𑣲 abbey ⋆

But that was early this morning, after Park woke you up out of your sleep to remind you why you put up with him in the first place- right now you’re asking the nurse to call surgery down to check on the patient for replantation after you’ve stabilized and sedated her. “Mm, let’s try a clamp and direct location instead,” you speak up after Robby tells Whitaker throw a few figure eights around the bleeders. “Park prefers his limbs with less chance of necrosis or desensitization of the tissue,” you shrug- like it was no big deal and you didn’t go over Robby’s head but you’re his ER attending so he nods when Whitaker gives him a look, telling him to do what you said. It wasn’t the way you took over but it was the way you said it- like it wasn’t about the bleeders but it was about Park and it was only Robby who really paid attention to it.

“Since when do we care what Park prefers?” Mumbling almost, barely loud enough for you to hear it let alone anyone else but it’s his tone that you catch. Fuck. That’s too personal isn’t it? You shouldn’t know that Brendon has a preference let alone care but-

“I’m just making sure the limb gets replanted favorably- and not trying to get chewed out by the shark,” another shrug- not looking away from Whitaker’s work and nodding when he did a solid tie off. You hope Robby buys it- hope he doesn’t see the way you’re actively trying to not look at him or the way you bite your lip because you can feel the marks Brendon left only a few hours ago. Angry bites along your inner thighs when he woke you up with his mouth at what- 3 am? Woke up needy and hard and aching and wanting you. At least he gave you a little treat before fucking you open- tongue and lips attacking your pussy as gently as he could but that’s not by much with him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You didn’t want to hide your relationship from Robby but somewhere along the way he just didn’t drop the protective older brother role- or he always has something negative to say about anyone you date. And you didn’t expect to date Park- honestly it just happened. You were the only one in the ER that didn’t piss him off and mostly stayed out of his way- and when you were in his way, you weren’t fucking incompetent. You were brilliant- smart and fucking gorgeous and of course liked you- how could he not? You didn’t shrink under his gaze and you answered him without stuttering like some still did- he was intrigued. And really it was supposed to be just sex at first.

He listened to you and sought you out and showed up one day at the bar after a long shift- having been invited by Garcia and only agreeing when he heard you were going to be there. Say in the corner all fucking night- watching you and waiting you out. Everyone left one by one- leaving you and the shark alone. “Surprised you came,” you smiled- taking a seat next to him after you promised Robby you’d leave soon. Immediately he opened up- turning his body towards you and even fucking smiled. You spent another hour or two just talking- laughing even because he was funny and charming and how could you say no to those soft blue eyes?

Maybe it was the alcohol- maybe it was the fact that you kept thinking about his arms and how easily he could pick you and fuck you against the wall which he did that night but maybe it was the fact that you liked him too. He was smart and cute and sure a bit of an arrogant asshole but what surgeon isn’t? That night you laid in his big arms- fingers drawing little shapes into his skin when he finally asked you to go out with him. How could you say no? Amazing sex and someone who surprisingly has decent conversation, contrary to popular belief about Park the Shark- he’s funny as fuck and makes you laugh with his snarky comments and snide jokes. And he honestly didn’t care when you said you’d have to keep this on the down low- not wanting to hear Robby drag Brendon’s name through the mud even if he actually respects the guy. Park wasn’t about putting his personal life out at work anyone so he agreed.

“Park,” Robby’s voice cut the tension from your mind- nodding at your secret boyfriend when he walked in to check on the patient for surgery. Only Robby swears he caught something when Brendon passed behind you- a hand on your waist. Gently holding you still while he passes through to ask about the patient and the limb and you didn’t even register that he did it at first- he always touches you or holds you when you’re by yourselves but at work? You hardly cross paths and when he does come down for a consult, it’s usually Robby who deals with the surgical team. But you didn’t realize what he did- his hand wasn’t foreign but a welcomed invitation only not at work. But Robby did realize it. Robby did see Brendon put his heavy hand on your hip to move behind you while he asks his questions.

You watch Brendon move around the room- eyeing the patient, the scans, the limb, and the amputation. He doesn’t even look at you. When you’re both at work you don’t really mix much and even then when you do- he doesn’t get bothered. Or at least he doesn’t let it show- doesn’t openly smirk at the faint bruise he left in your wrists when he pinned you to the mattress, doesn’t smile when he passes by you and smells his body wash on you because you took a shower with him that morning, he doesn’t say anything about the hoodie you have on actually his.

“I’m not blind,” he tells Whitaker after he’s bent down- eyeing the leg of the patient.

“Brendon,” you warn. You warn him- almost chastising him for being mean to your intern the same way you chastise him for eating all your snacks after he said he doesn’t eat sugar or when he listens to his music too loud at 7 am. When his eyes snap up to where you are from behind Whitaker and Ogilvie they soften for a second. No one else sees it- the two kids in front of you don’t know him well enough to know that look. Robby can’t see it- but he fucking hears the way you say Park’s name. His name. Too personally like you’re friends- not Park, not Shark, or ortho- Brendon.

“I’ll book the OR,” walking- no strutting away almost. You feel the tension- not from Park but from Robby. Whose eyes were narrowed at the interaction- but called away before he could ask you anything. Not until later- after the stress has piled onto him and everything in the fucking ER has decided to go wrong on his watch and-

“How long have you been fucking Park?” Point blank- no coddling you when he asks. Oh? Is this a problem now? Because it’s your fucking business and you’ve been trying hide this from him and haven’t even been able to enjoy your fucking relationships because Robby still treats you like a child.

“Longer than you’ve been fucking Noelle,” low blow, cheap shot and you know it. “Or longer than you’ve been fucking that nurse in the ICU, Casey? Lacey? And longer than the derm nurse before her,” because Robby is the last fucking person to be shaming you. Using bodies and other women as a form of self harm and self sabotaging his relationships- while you’ve been doing more than fucking Brendon. You’ve been dating him- have slept on his chest or on his back because he’s so fucking warm. You’ve dragged him to farmers markets and museums and- he holds your hand. He makes you laugh and smile and yes it’s amazing sex but he lets you pick the music in the car and he washes your back when you take a shower together and he uses all your fucking unnecessary skin care products and-

You love him.

You haven’t said that yet, but you love Brendon Park.

And you’re fucking sick of the look Robby gives you now- almost disgusted with you and how you’re conducting yourself. How you’re eye fucking Park in his ER- how you’re throwing yourself at the nearest man who will give you attention because you’re lonely.

“I’m lonely?” Some fucking nerve, because you have someone in your bed who knows you. And who you let in- Robby won’t even let you in anymore. And he’s telling you that you’re using Park to be less lonely and maybe at first you were- but now you’re not lonely. Now you have a boyfriend who buys you your favorite lattes even though he drinks his coffee black because you know he takes sips when you aren’t looking, who wears a shirt or hoodie before giving it to you because he knows you like when it smells like him- who loves you too. He won’t say it- not yet. But he does. So you don’t care what Robby has to say- not anymore.

➻ taglist (click to join!):

The first month mistake. The dive bar near the hospital, the inability for you to remember anyone’s faces or names, let alone their positions in the hospital. The three- no, four gin and tonics, the shitty bar speakers, the cigarette break outside, the borrowed lighter from the man you thought was a stranger, and his all-too-familiar purple scrubs he’d donned that next morning, with a hungover you in his bed. The bite marks on your thighs that took far too long to stop aching.

Like you said, a mistake.

A feedback form was fine. It required mere observation, nothing more. It’s not like you got frequently brutal ortho cases that Park the Shark deigned to come down for. You barely saw the man more than once a week.

Two weeks later, you were regretting that thought. Four. Four overeager chemical engineering Pitt undergrads versus one lab experiment gone wrong. Multiple fingers in plastic bags and three unlucky toes from the one man who’d ignored lab shoe protocol.

“Present.” The trauma doors opened with a bang, Park walking through with his gloves already half on. “Ogilvie,” you said, spurring the newly minted intern into action. 

“Some sort of chemical reaction, they’ve refused to say what they used. Five fingers across three patients, three toes from the last. Bagged and on ice, but there are suspected glass fragments. We haven’t sorted through all of them yet.”

“You called me down here without fully evaluating the patient?” Asked Park, his annoyance evident. “We called you down here because we have multiple appendages that need to be reattached. Whittaker has it sorted with the ones we’ve gotten through versus the ones we haven’t,” you replied sweetly. Dark eyes, the same shade of stone you imagined castles were built from, glared at you. 

“Let me guess. One of these idiots got their hallux blown off too.” Of course he would say hallux and not ‘big toe’ like a normal person. 

Instead of answering, you walked around one of the gurneys to find the bags you were looking for. They’d been specially labeled by your instruction, just for this.

You held up the two bags, extra stars on them noting their importance.

“Not just one hallux, Dr. Park. Looks like you get extra practice on big toe reattachment today.” He snatched the bags from you, huffing loudly. For a brief moment, your gloved hands brushed. It was faster than you had thought possible, his movements like a predator cutting through water, and yet you still felt the echo of his presence long after he rounded the gurney. Your pointer finger hummed, as if in memory of that brush.

More instructions were barked out to your residents present, and while they were delivered harshly, they certainly weren’t incorrect. More sedative was pushed, some extra for your toeless student, before Park finally seemed satisfied with the state of the room.

Then he turned. Movements slick, neck pulsing slightly with awareness. His eyes, a gray so deep they could be black, met yours. It was a poor replica of the look he’d given you in an alley that night of the mistake, the churning waters that made you want to swim a little closer just to find out if you would drown.

They dipped. His pupils widened and his eyes dipped and caught on your lips, snagged like fabric against a nail. You forced yourself not to turn around, not to tighten your gloved fists. 

Park’s gaze (Brendon, you’d called him once, throat raspy with smoke) stuttered, lashes blinking slow like an amphibian. If you squinted, you could imagine a double lid there.

”I look forward to being your feedback partner, Dr. Park.”

You didn’t know why you said it. But there was something there, something searching that you didn’t want him to find. He didn’t stutter, didn’t blink harshly like he’d been caught off guard. Park simply nodded, once, steady, and left the room.

Whittaker exhaled loudly. Ogilvie’s eyebrows lowered to their normal height. You rolled your shoulders and got on with calming four undergrads and their inevitable parents.

-

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Attending Feedback Program Month One

Dear Attending,

Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.

Feedback from Brendon Park:

“Needs to create a more serious work environment instead of coddling residents.”

Your feedback to assigned partner:

“Doctor Park is a highly skilled individual. He could consider taking a more educational tone when conversing with medical students and residents, keeping in mind that this is a teaching hospital first. Keep up the great work!”

Month 2 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.

Sincerely,

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department

You’d promised yourself, sometime back in your intern year, that you would never let an email impact your day. That you could continue onward even with bad news on your shoulder, that that was the mark of a professional.

Today, you decided to forget that promise.

It wasn’t even your trauma. Al-Hashimi was running it, bicycle versus electric scooter, and hadn’t needed your help to keep going. But a flash of purple scrubs caught your eyes, and you weren’t going to let him go. He insinuated you weren’t a professional, that you coddled your students, and there was no way you were letting that get on your permanent file with the hospital.

You left the board in Dana’s capable hands and crossed through the hallway next to the trauma room, emerging just as Park left the room. He turned his neck toward the elevator and suddenly he was there, all encompassing in his presence. You didn’t let yourself take in the strand of hair that freed itself from his usual slick back, dangling in front of his eyes as if daring you to reach up and feel it.

”Park,” you said without preamble. Any other person might be startled as to your emergence from the hallway, but he wasn’t any other person. He said your last name back, low and soulless in his mouth. You wondered if he said it before, had spun the syllables in his head or if it was just a word to him. 

Just a name.

”You said I wasn’t serious.”

A beat. Then, “That’s not what I said.”

You sighed, hitting the button for the elevator with more force than necessary. There was no reason for you to go up to ortho, but the conversation needed to be had, and he clearly wasn’t nice enough to stop and wait to finish it.

”That’s what you insinuated. That I coddle.” The elevator dinged open and you both stepped aside, letting the two nurses out before stepping in. He pressed the number for the ortho floor, and you didn’t yourself look at his fingers while he did it. You’d been able to work diplomatically with this man for months, but the moment feedback was needed, it seemed that your cordiality imploded.

”It’s not just you. The entire emergency department coddles,” he replied. You sighed, suddenly achingly tired of the argument you were trying not to have. “No matter your personal feelings on the pedagogy of the ED, you can’t take it out on me. My one year review is next month, and I can’t have something that throws a wrench in it, okay? My spot’s still technically temporary.” You didn’t think Gloria liked you, and you were certain Robby wouldn’t know how to give a genuine compliment if his life was on the line. Al-Hashimi and Abbot were your favorites, but you knew it was admin needed on your side.

Park didn’t answer for a moment. You peeled your eyes away from the elevator doors, the two of you only a floor away from his, and found his face. Something in his cheek twitched, as if he were swallowing hard. 

You tore your eyes away.

The elevator jerked to a stopped, the doors dinging open. Just before you could ask for a reply, he turned his heel and met you head on. His eyes on yours, gray depths attempting to swallow you.

”You’re a great doctor. They would be fools not to keep you.”

You blinked, mouth open. Purple whirled in front of you, Park walking back onto his floor. He was gone before you could say thank you. Before you could point out the loose strand of hair that would definitely need fixing before his next surgery.

Someone walked in, nodding at you before hitting the button for the ED. You swallowed hard, and got back to work.

-

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Attending Feedback Program Month Two

Dear Attending,

Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.

Feedback from Brendon Park:

“N/A.”

Your feedback to assigned partner:

“My comments from last month are still applicable. Other than that, I’ve enjoyed working with Dr. Park!”

Month 3 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.

Sincerely,

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department

You needed to be on your couch, in your sweatpants. This was a fact. It was 7:43pm on a Friday night and handoff still hadn’t happened, with the five traumas that came in at 6:55pm. MVC, mini van versus a happy hour drunk couple on an electric scooter. A kid who’d had their hand out of the window when the car crashed. Abbot worked next to you, Mohan at his side, but you couldn’t save either of the scooter riders. 

When Ortho came down to consult on the kid, you couldn’t even bring yourself to give Park more than a nod. There was a crick in your neck that had been there since that morning, and an ache forming in your lower back that required a heating pad. Deeper than that, an utter tiredness had made its way into your bones.

It was 8:12pm when you finally left, your bag tugging down your right shoulder considerably. It had been nice outside this morning, so you walked to work like an idiot, and now you had to pay for it. Bus or train or your own two feet, none of which sounded appealing.

You turned towards the parking lot, your goal the bus stop that came after it. As you left the ambulance bay, a black SUV stopped in front of you, blocking your path to the lot. A tinted window rolled down, and you were confronted with the sight of an after-work Park.

His hair was still in its usual gel, a look that you couldn’t imagine any other man pulling off. But there was something there, behind his eyes, that told you he was wrung out by the day. The smudges under thick lashes were a shade of lavender, brought out by his scrubs.

”You didn’t drive to work today,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer it, shoulders about to buckle from the weight of your bag. All you could do was tilt your head, a sigh of confusion leaving your lips.

”Get in.”

The bus was delayed. The red clock on your phone map said so.

It wasn’t the reason you got in, but it was plausible deniability.

He drove you to your apartment, and you did not comment on the last, and only, time he’d done it. How you’d sat in this very passenger seat, slightly nauseous from the alcohol and head spinning from what you’d done. From the purple scrubs and the shift he had at 8am and the stop he’d made to get you a breakfast sandwich, nothing for himself. Peeling yourself off of the crisp leather, you hadn’t let yourself meet his eyes, simply murmuring a thank you and trying to not hate yourself for messing up your new job.

Now, you curled into the car like it was yours, tucking your head into the curve of the window. Silence thrummed like its own kind of music, the only sound the occasional instructions of the GPS. The only movement was the swing of the air freshener from the backup mirror. Lemon, bright yellow. 

The swinging of it gave you a pattern you never could find in the ED. Something reliable, something steady. Your eyes fluttered, six minutes left on the virtual map on the screen. Just a moment, just a second to close off from the rest of the world and rest.

When you opened your eyes, the clock blinked a steady 9:36pm back at you. The car was still moving, and when you turned left, Park was still there. For some reason, you hadn’t expected him to be. His spine was still straight, hair still in place, hands still quiet.

”Park?” Your voice cracked, dry from the water bottle you emptied halfway through your shift that you never had the chance to refill. He procured a plastic one from the side of the driver door, passing it over without taking his eyes off the road. You gulped it down greedily, emptying half of it until your stomach hurt. No food since that protein bar at 3pm, and you were paying for it.

He didn’t respond to your murmured thank you, and you took the chance to look outside your window. To take in the dark backroads, city streets long gone from your view. Streetlights passed by, blipping in and out of existence like floating stars.

”I’m sorry for falling asleep,” you half-whispered. He didn’t shrug, but it was something close to it. Park seemed to be content to keep driving, so you tapped the screen of his GPS and plugged it back to your apartment address. 

Thirty three minutes away.

There was something here, in the warmth of his car, that made words bubble up from your throat. You straightened slightly, eyes ahead on your enivitable return back to the bright city streets. “I had my meeting with Gloria today,” you said. Brought up the memory of her mahogany desk, the office on the eighth floor you’d only been once before for your final round interview.

”I know,” Park replied. Your head snapped left, a question on the tip of your tongue. “I was asked to provide feedback. Temporary attending to permanent requires input from more than just the ED.” You exhaled sharply, gaze on your bag on the ground. On the newly updated badge within, one without an expiration date on it. 

“Congratulations,” he murmured. “Thank you,” you replied, letting a small smile make a home on your face. The evaluation had wrecked your nerves, and it was only now that you truly let yourself feel the weight of your accomplishment. The raise, the steady paycheck, the fact that tackling your student loans actually felt achievable.

Time passed quickly after that, and it seemed you were outside your apartment within moments. He parallel parked in a way you could never quite get the hang of, the doors unlocking as the moment ended.

His knuckles gripped the steering wheel so hard they went white, a stark contrast against the purple hues of his body. Plumb scrubs and lavender eyebags turned the veins of his hands into a faint violet, something you’d have to search for to find. There was something in his mouth, his jaw working hard, but no words came out.

Like this, stripped from the OR, he was no less a predator. He was simply at rest, teeth retracted for a moment. 

Maybe that’s why you did it. Pure curiosity, reaching out your hand until it met the soft skin of his lips. Your thumb found the edge and pulled, exposing his mouth until you could see his teeth. Pristine white, smooth as you ran your finger over his canine. It wasn’t longer than any normal one, but still felt sharper as you pressed the pad of your finger against him.

No blood.

You removed your finger, and it was like a spell was broken. Your bag was gathered, the door opened, your feet finding the familiar concrete of your sidewalk. When you turned back, only his silhouette was visible past the tint of the window, and yet you burned under the feeling of being watched the rest of the walk to the door.

-

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Attending Feedback Program Month Three

Dear Attending,

Thank you for participating in our pilot Attending Feedback Program. Below is the feedback from your assigned partner, Brendon Park. A copy of your feedback is attached as well.

Feedback from Brendon Park:

“Satisfactory work.”

Your feedback to assigned partner:

“Dr. Park is an asset to the hospital, but he could work on his communication skills.”

Month 4 Feedback form is available here, and is due in three weeks. Please reach out to [email protected] with any questions.

Sincerely,

Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Human Resources Department

Two weeks, six days, four hours and eleven minutes. That’s how long it had been since the car ride. That’s how long it had been since Park had talked to you outside of a trauma room.

It had never bothered you before. In the months before the feedback form, you went out of your way to avoid any situation where you might be alone with him. Survival, a small fish against a bigger one, swimming to safety.

But now circumstances had changed. Now you jerked at every shade of purple, flinching from a patient with a NYU sweatshirt on. Despite that, your patient satisfaction scores were higher than ever, Robby had called you a hard worker last week, and you had plans to get drinks with Al-Hashimi next week. The Pitt felt more like your home than ever, and yet every corner seemed to haunt you with flashes of dark fabric.

And then came Garcia’s birthday invite.

She was nowhere near your closest work friend, and yet the invite had seemed genuine. Or perhaps it was Santos asking if you were going to come, the R3 almost eager to have shitty beer at the bar all Pitt birthdays happened to be celebrated at. 

It was not, at all, the possibility of another surgeon being present. It’s not like he partied.

The date was one you didn’t work, so you showed up to the bar looking more human that your coworkers usually saw you as. The door opened and Princess was there and you were being swept into arms and handshakes, a smile making a permanent residence on your face.

The birthday girl herself wore no crown or sash, just a satisfied smirk as you wished her a happy birthday. You left her to make your way to the bar, ordering a hard cider, determined to not repeat your last dive bar mistake.

The night swirled around you. You talked with your fellow attendings, said hi to your residents, and shared a few quips with Walsh. The entire time, a presence seemed to haunt the corner booth. You’d seen Garcia go in and out of it, other people in purple scrubs stopping by.

You left to go to the bathroom, and when you emerged, he was gone.

The back door with a sign titled Smoke Here seemed like the only logical conclusion. Your feet changed course, your hand pressing the door open before you could fully prepare yourself.

He was there.

 ”You’ve been ignoring me.” The door slammed behind you, ushering you outside into the alley. Someone had hung Christmas lights along the brick wall, basking the area into a hazy sort of golden glow. Park held no cigarette, no preamble to being outside; just leaned back against the brick wall like he had all the time in the world.

”We saw each other yesterday.”

”You were holding a foot. I don’t really count that,” you replied. Park sighed, crossing over his chest. He was still wearing his scrubs, seemingly coming straight from the hospital, and the sight made your blood heat.

You left the doorway and took up the place on his right. The coolness of the brick seeped through your thin sweater, and yet your spine melted into it, letting the wall hold you up.

Maybe you’d read things wrong. He was your coworker, your not-friend, one of the people you saw on a regular basis. Perhaps it had all coalesced into something you’d invented, a book that wasn’t met for you to read. You were practically throwing yourself at a man you’d already fucked, and the memory made you shiver in response.

You pushed off the wall, feet already turned back to the door. “I’ll see you at the hospital, Park.” Maybe you could stop by that Thai place you liked before going home, get yourself a pity meal to commemorate this last attempt at what you thought was something more.

A cold hand grabbed your wrist before you take one more step. 

Icy fingers, life saving fingers, wrapped around and took hold. His thumb found the bone of your wrist, pressing inward like he needed to feel it to continue. Park tugged and you went, coming to stand in front of him, his hand wrapped around yours like a vine.

”I’ve been ignoring you,” he admitted. His eyes burned into yours as you looked forward, caught on the dip of his scrub neckline.

”Why?” You rasped, throat dry despite the drink you nursed earlier. The hand around your wrist tightened, surgeon fingers digging at skin to get at sinew. The night settled around you as he pressed, releasing just as quickly when he found whatever he’d been looking for.

”My sheets smelled like you for weeks after that night. Even after washing them. You know what that’s like?” You shook your head, finally brave enough to tilt your chin up and meet his gaze. Sea storms looked less violent than his eyes, a tempest swirling as you took him in. He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like the word ‘feedback’.

You tucked your fingers into the neckline of his scrubs. All he did was let you, staring as you traced the seam of the fabric. The skin under was pale, smooth like, well, a shark. You wondered if he’d been on a swim team, or if he was just born half-sea creature, something hidden from the depths of the ocean that became curious about human life.

He grabbed you again, this time clasping your fingers with his own. His thumb, calloused from years of holding scalpels, stroked the skin of your knuckle reverently. “We do this, you don’t leave my bed again. It’s not a one time thing,” he ordered. This man couldn’t imagine sharing his OR, let alone his residents. You weren’t surprised he refused to share his partner.

You turned his fingers until they interlinked with your own, soft warmth pulsing through your chest. It was your time to give orders this time, nuzzle your cheek against his until your mouth was to his ear.

“Take me home, Brendon.”

-

You’d forgotten the utter carnality of his presence in bed. The bites on your neck, soothed with an unforgiving tongue. He demanded nothing less than skin against skin, so you’d wrapped a leg around his hip and dug your claws into his back as a way to keep him exactly where he was.

Brendon nipped the skin of your ear lobe, bringing you back to the moment. “Do they call you Shark because you bite in bed?” You asked, running a hand through his hair. You’d been wanting to mess up his hair for months now, and finally got the satisfaction of seeing him utterly disheveled. Dark strands framed his face, affection shuddering through your core so powerful you bucked against him. 

“I haven’t fucked any of my other coworkers, if that’s what you’re asking. Shark is from med school, and it stuck,” he replied. The words were murmured to your skin, wet from his kisses as he made his way down your torso. You mourned the loss of his warmth, nipples pebbling in the cold he left.

You found his hair and tugged, enough for him to raise his head from the crease of your belly to capture your lips in a kiss. A clever hand, a steady one, a surgeon’s, trailed down your stomach to work you open. He started you on one finger, a smirk on his lips as your mouth fell open. Two left you panting and three had you biting down on his shoulder, claiming his nickname for your own.

“Brendon, please,” you whined, sliding against his fingers in desperation. His cock was right there, brushing against your entrance as you canted against him, and yet you were deliriously empty. 

“You want my cock, baby?” He asked in that same condescending voice he used to order med students around, like asking if you could tie your shoes without help. You nodded fiercely, thighs trembling from the three fingers that seemed to carve something from you to make space for something new.

Brendon slipped out from you, shushing you as you whimpered. Something blunt tapped at your entrance, one of his big hands gripping the underside of your knee to spread you wider. His low grunt filled you with heat, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed forward. 

“‘S too big,” you slurred, even as you pulled him further into you in encouragement. He didn’t laugh, but it was something resembling one, a slight chuckle meant for your ears only. Heat curled in your belly, possessiveness rearing its ugly head as you were determined no one else would receive such a sound from him. 

He finally slipped in, his mouth hot against the crook of your neck as you panted. Brendon started to move, finally, and you never wanted him to stop. It took a few stutters, a few pauses where you giggled and he gave you a wry smirk, but you found a rhythm that hit all of the right spots. 

His right hand cradled your head from the headboard while his left snaked downward, slipping in between your sweat soaked bodies. He found the top of your curls and pressed down, sending you keening beneath him. The heat that had been simmering since the alley heightened to a roar, pleasure coiling under his hand.

You came with a moan, muffling yourself against the smooth skin of his neck. Park, for he was Park for a second, that killer look in his eyes reminiscent of an ortho evaluation, soon followed you with his own orgasm. Wet heat flooded your insides, quickly coating you both.

He didn’t collapse on you, but it was a near thing, his forearms bracing his body as he slowly lowered himself down. You stroked the thick muscle of his back, noting the red marks that had already started to form from your ministrations. His cock softened inside of you, but neither of you moved to take it out, content to sync your heart beats as your breathing slowed.

His thumb swept against your temple, a constant reminder of his presence as you stared at the ceiling. Your room was the same, same sheets and same books and same window that stuck when you tried to open it more than an inch, but it seemed its owner had changed drastically.

“You think this will get me a good month four feedback form?” You joked, a reminder of the form you needed to fill in before the week ended. “Hopefully more than satisfactory work,” you added, stiffening slightly when he didn’t respond. His thumb left your temple but not your face, moving down until he could cup your chin and meet your gaze.

“Better than my communication skills, according to some,” he answered. You grinned, your hand back in his hair, smoothing it back until sweat made it stick into its normal form.

“There’s always room for improvement,” you agreed, shrieking when he nipped your chin.

As is typical of patient demographic in the Pitt, Mr. Weskon falls into the common category of admitted Dr. Google-patients rattling off into an uninformed tangent thinking they’re entitled the Universe for their competence. 

But nobody had considered he might cross the line into violence. (A grave oversight of: “Ah, he’s all bark, no bite!”)

Hindsight is 20/20, isn’t it? 

One moment you’re sparing a there-and-away glance over your shoulder to the cart with a screen pulled up on Mr. Weskon’s medical chart, and the next you’re gasping for breath as your windpipe crushes underneath your own stethoscope like a yoke thanks to his merciless, white-knuckle grip. 

Hula-hoop hardly escapes your mouth in time. Your clarion call is choked into nothingness. 

By the grace of whatever divine providence had been watching you, however, the ordeal is done within the minute. Robby, Jesse and Dana had been the three concerned faces you’d seen when the terrifying moment had finally passed, and the hypoxic vignette from your tunnel vision ebbed awa— 

You’ve insisted on tamping down the memory of everything else that happened on that day since.

Hell, forgetting is the way you’ve always tried to decompress once you’re done with any exhausting shift. Setting your mind aside to focus on anything else but patient care and death and suffering. Sometimes it’s a night-out; On most days, a night-in: relaxing in the arms of Robby to catch up on a movie over take-out, or spending the night sweaty in his sheets from where he’s burrowing himself into you.

And it’s play. He likes control as much as you like to willingly give it up. That’s the parity, isn’t it? Robby regains the dominant control he feels he lacks when it comes to the grisly, trauma-inducing nature of his work; You get to yield control and submit after a long day of running the show behind-the-scenes.

Equilibrium. A shared thrill. If the first thing Robby doesn’t look forward to when arriving home is a hot shower, it’d be muscling you face down towards the nearest available angle to fuck you until your legs give out.

Utilising his imposing height and broad size over you to his own unfair advantage, toeing your feet demandingly apart and rocking you into an edge when he buries himself into you until you’re on your tip-toes, desperately struggling to find a foothold between a rosy haze of bliss.

You whining? he’d growl, pressing the brutal hand splayed between your shoulder blades down further, until your chest aches and every breath is forced out in a panting series of ah, ah—mh, fuck, Robby—!

Shhh, will come the familiar, disapproving chide. Just— god, you’re so tight— Just shut the fuck up and take it.

It’s exhilarating. 

You suppose it’s easy to reason out the nature of it, of course. Figure that it’s a way to use the professional power imbalance the both of you have from the ED— what with him being and Attending and you a Nurse— into a perversion of authority; a corruption of his influence. 

No one knows the gentle, guiding hand everyone sees him use to sidle you from the path of a speeding gurney is the same one that fists your hair and shoves your face down between his thighs until you’re gagging; that the words of gratitude for buoying the Pitt in crises (“I don’t know how we could’ve got through that without you—”) turns into filth when the sun goes down and he’s leading you to the foot of his livingroom sofa (“Get on your knees. I’m gonna come down your throat tonight, you hear me?”).

Still, depravity is safe with Robby: When he bends you over the counter, his fingers are wrapped around where your hips will knock the marble edge, taking the brunt of his own brutal pace. When he roughs you onto your knees to suck him off, you’re kneeling on an offered pillow to curb bruises from blossoming your skin, after which you’ll eventually be carried off in his arms to bed, where he nuzzles his face into your cunt as polite repayment.

He goes on about breeding you full of him, but rolls a condom on anyway unless you explicitly tell him otherwise; will only ever cum inside you when you’re outwardly begging for it. If he isn’t manhandling you into obedience on his lazy days then his words take its place to do all the work— yet names he calls you are always tagged, still, with something sweet to soften the blow of his blunt degradation. My pretty little slut— Such a good whore for me, aren’t you?— Taking me like a perfect cocksleeve. 

Even now, with where he’s mouthing and suckling possessive marks of his claim over you across your breasts and collar— he doesn’t nip you further than a pinch between incisors, doesn’t bite or nick with canines to ever draw blood.

“Mh, Robby,” you whimper, nails scratching down the broad of his back as you cling helplessly to him. But all you get in return is his gruff grunts in return from where he’s bullying the head of his cock into you, stretching you full with each unforgiving thrust— hiking you up into the bed from the sheer force of himself rutting greedily into your cunt, palms pressing harshly at the back of your knees to fold you into taking every inch of him right to the hilt. 

“Too big, huh?” he croons amusingly, voice like roughstone and dripping with condescension. Faux-pity. Blatantly prides over himself that you’re struggling, consistently, to fit yourself around the splitting width of him. “Doesn’t matter how many times I fuck this pretty pussy, does it? Yeah. Always such a tight little slut for me.”

You can only whine in reply. Too blissed out with liquid pleasure beginning to knot in your navel from where you can feel him nudging deep at that gummy spot inside you. 

Another shove. Another rock of hips. Come on, give it to me, you hear, feeling the grope of his mean hands going from kneading your thighs to your clit to your stomach; palming at your breasts and tweaking your nipples; slithering his hands up your scratching arms to wrench it brutally back down flat onto the bed.

Squirming only entices him, after all. Encourages him into tightening his grip around your wrists and shackling them down the sides of your head so you can’t argue against the weight of him bearing down on you; can barely writhe from how full you feel with him notched between your thighs, can barely put up a fight when he breathes the heady scent of you in like you’re prey as he lays on you.

Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, he rasps, nosing a kiss onto your lips and then down your jaw again. All spread out for me, hm?

You preen at the compliment. A fawn willingly heeding to the maw of its predator, the flex of tendons in Robby’s biceps dangerously attractive— makes your back arch, chin turning up inadvertently and exposing your throat to the hulking beast above you. 

Robby groans as he eyes the slope of your neck bared to him, soft and supple and swallowing hard with anticipation. 

The pads of his fingers slide up to it. Another obscene game. Another familiar dance. Just enough to have you dizzy with pleasure and a high for oxygen, bullying a laving kiss on your mouth when you're gasping for air just because he can.

His digits curl. A ferric clutch over the hollow of your throat. There’s a spark of pleasure in you. Pretty girl, you can feel him smile, tone brassy, Gonna take it? Feel your tachy heartbeat pulsing against his thumb and—

—A stethoscope around your neck. A yoke. A tightening noose. The blind, animalistic rage of a man twice your size abusing his strength. Exploiting your give. 

BREATHE, comes the reflex, fingers failing to work a gap into the cord. You blindly kick out a foot to the medical cart as you’re practically yanked off-balance, and you can hear the corner of it clip harshly, wheels squeaking as it tumbles violently out of South-22. 

And the crashing scatter must have worked to turn heads, because one moment you’re craning to look at the blood-shot eyes of a savage monster, and then the next you’re collapsing onto the cold linoleum with Dana tugging you aside from the hectic chaos of Jesse and Robby snarling curses at the patient.

Robby.

You blink. Turn the set of your free hand on Robby’s slick collarbone into a swat instead. Your left hand is still in an iron-grip by your head, the right slithering down now from his chest to tap repeatedly at the back of his coiled hand as you writhe out of instinct. “Robby,” you whisper. “Baby—”

Hula-hoop has never explicitly been an agreed safe-word outside of the ED— Stop for him is natural enough— but some things didn’t need to be said between you and Robby, anyway. 

Stop, stop, comes your tiny murmur. A thready, weak rasp. If he hadn’t been nestling a wet, humid kiss below your ear he might not have heard it at all. But he knows you. Hula-hoop, Robby.

The leonine gaze in his eyes wink out. Unlatches his choke and softens it into a ghosting palm above your sternum as he unwinds from his position.

“Sweetheart,” he rears back instantly, voice softening into concern, “M’sorry, I’m sorry, did I— shit, did I hurt you—?”

“No, I…” You shake your head. Sit up from your supine position to scoot a little further back to the back of the bed for gasp of air. Robby looks scalded; sends a fraught pang into your soul. You’re safe, you tell yourself. Robby is safe.

“You didn’t,” you stumble. “It’s not you— I, I’m sorry. I think I just freaked out a little because—”

Your words catch. Robby gathers the memory in an instant: swiping the curtain aside and witnessing the harrowing scene in front him, the blistering rage in his veins when he’d snatched the patient’s grip from suffocating you; how he’d threatened to break Mr. Weskon’s hands clean in two.

Get your fucking hands off her—

“Hey, hey. It’s alright, that was on me, baby, not you,” he soothes, sweeping a thumb absently at your hip before you try to shuffle back underneath him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. How about we call it a night, yeah? No more, I promise. We’ll go to bed.”

Hearing him say No kickstarts a reflexive dread into your ribcage. Feels akin to a child being admonished; a creeping disappointment in your marrows. The tears slowly burning your eyes are a half-daze of fear and humiliation that had come from the memory, and a half-daze of shame and guilt for twisting the mood into something— filthy.

Do good, comes the carnal instinct neath the floatiness. Make Robby feel good. 

(A basal, distant part of you clinically rationales it’s the physiology: That you’re still reeling through the high and heady overload as you recover from the throes of submission. Unconsciously hanging onto the familiar thread of desire to anchor yourself while in the sudden drop; A muscle memory to oblige to his demand and try to appease him out of feverish habit.) 

You shake your head in earnest disagreement.

“We can keep going. I’m sorry, Robby, maybe…” you trail off, words slurring and tone pleading as you lean forward once more to offer yourself up on a silver platter. I’ll be good this time around. Pawing placatingly at the broad of his shoulder, gliding a palm as languidly as you can again all the way up to his nape. “Maybe we could— if I sit ontop, I, I won’t— We can—”

“Woah, hey, sweetheart, look at me. It’s okay, really.” His palm reaches up to gently slide your grasp off from his neck. Interlocks his hand with yours and presses a kiss to your fingertips; a low hum as he dips his head lightly to chase your half-lidded gaze. “S’alright, c’mere. Just wanna hold you, honey. Can I?”

His eyes are sincere. The little smile he’s giving you reaches them, wrinkling at the corners as he cocks his head at you patiently.

“But…” You shift your leg up an inch to point it out tenuously. You can feel the heavy weight of his wet cock, still, leaking by your knee. 

A small breath of laughter escapes him. It’s not directed at you at all— moreso fond of how you’re graciously still thinking of him despite everything.

“I’m okay,” he promises, gently, and moves to curl a secure arm around you when you unconsciously lean into his space once more. It doesn’t take long before you’re letting yourself be folded tenderly into a shielding embrace, head tucked under his neck and your hand set over the hypnotic steadiness of his heartbeat. “We’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’ve been so good.”

A good girl, he continues to rattle on endearingly. Accompanies every soft praise with a tender kiss on the crown of your head down to your hairline then your forehead; to eyebrows and eyelids and the slope of your nose down to the parted seam of your lips. Did amazing. My beautiful girl. You’re so good for me. Always such a good girl. I love you, hm? I love you.

Eventually, he’s tugging a shirt— his shirt— over you, the sheer size swallowing you whole and the suffused scent of Robby— home— working like another presence of his that smothers you. He cleans you up swiftly and sets the debris of clothing aside, then untangles your hair and smooths it over by running his fingers through them, surrounding you with his body and stroking at your cheek and jaw for the sake of comforting touch.

For a man built so intimidatingly masculine and rough-around-the-edges, Robby knows exactly how to even out the odd scales with that innate softness and tenderness in him: dotingly showering you with utter adoration and pressing kisses cloying with affection; sliding warm palms over your arms and shoulders in a bid of comfort as you settle.

“I don’t know what that was,” you sniff, behind a steaming mug of tea he’d brewed for you much later. “Didn’t… mean to ruin the moment. Or scare you.”

He lets out a low rumble. Mattress sinking by you where he ducks to nose an inhaled kiss onto the exposed slip of skin on your shoulder. “Mh. Nothing was ruined, baby,” he says, careful with his words: you’ve surfaced from your docile haze, but there’s still the shore to reach— still need to clear your head and reconcile with the dull ache across your body. 

“Startled me, honey, but it was only a little reaction,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand down your back. He helps you set the mug aside with a quick sip when you pass it over to him. Clicks the lamp shut on the side of the bed as you both slide under the covers. “It’s good that we stopped.”

The liminal space in the air mellows out. Can feel his beard bristle across your forehead, let yourself get lost in the meditative rise and fall of his chest. 

“Tomorrow, then,” you suddenly decide, tracing lazy, mindless patterns over his smouldering skin. 

“Don’t have to,” is his airy response. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, honey.”

You let out a hum of assent. “Wanna be ontop,” you reply drowsily, threading cheek into your tune. “Think you can handle that, big man?”

“Gladly.” His chuckle vibrates into you. Something realigns in you again at the sound of it. Clarity. You’ve slowly come back to your usual self. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, this time ‘round.”

“Famous last words,” you tease. And upon recalling: "Speaking of, what was it you said to that guy again?”

An unimpressed snort. “You only heard the half of it,” he muses lazily, voice tinged with a lit kindling of protectiveness. “I told him I’ll break his hands. That if he touched you or anyone else again in the hospital unwarranted, I’ll make sure he’ll never be capable of holding a damn thing ever again.”

A beat passes. Long enough that, for a moment, Robby thinks you might’ve fallen asleep to his voice, but—

“…Oh,” you smile, basking in the sheepish swell in your heart. A flutter of sparrows in your chest. “That’s hot.”

He tries his absolute best to stifle his laugh from jostling you out your fog of sleep. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, too lazy to explain how his nonchalance only adds to the attractiveness of his protective nature. The ease of his brutish strength accompanied by confidence that never tips to arrogance. “I’ll let you fuck me raw, tomorrow—”

“Jesus,” he laughs, meeting you in a deep kiss to tide you over for the night. “Go to bed, woman.”