get a second alone with your thoughts, they drift back to him, to that morning and waking up beside him. The last time you’ve woken to someone’s scent around you was when you were very little, your family huddling together in the nest. That stopped as soon as you presented.
Now you’re stuck with this emptiness in your chest. At first you thought his scent had been too strong, and you even tried two pumps of the scent refresher to try and clear your senses. Not even that worked, if anything making it worse now that you longed for his scent even more.
There’s a small balcony you used to see him smoke at, when you first joined the team. He came up here once or twice, and then over the two years you spent with them, never again. In fact, you overheard the sergeants say he quit it altogether. You pause by it today, staring out at the worn railing, the remnants of ash sitting upon it, the mark of his shoe making an outline on the unused floor.
For some reason it makes your eyes water, mourning a connection you could’ve had but seems impossible now.
—-
It’s late at night a few days later. You had taken the opportunity while they were gone to take all of your things out of the rec room. Sure, you should’ve done it before, but a small part of you was still clinging on to possibility. Your blankets that you and the sergeants would swaddle yourselves in on colder nights, the tea strainer you bought to show Price how to use leaves instead of the bought bags, even the few mugs in the cupboard you bought to match them. You left behind the one Soap bought for your birthday— perhaps it belonged there more than it ever did to you. Can't forget the CD player you let Gaz borrow a million times either.
They don't suit your room, the colour clashes with the boring greys in here, and they look like a pile of junk from where you’re beneath the duvets, staring at them. It’s almost midnight, and you know you should be sleeping, but it's a Friday night so to hell with that. You could afford late night wallowing; it’s not like you had anywhere to be tomorrow.
They were supposed to come back today. You heard it from Laswell when discussing something else; she must not know what happened between you. Either they chose not to tell her..or forgot, since you were never that important anyways. The clock blinks one am, maybe you really should sleep.
———
The knock on the door breaks your sleep, and you can only assume it wasn't the first as it continues, each one seeming to become.. slower. You crawl out of bed, mind trying to run a million possibilities through your awakening brain. An emergency mission? Bad news? A sudden attack? An intruder?
“Please..” You hear the groan on the other side of the door, convincing you enough to open it instantly and reveal the other side.
Ghost— or rather Simon, with his mask now fallen at your feet— leans against your door frame, blood dripping onto the floor from a wound near his middle and his eyes glazed over. “Beta..” He breathes through a pained wince, chest sinking quickly.
“Simon?! You should be in the infirmary, not here- ” You scoff, gaze flicking between the blood staining the floor, his hand clenched over the wound and the grime clinging onto his hair and neck.
“No— no- can’t think..” He steps forward, every movement heavy with pain and hurt and yet his eyes stay locked on you. His words are desperate as his hand clenches the handle, sucking in a strained breath.
“A-alright, fine. I’ve got some stuff somewhere—“ Opening the door fully now, you reach for his hand, letting him lean the brunt of his weight as you haul him towards your bathroom. It’s only when you manage to get him to sit on the toilet seat do you free yourself from him, rummaging through your cupboards desperately. “Here- okay, lift your shirt we need to fix that quickly.”
Luckily the wound had just been leaking into the bandages so all you had to do was repack and replace, although you had to deal with his incoherent groans the entire time. Tucking the clean edge into the wrap, he’s finally alright again and you sigh in relief, stepping back.
“Stop—“ He grasps your wrist as you try to put the box back, forcing you to stay in place as you raise a brow at him.
“I need to put it back.“ You sigh, unable to fathom what was up with him right now.
“Stay.”
“Simon, I’m just going to the cabinet..” You sigh as he shakes his head adamantly, pulling you closer even as you try and resist. “Let me go.”
“No.”
“Simon.” You say firmly, a fresh wave of your scent rolling through the air. Never have you used it on any of them before, in fact it only ever worked on inconsolable civilians you’ve saved. Beta scent’s only had the purpose of calming down people anyway, not like an Alpha’s commanding force or an Omega’s lure. “Let me go.”
So when he immediately goes lax, fingers grazing your palm as he gently lets go, you step back in surprise. What?
You keep one eye on him as you place the things away, but he just stays, unmoving. As you close the cabinet, you take a step towards him again, gently pulling down his shirt only to feel the soaked blood on it, as well as the gunpowder and grime. Definitely not a good mission then.
“Why.. don't you wash up, alright? I’ll get you some clothes.”
For a moment you’re convinced you’ll have to drag him yourself, but he takes a small inhale and nods quietly, standing the best he can before he kicks off his shoes and socks. Listening like a loyal dog.
—
You make your way to his room with your own mind full of questions from his strange behaviour. Why did your scent have that effect on him? Why did he come to you? Why did he always call you his beta?
The door unlocks easily with the card you nicked from his gear, and his room is in disarray. It wasn’t uncommon for a pack to have scented items from each other, or very close friends; it usually helped with sleeping or just getting comfortable. You remember Gaz and Soap often had items in each other's rooms for that exact reason, though they never traded with you, even if you never asked yourself.
You immediately noticed Price’s sweater on the floor, kicked to the door. Beside the dresser was Gaz’s spare shirt, crumpled and half shoved beneath the base. Soap’s jacket was behind the bathroom door, hidden away from sight like something that couldn't bear to be seen. In the midst of it was a pair of gloves you lent him during a mission when he was damaged badly. Like a pillar in chaos, it was neatly placed beside a brand new scent refresher and a pack of your favourite snacks. Surely, just a piece of repayment, right?
——————
The shower is quiet when you re-enter your room, and you hesitantly step towards the bathroom door, turning the handle. “Brought some clothes.” You murmur, watching the door handle turn.
“Thank you.” He says, the same gruff tone but quieter, and takes the clothes you pass through the gap.
Surprisingly, he doesn't close it after, letting you hear his quiet shuffling as he changes. It feels weird standing on the otherside, knowing you can just walk in and see him bare like this— an alpha left vulnerable. Though, can an alpha truly be vulnerable before a beta? If anything, you’d always be vulnerable alone with him, and he’d always be the strongest in the room.
“I saw my gloves on your table.” You mumble out, stepping back to take a seat on the edge of your bed. His silence doesn't help your inability to keep in the thoughts running wild in your head.
His breath hitches behind the door, something you’ve learnt to notice since you can't read his facial expressions. “I meant to return it to you. But.. I hadn't washed them yet.”
Just as you thought.
The door opens, and he steps forward, the grime washed off and bandages covered by the thin cotton shirt. He looks exhausted like this, like everything weighing down on him has finally caused him to crumble. Just like the others, his shoulders stay taut.
“You left their things on the floor.”
Your beta is desperate to soothe, to understand the problems within his pack, and help him through them. No sane alpha would push away his pack’s items, it has your beta ringing alarm bells across your mind.
“Didn’t need them.” He murmurs, one hand tugging at the end of his shirt as it clings to his damp body. You’ve never seen him fiddle with things like this, running his tongue over his lips.
“You didn't need your pack’s items?” You huff out crossing your arms over your chest. “At least make the lie believable.” Maybe this was his own strange way of pushing you away like they had, because you just wouldn’t understand, would you?
“It’s not a lie.” He grunts, eyes flickering over you and then towards the door— like he’s about to bolt. Not now, not after everything.
You stand, blocking his path as you look at him. “Why did you come here, Simon? It’s not because you feel guilty about the other day, and you shouldn't anyway— Soap’s right. I’m not needed.”
“You are.”
“I’m not—“ You shake your head adamantly, turning towards the door. There’s no way you were going to sit around and be humiliated again, intentionally or not.
“We need you.” He says firmly, hand grasping your wrist as his strong ash suddenly washes over you and thickens in the air. It’s all you can smell, echoed by the weight of his words. Though, you feel his grip immediately falter afterwards, like instant regret. The scent calms quickly, back to the dull linger it usually is as his fingers fall to gently holding your palm. “I.. need you.”
For a moment you’re stunned, scent sprawling anywhere for something solid to grip onto as you try and weave through the possible meanings of his words. Him, Ghost, the soldier feared across foreign countries’ soil and by his mask alone, needs you? A beta?
“I dont…” understand. The word falls silent on your tongue, glancing down at his hand on yours in the low light. “I thought.. the omega’s I work with– their scent rub off on me. That’s the reason for all of this, isn't it?”
“No, no.” His grasp tightens when you try to pull back, feet following you as you step back, until you take a seat against the edge of the bed. “Your scent, it’s been driving me insane. It’s like I can't function without it.”
“But that’s not possible, Simon. I’m not an omega— I can't lure you like that- even the sweetest scent is nothing more than cheap perfume.” You argue, because it’s the truth and there isn’t anything more to it. It’s facts, written and studied extensively in biological research that forms the foundations of society. There could be no other explanation because it just didn't exist, it never will.
His grip tightens again and this time his lip curls back, almost like he’s snarling.. except he seems to be more frustrated with his own actions than at you. “Lust isn't going to save us soldiers.”
You see it now as you look at him properly since patching him up. His eyes are half lidded but you can see how his pupils have expanded in the short time you’ve had him here. Sorting out the blood spilling out of him might’ve helped, but he was crashing fast now that the pain-induced adrenaline was wearing off.
Now he just looked exhausted out of his mind, frantically holding onto his self control as his eyes locked onto the scent glands on your wrist. You could almost read his thoughts now, how he was slipping off the edge, fingers beginning to tremble. Wounded, exhausted and desperate for a moment of solace.
“Simon..” You whisper again, it’s been more than a few times tonight, but this time it’s different.
He drops to his knees before you, hitting the soft rug beside your bed as his hand holds onto yours. His mask had been off the entire time and yet only in this moment do you truly acknowledge the vulnerability before you. “Please, scent me.” He murmurs, low and soft though not gentle with the rasp of greed that bubbles from his throat. Like he told you, he needs this. He needed you. “Let me be.. your alpha.”
The silence rings loud between you, even from the slow drops from the bath’s faucet and the whir of the bathroom fan fading into nothing. “Okay..I will.” You nod, breaking the dam holding him together and he doesn't even let out a breath until he presses his nose against your wrist. The inhale he takes is greedy, like he wants every last scent coating the air, and then the exhale comes, his body dropping like a bomb.
“Thank you.” He breathes and you watch as he lifts your hand as he rises himself, and you realise now he doesn't have his gloves on from the feeling of his bare skin warm against you.
It’s like he doesn't even hesitate, gently rubbing his wrist against the scent glands on yours. You knew what was coming, read about it a million times between alphas and omegas— hell even heard a million more from them in your youth years.
Scenting, when the alpha’s scent envelopes your body, like a shot straight to your brain.
Except, this isn't like anything they described.
You can feel your scents starting to mix, intertwining together before separating once more. They’re tied in the middle like a promise and yet sprouting at completely different ends and filling the room. His scent changes, shifting from the harsh burnt tinges of ash and smoke like they’ve been washed up by yours. It’s petrichor, the damp aroma whenever rain ingrains itself into the soil and washes over rocks. The smell is fresh, earthy and it feels like the relief of rain when it finally comes crashing down, washing over the ground and letting the dying flora renew.
But yours? Yours blossoms in magnitude, like a bubble that has grown and grown until it suddenly bursts. You’ve never smelt it so strong before, used to the quietness of it all, but it’s finally loud. Sweet honeycomb and chocolate, an appetising combination so rarely put together it makes his entire body melt. It’s comforting like a warm drink on a cold day and refreshing like a breeze on a summer night.
You barely get a chance to shuffle backwards before he’s crashing into you, nose forcing it’s way towards your neck as his limbs one by one fall slack, muscles turned to the mere meat they’re made from. A low purr rumbles through him, up his arms where they wrapped around your middle and his chest which is pressed against yours. His eyes have fallen shut, content to be pressed against your nose gland as he lets everything go.
“My beta..” He murmurs, squeezing you tighter to the point you’re forced to exhale yourself and appreciate the warmth and comfort in the room. This was the first time you’ve truly been able to appreciate a friend’s scent without feeling your head start to spin, and it felt amazing. Like everything in the world was set in place, nothing could even shift the balance in this room.
You squeeze him back, a small huff of laughter bubbling in your throat when he groans in contentment. His scent starts to settle once more, now the faint smell of smoke returning though with the gentleness of a campfire, easing your senses.
“Alpha..” You breathe out, letting your own body relax under his, eyes slipping shut in his grasp. Your beta was satiated, curling up for the first time in weeks, and you were more than happy to lay your heart beneath him.
----------------------------------
part one Buy me a coffee!
one more part and then this will be done!! thank you for reading alonga nd im so shocked at how many people loved the first one sm! please leave ur thoughts in the comments <3333 ALSO THANK YOU FOR 5000 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!
general cod: @heyitsniki18 @insanityall @twoandahalfdimes @ririerm @alexinarcadia @sgt-artemis-owl-riley @fries-pls @tikitsune
taglist (thank you SO much to @lexloon for putting this tgt for me):
umm not sure if i like this but omegaverse kinda-neglected reader! x tf141 (ghost focus at the end), angst, good ending, gn!reader, SFW
PART 2
You’re a beta. That should come as a relief, many tell you every day they wish they were your designation instead. No heats, no ruts, not even stinking up a room when you got a bit too overwhelmed by an emotion.
Just in the middle: a nice calming scent, a decent paying job— never too high, a beta CEO wouldn't be able to control anything— and the lack of any crazy season that would get you all flustered. Your sense of smell was incredibly different to theirs, but you werent given much chances to complain considering all they went through in heats.
So naturally you were taught your life revolved around alphas and omegas, all the way from secondary school when you were sat next to the reactive Alpha’s to “try and make them behave better”. In biology class your designation was skimmed over very quickly in favour of understanding how to react to their emotional changes and the like, and anything else you had to figure out for yourself.
It’s not like getting out of school into the workforce was much better. Omega’s rights had changed greatly in the past century, and no one would bat an eye at them being in most jobs— so applying was even more impossible. Even when you did get into the workplace, it was like alpha’s would immediately stop listening when there was an omega in the room, or vice versa. Truthfully you were jealous of their natural pull to each other, like the relationships you’d read in books or see in swoon worthy movies.
“There’s all sorts of jobs— chefs, mechanics, cyber analysts, engineers, dont just have to be a soldier.” The army recruiter outside your local supermarket rambles, clearly trying to get at least one recruit today at the minimum. Otherwise he’d definitely get in big trouble. “And you’re a beta, so you can do both work with Omega and Alpha jobs! You’ll be fine!”
“What?” You look at him, that mention perking you up and he looks at you with glee. You were only listening in hopes he’d get you off his back, but that was certainly news to you.
“I bet you’re sick of fighting with even more people for jobs now, huh? In the military omega’s and alphas are kept very seperate, even so, they’re required to be on suppressants so everything’s very easy.”
—————
So, that’s how you ended up here, bullied and forced into the shape of a soldier, something you still feel fake about even after countless deployments. It’s quickly forgotten though when you have the thrill of finally finding your place in society.
Your first team was mostly alphas, a beta here and there, but it felt great to have them treat you equally, slapping a hand on your back and grinning at a job well done. The omega team wouldnt even bat an eye when you were assigned to them, just as welcoming. Truly the best of both worlds, you could be anything you wanted in this system— it was like it was built for you to thrive.
Then the taskforce got established, and by a stroke of luck, you got transferred on. “You always run this early?” A hand lands on your shoulder, and you jump just to meet Sergeant Mactavish’ grin. After completing your demolitions course with flying colours, you soon got assigned under him. His hair is wet, mohawk flat for once, and you can only assume he just washed off. Still, his scent washes over you, easing your momentary shock and you nod, smiling. “Yeah, isn't the water too cold this early?”
“It’s alright. C’mon, let’s go meet the others for breakfast.”
You follow him, the faintest happy scent trailing off of you as you do so, and spiking just the miniscule amount when you sit down at the table.
“Please please give me your bread roll, i love the jam they use for it.” Gaz pleads, clasping his hands together and you can't help but roll your eyes, letting him trade it for his fried egg. “I love you so much-“ He mumbles, already taking a bite out of it that Price rolls his eyes as he takes a seat.
“Almost thirty years old...” He mutters and you giggle, eyes moving to where Ghost comes with his tray, sitting next to Price.
“I saw you on the track, you looked tired.” He says, giving you a pointed look, and making your cheeks flush. Oh, right. The night prior you’d been suddenly awaken to help deal with a feral omega, forced to give up hours of sleep to soothe them to submission..
“Just didn’t get the best sleep. I’ll feel alright after a coffee.” You give him a small shrug, eating more of your food. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer before nodding and carrying on.
The sergeants were more than happy to include you in all their plans, barely batting an eye when your scent wasn't as strong as theirs or in combat training you couldn't hold as much of an intimidating presence. Nor did the Captain and the Lieutenant care either, always praising the fact you could slip by unnoticed, with no chance of wavering from the other two designations and such.
It felt almost like a pack.. and it was perfect. So perfect.
“Johnny, just spill it!” Gaz groans as the Scot dances around the subject for the tenth time that morning, making you all roll your eyes at the breakfast table.
“I got an omega!” The whole table falls silent, and then Gaz lets out a low whistle patting him on the back whilst the Captain nods approvingly.
“And you wont show us a photo?” Ghost chimes in, making Soap stumble to get his phone out, excited as he passes the phone around. A sweet, soft omega. Round cheeks, a bright smile, hanging off his arm like it was the key to her heart. A perfect match to him.
“She looks perfect with you, good on you, son.” The Captain says, giving him a gruff smile and Gaz snickers at his father-like praise. Then they turn to you, as you sit in shock, fork gently clattering on the plate.
Your jaw hurts from how you physically have to force a wide enough smile, standing up and coming around to congratulate him properly. It’s even worse when Kyle insists he should show more pictures and so you stand there between them, making fake ooo’s and aaah’s in hopes it would hide the slightest change in your scent.
It changes everything.
“Soap, me and Gaz are going to the pub later—“
“Ah… cant, omega wants me to watch a movie with her. What about friday?”
“Oh— do you mind if we do some sparring today?”
“Uh.. okay, sure. Just gotta finish up this text to my omega. Ye know she’s getting stronger by the day! I’ve been helping her keep fit, yknow, to stay safe and all.”
“Do you want to go grab lunch?”
“Oh— sure. Feels like i havent seen you in forever.”
You smile wide when he finally agrees to hang out with you again— after all, it’s not like he was acting like this with Kyle. So you both enter the mess, going to grab your plate.
“Ahh.. the ‘mega loves chicken like this, makes hers a bit more seasoned though. Bloody good.” You smile weakly, trying to start your own conversation about work, and the mission you’ll be going with him on.
“Oh ye havent heard yet.” He falls quiet and you tilt your head in confusion, about to place the dish on your tray.
“Havent heard what? Was there a new brief?”
“You should talk to the Captain.”
Confused, you do stop by his office later that evening, gently tapping on the door with your knuckles and announcing yourself. With a weaker scent, he couldn’t tell you apart from the alpha’s across base with their scent blockers on, unlike the rest of the taskforce.
“Come in.”
“Soap said i havent heard something about the mission im going with him on soon? Did something change?”
“Ah, right. You dont need to go anymore.”
You blink in surprise, suddenly really confused by all of this and you step forward a bit more, scent souring. Not that he’d pick up on it.
“He’s a claimed alpha now, there’s no need for a beta to mediate.”
You stand there, the contents of your stomach in your throat as you process his words. Mediate. You werent there because of skills.. the CO who encouraged you to take a demolition course didn't even think you were good at it either. They just needed a beta to mediate in a field lacking them.
“Oh. Right.”
A month passes by of you watching Soap slip away from you, barely talking to you if not about his omega, never joining you on a morning run until you’re sure he’s forgotten about you altogether. At first you had chalked it up to him just being busier with mated life. After all, you’ve witnessed the pull of an omega first hand many times, how it makes them change. Though, his relationship with the alphas didn't change in the slightest.
With his protective instincts he was drawn to the alphas more now, always hanging around Gaz and and Ghost when they weren't busy, beelining straight past you unintentionally. You cant really blame him either, no one remembers the beta’s faint scent.
It was Gaz next. One evening you were leaning against him on the couch, unable to hide your despair and luckily he’d been nice enough to let you sit there without explanation. It was nice, you thought that if you had no Soap, at least you had your other best friend. He always made you smile, and he was the reason you even got a slice of attention from Soap these days.
And then it came.
It started small, just hanging around Soap more often than not. Really you hadnt thought much of it, but it did feel rough when you sat also on the rec room couch just to watch them fully invested in something you could never join in on. You figured it was about Soap’s omega again, not something you particularly wanted to hear about.
Then it turned into turning down bar nights altogether. They would both cancel, Gaz excusing it with ‘plans’ whilst Soap was always honest. Sure you had the whole team, but being in the vicinity of four alphas in an alpha only bar was enough of a scent overload to give any beta a headache.
Then you saw his lockscreen on accident, just wanted to check the time really. It was unmistakably obvious though, the smiles, calmer than Johnny’s one, but just as gorgeous and adorable. A real treat for the eyes.
“Congratulations.” You mumbled when he came back to the couch with his can, raising a brow at you.
“What..?” He knew, of course he did. You knew his lying look.
“Got yourself an omega, when are you gonna tell the others?”
He seems embarrassed, quickly grabbing the phone off of you, cheeks burning. “How did you see that?!”
The next morning he announces it to the team and you join in with congratulating again, only too aware of the cycle that was soon to repeat. Only, it wasn't too bad with Gaz. You were grateful, so grateful when he still would spend a lunch or two with you, or even just talk to you.
“Hey, we going on our usual grocery run this week?” You two were put together on the rota for stocking the rec room and so you both head out, riding shotgun in Gaz’s car.
You both had a copy of the list, walking around the store together, until you eventually got them all. “Oh! Just a second, need to grab some scent stuff.” In the small beta section they allowed, there were really good products to clear out scents from others that’d stick to betas and linger around. After all, you had a keener sense of smell, so being around the taskforce meant it racked up pretty fast on your clothes and on your room.
Kyle was the first you confided in after you suddenly fainted once, at a bar, the scents too much for you to handle. Though you managed to quell it pretty quickly with these. Some you could just spray in your nose and go— perfect for getting rid of the oncoming dizziness.
“You know you dont have to get the fanciest things, just get the base ones. It’s at the back of the store and they’re expensive.”
You pause, he never questioned this before, not even the first time you had nervously told him— afraid to be undermined.
“There’s no base ones..” You say with a raised brow, but you cant bring yourself to be too rude to him. Even if his tone was almost sharp, scolding, as if you were being selfish. Right now it feels like you’re reduced to your designations, and that’s it. Not humans, not friends, not even teammates. Alpha and beta. “There’s only one brand that ever does it.”
“Really? And what about the cheap scent clearers? The ones you used to use before.” He gives you a firm look, challenging, and you swallow, unsure where this hostility came from.
“..They got pulled off the shelf, Kyle. Thousands of beta’s got chemical burns— i couldnt smell properly for a week.”
He pauses for a split second, like he’ll acknowledging the truth in your words and his wrongs, then just huffs, turning to scan where the empty checkout is. “Fine. Get what you want then, but I'm going to pay. I’ll meet you at the car.”
When you return with the small plastic bag, he puts his hand out for the receipt so it can be handed to you at a price for expenses on the card. “I paid for it myself.” You mutter back, your scent tinging sour and in the close proximity it might be noticeable this time. He pauses, and then puts his hands on the wheel, choosing not to comment further.
———————————
The sergeants are on a mission, one you were supposed to be on, but now you’ve been shoved into another with unclaimed alpha’s who need a bit of extra settling. Or rather someone lesser than them they can secretly believe they’re higher than. It doesn't feel much different to secondary school now, and you find yourself with less will to argue about it.
Thankfully, Lieutenant Ghost is here with you. He’s always been alright— not exactly friendly but not rude either. You were quite intimidated by his rank at first, convinced he’d be strict and unforgiving but he’s content if you get the work done.
“Handled that bomb in record time.” He comments beside you on the way back to base. There was another demolitions expert on the team but when news came up that there was another bomb they had not suspected, he immediately put his trust in you to disarm it.
“Thanks for the chance, Lt.” You smile up at him and he nods, acknowledging your hard work. After all, you really did always put in more than your best. Even so, he cant help but notice you sink as soon as he shifts his attention to someone elsewhere, the conversation falling quiet. He’d be blind to notice the gap between you and the sergeants, even if you were a beta and them having omega’s shouldnt even bother you. Him and Price had to regularly reminds them to not walk around in clothes stinking of their partner.
“The sergeants are back from their mission, could hit the pub tonight. Whole team can come”
You feel too bad to decline now, so you just nod. “Okay. Yeah.”
—————
The Alpha only pub is bustling and you offer to grab the third round just so you can escape the thick scents building around you. It doesnt help that you’re basically rationing your scent-refresher as of right now.
“Omega’s doing good.” Soap responds to Price’s questions.. At least you’ll miss this mandatory conversation while you go. The bartender already knows you, greeting you with a welcoming smile as you start your order. It’s all going on Price’s card, so you take the opportunity to get a sundae instead of alcohol. He did owe you one after an explosive you caught right by his position. Besides, it was less than a tenner, and you’d savour it for life.
“Heat’s coming up though. It’s only three days long usually, but should go smoothly. The store almost ran out of supplies too.” Soap sighs loudly, shaking his head and Kyle nods along, also probably having similar issues.
You’re not exactly listening, carefully holding the plate of drinks so you don't accidentally spill it with the countless bodies in this crowd.
“If they got rid of the beta section, they’d have more to spend stocking on the omega stuff.” A soldier hanging around elbows Soap, but he doesnt disagree. If anything the buzz of alcohol just makes him want to finally speak his truth now.
“Right? I mean really? Beta period products? Beta scent enhancers? Like those would actually even work to attract an alpha let alone an omega. Those scent refreshers cannot be real either, i mean, you’d think they’d want to smell us, ya know? Not like they get anything else— ”
The table goes silent, Gaz obviously kicking Soap in the leg until he looks up and meets eyes with you. The other soldier doesnt bat an eye, raising a brow at you. “Oh, your drinks are here. Can you order me two aswell?”
“I’m not a waiter” You snap back, and the Captain stands quickly, taking the tray from your hands and placing it down on the table.
“Think your team wants you back over there.” He motions for the soldier to go with his eyes, and he quickly leaves. “Thanks for grabbing them, i’ll get yours. Come, sit.” He turns to you but you freeze, shaking your head, and turning back into the crowd. “I’ll get it myself.”
“You idiot!” Gaz puts his head in his hands at the very obvious tension from Soap’s words.
“I didn't know they was there!” He retorts, though also slumps into his seat a little more. “It’s true. What do you want me to say?”
“Enough.” Price sighs, pinching his brow, he should’ve stopped the sergeants earlier but he hadnt known he’d be stupid enough to say that. Even if it was something that they were all thinking.
They take their drinks from the tray you brought, Gaz and Soap downing theirs immediately as if that’ll get rid of the dread hanging on their head. Price begins to sip his light chatter starting up again until Ghost suddenly speaks up.
“They still haven't come back.”
It’s been five whole minutes, and there’s no sight of you to be seen anywhere.
—
You’re sitting at the back entrance of the pub, empty at this time with the game roaring inside the pub. The alleyway it leads into is dirty, a few football decorations here and there, but mostly just black bin bags spilling out the large bins. There were two guys who had been staring you down for a while, like you were something that needed saving. The second one of them approached and caught your lack of omega scent, they immediately groaned and just turned away.
You just stick your spoon back in your sundae, not even lifting your head the entire time, just letting the cold sweetness try and keep you together.
There’s a small noise as someone sits down beside you, a rustle of clothing, and then the soft click of a lighter. You turn your head, slightly surprised to find Ghost there instead of a random drunk bloke hoping to score a sweet thing. He meets your eyes but neither of you say anything as you go back to eating your sundae.
“Should’ve got the other one.”
“What?”
“The bigger one.” He shrugs, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers. “Price told us to order whatever.”
“This is the only one that can come in a takeaway cup.” You mumble and he doesn't say anything further, not even when you lick the spoon clean.
“Why are you here?” You ask, unable to keep silent anymore. It’s not like he actually came to see how you were, and you’re suddenly glad he didn't come ten minutes earlier when you were on the verge of bawling your eyes out.
“S’posed to be a team night.”
“Maybe for the Alphas.” You grumble and he cant help but hum alongside you, not arguing with you on that fact.
“Cant stand the smell, can ya? Got the takeaway cup cause you knew you’d need to go regardless.” Of course he figured it out immediately, though you’d think it’s impossible to read you given how some people treat you.
“You mad i’m not fawning over your scent?” You scoff and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, making sure no chocolate sauce lingers— especially with how he’s watching you right now.
“Johnny is a stupid drunk, ‘lright?.” He mutters, a bit of bitterness in his tone that always lingers, but it’s not directly at you. “Price’ll convince you it’s just his instincts and all, looking after the omega.”
You look over at him and give him a deadpan look, the most honest you’ve ever been with the man. Usually you’re pretty agreeable, in fact the only time you’ve had a conflicts was when they got injured. Turns out you’re the only voice of reason whenever that happened, as the smell of the blood sent the rest of them into a spiral of worry.
And well, after that, he can't really blame you for being like this.
“I’m going.” You mutter, standing up and throwing the plastic cup in the bin before wiping your hands on your jeans.
To your surprise, he doesnt hesitate to follow you as you round to the front, heading to the little bus stop. It’s not the first time you’ve left early, but it is the first time someone’s made sure you’re alright by the end of the night.
————————
Soap only makes a quick apology which you’re forced to just accept,, because what else can you really do? Mess up a whole team because of one thing he said which wasnt that far from the truth?
As predicted, Price did try and tell you it was due to protective instincts, wanting the best for his omega. Right, the same instincts that made him leave you like you were dirt on his shoe.
Besides, life was getting busier for you as you now got passed between two teams. Either working with Ghost and Price or a different group of alphas. Passed around like a damn stress toy in your opinion.
“So we’re going to the one in the highstreet?” Gaz and Soap are chatting on the couch, not that you’re listening, just getting your things out the cupboard to make yourself a hot drink.
“My ‘mega loves it, craves the food there all the time. She’s gonna love meeting yours.”
Whatever, it wasnt the first time they’ve discussed plans in front of others. Wouldn't be the last.
“I’ll text the Captain and Ghost.” Soap adds, humming as he starts tapping away at his phone, opening their group chat you assume. One that you’re clearly not on, given that they dont invite you.
“You think he’ll even come?”
“He’s not that antisocial.”
“Yeah but he’s only one without an omega dumbass.”
The container you're holding clatters against the table and they both back to stare at you with the exact same wide eyed look you’re giving them. If he’s the only one then Price..
You walk out like nothing happened, even if you can feel the tears start to burn your eyes. It was all going so well, you were all happy together— werent you? So why?
The cycle repeats for the third time. You’re taken off another team, not deemed useful enough anymore. You congratulate Price when you next see him, and he doesn't say more than a thank you. Somehow it hurts more that he didn't purposefully tell you— he just forgot, like everyone else did.
You stopped coming by the rec room the last time the sergeants had a movie night without you. The texts between them and you ran dry, and after skipping one breakfast, you just never came back again. That’s just how it was now, and they didn't even reach out once. In fact, all of the last messages were from you. An unanswered question, a conversation cut short, or a text that just never even got opened.
Except for Ghost. He still spoke to you— well, as much as he’s known to anyway. A hello in passing, a chat between sets in the gym, maybe when you’re queuing for food. As much as you wanted to take the opening, you just couldnt, too terrified to. After all, it was only a matter of time until Ghost left you aswell. You should know that you should savour every last moment, cling onto it tight, but you just can't. It’s not like you two were ever the closest anyway.
——————-
You’ve been moved to an omega team this time. It’s not the first time you’ve worked with one, but usually they can balance each other out easier since they aren't as explosive as Alphas. It also means this is a mission you can't slip up on from the months of work they’ve put into this.
They welcome you immediately, and you grasp the ropes of it all fairly quickly, until it’s finally the day. The prisoners are right where you expected them, and just as told, the one in the middle has explosives strapped all over.
They evacuate the rest out whilst you kneel down before the explosives, watching the wires and where they turn and twist intently whilst the person tries their best not to squirm too hard. Even with your best efforts, nothing seems to match what you know but you frown as you notice the wire reaching towards the chair they’re bound to. Down to the floor.. a weak floorboard. The weight of the chair.. essentially a mine.
One hostage on that chair— you move her off and everyone dies. What do you even do?
“Do not stand up at any point, okay? I’m going to get you out, but you have to trust me.” Shrugging all the gear off, you cut the straps that locks the person to the chair.
You hand her your gear carefully and step back, just enough to reach the doorway. There’s no telling how large this bomb is, but you can assume it cant be enough to seriously damage the ship you’re on.
“Okay, you need to shuffle forward just slightly and place the gear behind you, okay? Then, when you’re ready, cover your head with your hands and run towards me.” The woman trembles, doing as you told and the weight of the gear seems to be a good enough trade off for the mine to not set off.
After that, she bolts, and you pull her through the doorway and as far away as possible, shielding her as the shockwaves rattles through the ship.
———————
Ghost hadnt expected to see his phone buzz at this time, by the infirmary no less. But when they relayed what happened, he had made his way there immediately. You had just come out of surgery, a high enough dose of anaesthesia in you that you just werent acting right. He intended to wait outside until you stabilised, that is until the nurse rushes out suddenly.
“Would you mind coming in, sir? We need someone to restrain them.”
He steps inside to see you squirming against another nurse, slurring and trying to escape your bed, clearly panicked.
“Stop that, you’re going to hurt yourself more.” He reaches for your flailing wrists, forcing the nurses out the way as they stand at the back and watch you get manhandled by the alpha.
Something in his gut feels uncomfortable with the stains of red across the bandages across your body, burns peeking out of some. So he carefully restrains your wrists against each other, holding them firmly.
“L-lieutenant?” You stammer out, dazed eyes searching for him intently until you manage to focus on his mask. Finally you stop freaking out for a moment. He turns but the nurses are already gone, probably called to another patient— the operation you were on had quite a few injuries for different reasons.
“Yeah, it’s me. Y’just came out of surgery, you’re okay now, alright?” He carefully lets go of your hands, helping you reposition yourself after you had tried to squirm off the bed. “I’ll grab the nurse, then we can see when we can get y’outta here.”
The nurse?
You blink at him, looking around at your surroundings, the sterile smell of the place attacking your nose. Simon was an alpha.. and the nurses, well specifically in this wing.. your eyes glance to the sign outside the door, the familiar writing.
“No- no you cant!” You barely manage to grasp his arm as he pulls away and he looks at you in confusion. The beeping in the room starts getting even louder than before, almost incessant and you feel like your chest is going to explode.
“Your heart rate is rising, sarge. You need help—“
“Lieutenant— no, please-“ You whine pathetically as he pulls away from you, leaving him stunned until he reluctantly steps closer again before you throw yourself entirely out of the bed to reach him.
“I wont let ‘em hurt you, promise.” He can only assume you must be scared of needles or something, a fear of medical care surely. He never knew that about you, and it spikes something in his chest, a cog in his head. The fear radiating off of you is palpable, and he can smell the faintest change of your scent in the air.
“No- no! The nurse— she’s an o-omega, you cant—“ You choke out, head getting dizzy from all the sudden movement as you desperately clutch his sleeve. It forces him to stay right there, not the grip on his sleeve but the desperation in your eyes.
“Sarge— i’m not gonna act like a wimp in rut from talking to an omega.” He huffs but he knows you’re out of it. It must be the anaesthetic getting to your head, making you say all these silly things.
“You’re going to leave me- you’re going to—“ A sob escapes you as grip loosens on him and he freezes, watching you curl into yourself. Your forehead gently hits his arm, tears wetting his sleeve.
“I’m right here.” He says, voice quieter and it makes him breathe relief when the beeping settles down to a steadier rate, even if it is still high and you look even worse like this— so lost and terrified.
“You are..” You sniffle, pressing your nose further against his arm. “t-the omega nurse- she- she’ll come and you’ll leave with her. You’ll leave me- a-and never speak to me again, please- lieutenant please.” Your hands tighten and he swallows sharply, letting your words sink in.
It was never about envy, not even the way you stared at them whenever they spoke about omegas. It was pure fear. And this feeling in his chest, it was tightening with each soft sniffle from you, instincts flaring. He’s never felt like this in his life, infact he was convinced he never would. But he just cant stand the sight of you like this— the bloodstained clothes, the fear in every small movement, your vulnerability.
He steps forward without thinking about it, his free arm gently prying you off of him until you fall back against the pillows. “Not leaving you for some random omega, you silly beta.” He scolds, picking you up off the bed until your head rests on his shoulder, sniffling into his shirt.
“Gonna take you where you belong. Gotta tell me if i hurt you, though.” Warmth spreads through him now that he has you against him like this. It clicks something in his brain he didn't know was waiting for a stimulant.
All that leaves your lips are the sobs that keep coming, staining his shirt, but finally settling now the dizziness has settled. “Dont go.. don’t, please, you cant..”
You’re right, he cant keep you around these omegas and all of this. No, he needs you to be healing properly around things you like— you want. He needs to look after his beta.
He grabs your duffel off the chair where it’s left, checking the corridor twice before marching through the quiet corridors towards the barracks.
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
He's a man who can code flawless physics simulations but has almost permanently visible pizza stains on his chest. He operates on condescending logic and a mountain of physics textbooks. You operate on chaotic impulse and the deeply questionable belief that the most satisfying men are the ones you get to personally dismantle.
He thinks you're just a study partner who tolerates his nerdy references. You know you're about to become the fatal error in his code. After all, a man with a genius-level intellect is still just a man. And this one is so touch-starved that a single hug is enough to blue-screen his entire thought process.
His entire system is crashing, and his dignity is officially Not Found.
pairing: nerdjo x reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, 18+ (mdni!!), university au, reader insert, smut, fluff, crack treated seriously, slow burn (kinda? they're both just idiots), mutual pining, praise kink, improper use of pringles can, virgin!gojo, oblivious gojo, experienced reader, established friends to lovers, piv, premature ejaculation, happy ending
word count: 21k+
a/n: rewrite and repost! ✨
masterlist | crossposted on ao3!
The second the lecture ended the hallway flooded with students pouring out of the Communications building. You were still wrestling your laptop into your bag when Suguru fell into step beside you.
"Hey." He adjusted the strap of his bag. Effortlessly casual. As always.
"I'm heading to the library to finish notes for the campaign project. My roommates grabbed us a table on the third floor. You in? I figure we can speedrun the outline in an hour, maybe less—"
You'd only just met Suguru this semester. Psych major taking your Persuasion and Social Influence class as a random upper-level elective. He claimed it was for "analyzing the mechanics of mass manipulation" or whatever reason he fed the professor.
Honestly, you really liked him. He was painfully chill and normal. Sensible, even. Genuinely one of maybe three people you'd met in college you could actually say that about. Which was a depressingly low number but oh well.
Exactly the kinda guy who seemed to have his life together. So you figured roommates meant, you know, normal college students. As one does. Maybe someone who chewed gum a little too loudly. Maybe someone who clicked a pen.
"Sure," you shrugged, falling into pace with him. "I've got some time to kill. Let's go."
The walk over was pleasant. You complained about your professor's weird obsession with the word synergy and he agreed with that calm patience of his. The kinda conversation you two shared on a weekly basis.
The third floor of the library was supposed to be the Silent Zone. Highest floor. Always the go-to for quiet mental breakdowns, dissociating between classes, or straight up passing out for twenty minutes without judgment. Sacred ground, basically.
And then you heard it. Well. Everyone heard it. Legally deaf people probably heard it. People three floors down definitely heard it. NASA's deep space monitoring equipment may have picked up a blip.
THWACK CLACK THWACK.
Obnoxiously loud. Rhythmic and sounding exactly like someone had found a plastic machine gun and was absolutely going to town with it in the middle of a library.
Suguru stiffened beside you. The cool mask slipping right off his face— "Oh my fucking god." Eyes closing.
"Huh?" You glanced at him. You heard the noise sure, but you hadn't placed it. Was there construction happening? Was someone breaking the vending machine again?
"Just..." he muttered it through his teeth. "...keep walking."
So you did. Single file behind him through the stacks, the CLACKING getting louder with every single step. Louder. Louder. LOUDER.
You could literally see the heads of other students snapping around. Shooting homicidal glares over their MacBooks, all desperately trying to locate whatever, whoever was responsible for the fucking ear rape.
You followed their gazes to the far end of the room.
Bingo.
Sitting there was a girl with choppy brown hair. One would say, completely locked the fuck in. Dead-eyed, dragging a glittery pink marker across a cross-section of a human spleen, head bobbing slightly to whatever was blasting through her overhead headphones.
And then you looked past her.
Oh. OH.
Someone had built a freaking barricade out of heavy spine-broken physics textbooks and buried behind all that was a man who looked like he hadn't seen direct sunlight since he hit puberty.
Hunched over a laptop that looked like it was actively fighting for its own life. Cooling fans screaming for mercy. And plugged into it was a keyboard. Taking up almost half the desk. Huh?
…So that was the noise.
The keys had those specific tactile switches created with one purpose and one only of making everyone within, like, a fifty-foot radius contemplate a violent felony.
He looked... lived in. And that's, like, putting it very, very PR friendly.
His white hair was sticking up on the left side, matted down on the right as if he'd been running his hand through it the whole day.
"Satoru," Suguru's voice cut through the clicking. It came out really tight. Really low. The kinda tone of a man trying very hard not to make a scene while absolutely, undeniably making one.
"I explicitly told you to stop bringing the damn keyboard to school."
Click click click click click.
But at that, the girl finally looked up. One headphone sliding off and a lazy wave in your direction.
"Oh, hey," she rasped out. "You brought reinforcements."
She then gave you a look. Then softer, almost conspiratorial. "I'm Shoko, by the way." A pause. "Please ignore him. He's always like that."
Satoru didn't look up. Didn't pause. Didn't even flinch.
He just reached out blindly, shoved a stack of Quantum Field Theory textbooks a few inches to the left to clear his sightline. And kept typing.
Click click click click click.
"Look." He finally spoke. Eyes still glued to his screen, not even a flicker toward you. "I've been going through this logic loop for an hour. I'm finally in the middle of it."
A pause. “If I look away now I will lose the thread n' have to start over from line one." Another pause. "Please leave me alone."
Suguru looked like he wanted to dissolve directly into the ugly library floor. You could literally hear him internally asking the universe or whatever why his best friend was still like this at twenty-one. He'd grown out of this phase at sixteen. Sixteen. So why hadn't Satoru?
Shoko just rolled her eyes and went back to studying. Clearly a veteran of this specific situation.
But you— You just stared at the mess on his side of the desk. The Great Wall of textbooks. The greasy-ass pizza stain sitting dead center on his chest.
And your brain just basically cheered tf on. You need this man. It was a sickness at this point. It wasn't like you had a great track record to begin with either. You'd basically YOLOed your entire way through college and your taste in men had always been, let's say, questionable too. And yes, you liked them a little pathetic. A little weird. Nerdy in that specific way most people just didn't get.
But this was a new low even for you. He looked like a raccoon that had raided a Best Buy and for some reason your ovaries were doing a very enthusiastic standing ovation.
You stepped forward. Bypassed the do not engage aura radiating off Suguru like a physical forcefield. Leaned your hip against the edge of the table.
"Two Monsters before noon?" you grinned down at the two cans standing next to his laptop. "Isn't that, like, an excessive amount of caffeine?"
Click click cli—
It stopped.
Satoru pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at you. There was no shame in his expression whatsoever. It was just the annoyed, arrogant glare of a genius who had been interrupted by a mere mortal.
"Caffeine has a half-life of roughly five hours," he said. Like you were the stupid one for asking.
"I timed the consumption to overlap for best performance." A pause. "I'm not addicted." Another pause. "It's just a well-thought-out fuel strategy."
You blinked at him. What does that even mean?
Like genuinely. What. Lmfao. He talked like those grotesquely self-assured nerds you'd only ever found in the deep corners of the internet. The ones you always assumed couldn't exist in real life.
"And the keyboard?" you gestured to the loud glowing monstrosity. "You really carry around a whole external keyboard everywhere? It sounds like you're firing a shotgun—"
"This is a custom board with Cherry MX Blue switches." His tone could've curdled milk. He looked genuinely offended.
"Do you have any idea what the travel distance on a standard laptop key is?" A pause that really let that question sit there. "It's complete garbage. Complete garbage. No actuation point whatsoever."
"We're in the library," you rolled your eyes. "People are trying to study. Or sleep." You jerked your head. "Look at your friend—"
He glanced over at Shoko.
And she chose that exact moment to look up from her textbook. The look she gave him was kinda hard to describe. It sat somewhere between a death glare and a promise of future violence.
"Shoko's fine," Satoru said, shrugging it off completely. "That's why she brought the headphones. She adapts." A beat. "And I am trying to code. If I use the laptop keyboard my WPM drops by twelve percent," he said it like he was reporting a fatality. "Which is. Like. An unacceptable efficiency loss."
"WPM?" you repeated. WPM. It sounded completely ridiculous coming out of his mouth and somehow even stupider out of yours.
"Words per minute," Suguru jumped in, not looking up from his notebook. He looked like he had to explained this before and had long since stopped finding it funny. "He tracks it. There's a spreadsheet. Do not ask about it. He'll talk for twenty minutes minimum about finger-travel distance n' none of us will get anything done."
Again… What.
You let the silence sit there. Just a few seconds. Purposefully, deliberately awkward.
"Sure."
Satoru's fingers twitched. Just kind of... hovered there. Waiting. He clearly waited for you to be more impressed. He was awaiting maybe a little gasp of awe, or at least some sort of acknowledgment of his hyper-optimized little hobby. Anything, honestly.
When absolutely nothing came his eyes narrowed behind his smudged glasses.
"What?"
"Nothing—" You leaned a little further into his space, hip grazing the stack of textbooks beside him. "It's just a lot of big words for a guy with visible crumb-crust on his spacebar."
Jerk—
Satoru's hands flew back from the keyboard instantly. Hovering mid-air like he genuinely believed he could erase the evidence through sheer willpower alone.
But you didn't just stop there. Oh no no. You then lowered your gaze to his chest and stared at the disgusting sauce stain with a silent disdain. Long enough to make it weird. Longer than that, actually. Just really committed to the bit at that point.Then looked back up at him with eyes full of pity.
And being this close you caught a whiff of him. He smelled like sweet soda and lived-in musk. The specific scent of a man who probably treated showering as more of a when-i-remember-to activity.
It should have been a red flag. Genuinely. A full sensory alarm system going off. But god fucking help you. It was masculine enough to make your pulse skip and it had absolutely no business being that effective and you were going to need a moment—
"The—the stain is simply sustenance residue," he blurted out. "Pizza rolls."
His voice pitched up much higher than before, waving a hand to dismiss it. But the movement was jerky and uncoordinated, panicked— And caught one of the empty cans on the edge of the desk.
Clatter clatter — thud.
The hollow aluminium echo rang through the entire floor like a gunshot. Every head within a twenty-foot radius snapped up. People already looked pissed off as hell.
Satoru froze. Hand still in the air. Eyes on the fallen can.
"And before you even ask—" he pushed on immediately, the words tumbling out in a desperate avalanche to cover the noise. "No. I am not changing." A shallow breath. "This hoodie is currently at its peak comfort level. It is nicely broken in and the fabric tension is exactly where it needs to be for full range of motion," his voice was picking up speed. Getting away from him slightly. "Washing it right now would disrupt the structural integrity of the cotton and honestly— It's inefficient to use so much water and detergent so I'm basically saving the planet by not—"
He abruptly shut up, realizing he was rambling off. Chest going a little too fast. The tips of his ears going red and then his neck and then his cheeks, the blush spreading very fast.
And you were still just standing there just smirking down at him with that stupid smirk on your pretty face.
Somewhere in the two seconds of silence that followed, the full awareness of the situation caught up to him—
You aka an objectively hot girl. Standing very close to him. Like, actually close. Purposefully close. Close in a way that was making it extremely difficult to remember what intelligent words were.
Your thighs were barely a foot from his arm and your perfume was doing something genuinely criminal to his ability to think straight.
Focus, his brain suggested helplessly. But alas, his brain was ignored.
Most women didn't voluntarily talk to Satoru. No no. His mom did. Grandma too. Shoko did too, though sometimes involuntarily, but technically she didn’t really count. He'd witnessed her aggressive My Chemical Romance phase, her brief and deeply unsettling taxidermy hobby, n’ basically every embarrassing era of her life since middle school. She was less a woman and more of a biological thing at this point. Like a fungus he'd developed immunity to.
So now understand, you were a system error. His game was non-existent. Hell, it was deep in the negatives. He mostly communicated in comic book references and spent his free time studying or farming loot in World of Warcraft.
The closest he'd ever come to actual dating was when he thought he was flirting with a cute e-girl on Discord — only for her to turn out to a middle-aged man named Gerald.
And yet here you were. Someone half the campus was probably actively tripping over themselves to look at. Wasting your premium time bullying him about things no one in his life had cared about in years.
Why. Why were you doing this. Why did he want you to keep doing this.
"...Stop looking at me like that," he muttered.
He moved to turn back to his screen, but his gaze faltered. Immediately.
His eyes slid down. Tracking the line of your legs, the very short skirt you were wearing, the way the sharp edge of the desk was digging into the soft squishy flesh where you were pressed against it.
Look. You genuinely cannot blame a man for having a thing for thighs, okay? It's not a character flaw. It's just biology. Moving on.
His jaw tightened. Face and ears blooming even redder than before.
He then had a few very awkward seconds of him having a staring contest with your legs. Jaw practically hanging open.
He would swear on his life it was one second. Maaaybe two at the absolute maximum.
It was ten. It was definitely ten. You could practically hear the Windows XP shutdown noise playing on a loop somewhere behind his eyes.
He finally scrambled to recover whatever was left of his dignity and snapped his eyes back to the laptop with a literal neck-breaking jerk that probably should've required a chiropractor.
"Now," he grumbled, eyes locked back onto his wall of code. "Unless you have a degree in computational physics—" a pause that really let that land, because of course he couldn’t help himself to be at least a little condescending. "—you're obstructing my view of the compile bar."
Another pause.
"Move."
You should've been offended. You would've been offended. If his eyes hadn't snagged back on your legs approximately every five seconds like he physically couldn't stop himself.
Noted for future reference.
Suguru had both hands over his face in absolute defeat. Shoko, on the other hand— Click. Her marker shut. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and just watched Satoru's erratic typing.
The keys clicking with the rhythm of a man whose heart rate was currently sitting at a minimum of 120 BPM and climbing.
She looked at his beet-red ears, then at your smug smile, and a wicked grin spread across her face like a slow sunrise of pure evil.
"Nice meeting you," Shoko purred, keeping her eyes on you. The specific look of acknowledging a fellow apex predator when she saw one. "I think you're going to fit in here just fine."
Hm. You sat down next to him and opened your laptop.
And somewhere to your left, the compile bar of Satoru's self-control sat frozen at 99%.
Buffering. Buffering. Buffering— And completely unable to load. Just a few feet from the source of the fatal error.
You decided right then and there. You were going to absolutely ruin this man.
It only took a few weeks. The library dates were officially declared a thing of the past. A string of "accidental" study sessions and Suguru's increasingly desperate need for a buffer, and somehow you'd gone from intruder to full-blown invasive species.
Naturalized citizen basically.
And sure enough, you and Shoko were a match made in hell. Inseparable within the first two weeks. You two were trading clothes, stealing each other's food, spending hours ignoring the boys to talk about people they'd never met.
But the truth was you weren't just there for Shoko. Or for Suguru. Or for the free study space and occasional snacks.
You were there because — against your better judgment, against all available evidence, against every reasonable instinct you had — you actually liked the tall weirdo who couldn't hold eye contact for more than three seconds even when you were just asking how his day was.
You liked the way he laughed. The way his glasses were always sitting slightly crooked on his face. The way he— Okay, enough. We get it, girl. Or do we though.. You were trying, in your own quiet way, to get closer to him.
Meanwhile, Satoru was completely, impressively blind to all of it. In his genius brain he had crunched the numbers and landed on one devastating conclusion. He'd been fucking friendzoned.
He convinced himself you only tolerated him because he was Shoko's roommate and a convenient Statistics tutor. That your friendliness was just a social obligation tax you paid to hang out in his apartment. That you weren't there for him specifically —
Just the proximity. Just the free tutoring. Just the apartment with the good Wi-Fi. Obviously.
It was two weeks before midterms. Their apartment smelled like cheap takeout and nail polish.
You were on your stomach on the floor, legs kicking idly in the air, frowning at a probability distribution chart. Satoru was sitting cross-legged a few feet away, supposedly helping. But he was mostly just clicking a pen and staring at the side of your neck.
"Soo," you started, chewing on the end of your pencil. "I watched that sci-fi movie you talked about — the one with the time dilation?" A pause. "It was actually pretty cool."
You looked up at him smiling.
Satoru stiffened immediately.
Oh god. Small talk. You were engaging in small talk. Do NOT make it weird. Do NOT make it weird. Do NOT—
"Yes," Satoru said a beat too late. "The cinematography is... alright. The physics were derivative. I've seen worse I guess..."
He turned back to his notebook. ...Aand he made it weird.
You sighed and shifted your weight, arching your back slightly to stretch.
Roll—
Your highlighter skittered right off the edge of your notebook, across the floor, and came to a stop directly under the sofa. Of course it did.
"Ugh," you groaned.
Shoko had claimed that entire sofa. Legs stretched out, wet red polish on her toes and a massive medical textbook balanced on her knees.
"Don't touch the paint," she warned, not looking up. "You smudge, you die."
"I know, I know—"
Okay. Here was the situation. You couldn't reach blindly. The only way around Shoko's wet toenails without sending the textbook flying was to get up on your knees and Satoru was sitting directly behind you…
So, when you twisted your torso and arched your back to swoop your hand underneath the frame— You miiight have angled yourself just so. Or maybe it was just physics. Who could say.
The movement caused your shirt to ride up. Just a little. Just enough. It exposed the curve of your lower back while your yoga pants did exactly what yoga pants were engineered to do, right in front of him, at this specific cheeky (literally) angle.
Engineering at its finest, if you ask me.
Thud. He dropped his pen, making a noise that weirdly sounded like a strangled moan? His eyes went wide. Pupils blown. And then his survival instincts kicked in approximately three seconds too late.
"I just remembered—!" He scrambled upright, voice cracking a full octave on the way up. "I totally forgot to download the expansion patch—"
He was backing toward the hallway, gesturing wildly at absolutely nothing. "There's a raid tonight and if I don't update the client right now I'll miss the login window entirely and—"
"What?" You sat back on your heels. "But 'Toru, you were helping me study?"
'Toru.
He'd never— You'd never called him that before. The nickname hit him like a physical slap across the face. Friendly. Casual. Completely devastating. And how exactly was he supposed to act normal when you were just. Like this?!
"Tutoring... can wait!" he yelped, heel hitting the baseboard. "My guild needs me! Bye!"
Slam. His bedroom door closed shut, and the lock clicked instantly.
Then, you heard the muffled opening notes of California Girls seeped through the door.
...what. What?!
"Is he okay?" You frowned at the door, pouting slightly. "He keeps just disappearing like that." A pause. "Does he hate me?"
"He doesn't hate you," Suguru sighed, looking at you with the exhaustion of a single father of two. "He's just... over-calculating." A beat. "Honestly? You should just tell him you like him. His genius brain won't figure it out for the life of him. He needs the answer key.”
You just stared at the door listening to the muffled bass of Katy Perry bleeding through the wood.
The answer key, huh?
Things went from awkward to chaotic just a few days later. Naturally.
It was around 2 AM. You and Shoko were in the kitchen, Both of you completely high out of your minds from the brownies you two had baked earlier.
The munchies arrived. "I need snacks," you announced, swaying slightly. "If I don't eat something yummy in the next five minutes my organs will shut down."
Shoko was already rummaging through the pantry. "We're out."
But then her eyes lit up. "Wait—" She turned around with a look that meant absolutely nothing good. "Satoru has snacks. He only hides them in his room because he's a stingy goblin."
So without another word you wobbled down the hall together. Shoko didn't even bother knocking. The door swung wide and you barged straight past the hand-written Forbidden Zone sign.
This was your first time here and it was exactly what you'd expected and somehow also more.
Full shut-in sanctuary. Blackout curtains pulled tight, five thousand dollars worth of setup glowing neon blue, LED strips lining the ceiling like a gamer's idea of mood lighting.
Satoru was in his chair, headphones on, smashing his keyboard.
He spun around, eyes going wide at the sudden intrusion.
You scanned the room. For a man who seemed to live primarily in stained oversized t-shirts and barely-contained social anxiety, it was actually pretty orderly.
Well. Except for the shelf right next to his bed. That seemed to be its own disaster zone. We’re talking textbooks, dog-eared manga, a suspicious surplus of crumpled tissues, and a stray Goku figure that looked like it was fighting for its life against the clutter—
But buried right in the middle of all that crap— There. Your eyes landed on the prize. A red Pringles can.
Now. Maybe it was the weed haze. Maybe you were just being an idiot as per usual. But you didn't even stop to wonder why a lone can of chips was sitting there. Right next to a pile of tissues and a bed—
You just wanted the carbohydrates. Simple as that.
"BINGO," you shouted.
Satoru's head snapped to where you were looking and he swore his soul left his body. He launched himself from his chair and scramble scramble scrambled over the mattress.
But unfortunately for him. You were faster. You snatched the can off the shelf triumphantly and held it over your head like a trophy.
"Gotcha! Hand over the chips, 'Toru." A grin. "I'm eating the whole can right now—"
"—DO NOT OPEN THAT!"
His big hands clamped over yours before you could even process the words. Pinning the can shut. The momentum sending both of you tumbling backward — Fwump. Straight onto his unmade bed.
And suddenly you were flat on your back and Satoru was hovering directly over you. Straddling your hips to pin you down, face inches from yours, wild-eyed and breathing like he'd just run a sprint and also possibly seen a ghost.
Both hands gripping yours so tight his knuckles were white. Holding that tube like his entire life, his entire future, depended on it.
"Drop it," he wheezed. Cheeks flushing immediately. "You can't open that—!"
You blinked up at him. Completely stunned. Because what the fuck was happening. What was actually happening right now. His chest was heaving, his hair was tickling your forehead, and he was… very very heavy.
"I don't care!" you laughed. The brownie fog making the whole thing feel like a fever dream. You wiggled under him, trying to get your hands free. "Gimme the salt—!"
Salt—
The word hit him like a flashbang. BANG.
His brain took it and sprinted straight into the gutter. He was suddenly very aware of the specific white gooey reality of what usually happened inside that can. The taste of it. The—
You want the salt. Oh my god. OH NO.
His heart was hammering so hard against his ribs he was convinced you could feel it through your own chest.
I'm the grossest man alive, he thought, his face burning up like a furnace. I'm thinking about you eating —
"HELL NO!" he screamed.
"'Toru. Are you seriously wrestling me over potato chips?"
He finally looked down at you. Knees bracketing your waist, your wrists pinned to his chest with the can between you like a hostage situation. And then the horrible realization arrived. That if you struggled even a little bit, the lid might pop off and reveal the unholy sponge-and-glove contraption hidden inside.
That. Cannot. Happen. Absolutely cannot.
The fact that the prettiest girl he'd ever seen in real life was currently lying on his bed with him on top of her hadn't even fully registered yet. His entire brain was running one single mission — Make sure you do not find out.
Make sure you do not find out that he was a certified grade-A gooner who had used this exact... thing while thinking about you... Literally just yesterday.
"They're — they're stale!" he stammered, sweat already forming at his hairline. His grip didn't loosen. If anything it tightened. And somehow you wondered where the hell all that sudden strength came from.
"The sodium levels are freaking lethal. I am literally saving your life right now—!"
Meanwhile, Shoko, leaning against the doorframe, did a quiet sweep of the room. Her eyes followed the can, the shelf with absolutely no other snacks on it, and Satoru practically vibrating with terror on top of you.
Click. She put it together immediately. Because it didn't take a genius to figure out why a certified virgin would throw his entire body over a Pringles can like it contained state secrets.
Oh this was going to be so good.
She started cackling. This deep wheezing laugh that made Satoru flinch like he'd been physically struck. So you took your shot and writhed. But it only made him yelp instantly.
He ripped the can entirely from your hands, and scrambled backward off the bed like a scorched cat. Clutching the red tube to his chest, curling into a ball in the corner of the room. Cornered.
"Get out!" he squeaked. His face the color of a literal stop sign. "You high hooligans!"
You sat up slowly on his messy duvet. Hair tousled. Face flushed. Heart beating a little too fast from the impromptu wrestling match and also possibly from being pinned under him for thirty seconds but that was neither here nor there.
Your eyes did a lap around the room — Shoko, smirking in the doorframe like she'd just witnessed the best thing that had ever happened to her. Satoru, trembling in the corner like a man on trial for crimes he was absolutely guilty of.
And then. Then you realized. You had never. Not once. In your entire time knowing this man. Seen him eat a single chip.
Oh.
"Oh."
Satoru practically sobbed. The Pringles went behind his back. Eyes fixed on the floor. Literally praying for a meteor to strike the apartment building immediately. Please.
You and Satoru were sitting on a concrete bench in the middle of the quad. It was Result Day. Neither of you mentioned the Pringles can incident ever again, only because Satoru had spent the intervening days pretending not to exist and incinerating the device in the dumpster out back.
And you did feel bad for him. You'd nearly had to physically restrain Shoko from bringing it up approximately forty-seven times. I mean. An adult guy shouldn't get bullied for being... innovative with the way he pleasured himself, right? That felt like a basic human right. You were going to stand firm on that.
He looked like absolute, unmitigated garbage though. Wrinkled shirt that said I Paused My Game To Be Here— This man genuinely did not seem to own a single decent t-shirt, not one. Clutching his third Monster of the day like a life support system.
He seemed more stressed about your grades than you were.
Squinting aggressively into the distance like he was actively losing a battle against the sun but refusing to surrender.
Your phone buzzed. Mid-term Grades.
Satoru stiffened beside you, and the aluminum can in his hand let out a sharp crinkle of protest.
Your heart did a stupid little kick. You opened it. Scanned down the list and stopped at Statistics.
C+.
It wasn't a great grade. It wasn't even a good grade. But in the grand scheme of "Cs get degrees" it was a goddamn miracle. Especially considering this one midterm had made up 50% of your entire grade. Which the fuck?
"I passed!" you shouted, launching yourself off the bench. "Oh my god, I actually passed! I'm not going to fail this goddamn class!"
Satoru, who had been hunched over his knees, nervously biting his thumbnail down to nothing, snapped upright immediately.
One second of pure, unfiltered relief crossed his face. One. Then his ego kicked back in.
"Naturally," he said, going for a smooth baritone n' landing somewhere considerably closer to a sleep-deprived croak. "My teaching methods are flawless. Even with a..." A pause. "...suboptimal student, success was obviously guaranteed." Another pause. "You're welcome."
He looked so smug. So proud of himself. So incredibly roastable that you almost almost let the subtle dig slide.
…okay or perhaps you didn't.
You grinned and stepped closer. Right between his spread knees, while he sat there looking up at you. A simple thank you was far too boring for what you were about to do to this man.
"Aww, look at you being all proud!" you cooed in the exact tone reserved for golden retrievers and small confused animals. You reached out and aggressively ruffled his hair — messing it up even further — scratching lightly at his scalp right behind the ear.
"Who's a good tutor? Satoru is a good tutor! Who's my smart boy?"
Satoru froze. He really should have been offended. He knew he should have been offended.
But for one long, humiliating second his eyes just closed and he leaned into your hand. Tilting his head against your palm like a cat chasing warmth.
Purr, said his brain probably…?
This man had a high-level understanding of quantum mechanics and he was currently leaning into someone scratching his ears like a freaking pet.
He felt like a disgrace to his entire bloodline.
But then his CPU rebooted, jerking his head back. His face went a violent shade of red that clashed terribly with his white hair.
"I am not a canine!" he sputtered, batting your hand away. "Stop that patronizing behaviour! People are looking!"
"But you did so good!" you laughed, completely ignoring him. "You helped a girl in need."
Satoru's chest puffed out instantly. His ego took the bait before his brain even had a chance to weigh in.
"Actually," he said, sliding back into that obnoxious condescending lilt he used whenever he was feeling himself. "I didn't just 'help' you. I performed a miracle. I dragged your GPA out of an actual dumpster n' did academic CPR on a brain that was essentially flatlining." A pause for effect. "I'm not a tutor." Another pause. "I'm a secular saint."
He took a prideful swig of his energy drink, already gearing up for a full ten-minute lecture on his own brilliance—
A girl in need.
The phrase did a slow, sticky lap around his skull.
In need of what, exactly?
His mind went places. And none of them had anything to do with Statistics. His eyes dropped to where you were standing between his legs —
He thought about his bed. With you in it. And mostly about the very specific, very needy noises he'd imagined you making — For him. Because of him —
His throat went completely dry. He nearly choked on his Monster. Adam's apple bobbing violently as he tried to swallow it down. And I don't mean the gulp.
"I-I mean," he stammered, "the terminology 'in need' is very subjective n' vague as hell! You should be more precise with your descriptors!"
"You're so cute when you're being a nerd," you giggled.
And before he could get another smart-ass word out you went for the kill. Just for the hell of it. You threw your arms around his head and hugged him.
The physics of the hug were... aggressive. You pulled his head forward, and Satoru went completely still. His entire world went dark, soft, and terrifyingly warm. All at once.
His nose was smashed directly between your tits, glasses getting absolutely destroyed, suddenly inhaling a whole lungful of you —
He sat there stiff as a board. Hands hovering uselessly in the air like he'd genuinely forgotten he had limbs. But then something just. gave. He'd been praying for this for months. Months. And in that moment he genuinely believed he might actually be a fucking saint because your chest was somehow even softer than he'd imagined. And he had imagined it a lot.
Do not drool. Do NOT drool. So god help him god if he drools right now—
Trembling slightly, Satoru lowered his hands and tentatively wrapped them around your waist. Hugging you back.
Which was, unfortunately for him, his complete and total undoing. The second his hands touched your waist you hummed happily and leaned your whole weight into him.
Because he wasn't the only one who'd been waiting for this. You'd been thinking about making out with him long before he'd even worked up the nerve to call you a friend in his own daydreams. So. Yeah.
You arched your back slightly. Pressing your chest harder into his face, your stomach warm against his lap.
And instantly— He was hard. Completely. Painfully. And motherfucker-immediately.
And because he was wearing those thin worn-out sweatpants. The kind that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, the kind that were currently leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. There was nowhere to hide the sudden rock-hard problem now throbbing against his waistband.
A single hug. One hug. That's all you'd done and he was— God he really thought he wasn't this pathetic.
He realized — with a clarity that was almost impressive given the circumstances — that if you shifted even an inch closer you'd feel it. And he was the grossest man on the planet and was actively destroying what little chance he had with someone he was so hopelessly down bad for.
"Satoru," you murmured, your voice right against his ear. "You stopped breathing again."
He started to panic badly. Which led to him launching himself into what could only be described as an emergency self-eject sequence. ??
He slammed both hands on his knees and threw his upper body backward with enough force to briefly defy gravity. Which would've been fine. Except he was sitting on a backless bench and there was absolutely nothing behind him.
He tipped— Legs flying up in the air and in that one cursed split second, before gravity fully claimed him, the fabric of his sweatpants pulled tight across his lap.
And you saw it. You saw everything.
The distinct and frankly, impressive outline of a very angry erection tenting the grey fabric.
Thud.
A wide grin spread across your face. A faint stupid blush crept up your own cheeks simultaneously. For months you'd been convinced you were the one stuck in the friendzone. Waiting around for a sign that never came, slowly going a little cray cray, genuinely starting to wonder if you'd just made the whole chemistry thing up inside your own head.
He was always so awkward. So seemingly unbothered by your advances. So apparently unaware that you existed as anything other than a study buddy and an occasional source of snacks.
But now. Now. You finally knew.
He wasn't indifferent. He was just as obsessed with you as you'd been with him. Maybe more and he'd been silently losing his mind about it this entire time.
Thank fucking god. The relief hit you warm and slow and settled right in your belly like something coming home.
You did feel a little bad for him though. A little. I mean. The poor guy's situation was currently very visible in the middle of the campus quad and there was absolutely nothing either of you could do about it right now.
But you still felt powerful. You finally felt wanted by this stupid giant of a man.
"What —"
"Shut up!" Immediately. Before you could even finish the word. "I — I just got a cramp!" he yelled, forehead pressing hard into his knees, refusing to look at you, refusing to look at anything. "A really bad one! My leg just— it locked up! I haven't slept n' I'm shaky n' — stop looking at me like that! It's not funny! Just please go away! I'm just gonna lie here for a second." A pause. "The grass is cold. I need the cold." Another pause. "Just begone!"
"Right," you said. Your voice dripping with a brand new, very specific, very dangerous kind of sweetness. "A cramp. Of course."
You knelt down in the grass right next to him. Satoru flinched. Curling even tighter, compressing himself into the smallest possible shape. Looking like a pill bug trying to defend itself from a predator. The back of his neck glowing a nasty, bruised red color.
"'Toru," you hummed, leaning right in until your breath was ruffling his fluffy white hair.
Oh. You weren't even close to being done. You were going to soak up every single second of this and milk it absolutely dry.
"You look thirsty." A pause that you let sit there. "All that muscle tension… Must be dehydrating."
You were still holding your half-finished boba — ice rattling around in the cheap plastic cup like a tiny, cheerful taunt.
Rattle rattle rattle.
"I— I'm fine," he wheezed into his knees. He deadass sounded like he was three seconds away from a full-blown asthma attack. "I got my Monster. Please just go back to the library. Or home. Or literally anywhere but here."
"But your hands are full," you pointed out pleasantly, eyeing the white-knuckled death grip he had on his own shins. "Here." You held out the cup. "Have a sip of mine."
You didn't wait for him to say yes. You just shoved the cup riiight up to his face and poked the straw directly against his lips.
Satoru's eyes snapped open wide. Staring at the straw like it was a loaded gun. Then snapped his gaze back to you.
His brain was literally just dial-up noises right now. He clocked the flush on your cheeks anyway. The way you were looking at him with zero pity — just full of something that made his stomach drop straight through the soil.
Shaking like a goddamn leaf, Satoru finally parted his lips. Let you put the straw in his mouth. Eyes locked dead on yours. Absolutely terrified and horny as hell and somehow both at the exact same time.
He took a long drag. You yanked the cup back before he could finish, popped the straw straight between your own lips and sucked down some boba while holding the most aggressive eye contact known to man. Slurp.
"Good boy," you whispered, getting back on your feet.
Satoru let out this pathetic little whimper n' buried his face back into his knees. And since you were standing right over him, your shadow swallowed his shaking form completely, his dumb ass just couldn't help himself as his eyes shot up.
And you were wearing that dangerously short little skirt again. The one that was going to send him into cardiac arrest one day. His beloved laws of physics had basically abandoned him. When you shifted your weight the hem flared up just enough, just enough, to give him a straight-up godly view.
Not just your legs. The full fucking show. The soft curve of your thighs. A dead-on glimpse of the panties he'd only dared to think about in his wildest dreams.
You leaned down one last time, skirt hiking up even higher. Getting that close made him jolt like he’d licked a car battery. You reached out and gave his messy white mop the most patronizing little pat imaginable.
"See ya later, 'Toru." A smile that meant absolutely nothing good. "Don't sit out in the sun too long."
You spun on your heel and strutted off toward the library. Heart beating out of your chest on a sick, electric thrill. You didn't even bother looking back. You felt his eyes burning holes into your head as you walked away.
And behind you, Satoru made a decision. He was never standing up again. Ever.
He was going to live in this specific patch of grass until the end of time — the raging boner as a flag of surrender.
He stayed glued to that exact spot for a solid forty-five minutes after you walked away. Just staring at a cloud that deadass looked like a giant thumbs-down. Waiting for his situation to resolve itself so the blood could actually go back to his brain.
The data was conclusive. The facts were staring him right in his stupid face and there was no room for error whatsoever. You — the girl he'd been trying to impress by playing it cool and nonchalant for months — hadn't just caught him rocking a massive stiffy. You had swapped spit with him. …While actively looking at it.
“Good boy,” he whispered to the sky,as if testing the words on his tongue. A fresh violent shiver racked his entire spine. Shudder.
He had to cover his face with his hands to stop himself from screaming. He was probably the smartest person amongst all the undergrads, he was a Level 80 Paladin, and he was currently being obliterated by two stupid words and a boba straw
Why did he like being called a good boy. WHY.
He should be disgusted with himself. He understood quantum superposition and non-Euclidean geometry. He was supposed to be the apex of human evolution. But nah. Apparently millions of years of primate evolution had been instantly, catastrophically overridden by a praise kink he didn't even know he had.
And this guy was into some weird shit, okay? He had seen the dark corners of the internet. Poor Charles Darwin was probably rolling in his grave.
And the worst part, It was his own damn fault. This absolute clown constantly backed himself into a corner because the second you existed in the same air as him, he physically forgot how to operate as a human being. Every. Single. Time.
So the days after were an absolute clusterfuck of ungodly blue balls n' pure existential dread. Naturally. Satoru straight up ceased to function as a man. Became a ghost in his own apartment. Haunting the living spaces, operating purely on energy that was equal parts shame and desire.
He tried to function. He really really tried. He tried to focus on studying. Tried to grind for loot in World of Warcraft. Tried to do literally anything that wasn't thinking about you. But every time he closed his eyes, the sensory data from the campus overloaded his brain.
He could still feel it— The ghost-warmth of your body all up on him. Your arms wrapped around his neck. The god-tier squish of your chest smashing right into his face when you hugged him. Or the way you smelled this up close.
He felt like he was in literal heaven and it was ruining his life—
Stop it, he hissed to himself, glaring at a blank Word doc that had been blank for three hours. Stop thinking about her—
...but you were just so soft. So, so soft.
He vaguely remembered Shoko trying to warn him at some point.
It was some blurry memory from Wednesday. He’d been lay-sitting on the couch, staring blankly at a turned-off TV, fully dissociating over the specific way your hair had brushed against his cheek. Shoko had been standing over his slumped form, holding a bag of ice and ripping a cigarette.
Her mouth had been moving. Satoru knew that much. He could see her lips forming words and everything.
But his audio input had been completely muted because his brain was currently allocating 95% of its RAM to the memory of your thighs.
"...mid-terms..." something something. "...party..." something. "...Friday... people coming over..."
Satoru nodded like an idiot. Threw out a "Yeah, cool" or whatever. Just enough to make her stop talking so he could get right back to his ongoing mental simulation of you sitting on his lap.
He had walked face-first into a total trap. He somehow hadn't computed that "party" meant, like, a literal fucking party. That "people" meant you.
It wasn't until Friday night, when he started hearing giggles through the walls and smelled stuff wafting under his bedroom door, that it all finally clicked.
He wasn't safe. He was so fucked. He'd just greenlit a party in his own home where the literal cause of his humiliating blue balls was going to be the guest of honor.
“I might have made a tactical error,” Satoru whispered to his glowing monitors.
He slumped back in his gaming chair, yanking at his hair, cursing his past self to hell n' back and several other things besides. He could have been safe.
He could have been deep in some basement across town right now. Ijichi had literally invited him to a 48-hour raid weekend. And dumbass Satoru had said no because he thought it sounded "socially pathetic." Socially pathetic. Can you fucking believe it?
God, what an absolute clown he was. "Pathetic" meant smelling like Cool Ranch Doritos and stale air. Surrounded by a bunch of nerds who were just as terrified of women as he was, playing games until 4AM and never once having to think about the specific way someone's hair smelled.
It was paradise compared to the horny purgatory he was currently trapped in with absolutely no parole date in sight.
You and Shoko were in the kitchen standing by the island. Shoko was holding a plastic tub the size of a toddler, while you dumped in a handle of bottom-shelf vodka that cost less than a McChicken.
“Does this need more Hawaiian punch?”
"Fuck no," Shoko deadpanned, letting her cigarette ash drop dangerously close to the tub. She swirled the mixture with a soup ladle. "The goal isn't flavor. It's blackout. If they can taste the fruit, we fucked up."
You nodded like she just didn’t declare something utterly stupid.
Across the room, Suguru was sprawled on the beanbag. Half-finished joint in one hand, phone in the other. Queuing songs on Spotify.
"’I'm putting on Tame Impala." He blew out a thick cloud toward the smoke detector — the one they'd had taped shut with a sock since the move-in day.
"We need to establish a baseline vibe before the frat boys Shoko invited ruin the feng shui."
"’Aye, fuck off!" Shoko snapped, ladle pointing in his direction. "I desperately need to come in contact with some hot guys considering I am trapped with gremlins twenty-four seven!"
And then there was Satoru.
Hovering in the hallway. Clinging to the doorframe. Looking like a man who had just realized he'd walked into a situation he had severely miscalculated.
His eyes went to the joint in Suguru's hand. Then to the vat of red death in yours.
Back n' forth. Back n' forth.
"I rescinded my objection to the 'gathering,'" he announced, white knuckling the doorframe, absolutely refusing to step one single foot further into the room.
His eyes ping-ponged wildly around the room before locking dead onto the coffee table.
Sitting right there was a massive glass bong that looked like a high school chemistry project from hell.
"But this?" His voice went up an octave. "This is a blatant violation of the lease. I did not RSVP to a localized drug ring."
"Chill out, bro," Suguru drawled, lazily waving the joint in a vague gesture of reassurance. "It's organic." A long, contemplative drag. "It helps with the... expansion of the mind."
"I don't need my mind expanded—!"
His eyes were darting everywhere. The dirty floor. The ceiling. The soup ladle in Shoko's hand. The coffee table. The bong. The coffee table again.
Anywhere. Everywhere. Except your face. Specifically not your face.
Because he knew exactly what would happen if he made eye contact with you. He'd remember. The specific way you fit so so nicely against him and the way you'd felt and—
"I need my ping low!" he babbled, frantically grabbing for any nerd-ass excuse that would get him the fuck out of this room.
"I am literally inhaling second-hand felonies! My reaction time is gonna drop! I have a Tier-1 Guild Raid at 10 PM n' I'm the main tank —" his voice cracked slightly "— if I die, the whole party wipes n' I am not taking the heat for forty digital deaths just so I can stand here and watch you give the entire student body poisoning!"
You just looked at him. The empty handle of the cheap vodka still dangling upside down from your hand.
Normally you would've roasted the absolute shit out of him. Told him to quit being a whiny little narc or something, dragged him in by the hood and shoved a solo cup directly into his hand.
That was the standard procedure.
Instead you just stood there watching him vibrate in the doorway like a terrified chihuahua. Eyeing the dumb fluffy hair sticking up in three different directions and the sheer panic radiating off him in waves.
Your stomach did this sick, traitorous little flip.
And it wasn't even annoyance anymore. It was this stupid bubbly heat that made you feel like a total freak because you couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked up at you from the grass. Completely wrecked. Flushed all over. Totally losing his mind just from you getting a little too close.
It was honestly intoxicating and he looked so lost and so gorgeous—
God. You wanted to walk right over there and touch him. Your hands were literally itching to smooth down that ridiculous tuft of hair, grab him by the jaw, tell him exactly how fucking cute he looked when he was panicking.
But. Neither Shoko nor Suguru knew about the little quad incident. And you weren't making it weird in front of witnesses.
So you let him go. For now.
You set the empty bottle down on the counter. "It's okay, 'Toru," you said softly.
Satoru froze dead mid-rant about packet loss.
His head snapped toward you. Eyes going wide behind his glasses, looking exactly like a deer in the headlights of a semi-truck. Fully bracing for you to tear him a new one. To earn a cheap laugh from Shoko at his expense.
Instead, you just gave him this soft, genuine smile that felt waaay too sweet for a kitchen that currently reeked of weed and rubbing alcohol.
"Go save Azeroth." A pause. "We'll save you a cup if you decide to show up."
Satoru just stared at you.Completely stunned. Mouth slightly open.
You knew it was called Azeroth? Since when the fuck did you know WoW lore?!
What he didn't know— What he couldn't have known —
Was that you were so embarrassingly down bad for him that it was genuinely bordering on a legitimate mental illness.
Instead of studying for your actual degree like a normal human being, you'd been spending your free time deep in the trenches of Wikipedia and Reddit. Practically running FBI-level background checks on every single nerd hyperfixation he'd ever name-dropped.
Just so you could casually drop a lore reference and make this supposed genius finally, finally take a fucking hint.
Because you needed him to realize you wanted him to rearrange your guts. But you also knew that if you just walked straight up to this socially inept loser and told him you wanted him to demolish your cervix, he would instantly assume it was a cruel prank, spiral into a full-blown panic attack, and start cursing you out for making fun of him.
And how did you know that? Because you already tried. Bruh.
It happened a few weeks ago when you two were stuck alone at lunch in the cafeteria. Shoko off letting some jock drool all over her, Suguru getting high on the quad with his Psych friends. Just you and Satoru and a golden opportunity.
You figured, fuck it, you’d take Suguru’s advice and just shoot your shot straight up.
Okay, maybe you phrased it in your own unique little way. But the message was clear.
And this dense dumbass looked you dead in the eyes— Completely missing the point— Shrugged and said, "I know I'm such a good friend, you don't have to tell me that."
Like are you fucking KIDDING me?!
Bro had literally friendzoned himself while you were actively trying to suck his dick.
So yeah, you had to play the long game.
Now he stood there with his mouth open, Adam's apple bobbing hard. His brain trying to mash up two completely incompatible images.
You. Looking hot as hell. Smelling like heaven. Smiling at him. And his crusty little MMO hobby. Does not fucking compute.
He looked insanely relieved you weren't roasting him. But there was this wild flash of confusion in his eyes too. And honestly the sick bastard almost looked disappointed that you weren't begging him to stay. Mixed up with a massive wave of attraction just because you'd name-dropped the goddamn continent. He legitimately didn't know what to do with any of this information.
"Right," he breathed out. "Sure. I will..." A pause. "...I will retreat then."
He gestured vaguely behind him at his bedroom door.
That stupid Forbidden Zone sign still taped to the wood. Peeling at the corners. Looking even more pathetic than the first time you'd seen it. And his only defense against the fact that he desperately wanted you to touch him again and never, ever stop.
"T-try not to be loud," he said, already backing away. "I gotta focus. And also don't want to be complicit if anyone calls the cops."
He turned on his heel and scurried back into the darkness of his room.
Pooof. Gone.
You stood there staring at that Sharpie-scrawled sign. The messy black letters basically laughing at you from across the hall.
That bubbly heat settled into something more frustrating. An ache right between your thighs and the specific, annoying disappointment of watching him go. Again.
"He's gonna fold," Shoko declared, wiping her hands on her jeans, eyes already on your love-sick pout like she'd been taking notes. She might be a bitch sometimes — she was a bitch sometimes — but she wanted her two best friends to finally just. Get on with it. The sexual tension was genuinely becoming a public health concern.
"Give him two hours max. He'll get thirsty." A stir of the ladle. "Or insanely jealous." Another stir. "Honestly? Mostly jealous."
Suguru laughed from his beanbag, finally peeling his eyes off his phone. "You really orchestrated this entire social nightmare just to smoke him out of his hole, didn't you."
"I'm a woman of science, Suguru," Shoko deadpanned, stirring the punch with a terrifyingly evil grin. "I'm just introducing a catalytic agent to a volatile compound." A pause. "He's going to explode. I only sped up the timeline."
Gotta love women in STEM.
You grabbed a cup and dunked it straight in. Glug.
"I hope so," you muttered, and took a long gulp that tasted exactly like cough syrup and mild regret.
"’Cause if he plays World of Warcraft all night, I'm gonna kick his door down myself."
Shoko clinked the soup ladle against your plastic cup.
"That," she smirked, "is Plan B."
And Shoko was right on the fucking money.
Two hours.
That's exactly how long Satoru lasted before his own biology staged a full coup against him.
InfiniteVoid_69 was just running face-first into a pixelated brick wall on loop because Satoru hadn't touched his keyboard in fifteen minutes. Too busy sitting in the RGB glow, listening to the muffled music bleeding through the wall from Suguru's JBL speaker.
He was miserable. Lonely. Horny as hell—
He wasn't hiding from the party. Obviously he wasn't hiding from the party. He was hiding because his stupid brain was stuck on a hyper-realistic loop that refused to stop.
Every time he closed his eyes — Every. Single. Time — His twisted mind went straight to it. The lewd way your lips had wrapped around that straw. The filthy eye contact you'd held while you sucked down your boba. And then — like clockwork, like his brain hated him — the audio file auto-played.
Crystal clear. Full surround sound and all.
"Good boy."
Stop it, he hissed, white-knuckling the armrests of his chair until the plastic creaked.
Cease data retrieval. Clear the fucking cache—
But his meat wasn't taking orders from his brain anymore. Just the ghost of your whisper was enough to send a fresh surge of blood rocketing straight south.
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Under the fabric of his sweats, things were starting to wake up again. And by things I mean him getting bricked-up for the sixth time that day alone.
Over a memory. A single memory.
Oh god. Stop it, Satoru, he had to beg himself, staring blindly at the ceiling like it had answers. Stop it stop it stop it—
You are an adult man. Not some hormonal teenager who needs to be bonked. But if we're being completely honest, he desperately needed to be bonked. It was actually hysterical how pathetic he was. Like, genuinely hysterical, the kind of thing you'd tell a therapist about and watch them struggle to maintain a neutral expression.
He was a literal danger to society. If Horny Jail was a real place he'd be in maximum security serving consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole.
He needed a hard reset. Badly. Needed caffeine. Needed to flush his system with enough taurine to kill a small horse and reboot his logic center.
He reached blindly down to his mini-fridge and yanked the handle —
Nothing. Empty.
"...Fucking hell." He was actually going to have to go out there.
Yanking his hood up over his hair, he took one long, steadying breath.
The mission was simple — Acquire the Monster. Avoid all eye contact. Haul ass back to base. Do not, under any circumstances, perceive the girl.
He cracked the door open. Suguru's shitty indie bass rattling the floorboards, the whole place reeking of weed and Shoko's cheap cigarettes and whatever memory-erasing blackout cocktail you two had cooked up out there.
Head down. Hugging the wall like a little cryptid. Making a beeline straight for the kitchen.
Ninja. He was a ninja. He was a shadow. Nobody was even gonna notice he was—
SLAM.
A hand smacked flat against the fridge door right next to his head. Satoru jumped, the Monster can in his hand nearly getting crushed. And looked down and—
Fuck. It was you. And you looked… dangerous.
You were a solid three cups deep. Cheeks flushed. Eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Staring at him with this predatory hunger that instantly turned his long legs to absolute jelly.
You'd been stalking his bedroom door all night. Nursing your drink, trying to act all interested in whatever conversations the frat boys Shoko was practically eye-fucking were attempting to have with you.
You didn't care about their gym routines. Nor did you care about their crypto. You'd spent two hours staring at that freaking sign and willing it to burn— Just waiting for the white-haired coward to finally crack.
And crack he did.
"I—I was just... acquiring electrolytes!" His back hit the fridge. Thud. Pupils blown so wide the blue was just a thin frantic ring around nothing. "The party seems... statistically successful! You should be out there, socializing!"
You stepped into his space. Chest to chest. Close enough to feel him stop breathing.
"Sukuna was giving me plenty of attention out there, ya know." A pause that you let sit there. "He asked for my number." Your voice dropped. "He seems pretty direct. Knows exactly what he wants to do to me." You tilted your head. "Unlike someone who's been hiding in his room for days because he's scared of a girl."
Satoru's jaw clenched. Sukuna. God he hated that guy. His tattoos. His confidence. The fact that he probably never once needed a pep talk in the mirror just to talk to you. Just existing over there being all. that.
And Satoru would literally rather drag his freaking balls through a mile of broken glass than let you leave with him tonight.
“I am not scared!” Satoru whined. His voice pitching up so high he sounded like a literal tween hitting puberty.
“‘Am just practicing social distancing! It’s for health reasons, a highly responsible choice, you know—”
“Liars don't get prizes, ‘Toru.”
You were done with the talking. Your hand glided down his stomach. Satoru flinched, his breath hitching, but he didn't move away. But he didn't move away, physically couldn't, mentally couldn't. Trapped between the fridge and the girl who had been haunting his jerk-off sessions for months—
Your palm landed flat at the very top of his thigh. There. Under the fabric the thick muscle violently twitched. And then he went rigid. Instantly.
Not just a little bricked up. Actively throbbing right under your hand. His own meat snitching on every filthy little secret he'd been trying so hard to repress. Rock-hard and straining against his waistband.
Again. HOW. How are you even doing this to him?!
"You're so tense, 'Toru—" you cooed, thumb tracing a slow teasing circle. "Is the 'cramp' coming back?" A beat. "Or is it just that you've been thinking about me touching you..." Another pause. "...as much as I've been thinking about... you touching me?"
The words hung in the air. Heavy. Intoxicating. Sitting there like a lit match.
Satoru stared down at you, his face burning up, the realization making him dizzy.
You. Out of his league. Had been fantasizing. About. Him. Does not compute. DOES NOT COMPUTE.
But hallelujah... I guess? The dense bastard finally clocked it. Which, of course, just sent him into an immediate spiral of existential dread. Looking like he was five seconds away from physically melting into the kitchen linoleum.
"I—I've gotta go back," he stammered.
His trembling hands hovering uselessly in the air. The Monster sitting somewhere on the counter. Long forgotten.
God, he wanted to grab you so so bad. Confess everything right there next to the refrigerator magnets. Haul you in by the shoulders and kiss you so so stupid. Even if his virgin ass had absolutely no clue how to do it. He was dying to eat that sparkly pink lip gloss right off your mouth, mostly because he knew exactly how pretty those lips would look wrapped around his—
But the unholy sensation of your hand gripping him oh so perfectly was completely overloading his system.
A literal breathing 404 Error, this man. eeeerrrrr—
"H-have to hop back on Discord!" he yelled-squeaked, ears ringing.
He shoved right past you, nearly wiping out an entire stack of solo cups on his way, and gremlin sprinted down the hallway which was genuinely something to witness.
You took one last sip of your drink. Watching his pathetic little virgin retreat. Eyeing that stupid Sharpie sign. Forbidden Zone.
Yeah, no. Fuck that. You weren't letting him lock himself away tonight just to edge to the memory of your hand on his dick. Absolutely not. Not tonight.
Cup down. And you took the fuck off. You hit the hallway just as his bedroom door slammed shut, threw your shoulder against the wood before he could even think about turning the lock —
The door flew open with a violent BANG—
Satoru spun around. Caught dead in the center of his musky bedroom, illuminated by the RGB glow of his PC. Hadn't even made it to his desk.
"I am busy!" he screeched, backing up with both hands raised like you were literally holding him at gunpoint. "I am—I am currently in a raid! I am logged in — digitally occupied!"
“Your game isn’t even on, Satoru.”
He risked a panicked glance back at his monitors. Which were doing absolutely nothing but displaying his embarrassing anime waifu wallpapers. Dude was literally caught in 4K.
Realizing his raid excuse had just become an impossibility, he experienced approximately two seconds of genuine internal crisis. Cursing his past self for quitting the game, then immediately thanking his past self for quitting the game, then cursing himself again.
"I use... err... voice commands!" he gasped. Delivering it with zero conviction. "It's hands-free gaming! You wouldn't understand the meta!"
Did he think you were stupid. You scoffed and took one step forward.
Satoru backed up instantly. Heels dragging through the carpet and you kept marching forward until his knees hit the bed and he tipped backward onto the mattress. Tried to scramble away like a cornered prey animal. Got trapped between his pillows and the weight of your gaze.
You crawled right up onto the bed after him— Swung a leg over — Straddling his lap.
Satoru, pinned down, staring up at you like he'd genuinely forgotten how to process oxygen. Frozen fucking stiff.
"You have a boner, Satoru."
"I absolutely do not!" A full body flinch. "It is— it is a trick of the light! Like an optical illusion! It's the pleats of the pants!"
Okay, that was enough. His sweats didn’t even have any fucking pleats, the hell.
You grabbed fistfuls of his hoodie, yanked his panicked face up toward yours, his glasses sliding down his nose, and kissed him. Finally.
It was messy. Horribly uncoordinated. Teeth clashing and noses bumping with a vibration that went straight through Satoru's entire skull.
Clack. Smack. And everything in between, I guess.
He tasted like soda and sheer terror and you freaking loved it. Satoru had absolutely no idea where to put his anything. Tongue doing just everything and nothing all at once. Lapping at your lower lip, then wrestling with yours, then somewhere completely wrong, then back again, never where it was supposed to be.
Oh, Gojo. You sweet, sweet summer child. Bless him.
But at the exact same time it was hands down the single greatest moment of his entire life.
You were actually kissing him. His dumb ass was somehow kissing you back. Right there in his bed, with you in his lap, and it wasn't even one of his pathetic little wet dreams.
Real. It was real. Someone should pinch him right now— Or rather not, his skin is too sensitive for that. So please, don’t do that.
He whimpered straight into your mouth. His heart aggressively trying to punch its way out of his chest at Mach 2, knock knock knocking on his ribcage like it wanted out.
His hands finally crashed down onto your hips, almost bruising them. He literally needed to anchor himself so he wouldn’t float away. Cloud 9 was for fucking normies. He was skyrocketing straight past Cloud 11 into a whole new stratosphere.
You pulled back just a little— Lips barely grazing the shell of his ear —
"Look at me..." A pause.
"Good boy."
BANG.
Satoru's eyes snapped open. Blown wide. Swirling with this desperate hungry something that made your stomach flip.
This man looked absolutely drunk off your existence. Addicted and disbelieving and so so gone— And you couldn't understand how it had taken you this long to finally just… jump him.
The past weeks had made everything so insanely intense n' unbearable n' you were done waiting. You rolled your hips down. Slow. Filthy. Deliberate. Grinding right into his crotch and god —
Heavenly.
Eyes half-lidded. Cheeks flushed. Staring right into his pretty blues while you ground down on him.
Satoru swore to god he had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
Three measly dry-humps later, and that was it. Satoru gasped straight into your mouth. Mentally on the brink of complete insanity for days, and you just shoved him off the fucking cliff without a parachute. A literal nuke going off in his lower abdomen.
...And to think he had literally prayed to whatever god would listen that he wouldn't instantly bust a nut in his own pants the very first time he got with a girl.
Oh well. RIP to that dream.
His entire body shuddered— Shoulders straight down to his trembling knees. He ripped his mouth away from yours with a sloppy gasp, glistening with your spit, starry-eyed, skull smacking back against the headboard with a hollow—
Thonk.
"Oh, FUCK!” He went limp under you.
And you felt it. That jerky little twitch right against your inner thigh, followed by the sudden warm dampness soaking through the fabric and sticking lewdly right to your leg.
Oh.
Satoru dead-eyed stared at the popcorn ceiling. And there goes his only chance with you...
"I..." he whispered. Voice hollow. "...uhh. I'm so sorry—"
Satoru slowly tipped his head down. Looked at his own crotch. The wet spot blooming right dead center on the light grey fabric like a declaration of defeat.
His hands came up to cover his flaming face. He just laid there. Already drafting his resignation from the honors program in his head, mentally scouting off-the-grid locations where he could fake his own death and live out the rest of his life as a celibate goat herder somewhere with no WiFi and no witnesses.
And then. He heard it. A soft bubbly little noise— A giggle.
Satoru slowly parted his fingers just enough for one terrified eye to peek through. Fully bracing for the roast of a lifetime. Instead, you were just staring down at him. Shoulders shaking. Sporting this genuine, goofy-ass smile that made your eyes crinkle up so prettily it actually hurt to look at.
"It's not— it's not how it looks! I swear— it's a margin of error! This shouldn't have happened—!"
You'd have to be a literal stupid stupid to clown on him right now. I mean. Fuck. You finally had this nerd right where you wanted him. Pinned directly under you, completely at your mercy.
You leaned back down. Framed his burning face with both hands. Stroked your thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, soft enough that his hyperventilating stopped.
"Satoru," you whispered. "You're such a dork."
And kissed him again.
The sheer whiplash of it all hit him like a complete system reboot — Ding. The pants-ruining shame didn't magically vanish. Obviously. It was very much still there. But you weren't running away. You weren't laughing at him. You were here.
Forehead resting against his. "Don't you look like you're about to cry." A pause. "It just means I'm that good." Another pause. "But we definitely gotta take these off now."
A hopeful spark returned to his eyes. Tiny. Fragile. But there.
"Wait—" His voice came out very small. "You're not disgusted?"
And how could you be? Even if a little questionable— The man of your dreams had just come in his pants from one kiss and a little caress.
For you. Because of you. …Yeah. A good fucking ego stroke, if you ask me.
"Satoru, please—" you laughed softly, fingers already hooking into the waistband. "Shut the fuck up."
Because you were just getting started —
BAANG.
The bedroom door flew open with enough force to crack the drywall.
"Emergency!" Shoko shouted, stumbling in.
"Girl, there you are —"
She froze mid-step. Her eyes did a full sweep of the room. You. Sitting all pretty, straddling her roommate. And then the undeniable pièce de résistance— The nut stain. Proudly blooming dead center in his crotch.
Look. She'd expected something to happen between you and Satoru. She'd planned on something happening. But you genuinely cannot buy this kind of premium entertainment.
She nearly choked on her own laugh before she could even get the words out.
"Oh." A sip. "OH."
"So the nerd is finally getting some?" Another sip, slower this time, savoring it. "Fucking took you long enough, Satoru. I honestly thought we were gonna have to bury you in that gaming chair with your V-card perfectly intact."
"GET OUT!" Satoru squealed, frantically grabbing a pillow and smashing it over his lap. "LEAVE! DE-PERCEIVE ME! I AM INVISIBLE!"
"I'd literally love nothing more than to leave you two to your pathetic little goon session n' go bleach my eyes," Shoko deadpanned, grabbing your arm in a vice grip that left absolutely no room for negotiation. "But Nanami's dumbass cousin just tried to do a backflip off the fucking balcony, beefed it, n' plummeted straight into the downstairs neighbor's inflatable kiddie pool."
… Bruh.
"I was literally in the middle of something—!" you whined, heels digging into the carpet.
God, you just wanted to eat him. Was that a crime? Genuinely. Was that legally a crime?
"The neighbor is currently screaming about property damage and wants to call the cops. He's apparently a fucking faculty member—"
"Can't, like, Suguru do something?"
"—Suguru is out there but the loser is losing the freaking fight!" Shoko's grip tightened. "If you don't get out there right now and use your major to convince this boomer that a 200-pound frat boy crushing his pool was actually a high-concept performance art piece about suburban decay, we are all getting expelled!"
She started hauling you out into the hallway like a sack of very horny potatoes.
Drag drag drag.
"Look—" she barked, completely aloof, not even looking back. "You can finish de-pantsing the three second wonder later." A yank. "Right now you need to go gaslight a very angry man into dropping the charges."
And so you were ruthlessly dragged away from the absolute feast you'd just laid out for yourself.
Satoru sat there. Glasses crooked. Staring at the empty doorway with the confused expression of a man whose reality had just been shattered, rebuilt, and shattered again in the span of approximately five minutes.
It took another two agonizing fucking hours. Two straight hours of you pulling out every absolute bullshit buzzword in your arsenal.
"Kinetic community outreach."
"Suburban decay performance art."
"Youthful spatial reclamation—"
Just to gaslight this angry boomer into not calling the actual cops.
The universe was sooo conspiring against you getting into Satoru's pants, it was crazy.
By the time the three of you dragged your exhausted asses back inside, the party was completely dead.
"I'm going back in," you whispered, already pivoting toward Satoru's room like a horny heat-seeking missile.
"The fuck you are," Shoko's fingers caught your collar with a yank— "You've had exactly three cups of my amazing drink and just spent two hours aggressively lying to a tenured professor. You're going to pass out mid-stroke, and Satoru's weak-ass cardiovascular system will give out if you so much as breathe on his dick tonight." A beat. "Let the poor nerd chill."
Suguru was slumped against the wall. Fully horizontal on the inside, you could tell.
"God, I still can't believe that actually happened." He shook his head slowly, staring at nothing. "Poor guy. But she's right— He's probably already convinced himself he needs full witness protection. Give him the night to spiral n' overthink it." A tired little smile. "It'll make him way more compliant tomorrow."
Okay, Suguru, you manipulative little freak. He wasn't wrong, though.
Obviously you weren't just going to leave like that. You slipped away for just a second— Creeping down the hall, nudging his bedroom door open juuust enough.
His PC was still glowing. Some random Twitch stream humming quietly to an empty room. Satoru was completely passed out cold, still wearing that stupid oversized black hoodie.
The grey sweats were gone though. Replaced by a baggy pair of dark navy ones. The ruined ones prolly 100% stuffed into the deepest, darkest corner of his closet. Waiting to be ceremonially burned, RIP.
He looked peaceful. His long white lashes casting soft little shadows on his still flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling.
God— He was so fucking pretty when his mouth was shut.
You lingered in the doorway for a second just watching him. Yeah. You were going to absolutely destroy this man tomorrow.
The door clicked shut behind you, soft as you could manage. You'd let his pathetic ass rest. For now.
When the morning sun was blasting through the kitchen window, Satoru felt worse than anyone who'd actually gotten wasted last night. Sitting at the kitchen island like a horny n’ depressed gargoyle.
He was staring into a bowl of Froot Loops that had long since dissolved into a toxic pink-and-orange sludge. Spoon hovering mid-air. Arm completely frozen. One single pink loop clinging desperately to his bottom lip like it was the last life raft on a sinking ship.
Across from him, Suguru was nursing a mug of tea, mindlessly scrolling his phone. Actively fighting a war on two fronts. The hangover. And the urge to absolutely lose it in Satoru's face.
Then.
Click.
Shoko's doorknob.
Satoru flinched so hard the spoon dropped. It clattered against the ceramic bowl, sticky pink milk splashing directly onto his hoodie sleeve.
Huh. White substances really did have a thing for this man's clothes.
You stepped out first. Freshly showered. Moisturized. Terrifyingly composed.
Thank god you'd tactically dumped every single toxic concoction Shoko had tried to hand you straight down the bathroom sink after those first three cups. You were running at full 100% capacity. And ready to obliterate him.
Satoru's breath hitched like a dying Victorian child.
Oh god.
The crushing weight of reality dropped onto his brain like a cartoon anvil. Looney tunes sound effect and everything.
The Witness and The Victim. Emerging from the same room. In unison. The jury had deliberated in secret and the verdict was permanent exile! to the shadow realm.
You marched your hot ass straight up to the island and stopped dead right in front of him. Arms crossed. Features terrifyingly unreadable.
The ultimate Comms Major About To Destroy Your Entire Life poker face.
"Satoru."
Your voice dead level, strictly professional, brutally stripped of a single ounce of warmth.
Satoru forgot how swallowing worked. Like the biological mechanism left his body alongside with any backbone. The lone pink loop finally lost its grip on his lip and plop straight into the sludge.
"I've been talking with Shoko," you stated, throwing a glance at the brunette. She was currently posted up against the counter, taking drag out of her vape with aggressively trembling hands.
"And given the... situation... I think we need to have a private conversation."
The blood evacuated Satoru's face so fast it was almost audible. Whoosh. It's an absolute miracle he didn't pass out face-first into his Froot Loops right then and there.
The realization slammed into his forehead like a flying brick. You two talked. And probably not just some casual morning girl-chat either. No no no. This was a full-blown autopsy. A National Transportation Safety Board crash investigation into his ruined dick.
He stared wide-eyed at the two of you standing there— the High Council of the Tribunal of Shame. And his brain immediately auto-played the whole thing in high-definition Dolby Surround Sound and all.
You, recounting the "incident" with a cringed-out face.
"Wait, so then he just—?"
Shoko, cackling her lungs completely out. Brutally dissecting his premature failure like a dead frog in AP Bio.
"Yup. Instantly. Right in the sweatpants."
"Jesus fucking christ."
"I know."
"Fucking pathetic."
"I know."
He gripped his cereal bowl so hard it was a miracle the ceramic didn't just crack straight down the middle. He felt tiny. A biological error. Like the devs had clocked the bug, flagged it, and were desperately trying to patch him out of existence before the next server update.
Clunk.
Suguru's mug hit the table.
The silence that followed was so extremely awkward it had physical weight.
"I..." He swallowed hard, desperately trying to locate a vocal frequency somewhere in his throat that didn't sound exactly like a suffocating walrus. "Uhh... okay.."
Suguru was watching him.
Eyes absolutely brimming with this tragic, brotherly pity that only exists between people who've watched someone humiliate themselves beyond recovery. Satoru broke out into cold clammy sweat instantaneously.
Why the fuck is he looking at him like that. Does he know too?! Did they have a goddamned group chat?!
"Be brave, Satoru." Suguru's voice came out low and solemn. He did this slow, incredibly weighted nod as if delivering a terminal diagnosis in a hospice. "Just listen to what she has to say. Try to take it like a man."
Satoru paled so violently his skin basically color-matched his hair.
Like a man.
Oh god.
Bro-code for: please don't start aggressively sobbing until she's at least out of the building.
Shoko blew a long stream of smoke, sunglasses sliding down her nose just enough to flash one bloodshot eye. "Don't worry, Satoru. I told her you're a really fast learner." A drag. "You'll understand exactly what she means immediately."
He wanted to wither into actual dust.
She has performance notes.
You were literally about to sit him down and hand him a grading rubric on his premature ejaculation. With bullet points. Color coded. A works cited page.
"Right," Satoru squeaked.
He somehow forced his body to stand. Legs wet cement. Hands shoved deep into his sweats, fingers curled into tight fists just to hide the pathetic shaking happening inside them.
One step. Then another.
The longest ten feet of his entire life. Genuinely. The Green Mile. Dead man walking. Shuffling straight toward his own humiliating execution.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
He made a beeline straight for his gaming desk the second the door opened, putting every single inch of physical distance between himself, you, and that godforsaken mattress as mathematically possible.
That bed was a Bermuda Triangle for his virginity and he was absolutely not going anywhere near it.
He spun around awkwardly. Head ducked. Dead-eyes locked on his dumb white socks.
Click.
You locked the door behind you.
"Look," he whispered. Two seconds of dead silence and he was already caving. His voice coming out completely defeated. "You don't have to... be nice about it. I get it, okay? I'm a total mess. I know I completely ruined the vibe and blew the single chance I had."
Sniff.
He shoved his slipping glasses up his nose frantically. Refused to look at you. His eyes were traitorously starting to burn and he was not, absolutely not, doing that right now.
He felt so insanely pathetic it was bordering on high comedy. Like, genuinely. He was 100% convinced Shoko was currently folded in half out by the toaster, one hand over her mouth, waiting for you to come back out n' join the roast session.
"I can just be your study partner," he mumbled straight to the floorboards. Voice thick n' gross n' wobbly like a building foundation about to give. "I'll do all your Stats homework for the rest of the semester. I won't... try to bother you with any of that other stuff ever again. Just, please don't tell me we can't hang out anymore. I really..."
His voice snapped.
"I really like hanging out with you."
You were absolutely not letting this groveling little monologue go on for one more second. Although, holy hell. He looked so absurdly cute on the verge of literal tears.
And honestly you probably would've soaked up this miserable little imagery for at least another thirty seconds if he didn't look like he was three seconds away from a 72-hour psychiatric hold.
You stepped right between his spread legs. Grabbed the hoodie strings and yanked him down.
"Satoru," you paused while he just stared down at you like a stunned fucking mullet, "for the love of god. Calm the fuck down."
He was bent awkwardly at the waist, flaming face hovering mere inches from yours, panting these short terrified little puffs of air straight onto your face. hff. hff. hff.
"I don't know what you were expecting," you whispered, staring right into his panicked blue eyes. "Shoko was literally just apologizing for cockblocking us."
Satoru blinked.
An actual tear escaped the corner of his eye. Plipped straight down his nose.
"...What?"
"I came back, Satoru." Your thumb caught the wetness before it could drip off his chin, brushing it away so gently it almost broke him worse. "Last night. I wanted to finish exactly what we started. But you were already passed out."
The information hit his brain like a sledgehammer.
He stared at you like a complete idiot. Mouth slightly open. Processing and freaking buffering.
You came back? You didn't fake pity and bolt in absolute disgust? You voluntarily re-entered the Forbidden Zone? Oh my god. Did he just refer to his own bedroom as the Forbidden Zone?
That sign gotta go.
"You... you actually wanted more?" He furrowed his eyebrows, deeply disbelieving. "But it was so... embarrassing."
"It was cute," you corrected, letting this filthy little smirk take over your face. "Messy, yeah. But incredibly fucking hot." You tilted your head. "Made me soo horny, 'Toru."
He blinked.
"...Horny?"
The word fell out of his mouth like it was a completely foreign concept he was actively failing to translate in real time. Sounding it out.
Hor. Ny.
His oh-so-brilliant mind was attempting. No, straining to run two completely conflicting programs simultaneously.
Protocol B: The Hottest Fucking Girl On Campus Is Telling Me She Wanna Jump My Bones. S.E.X. I. Repeat. SEX.
The processing friction was genuinely something. You could practically see the smoke coming out of his ears.
But you were so done waiting for him to catch up. You just wanted to get on with it already.
You pulled him flush against you. Thump, His chest hitting yours.
"You..." He swallowed hard. "you're actually not making fun of me? This isn't some cruel, elaborate sociological experiment Suguru paid you to do? I'm not getting Punk'd right now?"
"Satoru." Your voice came out deadly calm. "If you don't shut the fuck up right now, I am going to physically bite you."
The feral glint in your eyes made it very clear. It wasn’t a threat. It was part of an itinerary.
Cartoon heart-eyes and you shoved him backwards. Stumbled like a newborn giraffe discovering it had legs for the very first time, his already terrible coordination completely shot to hell, until the back of his thighs hit the edge of his desk with a thunk and he scrambled to brace his hands behind him.
Trapped. Right between his dual-monitor setup and you.
Is it weird that he kind of loved that? Getting trapped between any piece of furniture and you specifically? Because he did. He really, really did.
Satoru literally didn't know whether to keep arguing or just haul you against him. So you made the choice for him. You grabbed his face in both hands n' kissed him.
Not messy this time. Tender. Deep. So completely reassuring it almost hurt.
And it kind of wrecked you too. This tight, warm, stupid knot of something blooming right in your lower belly, fluttering around like it owned the place.
"Now," you hummed against his mouth, one hand sliding straight down to rest possessively on the waistband of his fresh sweats.
"I see we went for the tactical wardrobe change." Eyes dragging down. "Black? No... dark navy?" A slow smile. "Trying to hide something?"
"It's a universally slimming color!" he squeaked. "And—and the cotton density is mathematically optimal for the... the temperature of the room!"
"Uh-huh."
You hooked two fingers right under the waistband and pulled. Thwack. The elastic snapping back against his hips.
"They look comfy," you agreed pleasantly. "But they're currently in my way. And I have a very specific goal for the next few hours that requires you not wearing them."
Satoru's heart was hammering against his ribs so hard. Like a trapped bird that had been in there a really long time and had just now spotted the window.
You looked so dead-set it was both equally hot and terrifying. Starving. Fully locked n' loaded to rip his V-card straight out of his fucking hands with zero hesitation.
Your eyes rolled but your smirk softened. Just slightly, into something that looked almost, dangerously, like fond.
You reached up and threaded your fingers into his white hair. Gave it one commanding little tug that forced his head right back down to yours and left another soft peck against his open mouth.
"If you glitch out again," you whispered right against his lips, "we'll literally just reload the save file, nerd."
A beat.
"Now." Your fingers found the waistband again. "Shut off your brain and let me get these fucking pants off you."
Satoru didn't even try to fight you this time.
In fact he became so aggressively eager to comply that he tried to kick the pants off way too fast— Instantly tripping over his own feet, nearly taking both of you down in a tangled heap.
"Wow," you deadpanned, watching him aggressively boot the sweats across the room. Fwip straight into the corner. "Graceful."
"Shut up! I am... currently experiencing... severe motor control issues!"
"Bed. Now."
The command completely bypassed his higher brain functions and hijacked his spinal cord directly.
Satoru scrambled onto the bed, knobby knees hitting the duvet. He scurried backward with the urgency of a soldier diving into a trench to dodge an active grenade until his spine thwack-ed the drywall and he yanked his knees straight to his chest in the most pathetic little defensive crouch you'd ever witnessed in your life.
He looked exactly like a daddy longlegs that had just been swatted with a rolled-up newspaper.
Rocking nothing but the hoodie and a pair of boxers that were—
Wait. Wait.
Were those the pixelated slimes.... from Dragon Quest?
Jesus fucking Christ.
You were physically fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. This was it. This was the man you were currently risking your entire reputation for.
It was tragic. Beyond pathetic. It was hands down the hottest fucking thing you’d ever seen in your life.
You stopped right at the edge of the mattress.
Satoru tracked your approach like you were a raid boss entering his aggro range. Eyes wide, breathing shallow, every muscle in his body coiled like he was genuinely considering his escape routes.
"Hoodie," you ordered, holding out one expectant hand.
Satoru clutched the fabric violently to his chest like you'd just asked him to hand over his firstborn child.
"Hell no! The hoodie stays! It is—it is a tactical safety blanket! It provides crucial emotional armor!"
"Satoru." You sighed, popping one knee onto the edge of the mattress. "We are absolutely not doing this with you dressed like a goddamn burglar. Take. It. Off."
"I physically can't! My upper body definition is highly suboptimal! I literally haven't set foot in a gym since the mandatory phys-ed requirement of freshman year—"
You were biting your lip so hard it was a miracle it didn't bleed.
This fucking nerd. This absolute smooth-brained genius was really about to debate his lack of gains while you were actively trying to throw it back on him.
Okay. Fine. If logic wasn't working, you were going straight for shock and awe.
"Fine," you hummed, fingers already finding the hem of your own shirt. "If you're gonna be a shy little bitch about it. I'll go first. Make it fair."
Satoru's eyes snapped wide.
He realized what was happening approximately two seconds too late to stop you. And three seconds too late to prepare his nervous system for the incoming blast.
oh no—
"WAIT—" he squeaked, hands fluttering uselessly in the air. "Hold on! I—err… my graphics card literally cannot render this yet—!"
You absolutely did not wait.
One fluid motion and the top was over your head. Getting tossed directly onto the bedside shelf, landing right over the poor Goku figure's head like a little hat.
Satoru's jaw dropped like three inches. Heart-shaped pupils locked on your chest.
You were standing there. Arms reach away and bathed in the obnoxious rainbow RGB glow of his PC tower, tits out, looking at him like you weren't the one currently causing a cardiac event.
Oh my fucking god. The geometry. The physics engine. The sheer... high-res texture quality.
For ten whole-ass seconds Satoru physically forgot he was a carbon-based life form who required oxygen to survive. Lights on, nobody home.
His eyes were blown-out saucers of pure panic. Desperately trying to render the sudden influx of high-def titty.
He stared directly at your chest, panicked and looked up at the ceiling, immediately clocked that staring at popcorn ceiling was a colossal waste of premium runtime, and aggressively yanked his gaze right back down.
He flushed sick looking crimson and slapped both hands over his own face like a cartoon character. Left his fingers spread wide open though. Obviously. His desperate ass wasn't missing a single frame of this.
“This is way too much!” he wheezed, physically swaying on the bed. “You can’t just rip your shirt off like that! Your boobs are mathematically way too nice for a warningless drop!”
Laughing, you grabbed his wrists and ruthlessly yanked his hands away from his face. He put up approximately half a second of useless resistance. Absolutely terrified of the direct line of sight. Before totally caving and letting you pin his arms down.
"Good boy," you purred, dripping with satisfied smugness, and poked him right dead center in his chest.
Thump thump thump thump thump. His heart going absolutely feral in there. Like a double-kick drum at a death metal concert. "Now." Another poke. "Hoodie. Off."
Satoru looked at you. Then down at his hoodie.
The entire pre-planned thesis defense regarding his lack of muscle mass poofed the away instantly. Because the alternative was you putting your shirt back on and he absolutely refused to exist in a timeline where the boobs went away.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay okay. Initiating... un-equip sequence."
He raised his arms. You didn't wait— Grabbed the bottom hem and yanked it up before he could reconsider.
It got stuck on his head. Mmmph—!
A muffled pathetic little yelp of protest, before popping clean off with a violent rush of static electricity. His bright white hair was now sticking straight up in every single direction like a cracked-out mad scientist.
You tossed the hoodie into the void.
He instantly crossed both arms over his chest and curled in on himself like a shy anime girl.
"Stop looking at me!" he actually whined. "I feel like a lab specimen! You're currently calculating my exact BMI, I can literally see the math happening in your eyes!"
"I'm literally just calculating how many seconds it's going to take to finally get you to shut the fuck up," you said, n' shoved his wide shoulders back.
Fwump. Satoru went down, flopping back onto his pillows like a very tall, very compliant ragdoll.
"Boxers."
He didn't even hesitate this time. Hooked his thumbs into the waistband of those stupid pixelated slime boxers and shoved them down his legs, ready to serve you his v-card on a silver platter.
The fabric launched off his foot — Arced beautifully through the air — Landed directly on top of his keyboard.
Satoru froze. "My-my custom GMK keycaps..."
You could not have given less of a fuck about his keyboard. Although— Okay, it did make you think. Because thanks to that keyboard, and a very specific chain of subsequent events, you were currently about to sleep with this hot disaster of a nerd.
Wild. Anyway.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
For a guy who'd actively claimed his body was composed entirely of soft tissue and Monster Energy— The sight of him fully, completely exposed was enough to instantly liquify your kneecaps.
He. Was. Gorgeous.
Not just cute. Not just boyishly handsome. Unfairly masculine. The long elegant lines of his thighs, the sharp filthy cut of his V-line, the pale smooth expanse of skin glowing like an actual marble statue under the harsh rainbow LED lights.
Not fair. Genuinely not fair.
Your eyes dropped to his lap.
Oh.
That was a dick that had absolutely zero business being attached to a man who owned $400 limited-edition anime figurines. Illegal, almost.
Satoru suddenly clocked that you weren't mourning his keyboard. He tracked your gaze slooowly downward. Down, down, down to his own lap and immediately crab-walk backward. Both hands flying to cover his junk like a terrified Victorian maiden guarding the last scraps of her virtue.
"Arms down," you commanded, reaching out to grab his sharp jaw and snapping his burning face back up to yours. "Eyes up here."
Then you stood up, towering over this trembling, giant, pathetic mess of a man.
Slowly. Agonizingly. Slowly.
You grabbed the hem of the ratty sleep shorts Shoko had loaned you and shoved them down. They hit the floor in a sad little puddle. Then the panties followed.
Satoru’s lungs officially filed for unemployment.
He bolted violently upright, shock completely overriding his paralysis, and scrambled backward into the cheap headboard like a cornered raccoon with nowhere left to go, knees knocking awkwardly apart.
Just two completely butt-naked idiots staring at each other across an RGB-lit gamer den. Premium content right here.
His eyes were blown out like massive blue dinner plates of pure terror. Both hands frozen mid-air, fingers curled like he was scrubbing in for open-heart surgery.
Every single pathetic lonely goon session he'd ever had didn't even come close to this.
The sheer 4K ultra-HD reality of you standing there— Fully, completely, actually naked in his room was something not even Santa could've delivered on his best Christmas. You were so much softer. So infinitely prettier than the pixelated garbage he usually stared at.
Real, his brain supplied, barely functioning. she's real she's real she's actually—
"You're..." A wheeze. Literally sounding like a punctured tire slowly deflating. "You're actually fully naked right now. For me. In my room. This is 100% a simulation. I'm going to wake up in a cold sweat in approximately thirty seconds."
"I'm very fucking real, Satoru," you purred. And dropped back onto your knees. Prowled right up over his massive frame. Settled all your weight squarely across his thick thighs and —
Oh. Oh the skin to skin. So surreal you had to actively swallow down a pathetic little moan before it escaped. Can't let him know the effect he was having on you. Not yet. Not when you were supposed to be the composed one here.
He folded just as instantly.
Just crumbled forward, burying his burning face deep into the crook of your neck. His stupid nose bumping against your skin like a needy golden retriever.
"You're soo warm," he mumbled right against your collarbone, ragged hot breath sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. "I can feel your pulse. It's going— it's going crazy." A pause. His nose dragging against your skin. "Is that... is that actually because of me?"
"Wadda you think, 'Toru," you chuckled.
But your voice came out softer than intended and you honestly couldn't take the hovering anymore. More. You needed more. More touching. More kissing. More everything. More all of it. You grabbed both his violently shaking wrists and physically slammed his massive palms flat onto your bare skin.
Dragged his hands up your waist. Right up to the curve of your chest. Pressed down hard, forcing those long twitchy gamer fingers to finally, finally sink straight into the softness.
Sqqeeeeak— Satoru let out a sound like a dying tea kettle directly into your neck. His lips brushed your collarbone as he made it, the deep vibration shooting straight down to your core like a livewire.
"Holy fucking shit," he actually whimpered, hands twitching helplessly against your chest. "You're— you're so soft. Like mathematically impossible levels of soft. I literally cannot believe you're actually letting me— that you're actually—"
He couldn't even finish the sentence.
"Good." You tilted his chin up. "Because I want you to feel this too."
You didn't give him a single second to brace himself. One hand grabbed his trembling wrist and shoved it straight down between your legs. The other wrapped dead around his cock. And started pumping.
Satoru’s head literally slammed back against the ikea headboard with a hollow thump. Throat bared, eyes rolling completely into the back of his skull the second he registered two things simultaneously — How ridiculously slick n' hot you were against his fingers. And a hand. Your hand. not his hand. Someone else's hand. Finally wrapped around his dick. Both at once.
Feeling how feral you were for him while you touched him so perfectly was genuinely sending him to another dimension. You were so soft everywhere— Your body, your hands, the way you were looking at him. All of it, too much.
"Toru..." You leaned in and bit down hard on his earlobe.. "Feel how wet I am?" A pause. "This is all for you."
"Is this..." He was stammering, completely losing his entire mind in real time. "Is this level of fluid leakage biologically nor—"
"Do not," you warned, voice dropping dangerously, "ever use the word 'leakage' during sex again."
The threat dissolved instantly into a high-pitched yelp when his clumsy untrained fingers violently slipped and' accidentally mashed directly against your clit.
It was so chaotic and uncoordinated, but holy shit, it worked.
"What—" Satoru yanked his hand back and stared at it like it had just performed unauthorized black magic. "What was that? Did I just— wait." Eyes going wide. "Did I just hit a hotkey?"
You shot him the most withering glare known to mankind but did not bother answering. Because what the fuck was even that question?
You just lifted your hips, grabbed his cock, and guided it straight to your entrance.
God. It was a literal struggle. He was so unreasonably, stupidly, illegally large. Like, "did you illegally 3D-print this in a basement lab?" levels of large.
You let out a sharp staggered gasp as you tried to sink your weight down onto his lap and had to stop halfway. You wrapped both arms tight around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder, gritting your teeth, just trying to accommodate.
Breathe, girl. You lowered yourself another inch. Physically forcing your body to accept the hardware upgrade one excruciating millimeter at a time— Like trying to parallel park a Hummer into a compact spot or something.
"Oh my fucking god, Satoru," you gasped, the words literally punched clean out of your lungs. "You're so fucking— just. Just give me a second."
Satoru's reaction was immediate. And absolutely catastrophic.
His hands convulsively dug into your waist like he was dangling off the edge of the Grand Canyon by his fingertips and you were the only rock face within reach.
Whimper. And vibrating right against your collarbone.
His spine gave an actual audible pop as he arched aggressively off the headboard. Neck straining. Eyes rolling back so far into his skull you could literally only see the whites.
He looked like he was getting abducted by aliens and they were beaming him up by his dick.
"I see the literal light," he whispered, voice raw and trembling into your ear like a Victorian orphan succumbing to tuberculosis on a particularly cold Thursday. "I see the math. I can actually see the Fibonacci sequence. I..." A full body shudder. "I've wanted this so bad it has been actively ruining my life." A pause. "I think I'm literally in love with you." Another pause. "Please tell my mother I died bravely."
You froze completely. Fingers digging into his messy white hair. Not moving.
"...Wait." Your voice came out very carefully. "What the fuck did you just say?"
But Satoru couldn't answer. Bro was gone. Officially offline. Blue Screen of Death. Mouth hanging wide open in a silent brain-dead gasp, soul visibly and physically ejecting from his body in real time as you sank the rest of the way down—
"DON'T MOVE—!"
The shriek cracked across three separate octaves simultaneously. Crushing your waist so desperately his knuckles went pure white.
"If you move I'm going to instantly bust! The friction coefficient is mathematically way too high! I literally cannot handle the sensory input! You're squeezing my dick so fucking hard—!"
"Too bad," you hummed mercilessly.
You started to grind. Slow. Filthy. And rhythmic— Just this devastating swivel of your hips down against his, over and over and over.
Satoru squeaked every single rotation. His glasses had slid so far down his nose they were basically resting on his bottom lip. His entire face flushed a violent radioactive crimson that honestly looked medically concerning. Sweat gathering at his temples.
"Satoru," you panted, pulling back just enough to glare down at his completely wrecked face. "You are not watching porn right now. You are the ride. Fucking touch me again!"
"I don't know how!" he wailed — actually wailed, like a man being wronged. "It looked way easier in the videos! The professionals make it look like a perfectly seamless cutscene! I am operating on manual controls here! There's no tutorial! I never did the tutorial!"
You desperately needed more. Frustrated, needy and sweating, you reached right down between your bodies— Fingers finding your clit instantly, exactly where it had been grinding into his pelvis. There.
Satoru's eyes snapped violently to your hand. The wailing stopped. The panicked bird-flailing ceased.
He went dead. Fucking. Silent. 100% of his processing power diverted, from pure screaming panic straight into hyper-observation mode. Behind his fogged-up lenses, his eyes locked onto the movement of your fingers with the terrifying laser-focus of a sweaty esports pro who'd just spotted a single enemy pixel from across the map.
Locked in.
He watched your face change. Saw your head tip back. Your lips parting in this desperate wordless oh. Heard that sharp jagged intake of breath, that filthy little noise that you caused, not him. Watched you actively get yourself off while fully riding his dick.
The rusted gears in his genius brain started grinding together. And something sharp and sudden spiked through him. Indignation. Pure indignation.
Wait. Wait a damn minute.
His brain frantically crunched the numbers. Eyes cutting to your hand doing all the actual work. Then down to his own hands, which were currently just holding your chest.
"Hey." His voice dropped. And not in the cool sexy anime-boy way either. No no no. This was the aggressively grumpy petulant drop of a toxic gamer who'd just gotten blue-shelled at the finish line in Mario Kart. And was absolutely not okay with it.
He clumsily swatted your hand away— Nearly poking you in the thigh in his chaotic haste.
"Move,” he grumbled. "Move. Let me actually try."
You bit the absolute shit out of your inner cheek. Mastermind. You were a literal mastermind.
Because the absolute last thing you'd actually wanted was to rub one out while straddling a guy who, approximately five seconds ago, hadn't known where to put his own giant hands without looking like he was frantically trying to defuse a bomb. You didn't want to do it yourself.
You needed to trigger his competitive streak. You needed him to get in the game.
He shoved your hand completely out of the way and slapped his own massive thumb down.
Splat.
Absolute. Fucking. Disaster at first.
Bro was pressing waaaay too hard— Mashing it like he was desperately trying to skip an unskippable cutscene that the developers had deliberately made unavoidable. His ping was lagging. His thumb was slipping everywhere. He was dead-ass glaring at your crotch like he was trying to mentally calculate the square root of Pi through sheer force of will.
But then. Then. He hit the spot just right again.
The exact second a genuine filthy moan ripped out of your throat.
And Satoru didn't just feel encouraged. The man felt god-tier. His fragile male ego, which had been in a state of catastrophic multi-system failure for the past twenty-four hours, surged back to full capacity like a phoenix rising from the ashes of his own ruined sweatpants.
Ding.
PLAYER 2 HAS ENTERED THE GAME.
A hyper-competitive glint flared up behind those fogged-out lenses.
And it wasn't just a mental buff either. He felt it. Directly. In the hardware.
The sudden frantic spasm spasm flutter of your pussy wrapping around his dick— Just pulsing against him in a way that zero hours of 4K VR porn could have ever prepared his virgin brain for.
The ultimate premium haptic feedback. It sent a massive fucking shockwave straight from his crotch directly into his brain stem.
And in the same exact second, Satoru had a full-blown religious experience.
Right then and there, he made a decision. He needed to feel this exact specific sensation until the literal heat death of the universe. Wanted to live inside this flutter. Wanted to be permanently buried inside this wet mushy and terrifyingly perfect reality until the servers shut down for good. Forever.
"Hypothesis—" He was panting, this manic absolute shit-eating grin splitting violently across his sweaty face. "Fucking confirmed." His eyes were wild.
"I've officially mapped the inputs. My dexterity stats are mathematically way higher than originally calculated."
A beat. He looked down at you. "Step aside, amateur."
"Amateur?!" You barely managed to get the word out before —
He clamped his fingers down on your waist and with the sudden terrifying display of someone who regularly lugs a 40lb custom PC rig up three flights of dorm stairs strength he aggressively shifted his weight and violently twisted his hips to completely flip you over.
"Excuse the fuck out of—?!"
Aaand the entire room did a barrel roll.
Oomph. You hit the mattress, hair sprawling across the pillowcase. You just laid there staring up at him, jaw hanging open like a laggy video feed buffering on a bad connection.
Completely. Utterly. Fucking. Gagged.
Because you had plans for this man. Massive. Long-term. Devious-ass plans.
You'd fully intended to spend the next six to eight business months systematically dismantling his virgin innocence piece by piece. Just carefully, methodically digging until you finally unearthed the depraved feral perverted monster you just knew was hiding somewhere beneath the pathetic layers of "I have a 2D waifu" and "I forgot to use deodorant today."
You were supposed to be the mentor here. The mastermind.
But apparently apparently Satoru had decided to skip the base campaign entirely and just buy the endgame DLC. Without even reading the patch notes.
You had been trying. Sweating. Putting in 110% elbow grease, grinding down on his dick with the full calculated intention of keeping his ass completely pinned and overwhelmed this entire time.
And yet three measly strokes and one lucky-ass thumb placement. And bro had successfully speedrun the entire goddamn power dynamic.
He looked absolutely feral.
Glasses so violently fogged up he was legally blind. White hair a static-charged dandelion puff of pure chaos standing in every direction simultaneously. Straddling you with the intense focus of a speedrunner who could smell the global World Record.
His fingers finding purchase on either side of your head. Settling in and locking eyes.
"The latency issues," he rasped, "have been resolved."
His voice sounded like it had been dragged through a gravel pit, run over twice, and left there. He didn't even look like a pathetic nerd anymore. He looked like a man who had just discovered how to aggressively exploit a physics glitch in the universe and was absolutely planning to abuse it.
He leaned down and licked this wet scorching-hot stripe right from your collarbone straight up to your ear —
His tongue was hot and surprisingly firm and before your brain could even begin to process the sensory input he sank his teeth right into the soft junction where your shoulder met your neck.
Bite. Not a cute gentle romantic nibble either. No no no. This was a feral hungry "I am permanently claiming this hardware" bite that instantly curled your toes and made a muffled horny shriek die completely in your throat before it could escape.
"'Toru—!" you gasped, fingers knotting desperately into his sweaty hair.
"Mine," he mumbled right against your skin.
The deep rumble of it buzzed through you like a livewire. He clamped his teeth down again— Just hard enough to leave a blatant mark before dragging his open wet mouth slowly across your pulse point.
But then he stopped. The momentum didn't slow down gradually. It slammed face-first into a brick wall at full speed with zero warning and absolutely no survivors.
Satoru's entire massive body went rigid. His head popped up so fast it was like someone had triggered a fire alarm directly inside his skull.
And that devastatingly confident glint completely gone.
Replaced instantly by the panic of a guy who had just realized he might have accidentally violated a major societal contract without reading the terms and conditions first.
"C-can I actually call you mine?" he squeaked out terrified. "Is that— is that allowed? I haven't read the updated EULA for this dynamic! I don't want to violate the user licensing agreement! Was that way too aggressive?! Did I just sound like a possessive fedora-tipping creep in a Discord server?! People say a lot of crazy shit in porn n' I just thought it would sound cool! Oh my fucking god—"
A full body shudder of horror. "I'm being a literal Nice Guy, aren't I?!"
He looked existentially horrified. Both hands hovering awkwardly in the air above your chest like he was completely terrified to make contact without a legally binding notarized consent form signed in triplicate.
"Satoru," you groaned.
You reached up, grabbed a fistful of his sweaty white hair, and yanked his panicked face right back down to yours. "We are naked." A beat. "I put your dick inside me." Another beat. "I have wanted this for months." You stared directly into his terrified eyes. "I am literally yours. It was incredibly fucking hot. Keep going."
Satoru didn't just reboot. The man overclocked. His eyes blew out so wide they were basically just two shimmering dilated blue voids full of worship. This pathetic sob ripped out of his throat like it had been stored there for months and had finally found its exit.
You were his. You. And him. Together.
God. God. Neither of you were making it out of this bed until the heat death of the universe and that was just. A fact now. A biological certainty.
"Administrative privileges..." he wheezed, his entire massive body trembling so hard the cheap headboard rattled. "...fully granted."
Ding.
Oh lord have mercy, he was such a nerd it truly does hang between fucking hot and wanting to slap the fuck out of him to just shut the hell up.
"Ownership confirmed." His voice dropped an entire octave on its own. "I have the master key. I'm the only fucking user with root access."
He dove straight back into your neck. Mouth wide open and starving. Sloppy hot tongue laving right over the red mark he'd just bruised into your skin like he needed to physically taste the fact that you belonged to his nerd ass.
But he wasn't camping in one spot anymore. Oh no. Now that he had official root access? Satoru was data-mining.
Aggressively experimenting. His wet mouth wandering everywhere. Sloppy scorching kisses along your jawline, teeth dragging over your collarbone, biting down the slope of your shoulder. Acting like a rabid completionist hunting a hidden Easter egg on a brand new map, hot breath coming in ragged hitches right against your bare skin.
And then. Then. He found a new variable. Leaned down and just shamelessly dragged his hot wet tongue directly into the curve of your ear. Slow. Disgustingly bold. Incredibly wet. The movement sent a literal 10,000-volt electric shock straight to your goddamn clit.
And the noise that ripped out of your throat wasn't some cute curated porn-star moan. It was a freaking wail. Loud and totally wrecked and completely embarrassing and you could not have stopped it if you tried.
Your body reacted way before your brain could catch up. Walls clamping down around his dick with this sudden feral ferocity, squeezing so aggressively hard you could literally feel his pulse thrumming against your own.
Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Like two heartbeats arguing about who was more desperate.
What the actual fuck. Your skull slamming back into the crusty pillowcase. What the ACTUAL fuck.
Your body was just completely milking this man. Acting out on some deep feral instinct you didn't even know you possessed. The mastermind top persona? Dead. Buried. A distant memory. You will not be missed. You were officially just a puddle of needy desperate overstimulated nerves n' poor decisions.
Are you both having a catastrophic spiritual awakening right now? Is this giant trembling nerd actually a sleeperagent sex god? Are YOU actually just an irredeemable degenerate? Have you seriously been holding back this insane radioactive level of combined freakiness this ENTIRE time?
These were questions that deserved answers. That you were utterly unable to process right now.
Satoru's reaction to getting aggressively squeezed was this strangled deeply vibrating groan that felt like a literal car subwoofer detonating directly against your chest.
"Do that again," he panted. "Squeeze me like that again."
He did not pull away. Obviously he did not pull away because why would he?
If anything the premium haptic feedback just made him more of an animal. He bit down hard on your earlobe— And started thrusting with this renewed intensity that had absolutely zero chill left in it whatsoever.
He wasn't testing variables anymore. Bro was farming the spawn point. Like his entire life depended on it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His hips finding a rhythm. A terrible one, but yet just perfect rhythm.
He was a sweaty mess. You were a drooling mess. His entire bedroom was a disaster zone of kicked-off sweatpants and aggressively glowing RGB electronics and approximately zero dignity left between the two of you.
But as he drove his hips back into you, massive gamer fingers digging deep into your hips, keeping you completely pinned under him. You realized. The tutorial level was over.
"God, Satoru, seriously—" you gasped. "Just shut the fuck up n' fuck me or let me get back on top!"
The command didn't just register, it was processed as a Priority 1 Override Directive.
Satoru's fried motherboard, already overclocked way past its safe operating limit, finally, finally stopped trying to verbally narrate the gameplay.
He let out this low growl straight into your neck. A noise that was like 5% actually sexy and 95% a giant nerd who had just achieved his ultimate final form. He abandoned the theoretical approach entirely. And just leaned in.
He kissed you. Finally, on his own, without being yanked into it. It was just full of spit and licking and biting and he still had absolutely no idea what to do with his tongue and none of that mattered at all because he started thrusting with actual terrifying frame-dropping velocity simultaneously and your brain just— Buffered.
It wasn't smooth. It was desperate and heavy and his long-ass pale limbs kept tangling with yours in this sweaty chaotic disaster.
Every time he drove back in, his glasses rattled so violently against the bridge of his nose that they finally just gave up. Flying off to clatter against the headboard before vanishing into the void behind the mattress. Gone. Forever probably.
RIP.
"Going dark—!" he wheezed.
His vision was nothing but a smear of blinding colors n' your face. But that was enough for him. That was everything. He didn't need to see to feel the way you were completely wrapped around him or the way he was bottoming out with every single heavy messy thrust.
Aggressively kissing your cervix or whatever the narrator would say in some of those smutty ass romance books.
It was a collision-detection in the absolute best way possible. Every time he drove deep a fresh wave of static electricity popped behind your eyelids.
For Satoru it felt like he was actively trying to clip through the world geometry just to get closer to you. Like the normal rules of physics didn't apply and he was exploiting that.
"Critical—" His voice almost inaudible. "Hit." He buried his sweaty face deep into the crook of your neck, breathing in ragged desperate lungfuls of you. "I'm— I'm hitting the level cap! I can literally see the credits rolling—!"
The mushy suffocating warmth of you was the only thing in his universe.
Only thing left. Every time you clamped down around him he made this noise —
Eeeeerrrrr — Like high-speed server fans failing. A high-pitched hum of a moan of pure sensory overload that he couldn't have stopped if he tried.
Rhythm so frantic and sweaty and desperate as he chased the final achievement with everything he had left.
Almost almost almost—
"Satoru, I'm— I'm close! Right now—!"
"NOT WITHOUT ME—!" His voice cracked across three separate octaves simultaneously like it was actively shattering. "I'm not— I'm not letting you finish solo! We extract together!"
A pause. The most unhinged pause in human history.
"TELL MY DISCORD MODS I DIED A HERO!"
…Is he deadass for real now? Lol.
He buried himself inside you even deeper, like that was even possible. Every muscle in his back straining, visibly shaking, giving it absolutely everything his CPU had left in the tank. Teeth grazing your skin one last time.
Triggering the endgame cutscene.
Loading. Loading. load—
You unraveled completely.
Screamed his name. Like, actually screamed it. And oh my, he didn’t know his name could sound so heavenly like this. Your body violently arching off the mattress as you clamped down around him with this rhythmic crushing force that permanently blew his remaining fuses.
SYSTEM FAILURE.
Satoru's eyes rolled completely into the back of his skull. His entire frame went as rigid as a frozen PC mid-render.
"OH GOD— ERROR! SYSTEM DOWN!"
He shook. No, wait. He didn't just shake. He vibrated. Like a cell phone buzzing on bare tile at 3AM. And somewhere in the middle of all that vibrating his brain tried to send him one last coherent thought —
Wait did i just— am I about to— should I ask— her walls are so— focus FOCUS— Shoko will know what to do, Shoko always— god you feel so— SATORU GOJO FOCUS— What if you want to— NO you wouldn't— Would you— Just ASK—
"Can I—"
You could literally hear his entire thought process just from his eyes. "Yes." A beat. "Jesus, Satoru." Another beat. "I'm getting the shots."
The relief that crossed his face was genuinely profound. Like a man who had just been pardoned three seconds before his own execution.
"Oh—"
And then he just poured himself into you. One final shuddering gooey gasp of pure relief. Safe and protected and inside and the warmth of it was just. Ungodly. Heavenly. The kind of warmth he couldn’t even express using the thickest dictionary in the world—
And then he tipped forward. Straight down. All 190 centimeters of sweaty dead weight. Right on top of you.
You let out a muffled gasp of air as Satoru's entire lanky thoroughly exhausted body crushed you directly into the mattress. He was heavy. He was aggressively damp. He was currently heaving like a marathon runner who had just seen the face of God and realized he was worthy.
You two laid like that in complete silence.
Well, save for two things:
The desperate whirrrr of his PC. And the distant muffled lo-fi beats playing out in the living room since the morning.
You were staring up at the ceiling. Feeling the aggressive aftershocks twitching through your thighs and genuinely wondering if your ribs were still in their correct anatomical positions.
Are they though… Like actually?
Then— A twitch. Satoru lifted his head just enough to rest his chin directly on your chest. White hair sweaty and god knows what else. Without his glasses his blue eyes were wide and glassy and filled with a genuinely terrifying amount of raw adoration.
You looked up at him and this sudden massive surge of something warm and stupid and completely inconvenient hitting you directly in the chest.
He looked so painfully pathetically vulnerable that it actually made your heart do something embarrassing.
You reached up, threaded your fingers deep into his hair, and yanked him down to kiss him.
Satoru made a noise. And then he just melted. His hands clutching your waist desperately, trying to clip your physical models together, trying to close every possible gap between you.
No space. He wanted no space.
"I think I love you too, dork." You whispered, foreheads still pressed together.
Silence. One beat. Two.
But the buff was instantaneous.
Not just a mental reboot. A total unauthorized hardware overclock. That confession injecting directly into his system like an illegal mod and his ego just surging.
Satoru's frame gave a sudden violent jolt and you felt him —
Vividly — Undeniably — Throb right back to rigid inside you.
"Oh," he wheezed.
"Oh, that's..." A pause. "...that's a very dangerous thing to say to a man."
He lifted himself up— Blindly squinting down at you. His starry eyes full with this cocktail of worship and a newfound level of main character energy.
You were in trouble. Significant trouble.
"But seriously," he rasped, fingers sliding right back down to caress your hips. "We gotta find my glasses."
"Why?" you panted, feeling the ridiculous heat of him actively expanding inside you all over again.
"Because," he grinned. Just this feral lopsided smirk that was way too goddamn confident for a man who thought he’s gonna die a virgin twenty minutes ago.
"I'm a visual learner." His hips shifted lightly. "I want to see exactly how I fuck my pretty girlfriend for round two. And I need 4K resolution on this achievement unlock."
Pretty girlfriend. He said it so casually. Like it was already a fact.
…I mean, it was a fact? This little — okay, tall — fucker had you wrapped around his finger for months and he didn't even know. And it WILL stay that way. His ego would swell up so much he'd become even more insufferable and you don't need any unnecessary cortisol spikes.
You didn't even have a single second to process the sheer unbridled weaponized nerd-hubris of that statement before—
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The bedroom door rattled violently on its hinges.
"CONGRATULATIONS, ROMEO."
Shoko's voice pierced through the wood like a blade. And it sounded utterly unimpressed. The voice of a woman who had been expecting this and was somehow still annoyed it had happened.
"We are all very proud that you've officially retired from the virginity league." A pause. "But can you both be like. At least 50% less fucking noisy?"
Satoru completely froze. His entire face turned a shade so hot that practically outshined the RGB setup.
"Some of us are actively trying to survive a hangover out here without hearing the Fibonacci sequence moaned out!" Her footsteps receded slowly down the hallway. "Keep the volume down or I am literally changing the Wi-Fi password."
The silence that followed was deafening. Satoru stared at the door. Dead-eyed. Unblinking. Then slowly looked back down at you. His pupils were vibrating.
"She's just jealous," he whispered, voice cracking only slightly as he tentatively tentatively started rolling his hips again. His newfound god-complex only momentarily dampened by the catastrophic existential threat of losing internet access. "She's just a hater." A roll. "I'm a ranked pro now." Another. "I have a girlfriend."
"Let’s just find your glasses, Satoru," you laughed, reaching up to yank his sweaty ass back down toward you. He paused for one literal microsecond. His hands tightened to bruise-level hard the exact second he felt you pulse around him and the need for 4K visuals instantly lost the battle against the sheer haptic feedback of being buried inside you.
No contest. First round knockout.
"Actually—" he mumbled, lips already finding your neck. "Fuck that." Dive. "I can find them before round three." His teeth grazing your skin. "Right now I'm playing on instincts."
