We are back!! This is my first time using images in a story and first time making fake text messages!
It is not chronological on Ao3 but you can read it here: Archive of Our Own!
Here are links in chronological order on Tumblr:
The Meeting
Day 2
First Day Back
Competition
Blizzard
Summary: Rut: A hormonally driven alpha response marked by heightened mating instincts, territoriality, and possessive behaviors, often triggered by stress or perceived threats. Like when a clueless doctor tries to court Brendon Park's Omega.
By your third shift back at work things had reached a rough stability. The nurses, Trinity, and sometimes Cassie and Frank, would sneak in questions about your Alpha in between patients if they could. You were also learning to quickly, sometimes even sharply, redirect patients who made comments or asked about your dynamic. It wasn’t perfect, but you were finally starting to feel comfortable back in the ED.
Which meant, of course, that the boat started rocking.
“Hey, this is the ED calling for an ICU consult.” You gave your name and the patient’s information, and then the med student you’d been talking to handed the phone off to someone else.
“Hey, it’s Jason.”
“Hi Jason!” you chirped, silently fist-pumping. If anyone was going to get this father of three who had a nasty infection into the ICU, it would be him. “Got a good one for you.”
“I don’t know, we’re a bit tight on beds up here,” he teased, and you gave a thumbs up to the worried spouse of your patient who was watching you through the glass doors.
“But you’ve got one saved for me, right?”
“Of course. Give me the rundown.”
Dr. Jason Nguyen was an ICU fellow and your go-to when you wanted someone sent to the ICU from the ED and they were giving you a hard time about it. You tried not to abuse the connection, but it wasn’t like you were bribing him. Admittedly, the first time you’d gotten the fellow directly on the phone had been at the end of a long, bad shift, and you may have used an Omega subvocal on him to encourage him to give in, but that was neither here nor there. He’d never said a word about it, and he’d been accommodating ever since.
“I’ll come on down in ten and see the patient. Sound good?”
“Three car pileup and a ladder fall!” Dana called. “All hands on deck!”
“Just heard we’ve got a big crowd coming in, so if you don’t see me you still good to take him?” You nodded at Dana who was looking at you expectedly.
“Yeah, sure. No problem.”
“You’re the best, thanks!” You hung up, popped your head into the room to tell the family the ICU doc was coming down for the transfer, and hustled over to the ambulance bay to help accept the next wave.
You were in Trauma 2 when Dr. Nguyen came down, his dark hair lightly stylized and his white coat sharp. Jason hid his disappointment when Princess confirmed you were caught up with the multiple traumas, and he talked to the patient’s family, did the exam, and signed off on the transfer up to the ICU. As he was making the last notes in the chart on one of the rolling computers, he overheard Princess talking to the family as she added a medication to the IV line.
“Yes, she’s a fourth year resident, so she graduates this year,” she was saying. Jason couldn’t make out what the family member said, but the nurse went on. “Omega residents are uncommon in the ED, sure. We’ve had a few specializing in pediatrics.”
Omega residents? Jason paid more attention as the family said you’d been wonderfully kind and helpful, which didn’t surprise him. He knew you were a good doctor who made patients and their families comfortable, even in hectic, difficult circumstances, which was one small reason why he was happy to take your consults. The other reason was that he’d suspected exactly what the nurse was confirming. Maybe this was his sign to take a chance on you.
A few months ago he’d gotten a consult from you on a Friday and had very nearly asked you out. You’d looked stressed and exhausted and your hair had been mussed up and one of your scent patches peeling, and he thought he’d caught the hint of Omega from you as you retied the bun, the same niggling feeling he’d gotten the first time he’d met you. He’d casually asked your weekend plans, and you’d denied any.
“Nothing with friends or a partner?” he’d said, deliberately asking when he was looking at the central line you’d put in so he could pretend at being casual.
“My friends are mostly here, and if I’m off they’re on, and no partner. Just me and bad TV tomorrow. Thanks for your help, Dr. Nguyen.”
“Seriously, it’s Jason.”
“Jason.”
He’d thought for sure that had been the start of something, but then his research had picked up and one of the residents in the ICU went on maternity leave, and by the time he had free time again it had been months since that conversation. Now that his research was submitted and they were fully staffed, maybe he could pursue that space in your life where a partner could be.
“All good?” Princess asked as she left the room.
“Yeah, just call for a transporter. Any chance I can grab her to let her know?” He gestured over at Trauma 2.
Princess looked over at the chaos happening across the hub and shook her head. “Not sure she’s free right now. I’ll let her know though.”
“Thanks.” Princess didn’t miss the edge of disappointment in his glance, and her eyes flicked rapidly between Dr. Nguyen, a respected Alpha in the hospital, and yourself, before landing on Perlah with a knowing look. “I’ll let her know you missed her.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as he was gone Princess was beelining for Perlah, a spark in her eyes.
#
The first sign something was up was the sandwich platter in the break room the next day. The receipt was trapped under the tray though, so no one saw the message with your name on it. You nabbed half of an Italian in between patients and didn’t have time to even wonder which patient’s family had been generous enough to bring it.
More food appeared a few days later, a generous spread that had everyone in the ER grabbing some. It beat the pizza party admin had thrown for Doctor Appreciation Day, so no one was complaining.
The protein bar taped to your locker a few shifts later had been startling, and you’d meant to ask Brendon about it, but by the time you’d gotten off shift you’d forgotten.
“Hey, I put your salad in the fridge,” Dennis said, catching you coming out of a patient room two days later. “It’d been sitting on the table out there for a while.”
“Salad?”
“It had your name on it.” He shrugged at your bewildered look. You went to check it out the next time you could get into the break room, and indeed there was an apple walnut salad from a fancy salad place a few blocks from the hospital with your name on the order slip. You were looking at it, confused, because Brendon had made enough lemon chicken with roasted vegetables last night for both of your lunches today, so where did the salad come from?
“Love letter from your Alpha?” Trinity asked, making you jump when she appeared over your shoulder.
“What?”
“Bringing you food. Come on, I thought that was why we got that Thai food last week. I was in the waiting room when it came in, and the guy said it was under your name.”
Trinity’s brow went up at your surprised expression. That had definitely not been Brendon.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your Alpha isn’t buying you food and delivering it here? I was about ready to change my bet to chef.”
“No, I have no idea where this is coming from.”
Trinity gave you a disbelieving look. “Come on, food giving is basic Alpha courtship 101.”
“I know that,” you said, irritated. If this was Brendon why didn’t he say something? “But I’m mated, I don’t need to be courted. And he made me lunch.” You pulled out the actual lunch he’d made you.
Trinity’s eyes gleamed when she saw that. “So is he a chef? Like professional, owns-a-restaurant chef?”
You rolled your eyes. “No. But I’ll ask him if he knows what’s up with this.”
Except you didn’t have time, because Robby was knocking on the doorjamb. “Hey, got four people down, carbon monoxide. ETA 2 minutes. Saddle up.”
Later, when things had calmed a bit and the last patient was sitting in the hyperbaric clamber, you got a chat ping on your computer as you were charting:
It was good to know he was up there in case something did come in, but you only had a few hours left on your shift. Still, you added his number to your phone because hey, that would be useful. Then he kept going:
Your fingers paused on the keys. That was a little more than the typical, professional kinds of chat messages you might send to a colleague on another floor. Your texts with Brendon didn’t even look like that.
That reminded you…
The three dots came and went twice before he answered.
You thought about the Thai that had come in last week that Trinity had mentioned. Had that really been for you? Everyone in the ER knew you were mated, so who, other than your mate, would be buying you food? Maybe Trin had heard wrong?
You hesitated, considering telling Brendon, and then shook your head and put away your phone. This couldn’t actually be for you. Brendon’s bite was huge; you’d already had to endure Robby calling it a shark bite in front of several different people. You were 95% sure Abbot had understood the double-meaning immediately. No Alpha you knew would be aggressive enough—or stupid enough—to go after a mated Omega.
#
Yolanda Garcia was a busy woman. Completing her fellowship in trauma surgery at PTMC was a big deal. She had to do a lot, see a lot, and be a lot to get and keep this fellowship. The personalities she worked with sure as hell didn’t make it any easier, but this was gonna set her up for a good career so long as she did her job well and stayed professional.
Which was why, when PTMC’s top orthopedic surgeon went on an unexpected leave, she listened but did not gossip. What Dr. Brendon Park did in his own time was his business, and she’d rather cross his path only for the requisite number of orthopedic surgeries she needed to complete. He was a good teacher and probably one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the region, but he was an exacting and demanding one who would humiliate anyone who was trying to reach his high standards and fell short.
Thank god she wasn’t gunning for orthopedic trauma. Sokowski could keep that masochistic tendency for himself.
She didn’t wonder much about Dr. Park’s mating status after the first few weeks when the talk died down. No one has dared to ask him any details about the long leave, and the department only found out it was a mating leave because Godsfavour, the OR charge nurse who ran all the ortho surgeries, congratulated him directly. Maybe he seemed a bit more relaxed, but it hadn’t softened his bite one bit, and if he had a ring, he wasn’t wearing it where she could see. If anyone thought having an Omega would make him less of an asshole in the OR, they’d been wrong.
Yolanda hadn’t held out much hope on that front from the get-go, and she wasn’t holding much hope out for this patient either. She was, right now, trying to talk this terrified idiot into signing a release to repair his 6 centimeter aortic aneurysm before it ruptured and he died in front of her. If she had to do CPR on him after he refused to do surgery then she would curse him with every compression.
“You said I could die? In surgery? Can I talk to my mate a little more?”
“You will also die without surgery,” she reminded him. “But yes, I’ll come back in 5.”
She stepped out of the room to take a breather and check her phone. The R1s and R2s hadn’t messaged her, which was good. She glanced around the ED and the board in the security dispatch room caught her eye. She walked over, raising a brow at the guard who gave her a look as though to ask, “you want in?”
It was bets on a resident’s mate: all Alphas, all different jobs and medical specialities. She knew who the initials belonged to immediately. Interesting that an ED resident was suddenly mated around the same time as an Alpha orthopedic surgeon.
Yolanda filed that away and went back into the patient room, finally extracting that signature and putting in the request for the OR. Maybe she’d tell you in person that this one was coming up to her service.
She managed to catch you just before you went into a patient room, the mating bite on your throat glaringly obvious. It wasn’t a clean bite but multiple sets on top of each other, all the same teeth, like someone affirming their claim multiple times. Some Alphas were a one-and-done kind of biter, others had reputations that would suggest otherwise. Yolanda would bet good money there were more bites she couldn’t see.
“Hey, we’re sending up room 6 to the OR now. Shamsi’s gonna take it.”
“Excellent,” you said brightly. “Thanks for coming down quick.”
“Sure.” The edge of your scent patch on your neck was peeling, and Yolanda leaned forward a bit as you turned to enter the patient room, loose hairs from your bun fluttering. Because she was paying attention, she caught the whiff of cedar and metal, faint but there. She’d know that scent anywhere: Park’s office didn’t have descenters, and he reviewed cases there with all the doctors under him. It was the kind of no-nonsense, stand-up-and-shut-up scent her body recognized immediately.
“Hey, you’re ready to go home!” she heard you say, always cheerful for the patients, as Yolanda turned to head back to the hub, chewing on what she’d just learned. Trinity sidled up to her as she reached the center isle.
“Hey, we on for tonight?” the second year asked casually, staring up at the board.
“You got ramen?”
“Yup.” She popped the p.
“I’m down. I’ll text you after work.”
“By the way, you want in?” Trinity cocked her head with a big smile on her face.
“In on what?” Yolanda’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she pulled it out, biting back at sigh at the most annoying resident messaging her in a panic.
“I saw you eyeballing the board and bump into our Omega resident. The pot is $825 now.”
Yolanda considered a thousand things in that moment: the new AirPods she wanted, a very nice night out with the girls, the cred she’d get with the ER and surgical teams for knowing Park’s mate before anyone else, and also the absolute fire that would rain if he found out she was the one to out them.
“No thanks. I’m not getting in the middle of that.”
Santos narrowed her eyes. “You know something?”
“I know I’m not stupid.”
Trinity was learning not to take barbs like that so seriously from Yolanda, so she put her hands up and backed off. The surgical fellow went back upstairs with a shake of her head.
#
Yolanda had only given you and Park’s relationship the minimum thought after that day. If there was a surgery consult and you were calling for it, she went down immediately. She hadn’t gotten the chance to see you and Park in the same room together, but she was only more sure, after a few more run-ins with you, that her guess was right.
It quickly became apparent, though, that she might be one of only a few people in the hospital that knew. She was in the ICU following up on a patient who had gotten out of surgery a few hours ago, putting in orders near the entrance to the patient’s room, when she heard the critical care fellow in the next room over talking to one of his residents.
“No change today. Update the family and let them know we need to meet with them soon.”
“If they can come in today would that be best?”
Dr. Nguyen shook his head as he walked out. “No need to scare them like that. Let’s do sometime this week.” He checked his watch, and it was the resident’s flirtatious, “Got plans?” That really caught Yolanda’s ear.
Nguyen was a good looking guy, not that Yolanda was into that, but she didn’t know the ICU residents were getting it on the way the internal medicine ones were. As least she was smart enough to keep it casual and outside her specialty.
“I’m actually courting an Omega. I sent her flowers. They should be down in the ED about now.”
Yolanda held her breath, staring with wide eyes at the wall as she listened to the resident congratulate him and ask who it was and him shyly demurring. The surgeon was very glad the patient she was checking on was asleep. This could not be a coincidence. How many Omegas were in the ED? Three that she knew of? How many were unmated? None. How many would have interacted with an ICU fellow? Just one.
Did Park know? What were you doing? Was there someone else in the ED Nguyen could be referencing?
#
It all came to a head four weeks after you’d returned, freshly mated and outed as an Omega, and you thought things were finally getting back to normal. That is, until the flowers this afternoon had shown up. A full bouquet of red roses, which had the nurses ooing and ahhing over the romantic gesture from, presumably, your Alpha, and you baffled, staring at a card with unfamiliar handwriting signed “J”.
There was no way in hell you were misreading a B as a J.
That had started a new round of speculation from the staff, and you had shot a text up to Brendon.
He didn’t respond, and the second you got on to a computer you checked the surgical boards, seeing his name on a spinal surgery that had been going for several hours already. You sucked in a breath and set the matter of the mystery flowers aside. He’d text you when he got out, and until then you’d just keep going like usual.
#
Robby clocked the watchful eye of Yolanda Garcia on you as the three of you worked two delicate, simultaneous surgeries on a patient in Trauma 1. She was handling the femoral artery complication while you were focused on the throat, Robby handing you what you needed for the procedure. He’d taught you this one himself and was proud to see how confidently you did it. You met his eyes as the blood pressure started to come up, relief in them, and his own crinkled up. He was very excited to offer you an attending position here in a few short weeks, once HR had gotten all the paperwork done.
“Excellent. ICU for this one, yeah? Or does he still need the OR?” Robby turned to Garcia, who was staring at you for a second too long. All of you were in surgical gowns and masks, and he pulled his off as you helped Jesse clear the bloodied drapes off the patient so he could be prepped for transport.
“He’ll probably need a second round in the OR later, but ICU for now.”
Robby nodded. “Call the consult,” he said to you, “then we’ll see if we can clear a few more beds before night shift comes on.” He turned, surprised to see Dr. Nguyen, one of the ICU fellows, already standing outside the trauma bay. The critical care doctor pushed the doors open and walked in, white coat out of place in the busy ER, and Robby noticed immediately how his gaze was fixed on you.
“Hey, heard this might be a consult for me, and I was coming down here anyway,” he said, voice just a hair too warm. Robby’s eyes shot over to Garcia, whose gaze flicked up to his too then over to you. You were still in the surgical gown and mask, red streaked down the front of it, the bloodied drapes in your hand.
“Oh, that’s convenient,” you said, clearly surprised but taking it in stride. “Need the rundown or—“
“Your med student presented it. You want me to put in the orders for transfer to the ICU?”
You stiffened. “Uh, sure,” you agreed, sounding confused. Usually that was the duty of whoever had requested the consult.
“Happy to, for you.”
Robby sorely regretted taking off his mask because he couldn’t hide his incredulous expression that was morphing into a laugh. There were auto-descenters in the trauma bays, but all of you could just barely catch the flare in Nguyen’s scent, the way his shoulders raised a bit to posture just the slightest in front of the other two Alphas in the room. It was an instinctive “this one’s mine” gesture to other Alpha’s.
Your gaze flicked to Robby’s, silently asking is this happening?
Garcia was looking between the two of you too, wordless, and Robby realized he needed to be the attending and step in here.
He coughed, pulling off his surgical gloves. “Right. Well, as long as the orders get in.” He turned to you, pointedly looking at your neck where your mating mark was hidden by the PPE. “Need help with the gown?”
You got Robby’s point immediately and went to yank it off by the collar the way it was designed, only to struggle. “Ugh, my size ones always do this.”
By the time Garcia had helped you undo the knots from behind, Dr. Nguyen had left to put the orders in and Robby was laughing to himself as you stuffed the gown and gloves into the trash. Who said Gray’s Anatomy had to be the only hospital with drama?
“What the hell was that?” Garcia asked, and Robby started to laugh harder.
“Jesus, I thought the food deliveries were weird. And now those flowers—“
You threw your hands up in the air. “That’s who “J” is.”
“Does he know about him?” Garcia asked, gesturing subtly at Jason outside the bay. Robby shook his head. He had no idea what Park knew or didn’t know, but he did know that Dr. Nguyen was going to lose badly if he was trying to woo Park’s mate.
“Shit, I need to talk to him,” you said, still shell shocked.
“I hope you mean talk to your mate,” Garcia corrected. “And then you’ll let him talk to Dr. Nguyen.”
“ ‘Talk’,” Robby snorted, putting the word into air quotes.
“Wait, how do you know who my mate is?” you asked, turning on Garcia.
“I’m not an idiot. Everyone upstairs knows he just mated, so I put two-and-two together.” You opened your mouth and she cut you off. “Don’t worry, keep your secrets. I’m not getting on his bad side.”
You shut your mouth, and Robby rubbed his beard, still laughing a little. “Maybe keeping it a secret is a bad idea.”
“Not my fault Jason’s blind,” you muttered. Your mating mark was very visible. You could probably come up with something patient-related to tell him right now and be extra obvious about the mark, but then your phone started vibrating in your back pocket. You pulled it out and suddenly remembered what you’d texted Brendon two hours ago. “Speak of the devil.”
“No time like the present,” Robby announced. He waved you off and you nodded and put the phone to your ear.
“Hey, give me a second to step away.” You hustled out of Trauma 1 and around the corner to the lockers, which were deserted for the moment.
“Do I need to come down?” Your Alpha sounded patient, but there was an edge there.
“No, no, I can handle it. I figured it out.”
“Handle what?”
“A, uh, bouquet came in for me. A follow up to that salad.” And the Thai food. And probably some other food deliveries, but you left that part out.
A subvocal growl that was more instinct than words crackled through the phone, and you knew Brendon was pissed. You tried to ignore the inappropriate flutter in your stomach and involuntary clenching of your core with arousal. “Who the fuck sent that?”
“Bren—“
“Who, Omega?” That rough tone was not one to argue with, but you did not want Brendon storming down here to exert his dominance. You were finally getting over being the Omega resident; you didn’t want to be known as the Brendon Park’s mate too.
“He just hasn’t see the bite. He’s not often in the ER, and when I just saw him now I was in a surgical gown,” you tried to explain quickly, but the dark, rumbling undercurrent of subvocals was making your chest tight. The urge to nuzzle into the noise coming from your mate’s chest and harmonize your purr with his pitch to soothe him was powerful.
“Doesn’t matter. Who—“ There was the sound of running feet in the background and the warning vibration in his chest got suddenly louder. You slapped a hand over your mouth to muffle the whine that escaped, realizing he’d pressed the phone to his chest to hear whatever was being said to him. “I gotta go. This isn’t over.” Then he hung up.
You steadied yourself with a few breaths until your knees weren’t shaking anymore and the urge to purr had subsided. Brendon wasn’t mad at you; he was mad at Jason, who was acting out of ignorance (you hoped). A secret admirer-style courtship might sound nice in the movies, but in real life it was much more problematic. Your instinct to reassure your mate would have to wait for the end of your shift.
With one more breath you put your phone in your back pocket and headed back to the ED, looking for Jason. You did two scans as you walked the whole ER, but it was quickly apparent he’d left already. You spotted Jesse and jogged over to him.
“Hey, is Mr. Patel still waiting on transport?”
“They just left with him.”
You bit your lip and nodded. “Right, okay, thanks.” Shit, you’d have to message Jason or find some other excuse to approach him today. If you waited too long though, Brendon would do it for you, and while it would be a relief to have the betting pool gone, you’d didn’t want to explode it like this.
#
The opportunity to talk to Jason never came. Part of you hoped the ICU fellow would come back down to the ED and it could happen as naturally as that, but he didn’t. As your shift neared the end you texted Brendon: meet you in the garage?
He didn’t text back immediately, likely caught in whatever emergency had pulled him off the phone. You were still carpooling to work since you were waiting for the new car to be delivered. Brendon had insisted on the highest level trim and extra safety features, which had made it a special order. You had so thoroughly lost the argument about getting a cheap Honda that you’d ended up even picking out the color, since it was going to be a 6 week wait either way.
You felt a little bad that you were relieved there was no text back from him as you said your goodbyes to the rest of day shift and hit the locker room to change out of your scrubs. At least if he was running late then he wasn’t coming down to the ED to hunt down your secret admirer.
You changed out of your scrubs for leggings, boots, a sweater, and your scarf and coat since it was still below freezing at night. As you stepped out of the sliding doors into the parking garage, you pulled the car keys out of your bag. If one of you were delayed at work the other would drive home in the BMW, and Brendon would either pick you up or he’d order a rideshare home.
“Hey! I was hoping to catch you.” Your shoulders tensed as you heard Jason call out behind you. “Sorry I had to head back upstairs before we could talk more. Are you heading home?”
“Yeah.” At least now you could clear the air without— Nope, you realized you were wearing a scarf and jacket as you turned to him, the mating mark hidden. This was still salvageable. You just needed to tell him you had an Alpha. “My Al—“
“Would you like to get dinner?”
You froze. He came to a stop from his light jog in front of you, his nice ski jacket half-zipped up and hair just starting to lose its gel. He was just a bit too close to be casual, a smile on his handsome face and his cheeks tinted pink, like he was nervous. “Sorry, didn’t mean to blurt that out. I just… when I found out you were an Omega I thought… And well, the flowers today were from me. And all the food this last month. If that wasn’t obvious.” He rubbed the back of his neck in a bashful gesture, eyes flashing down to the ground for a moment, a quintessential, non-threatening Alpha display.
A diesel engine came to a stop and idled next to the two of you before you could answer that. You glanced over, recognizing the BMW immediately. Biting your lip, you grabbed the strap of your bag in one hand, taking two big steps closer to Brendon’s car and out of reach from the other Alpha.
“Sorry Jason, I—“
“She’s taken.” Brendon had gotten out of the car and was rounding the front, his gaze pinning the ICU fellow in place. “You the one trying to court my Omega?”
“Brendon—“ He moved to stand between you and him, his big hand holding your arm like he was preparing to yank you out of harm’s way. Your fingers twitched to grab Brendon’s hand and an anxious whine was held tight behind your closed throat, freezing in place and instinct holding you back from making any noise. This was a test of dominance, and the two Alphas were staring at each other, refusing to break eye contact. You knew better than to interfere. Your heart raced and you took shallow breaths, the only noise in your ears was the low, warning vibration in your Alpha’s chest. Brendon had every right, technically, to get physical with Jason.
“I didn’t know,” Jason finally said, lowering his gaze.
“Ask, dipshit. Don’t court an Omega just because you want to.” Jason’s chin tucked down, deferential, and the tension broke as Brendon’s rumbling growl finally stopped. It was like all the sound came back on, the engine and the other cars and footsteps in the garage suddenly returning. You sucked in a ragged breath, eyes flashing between Jason’s low shoulders and Brendon’s hulking presence, his scent ridiculously potent right now. Brendon turned to you, giving Jason his back. It was dismissal, like the other Alpha wasn’t worth being called a rival. “Ready?”
Your pupils had gone wide, and you could see it the second your scent hit him. If Brendon had punched Jason or forced him to his knees to submit, that wouldn’t have turned you on nearly as much as your Alpha demanding basic respect for you.
Brendon used his body to practically walk you backwards to the car, keeping himself between you and Jason. He opened the passenger-side door and braced a hand on the roof.
“Get in the car,” he said in a rough, low bark, and you pulled yourself into the seat as he stepped back with visible effort, shutting the door. He didn’t look at Jason again.
Brendon’s hand stayed on your thigh the entire drive home as you finally shook from your daze enough to explain what you thought must have happened. He had a few choice words for Jason’s presumption and overstepping, but you could tell he was holding himself back.
The moment he was parked he was throwing open the driver’s side door. “Upstairs, Omega,” he growled, and you scrambled out of the car, almost forgetting your bag. Your panties were soaked and your skin was practically vibrating as he stuck close to you in the elevator, pressing his nose into your hair. You held his thick waist, a low purr impossible to hold back, feeling his hard cock against your hip. You rubbed against it a little and he growled, scent blooming even stronger.
The second the elevator doors opened he was crowding you out. You barely managed to unlock the apartment door and open it before the sound of your bags hitting the floor was eclipsed by the thunk of your back against the coat closet door.
Brendon’s hand in your hair protected your head as he kissed you hard, licking his way into your mouth, swallowing your moan. You could barely get more than a breath in as his mouth devoured you while his hands practically ripped your leggings down, one boot flying off. You didn’t even hear the clink of his belt before his cock was pressing against your core, and you cried out as he sunk in, no prep, no warning, just his rock hard length bullying into you. You panted into his throat as you tried desperately to accommodate, the burn of the stretch so good. Thank god you were soaking wet.
“Bren— Alpha—”
“Mine,” he growled, pulling back to the tip and then slamming in so hard the door rattled and you cried out again. “You’re mine, Omega, not some ICU idiot’s.”
“Yours!” you yelped, rocking into his thrusts, his cedar and metal scent so powerful you could smell nothing else, and his cock rubbing at all the right places inside you. You clawed at his shoulders, wanting to get to more skin but thwarted by the layers Brendon was still wearing. He hadn’t even taken his coat off, but he did get a hand under your scarf to rip that off, burying his face into your mating mark. Your nails dug into his scalp and you panted with each surge as he rutted into your cunt, continuing to growl curses and threats to the other Alpha and promises to you.
“Fuck. I’m going to mark you so much no fucking patch will cover it up. Understand me, Omega?” He punctuated that with a roll of his hips and a grunt as your heels dug into his back.
“Yes, uh, yes, Alpha, oh, more—” He shifted positions and the next thrust had your mouth hanging open and a long moan escaping you. Your legs were starting to shake already, and his knot was catching at the rim. “Brendon— please—”
“Cum for me. Cum on your Alpha’s cock, Omega,” he growled, and your eyes rolled back, pussy contracting around him as you climaxed hard. You didn’t even feel him bite down on the mating mark, whited out in pleasure. Your thighs shook when you finally came back to yourself, the steely length of him still firmly inside you, but not with his knot. A little whine escaped you as your hips jerked naturally, cunt soaking his knot and rubbing against the shape of it, trying to get him to lock inside you.
“Alpha,” you whimpered.
The subvocal rumble in his chest silenced you. He wasn’t done. He was far from done.
Using his hips he kept you pinned to the door as he kicked off his boots and pulled off your other shoe. His skin was almost feverishly hot as you helped him take off the jacket and shirt, mouth latching immediately on to his collarbone as the skin appeared. Then he was carrying you to the nest, cock still inside you, but the second he laid you down he pulled out.
“Alpha!”
He took his cock in his hand, flushed and angry, and collared your throat with the other, hand so big he could silence you with just the touch. His blue eyes were practically black the pupils were so dilated, and he was breathing hard as he jerked his cock in his fist, staring at his hand on your throat, two fingers on the bumpy scar of your bite, your breasts heaving as you watched him. He came with clenched jaw all over your chest and belly, deliberately working his cock until he was aimed as your reddened pussy, his seed spilling over your mound. There was so much and it was warm and sticky on your skin, a primal claiming that had your trembling beneath him.
Only when he was done did he let go of your throat to smooth your hair back, his other hand immediately rubbing his cum into your belly as he admired the absolute mess he’d made of you.
“Alpha, I’m yours, only yours,” you moaned, arching as his palm covered in his seed cupped your breast, massaging it into the skin. You felt almost delirious with pleasure as the powerful scent of him sunk into your pores and your nest. You were so wet you were dripping, and you desperately wanted his knot. He hadn’t softened since he hadn’t locked inside you, and you reached down to your folds and rubbed his cum into the soft skin and your clit, licking your lips at the way his head snapped down to watch. You felt deliriously powerful as you spread your lips and let rivulets of his spend run alongside your hole. “Brendon, please.”
That seemed to snap him out of a daze of just watching you. His bark was like a whip-crack: “Present.”
You flipped on to your belly and got on to your hands and knees in seconds. Then he was fisting your hair from behind, forcing your back into a bigger arch as he fit the swollen head of his cock to your leaking pussy. “You are not going to talk to him again, Omega. Not unless you’re dripping my fucking seed and I’m right there with you.”
“Yes, Alpha. Yesss—”
You’d have agreed to anything right then as he slid his cock into you, pushing out all the needy emptiness and replacing it with the incredible stretch and heat of him. “He couldn’t give it to you like this, baby, wouldn’t fuck every thought of that pretty head. You don’t just need roses, Omega, you need an Alpha who will take care of you. Fuck you right.”
“Only you, Brendon. Don’t want roses—just—just— oh my god—” He was starting to really thrust now, and each slam of his hips into you was lighting up sparks in your entire spine, the wet squelch of your pussy obscene. The heavy weight of his knot had you begging for it, babbling mindless praise. “Just want you Alpha, fuck me please, give me your knot. I want him to know, to know he had no chance, oh gods, not a single one—”
“Good girl, made for me,” he grunted, thrusts getting faster, pushing your head down into the nest to really angle inside you to hit the spot that made you cry out with each surge of his hips. You were so close you could taste it, the heady smell of his cum mixing with your sweat on your skin, rising up like a haze of pure arousal. He slowed to grind his knot against your hole and you keened, begging and scrambling at the bedding for it.
“Alpha please, please, give it to me. I need it, I— oh, oh my god Brendon yes, thank you—”
The knot locking inside you reduced you to wordless moaning, hips rolling constantly as you ground into it, eyes fluttering shut as his huge hand held the back of your neck down, forcing you to submit under him while one thick finger finally circled your clit. The orgasm barreled into you like a tsunami, stealing your breath and making your whole body shake and flutter around him as he spurted inside you. It stretched on and on as you mindless humped his fingers over your clit, the next orgasm tumbling out of the previous as he sucked hard on your mating mark, folding over you to grind in harder.
At some point he pulled out before his knot was fully soft and dragged his leaking, heavy cock all over your back, painting you in more cum. You rolled on to your back after he’d rubbed it in, shifting down until you could mouth at the head of his heavy, leaking dick as Brendon growled at the sight of his thick cum on the mating bite. “Fuck, Omega,” he panted, letting you drunkenly lave kisses all over his knot and shaft before the whine in your chest and the frantic movement of your fingers over your clit caught his eye and he yanked your hand away. He bodily shifted you on the mattress, replacing your fingers with the tip of his cock, tapping over the sensitive bud of your clit until you were whining with every too-light touch, and then he lightly spanked your pussy. You yelped, convulsing at the sharp shot of pleasure, slick pooling under you as you stared up, wide-eyed at your grinning Alpha. With sharp taps he spanked over your bright red, swollen clit until you were crying out with each gentle hit, finally peaking on a new high, wailing his name as your slick splattered everywhere. He rammed his hard cock back inside your fluttering cunt, locking you on to his knot again, and setting off another orgasm as he came.
You had no idea how long you two were at it, but at some point the overwhelming instincts subsided and you came back to yourself. You were laying in the nest with Brendon half on top of you, his cock against your leg, your aching pussy leaking a mixture of you and him, and your body covered in his cum, while his rough fingers mindlessly rubbed his spend into the skin of your chest.
“You okay?” you murmured, voice hoarse. You were pleasantly achy and very sticky, the overwhelming smell of both of you had saturated the nest.
His sharp gaze met yours, and he turned his cheek into your hand when you reached for him. His jaw had softened from the hard clench since he’d gotten out of the car to confront Jason, and his curls had come loose from the gel and your fingers.
“I’m fine, though I would not shower any time soon.”
You nodded, turning your head to nuzzle his shoulder. You’d read about this sort of thing happening. Alphas could be thrown into rut by an Omega’s heat or other situations, including a confrontation with another Alpha. They didn’t last days like a heat, but they left instincts riding high for some time. For Brendon, keeping his scent on you in the most base way possible would help to reset his instincts.
Your stomach rumbled, and he pressed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth and sat up. You groaned a bit, losing the heat of him, but accepted the pillow his head had been on in his place. “I’ll make food. Don’t move.”
“Yes, Alpha.”
#
You called out sick at 4am the next day. You would have given Robby more warning, but you’d thought after that marathon of marking sex you’d had, your mating bite being rebitten again, being fed finger-foods by Brendon in the nest, and then sleeping with his cock inside of you, that his instincts would be settled.
Instead, when you got up to go to the bathroom at 3:30am, Brendon followed you.
You were just about to sit on the toilet when the door opened again and you startled. “Brendon?”
“Go ahead.” He adorably rubbed one eye, clearly not much more awake than you.
“There’s another bathroom,” you said, shifting your weight a bit. You really had to go. Cockwarming him all night had put pressure on your bladder. It didn’t help that he’d also made sure you were very hydrated after rutting you into the mattress.
He blinked slowly, then turned a much more alert gaze on you. Anyone who had been on call as often as he had over the years could snap to awareness very fast. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Omega.”
“You made dinner without me.”
He made a low, muttering noise in his throat. “You were in the nest then and I barricaded the door.”
“You barricaded the door?” You didn’t know he’d done that. Shit, Jason’s attention had really set something off. Now you were even more impressed he hadn’t punched the other doctor.
“I’ve barely had you a month, baby. I’m not letting some other Alpha push up on my girl.” Your heart melted, and then Brendon was stepping close to you, both of you still naked, his chest rumbling. He cupped the back of your neck in what you now knew was his favorite hold. “Now pee before you get a UTI.”
You almost fell on to the toilet, knees giving out at the order. He leaned down over you, kissing your mouth gently as you trembled. “I don’t think I can,” you whispered. This was too weird, and your pussy felt all tight and squirmy in a way that was bordering far too close to arousal mixed with a bad need to go. There were many ways to scent mark a partner: rubbing cheek glands or wrist glands on parts of the body, swapping clothes, sex, and cum-marking. And also, if you wanted to get real primitive, piss-marking. In combination with hormones, excess chemo-signaling proteins that made a person’s scent were excreted through urine. On a mate who already shared some of the circulating hormone, urine on their skin was a potent scent mark.
“Relax,” he murmured, kissing your cheek and then dragging his lips slowly to your ear, teeth tugging on the lobe as his big hand on the back of your neck kneaded your skull. Your head tilted back automatically, and the rumbling, approving subvocal made your mouth drop open at the same moment that something else relaxed.
The sound of you peeing in the toilet made you jump, but Brendon was holding you steady, and he kept kissing along your throat and jaw as your cheeks absolutely burned. You couldn’t have stopped if you tried, and your knees were bouncing as you peed and your Alpha was right there. It seemed to go on forever, your eyes shut tight as the smell of urine and Brendon’s powerful cedar and metal scent made you dizzy, until the stream finally stopped. Then Brendon was kissing you gently, his firm lips on yours as your legs continued to shake with embarrassment and arousal. The noise from his chest was all pleasure and pride, which was the only reason you could even stand to kiss him back.
You did not let him clean you up even though for a half a second it looked like he might try. Instead he backed off without a word, and you wiped yourself and stood up on shaky legs, washing your hands in the sink as he cupped your hip and nosed into your hair. “See? Not so bad, baby.”
You didn’t know what to say. Your cunt felt empty and swollen and tingling, and you could feel his hardness behind you. For a moment you wanted to ask if you could go back to the nest so he could do his business, but the quiet, curious part of you that was holding low-grade arousal in your core held your tongue. Once before he’d offered to let you hold his member as he went, and in the dark of night, instincts still simmering below the surface, not an ounce of shame in your Alpha, you licked your lips and tried to find the words.
He waited patiently as you dried your hands and then ran out of things to do with them, just holding the edge of the countertop. Brendon remained behind you, a hulking presence in the dark, only the faint city lights from the window giving you shadows to see by.
You closed your eyes and leaned back into him, and his hand on your hip slid to the front, holding you to him. His erection was heavy behind you but not throbbing, just present. At the right angle you could still see the glimmer of his cum on your breasts in the low light, the tacky spend stuck to you. His cock was probably still coated in your juices too, and you felt something contract inside you at the thought.
“Can I…” You hesitated, and Brendon remained still, just breathing softly behind you. “Can I hold it?”
He let out a heavy exhale, a small shiver running through him, and you could feel his smile as he kissed your shoulder. “Of course, Omega.”
Your cheeks were absolutely on fire as you walked together back to the toilet, Brendon flipping the seat up. You turned to him, fingers sliding over his hips to brush his half-hard dick. When you chanced a glance up at him he was staring down at you with an amused look. “If you’re looking at me then who’s aiming?”
You swallowed and let him reposition you next to him, your stomach to his hip, at an angle so you could hold his cock and see what was happening. You pressed your forehead to his side, all tangled up in mortification and arousal. This was not at all a kink you thought you had, but you’d learned a lot about yourself since being with Brendon, and it helped that he clearly had no shame about it.
“Will you be able to…”
“Easier for me than a Beta male,” he grunted, turning his nose into your hair and inhaling. You felt his dick soften a little, and you turned just in time to catch the beginning of the stream. A little ran over your fingers as you tried to adjust, the warmth ticklish, and the instinctive disgust you expected never came. Maybe that was because the scent of him and urine was a potent mix to your hindbrain. A husky little groan slipped past Brendon’s lips as the stream got stronger and you watched, mesmerized. You knew on an anatomical level how this worked: Alpha male vas deferens didn’t intersect with the urethra like they did in Beta and Omega males because evolutionarily being able to be erect and scent-mark with urine made sense. But your brain was stuck somewhere between the smell, the claiming act that was urinating on someone even if technically that wasn’t what was happening, the weight of his cock in your hand, the trust as you both explored this primitive kink, and the utter mortifying arousal that was making a whine rise in your throat as the stream eventually slowed.
Brendon’s grip on your back tightened as he finished, and you were lurching into a kiss with him without letting go of his dick without a second thought. He mumbled something but you didn’t catch it, moaning into his mouth and rubbing your wet pussy against his thigh as his erection firmed in your hand. Thoughts of handwashing and hygiene were gone as he lifted you on to the bathroom counter and stepped between your spread legs. He ran two fingers through your wetness and coated his dick with you helping to slick him up, and then you tossed your head back as he entered you, the heat of him welcome even after the marathon of sex you’d had the night before.
“Oh fuck, Alpha,” you moaned, and he grunted, bottoming out.
“Shit you’re perfect, baby,” he crooned, pulling your hips forward to the edge of the counter so he could find the angle that made you cry out and started a vigorous rhythm. “Never wanted to piss-mark someone before you. One day I’m going to fuck you in the shower after I’ve covered you in my scent in every goddamn way. No one in that ER will have any doubt who you belong to.”
Your pussy contracted, already so close to climax as he said the thing you’d been afraid to imagine. You were still marked up by his cum and your head cracked against the mirror as you moaned, brain stuttering on the image of you and him in the shower. “Oh my god, Alpha, yes!”
Brendon’s hand snapped up to protect the back of your head as his hips slammed into yours. His thumb circled your clit, and you surged up to kiss at his throat, licking and nipping, and Brendon hissed.
“One day I’m gonna make this pussy squirt and it’s not just gonna be slick, Omega,” he promised, grinding his dick hard into you. You shuddered, and he sucked hard on your mating bite, sending you careening over the edge as he strummed your clit. You cried out in bliss, and Brendon pumped you full of cum, rutting into your cunt until he finally slowed and his cock softened, both of you left panting. He eventually settled you more comfortably on the counter but didn’t fully pull out, thumb stroking your cheek tenderly.
For a little while you both sat in this vulnerable moment, playing over the new thing you’d discovered and his admission before that. This relationship was new, and even though Brendon seemed so confident in it, Jason’s misstep had revealed cracks. This rut was evidence his Alpha needed time and reassurance.
You gently kissed his lips, soft and loving, and he kissed you back for long minutes, tender and slow.
“Need to pee again?” he finally asked, and you snorted and kissed the crinkly smile off his face before resting your forehead on his shoulder. You were suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t know how I’m going to work tomorrow. Today. Whatever.”
“You’re not,” Brendon said easily, like it had already been decided. “You think letting my Alpha think I’ve marked you with piss is gonna calm this rut down, sweetheart?”
You had to laugh because of course it wouldn’t. You had a feeling even mentioning cleaning up in the shower might earn you a few spanks on the ass and another round, and you needed a few more hours of sleep before that.
“I’ll text Robby. He’ll know what’s up, but the rest of the ER might think those flowers got my Alpha somewhere.”
As soon as you said it you regretted it. Forget mentioning a shower, any mention of a competing Alpha set Brendon off way faster.
“The whole damn ER is gonna know you’re taken alright,” he growled, pulling out and picking you up, tossing you over his shoulder. “I don’t need flowers to make it clear what’s mine.” You squealed as he spanked your ass while it was in the air, yelping at the second blow as he carried you back to the nest. “You’re lucky I’m off tomorrow, Omega.”
summary: menstruation, no matter how much you tried to see it in a hippie way, was a bitch. the lack of medical help in that field was even worse. it’s a good thing sharks like blood.
cw: fem!reader, menstruation kink, talks about menstruation, a lot of blood, an angry reader with the system, smut, dirty talk, trauma shame?, park being park ig, medical inaccuracies of course, english it's not my first languague, and this is also my first time writing smut.
wc: 5.2k
a/n: i’m not a doctor or a healthcare worker; in fact, i’d rather drink a remedy passed down by my grandma before setting foot in a hospital, so this is FULL of medical inaccuracies. just lean into the fiction with me and enjoy a freaky park. thank you!
Maybe if your normal menstruation had accustomed you to pain, the one this month would not be killing you like this. Yes, you were used to the feeling of being bloated, the heaviness in your boobs, and that mysterious sting in your butt that would randomly come. But you had never had cramps this painful—to the point of waking you up in the middle of the night to writhe in bed while you cried all your tears out. It got to a point where you had to crawl to the bathroom and throw up in agony, until at some point you passed out with your back leaning against the wall and your hands trying to offer some warmth to your belly.
The gynecologist had advised you that it would take some time for your hormones to stabilize after stopping the pill, but you had never imagined that it would be this crazy. After breaking up with your boyfriend of four years, two months ago, you just wanted to take back some control over your body. It seemed like it had backfired.
By 6:00 am, an incoming call on your cellphone—abandoned on your nightstand—woke you up. It was your dad, with whom you talked every morning while traveling on public transport for 40 long-ass minutes, because your apartment was that far away from the PTMC. Cheaper than most, yes, but at what cost? His call only meant that you had overslept for an entire hour, not hearing your alarm as a consequence of the fatigue. You rushed to take a hot shower and headed over to the PTMC with nothing in your stomach except the feeling of your organs trying to kill you.
It was a workday, and even though the wish to call in sick passed through your cloudy mind, you had already burned that cartridge three weeks ago with bronchitis; you were forced to work, then, bleeding between your legs.
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“You are half an hour late,” was Donnie's greeting as you entered the pitt.
“I’m aware of that,” was your reply.
“You also look like shit,” Santos added with a grimace.
“Guys, guys, stop with the compliments, you cannot make my day any better,” you deadpanned, walking to the nurse’s station to take a deep breath after the sprint you had run to get there.
“Actually, we can.” Donnie gave you a sorry look. “Dana is looking for you, and she’s having a day, so…”
“Fuck me.”
“What’s wrong with you?” the brunette asked, looking at your appearance. You didn’t look disheveled, but you didn’t look like yourself either. If there was something Santos admired about you—besides your dedication to patients, obviously—it was the well-put-together looks you always adorned yourself with, no matter how draining it was to be a nurse: different hairstyles, head accessories matching your long-sleeved underscrubs, and makeup that lasted through chaotic shifts. Now you stood in front of her clean-faced, with your hair thrown into a loose ponytail. “You fall off the bed or what?”
“If only I had slept in my bed,” you huffed, thinking of the cold bathroom floor.
“Who didn’t sleep in their bed?” Dr. Nosy Robby appeared beside Donnie.
You didn’t have the energy to sustain any more conversation, so you gave him a tired smile and headed to the lockers to start working, leaving the gossip to Santos and Donnie. The figure of a tall, dark-haired man in navy scrubs staring at you went unnoticed by your oblivious self.
The day went by hard, exhausting, and bloody. The countless times somebody (men, always men) asked you if you were okay, why the long face, if it was "that time of the month", should have set a Guinness record. But you kept your head high and your hands steady and gentle while treating patients, because the world keeps spinning even if there are blood clots coming out of you. You felt one second away from crying too, but that didn’t make you any less badass.
“Can you check if I have a stain on my pants, please?” you asked Emma after getting out of a trauma room.
“You are good,” she told you, walking behind you to check. Before you could thank her, a voice interrupted you.
“Why are you watching her ass so openly?”
Of course it had to be Ogilvie.
“Uh...” “I have a great ass, I wouldn’t blame her,” you tried to joke so he would drop it.
“Still, that’s not appropriate behavior for—”
“Oh my god, I’m on my period, Ogilvie,” you cut him off, exasperated. It had been a hell of a day, and probably he didn’t deserve your outburst, but most likely he did because he had been an stuck-up egomaniac the past week, so you kept talking while massaging your temples. “Girls let their friends check their asses in order to avoid having their uterus's revenge leaking through their pants, capiche?”
You and Emma walked past him with a roll of your eyes. Behind you, another male voice was heard.
“You have to learn to mind your own business, genius.”
It sounded like Dr. Park, but it was probably somebody else. Yeah, probably.
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“When I'm on my period I get angry really easily,” Javadi shared while charting. “Like really, really easily.”
“Maybe you just let out what you don't the rest of the month,” Mel suggested with a shrug.
“Maybe, yeah.”
“I don’t think I get angry, more like super sensitive,” you said, putting your elbow on the desk to rest your chin in your hand. “I will cry at anything: commercials, TikToks, the most stupid things. One time I actually cried while watching Elf, you know? The scene where people get together to sing carols. I was watching that scene, and then I wasn’t, because my eyes were so full of tears I couldn’t see shit. I don’t know, the idea of people coming together just to sing a silly song on the holidays really got me. I was like, 'Oh my god, we are all just humans enjoying the small things,' you know?”
“Yeah, that’s a really powerful movie.” Mel nodded in all seriousness.
“For my part, I get super horny,” Santos said, sitting down on a chair to start charting too. “I could fuck a dust bunny.”
Before you could keep talking, the voice of Dana saying your name made you raise your eyes to look at her.
“Go to Trauma 3, Robby asked for you; ortho is on the way and he doesn’t need a shark attack today.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, confused.
“My oblivious, oblivious girl,” Santos teased with a smirk.
“Just go,” the blonde nurse nodded in the direction of the room.
With a tired huff, you followed the instructions, entering the room to discover Robby, Whitaker, and McKay already there. In the middle of them, a sedated patient lay on the bed, their left arm in an inhuman position.
“How can I help?” you asked, looking around trying to find something to assist with. The room was in relative calm, and the three doctors in there seemed like they were just waiting for the ortho consult.
“Just stay here,” Robby told you, taking off his glasses. He looked like it had been a hard day for him too, though he had been having hard weeks in general.
“What?”
“Actually, come closer. Here, beside the monitor.”
“I don’t understand,” you mumble, standing to the left of the machine.
“You don’t have to,” was McKay's reply, smirking.
You felt his entrance without needing to turn your head to the door. Dr. Brendon Park was a silent man with his words, but loud in his presence. His broad shoulders helped with that.
“Shark,” Robby greeted the surgeon, to which he responded with a nod. “Looks like we have an isolated ulnar shaft fracture.”
“X-ray.”
“Uh, here,” Whitaker gestured toward the X-ray monitor and started to move so he could show Park the image, but the tall man quickly lifted a hand to stop him. Looking you in the eyes, he said:
“Let her.”
In your peripheral vision, you could detect McKay's smirk growing, but you decided to ignore her, loading the digital X-ray image onto the screen instead. You knew Dr. Park liked things fast and efficient, and the last thing you needed was somebody snapping at you for taking your time. Though, as feared as the ortho surgeon was, he had never hissed or treated you badly. He may have pity on you.
“Visible deformity in the ulna, the X-ray shows a clear break,” Whitaker spoke nervously from across the room.
“Mhm.” With narrow eyes, Park thoughtfully scanned the bones on the digital screen. You could smell his cologne since you were so close, and between your thighs, a sudden dampness gathered; you knew it wasn't only blood. “Where is the rest of the X-rays?”
“Th-the rest?”
“We only took one of the forearm,” Robby saved an increasingly wide-eyed Dennis. “Do you think another part should be checked?”
“Yes, I need a bigger image to rule out a Monteggia injury. Joint above and joint below,” Brendon ordered, still looking at the screen.
“Okay, they're on the way.” Robby nodded before instructing the X-rays to be taken.
The sound of his voice and the others became white noise when Park looked you in the eyes again. Intense, confident, like a predator staring at its prey.
“What happened to the head stuff?” he asked, nodding above you.
“The what?” you frowned at him.
“The things you put on your head. You don’t have any today.”
“The things I put—Oh! My accessories? Like the hair clips and bands?” At his nod, you shrugged. “I didn’t have time this morning. I left in a rush.”
“Mhm, too bad,” he hummed, looking you up and down. “I like them.”
He then turned on his heels and walked out with heavy steps.
“Send me the X-rays when they are ready.”
You stood there frozen, cloudy-minded. Park the Shark had the capacity to like things besides bones and remarks? And said things were your things? With your heart racing, you wondered if hallucination was another symptom of hormonal imbalance.
“Well, team, that was a great avoidance of a shark attack,” Robby cheered, clapping his hands on his thighs.
“Wonder why...” McKay trailed off playfully.
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The break room was empty except for you, sitting in a chair with your head resting on the table. The coldness felt nice, a distraction from the war in your belly. You had just taken another pill for the pain, and just like the previous ones today, it didn't feel like it was working either. You had at least just changed your pad, and the sensation of not carrying around a bloated diaper felt dignified enough to sit there without the fear of involuntarily recreating a gore scene. You felt drained, dirty, inhuman. Funny how something so natural took you back to years of shame and taboo. Another of the gifts your ex gave you to tell your therapist about, you guessed.
A moan of pain escaped you before you could stop it, your hands clutching your midsection. There was also a ringing in your head, hammering your thoughts. And god, how much you wished to take off your bra so you could just hold your breasts tenderly. Stupid long-ass shift, and stupid birth control pill, and stupid misogynistic medical field that is so behind on women's health issues; you knew that if masculine bodies were the ones that menstruated, there would already be a goddamn cure for the monthly discomfort you are just supposed to bear.
There was only an hour left of your shift before you could go home and cry.
“Honey, are you okay?” Dana asked, entering the room, a gentle hand caressing your shoulder.
“Yes, just cramps.”
“Mhm, you have had them all day.”
“The gyno said it will be normal for the next few months, until my body regulates again. I think I’m just being a baby because this is the first one.”
“Now, don’t talk like that about yourself. You are in great pain, and showing it doesn’t make you a baby,” she reprimanded you in a soft voice, in that unique way of hers.
“I think you have had enough for today, yeah? Go get your things, and then go home and try to relax.”
“Dana—”
“No fighting, young lady. Do as you are told, or I personally will kick your ass out.”
In other circumstances, you would have put up a fight longer, your pride and the need to prove yourself worthy of this job screaming at you; not today, though.
“Thank you, Dana,” you said, smiling tiredly before standing up from the chair.
“We take care of each other, kid. Now hurry up before someone needs you here.”
Ten minutes later, you were at the bus stop hugging your backpack, waiting for the damn delayed bus. The clouds in the sky were starting to darken, and the smell in the air told you a storm was coming your way. Luckily, you would be under your own roof before it hit. Another five minutes passed before a pristine black car stopped in front of you. Please don’t be a weirdo, please don’t kidnap me, please—
“Where are you going?” a familiar masculine voice appeared as the window rolled down. None other than Dr. Park was sitting behind the wheel.
“Home.”
He nodded calmly and unlocked the door, stretching to open it from the inside. “Get in, I’ll drive you.”
“Uhm, my bus is almost here, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, well, a storm is almost here too, so get in.”
You didn’t know what mortified you more: denying an order from the intimidating Shark or giving him the trouble of driving you home.
“My apartment is really far away,” you said in a weak attempt to make him desist.
“It’s a good thing the car has seats, then,” he deadpanned in a flat tone. “Get in now, don’t make me get you myself.”
If you hurried to follow his orders, it was only because of the tiny raindrops starting to fall, and not because of the waterfall forming in your panties.
His car was warm and spacious, with a smell of sandalwood and freshness, strong but not overwhelming. His own cologne also lingered in the atmosphere, rich and deep, like the roots of a vine climbing up your nose. Even if his presence had always made you nervous, you felt yourself relaxing in the comfy seat, your muscles loosening up after telling him your address. Maybe you were like Santos after all, getting horny out of nowhere, but there was something about him just having to hear the street name and the boulevard near it to know where it was that made him more attractive in your eyes. No GPS, no googling, just the ability to know his way around the city like in the old days. You liked your men smart and capable, and Brendon Park was all that without showing off.
The ride was silent for a couple of miles before he broke it with a brief glance in your direction. “Are you still in pain?”
“Uh?”
“Saw you hugging your belly a couple of times back there.”
“It comes and goes,” you answered with a small grimace. “Nothing too—Oh, fucking God!”
Your attempt to dismiss it was interrupted by a cruel cramp that forced you to curl up on yourself. Park quickly squeezed just above your knee in a comforting manner, not high enough to be disrespectful. Surprisingly, the warmth of his big hand helped distract you from the pain, and you let out a sigh, resting your head on the seat.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he grunted, as if your apologies somehow offended him. “What have you taken for the pain?”
“Uh, my gyno gave me some pills, but she was honest enough to let me know that they most probably wouldn’t make a difference. I just have to endure these next months and then, well, hopefully things will get back to normal.”
“It's normally not like this?” he adjusted the rearview mirror, giving you a clear view of his head-sized bicep. “What changed?”
“I stopped birth control—the pill—and my hormones decided to torture me in revenge.”
“Mhm, I have read about the hormonal disaster they cause.”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like when I was taking it, it was a walk in the park, you know? Four years ago, when I started on them, I would get breakout acne and I also gained weight, but after some time my body accustomed itself. Now that I stopped taking them, it just has to go through it again. I just didn’t think it would be this painful.”
His hand, heavy and firm, traced invisible figures on your leg.
“Four years on birth control?” he asked, raising his brows.
“Even worse, four years on birth control because of an asshole,” you tried to joke, looking out the window at the raindrops dancing there. The world outside the car was a blur of speed.
“That means you broke up with your boyfriend? The lame blond?”
You laughed at his words and resisted the urge to take his hand in yours just to feel him. “You knew I had a boyfriend?”
He just shrugged his shoulders, like it wasn’t a big deal that a surgeon from another department knew that information about you. Maybe he was just really nosy, like Dr. Robby, but to be honest, he didn’t give off that vibe. Who knows—doctors are a rare species.
You knew Park had never met Chris, your ex. First of all, you were an ER nurse, not an ortho nurse, so you didn’t really share a lot of time together. And two, because the scumbag you dated for four years never dignified you by showing up at your workplace: not to pick you up, not to deliver lunch, not even by accident. He was so scared of hospitals, syringes, blood, and anything related to human anatomy that he would rather die on his sofa than see a doctor. “I’m so lucky to have my own little sexy nurse at my disposal,” he would say with puppy eyes, making you overlook the misogyny behind his words countless times.
“Well, I don’t have one anymore. We broke up over a month ago.”
“That’s good,” Brendon said, bluntly.
“Yeah, it’s good. I mean, he wasn’t always an idiot, but... after some time, it gets tiring. So, yeah, it’s good. It’s good for me,” you repeated to convince yourself. Getting out of a long relationship is difficult, and some days you miss the good days, but there were also many bad ones, so it’s for the better.
“It’s also good for me,” the blue-eyed man affirmed, tapping the wheel with his long fingers at a red light.
“Why is it good for you?” you asked, turning your head to look at his sharp profile. He had never been one of the people you used to complain to about Chris, so he surely couldn't say that the relationship had been tiring for him.
“Because now I can ask you out.”
The car was still stopped in traffic, waiting for its turn to advance, and only then you realized Brendon had been doing the same with you. For how long? His face turned toward you, slowly, cautiously, with a look you had never seen on him: vulnerable. “—and hopefully you will say yes.”
Your apartment was getting closer in the distance, and so was the space between his hand on his leg and your trembling hand. After some consideration, you took his in yours and caressed it. You heard him take a breath beside you.
“Are you... serious?”
“I've been praying every night before bed for you to kick out that undeserving asshole,” he confessed without shame, parking the car. “Guess my miracle finally happened.”
One look at your face tells him everything he needs to know about your decision, so he closes the space and kisses you. Not demanding or rough, but slow and gentle. Both his hands cup your nape and cheek, and his tongue opens its way into your mouth. He tastes like peppermint and addiction, and a whimper escapes your lips. Brendon growls in response. After some time, you pull apart to catch your breath, but once again, he pulls you in for another all-consuming kiss. His lips dance on yours, his tongue fights for dominance, and his hands hold you intimately. And he repeats it until the car is no longer just warm, with the pouring rain being the only sound in the street.
You have to pull away with a breathless laugh, asking for air. The image of Dr. Brendon Park red-cheeked, lips swollen, and hair disheveled is one to remember forever, and you got the privilege that night.
A thunderclap in the sky makes you both look at the storm outside, which has just become stronger and relentless.
“We should get inside,” you tell him, looking for your keys in your backpack, and before he can say no—like the gentleman he is—you cut him off. “You are crazy if you think I will let you drive home in this weather.”
By the time you are inside your apartment, your clothes are soaked and your body is shivering. That, however, doesn’t stop you from kissing him again—because when you have the opportunity to kiss Brendon Park, you don’t waste it. With hunger, he takes off your top, and then caresses the skin on your waist, traveling up to your back, where he stops at the bottom of your bra. His lips find a place on your neck, where he licks and touches tenderly with his teeth.
“You smell so good,” he moans, nuzzling you. “So fucking good.”
You want to tell him that you had just worked a twelve-hour shift, and that the shower you took in the morning was quick, but the hardness you feel against your belly through his pants shuts you up. It’s only when you sense that his hands are moving down towards your pants that you stop him.
“Uh, no, wait—”
“Yeah, yeah, right, I’m sorry,” he mumbles with his forehead leaning against your shoulder, taking deep breaths. “First the date, first the date.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” you reassure him, stroking his dark hair. “It’s just that... um, I’m dirty.”
He lifts his head to give you a confused look, still caressing the skin on your ribs softly. “Dirty how, pretty?”
“I’m on my period, remember?”
You wait for him to pull away, to understand the circumstances, but he just frowns more at you, still not letting you go. “And how is that dirty?”
Now it’s your turn to look at him puzzled. “Well, you are a doctor, you must know what menstruation implies.”
“I do know that. What I don’t get is how that makes you dirty.”
The thing about being with someone for so long, so many years, is that you acquire the thoughts of said person. Chris was a total hater of your periods, because as he said, they got in the way of properly fucking his girlfriend. The huffs at your complaints about lower back pain, the shaking of his head when you stained the sheets, the disappointment on his face when you told him that you couldn’t have sex... it all became expected during that time of the month for you. So, seeing Park searching for your eyes with a small pout at your words froze you on the spot.
He kissed you again, shortly, softly, to get you out of your head.
“You don’t think it’s dirty?”
“Sweetheart, when have you seen a shark turn away from blood?”
⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚. ⊹ ₊ ݁.⟡
You convinced him to at least take a shower first, because no matter how sweet and normal he acted about your period, old traumas take time to vanish. The pout on his lips disappeared completely when you told him that you could shower together, and it was a nice feeling to discover that the action was so intimate.
He washed your hair, massaging your scalp with a focus only a surgeon could master, all while you soaped his hairy chest, followed by his shoulders and his abdomen. Before your hands could wander lower, he instructed you to close your eyes and lean your head back so he could rinse the shampoo. A relaxed hum made its way out of you.
With the same veneration, he washed your entire body, and it was nice to be touched not by lust but by care. When he accumulated enough soap in his hand and made his intention clear to lower it to your privates, you stopped him by grabbing his wrist hesitantly.
“Allow me to take care of you,” he asked, caressing your cheek with his other hand. It wasn’t until you nodded that he placed his hand on your mound first, delicately. The shame that you had felt when you took your panties off, revealing the hair between your legs, was short-lived when he growled that he loved that you had the body of a woman.
So, he washed the dried blood on your thighs, on your mound, in your soul. He cupped your belly when a cramp hit, and kissed you under the artificial rain, with the thunderclaps echoing outside the apartment. You returned the kiss, and let your hands wander over all his glory: his strong shoulders, his broad back, his veiny forearms, his thick thighs. His erection rested against your hip, but he didn’t pay it any mind, focusing instead on presenting you two fingers so you could suck on them.
“Wet them well, pretty. Yes, like that, attagirl. You are so good at following instructions, right? Knew you would be, my good girl,” he said, looking down at where your mouth greedily swallowed his fingers. When your tongue twirled around them, a deep groan dominated the sound of the water. “Perfect little mouth.”
He then pulled them out of you, and maintaining intense eye contact, moved them down until you felt them against your labia, where you needed him most.
“Open your legs, sweetheart, let me in.”
His wet finger then touched your clit, making you sigh in appreciation. He circled it calmly, supporting your head with his other hand, all while praising you.
“Doing so good, you just have to let me make you feel good, yeah? That’s all I am asking.” At your nod, he moved his fingers to your entrance, where he collected your juices mixed with blood. He inserted one finger first, slowly, pumping in and out of you. “Fucking hell, so damn warm, so damn tight. You are soaked, pretty. I don’t care if it's blood or not, I wanna taste you so bad. Want you to make a mess on me, yeah? Can you do that? Stain me with your juices, come on.”
You moaned at his dirty words, letting your puddle of a body collapse completely against his chest, where he held you firmly.
“Brendon, please.”
“Shh, shh, you don’t have to beg me, honey. I’ll give you everything before you even ask. You deserve everything, such a strong girl, my perfect nurse. I might steal you to ortho so I can see your pretty face whenever I want. The pit will have to fight me to keep me away from you,” he groused, humping your hip, where you felt his heavy cock leaving a trail of precum. A second finger made its way inside you, and in no time, the palm of his hand brushed against your clit firmly. “Greedy lil pussy, soaking me completely. Does it feel good, sweetheart? Am I making you feel good?”
“So good, Bren—fuck, so so good,” you whimpered, following the rhythm of his hand with your hips, letting your forehead rest against his armpit, where you sniffed the freshness mixed with his own scent. You felt dizzy, like your body didn’t belong to you, and your mind was a puddle of wishes that didn't need to be shared out loud, because they were already being taken care of.
“I can feel you sucking me in, pussy so greedy, hungry to be played with. You needed this, right? Needed your pussy stuffed after a hard day; I’m here for it, use me, use my hand. Want to take care of you, want you to trust me, want you to let go—come on, baby, let it go, give it to me, make a mess, I’ll lick it all.”
His final words and the speed of his hand are what finally throw you off the abyss, his name loudly moaned by the phantom of your voice, sounding far away in your ears. It’s his scent, his warmth, his touch, and his reassuring words that bring you back slowly, only to open your eyes and see him bring his fingers, coated in your blood, to his mouth, where he licks them clean with a moan.
“Knew you would taste divine.”
Soon, the shower is turned off, followed by him wrapping you in a towel with which he dries you off. Then, he takes you in his arms and lays you on your bed, while he returns to the bathroom to take care of the discarded clothes and whatever is left. You lay in bed on top of the towel, eyes focused on the ceiling, with your knees bent toward the sky and your arms open at your sides, breathing in the peace.
The steps of Brendon, now dried off too but still naked, greet you as he leans against the doorframe. Your eyes travel down, where a still veiny and thick cock stands proudly, its tip angry in a delicious shade of red. Your mouth salivates with the desire to feel his heaviness on your tongue, but he beats you to it, walking toward you and placing his hands on your knees.
“Open your sexy legs, sweetheart. I wasn’t joking when I said I would lick you all,” he orders, forcing your thighs apart. The coldness of the room hits you in your center, but it is soon replaced by the heat of his ravenous eyes that devour you with need. “I couldn’t look at her properly before. You were hiding the prettiest pussy from me, weren’t you? So mean, baby. Look at her, all bloody and tender, only for me, yeah?”
“Uhm, yes, only for you,” you whimper, raising your pelvis despite the shyness you feel.
“I’ve heard orgasms help with period discomfort,” he smirked, kneeling in front of you, big hands caressing your thighs, his hot breath so close to your core that it made your clit throb. Between your legs, he still had a trace of your blood on his chin from when he had licked his fingers clean in the bathroom, and watching his hungry eyes looking at you directly, you finally saw the true version of a shark in human form. Before going completely down on you, he mumbled in a teasing tone only reserved for you: “Let me kiss it better.”
brendon park may escatimates in words at the PTMC but i know that man talks the shit out in bed! and he is freaaaaky.
40 yr old brendon park going back in the dating scene expecting the worst because his coworkers keep telling him how horrible the modern dating scene is that he was genuinely nervous with his date with you only to find out the issue was the bar was actually in hell. they get mad if you don;t buy them flowers on dates. duh? they want you to pay for everything! of course he's going to pay for everything he earns more than half a million a year. they want to put labels on the relationship! he's a grown man he'd be insulted if you don't treat this relationship seriously enough to put a name to it.
and suddenly to everyone's surprise, brendon park -- who has not dated seriously since college -- is getting married ahead all of them because he's genuinely just a great guy and a better boyfriend lmfao
Bf Pope Cody He never lets you touch doors, he’s always opening doors for you
Bf Pope Cody He takes a long time to introduce you to his family, and even when he does he still won’t leave you alone with them or even let you tell them much about yourself.
Bf Pope Cody He loves the feeling of you on top of him sitting in his lap, riding his dick, even when you reach over him to grab something.
Bf Pope Cody He’s extremely whiny and clingy when he’s horny, not in an annoying way, but when you do something that gets him all hot and bothered he’ll follow you around and try to grope you, even when you’re in public, he doesn’t care he’ll push his hardening bulge against your ass while you’re bent over.
Bf Pope Cody huge dick that he’s not great at using, he’s not bad at sex, obviously but he’s too gentle sometimes likes he’s scared he’ll hurt you, until you begged him to fuck you senseless and he broke your headboard.
Bf Pope Cody one time you shook your ass while in reverse cowgirl now he’s obsessed and always asks “Can you please do that thing again, baby?”
Bf Pope Cody He’d never do it without your written consent, but when you’re asleep in the middle of the night and he’s still awake like he usually is, he’ll fantasize about pulling your cotton panties to the side and slipping in slowly.
Bf Pope Cody One time he raised he voice at you, not on purpose he was already on the edge and you didn’t notice, when he did snap you you flinched and he still hasn’t forgiven himself he spent the rest of the day worshipping you, doing whatever you asked.
Bf Pope Cody He loves cockwarming.. When you first started dating he didn’t seem to know much about sex of course he knew the basics, but he didn’t know many positions so you left him on your laptop with pornhub opened while you went to work, when you came back he sat you on his cock and did not let you get up until both of your were whining and at your breaking points.
Bf Pope Cody He will hug you so tight that your ribs start hurting if he hasn’t seen you in more than two days and when you wince he lets go and apologizes.
Bf Pope Cody Gets all mushy when you call him by a pet name ”My love” “Handsome man” “Andy” will all just make him melt and give him at least a semi.
Bf Pope Cody He will eat you pussy for hours if you let him, his favorite time to do it is when you just get home from work and you’re all sweaty it’s a little gross but not only does he not care he prefers it.
Bf Pope Cody He really likes to grope you, you only allow it at home when the two of you are alone, he’ll come up behind you when you’re doing something and run his hands slowly up your torso then grab your breasts while nuzzling his face into your neck and breathing you in.
Bf Pope Cody He’ll tell you stuff about his past and his childhood when he knows you’re asleep not only because he has a hard time being vulnerable but he wants you to know without you feeling pity or sadness for him eventually he does tell you when you’re conscious but he won’t look you in the eye.
🪽:This took me like no time at all, I love this man but i am way to scared to continue watching Animal Kingdom
summary: All it takes is one glance at the pretty girl who lives in the apartment across from his for Andrew Cody to become obsessed. But what begins as innocent observation from his window turns into something far more intense.
warnings: +18 MDNI. obsessive behavior, stalking, multiple scenes of male masturbation, themes of shame, reader has type b youngho vibes and andrew is stupidly into it, feminine reader who has hair and wears press on nails, unspecified but implied age gap, reader shares one kiss with a female friend (not super detailed), J pulls your cell phone records as a favor, andrew breaks into your apartment and raids your panty drawer, male masturbation with a vibrator, nipple play, alcohol consumption and mentioned drunkenness, lingerie, exhibitionism on readers part, mutual masturbation, jealousy, bratting/a touch of brat taming, reader tries to make pope jealous with another man, death threats (not to reader or pope), dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, spit swapping, over the clothes nipple sucking, finger sucking, f!use of a vibrator, clit play, rough fingering, unprotected piv, dacryphilia, light angst, insecure pope, reader matches his freak, stalker!reader, forced love confessions, begging, creampie
note: wow ok i think that might be the longest warning i've ever written whoops!! thank u sm to my angel @thykingdoncome for reassuring me through this whole process and taking a lil looksie at this for me love u 4ever
wc: 10.4k
[masterlist] [AO3]
Andrew knows it's weird.
He knows that.
But as long as you don't know he's doing it, what does it hurt?
It's not like he's doing anything weird. He's just…watching you. It almost feels like fate, the way your apartment is positioned directly across from his. There's the courtyard and a pool lying between you, but the windows of his apartment mirror yours so perfectly.
And…you don't have blinds.
No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.
Pope can see right into your apartment.
Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.
He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.
It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.
He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.
You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.
Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.
You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).
You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.
He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.
Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.
A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?
But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.
You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.
You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On on particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.
That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.
But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.
No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.
It makes him jealous.
He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.
But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.
Both for you and for him.
So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.
Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.
You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).
And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.
You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.
Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.
From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.
He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.
But he resists.
The first three times, anyway.
By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?
And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look to see him.
So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagine it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.
He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.
He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.
Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.
The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.
Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.
Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.
He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.
He knows he should stop.
The problem, however, lies in the wanting.
Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.
Things change late one Friday night.
Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.
There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).
You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.
It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.
Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.
He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.
Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.
And you're staring right back at him.
His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.
But he doesn't do any of that.
He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.
Pope just…stares.
It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.
He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.
But you don't do any of that.
You just stare right back.
Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.
In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.
It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.
And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.
He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.
And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.
You don't.
The following morning, your routine changes.
On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.
But not this time.
No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.
Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.
He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow slip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.
You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.
And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.
Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.
Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.
Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.
You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.
Andrew knows it's not.
You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.
He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.
It's…it's weird, right?
Everything about it is wrong.
He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.
He tries, though. For what little it's worth.
Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.
He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.
The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.
One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.
Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.
What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.
You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.
It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.
He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.
But it's not like he can go over and just ask.
So, he chooses a different path instead.
Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.
Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.
But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.
And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"
J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"
Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"
"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."
J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."
In the meantime, Andrew spirals.
The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.
But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he'd never would've known it.
Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?
Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.
You deserve someone who knows you.
Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.
It was your phone company.
You're stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.
All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.
And money is something Andrew can provide.
He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.
He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.
Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.
He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.
Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.
But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.
And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what does it hurt if he just opens a couple of drawers?
None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.
Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush that's spilled magenta pigment on the counter.
He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.
The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.
His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?
Pope is aching.
Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.
It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.
Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.
Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.
He does it anyway.
Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.
As close as he can get.
As close as he'll probably ever get.
He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.
This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.
Andrew does not leave.
He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.
His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your sheets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.
And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.
But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.
This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.
His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.
The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.
His heart is beating fast.
It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.
Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.
There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.
He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.
He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.
The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberated through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.
Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.
His release is…embarrassingly fast.
A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.
Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).
He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.
There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket of your jeans, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.
He leaves.
Locks the door behind him with the spare key.
Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.
It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.
Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.
Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.
So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.
He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).
Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.
You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.
You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.
He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.
But Andrew isn't sorry.
And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.
You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.
Something passes silently between you. An…understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.
You smile at him from fifteen feet away.
And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.
Pope watches you go, like always.
But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.
He needs to get closer.
During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.
When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.
A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.
Your phone number, Pope knows.
He knows he shouldn't text you.
It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.
His message just says,
Hello.
Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.
hey
are u the guy from apt 212 ???
Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.
Yes.
The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.
im gonna be home in like an hr
will u be watching ???
Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.
Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.
Do you want me to be?
No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.
uhmmm tbh yeah <3
He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?
But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.
And the text message is real.
And this…this is real.
Then yes. I will be.
You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.
True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…
Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.
You're teasing him, Pope realizes.
He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.
And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.
You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.
His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…
His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.
Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.
Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.
It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.
The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.
You dressed up for him.
You dressed up for him.
Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.
You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.
Andrew thinks he could die.
He could fucking die, just looking at you.
Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.
Your knees fall apart.
Pope swallows hard.
He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.
For him. It's for him.
His cock throbs so hard it hurts.
Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.
That's what you wanted.
But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?
All you'd have to do is let him in.
Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.
He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.
Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.
Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.
If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.
Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.
Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?
Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.
You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.
He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.
I want to hear you.
You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.
Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.
You're calling him.
He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.
You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.
"Oh, god—"
His inhale is shaky.
"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"
He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."
Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."
His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.
He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.
Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.
Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.
He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"
For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).
But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.
"I…might have been. Once, yes."
"Did you steal my chapstick?"
"You have ten of them."
He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."
"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."
"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."
So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.
Smart, pretty girl.
He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.
You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."
He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."
Pope rides the high of it for days.
Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.
And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.
But is that what this is? Love?
You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.
Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?
All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.
Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.
Define love.
Define obsession.
How to know if you're in love?
How to ask a girl out?
How to get over a girl.
Define voyeur.
Define fetish.
How big of an age gap is too big?
Apartments for sale on the east coast.
Pink champagne candle.
Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.
You text him the following weekend.
do u wanna like…go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot
He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.
Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"
And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."
He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.
It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.
We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.
Your response is one single, painful letter.
k
He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.
But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.
Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.
He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.
You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.
Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.
He tells himself he won't interfere.
You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.
And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.
He did it to himself, really.
He should look away.
But he watches instead.
Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.
Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.
Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.
And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?
He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.
But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.
Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.
But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.
His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"
When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.
The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.
Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."
"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"
Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."
"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"
Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"
"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."
Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.
He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.
And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.
He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.
He knows he should.
What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"
Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."
Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.
He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.
"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."
The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.
Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."
You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.
"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."
Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.
You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.
The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.
Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.
He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.
Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."
He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."
That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.
Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.
You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.
Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.
You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.
Don't you know how dangerous he could be?
You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.
Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."
You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.
Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.
His sweet, filthy girl.
Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.
Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"
"Did more than that," he admits.
You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.
"Use it," Pope orders.
"What?"
He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."
There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.
You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.
When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.
He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"
Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.
He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.
But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.
Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."
You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.
And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.
It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.
Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.
"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"
A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.
He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.
Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"
It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?
He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.
It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."
Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.
"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"
You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"
"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"
He stops.
Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.
"You're what, Andrew?"
Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.
But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"
He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.
You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."
Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.
Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.
How silly of him to ever doubt you.
There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.
And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.
And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.
He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.
But you are, too.
Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.
Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.
A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.
But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.
You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.
The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.
It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.
You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.
He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.
Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."
You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.
Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.
"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."
You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.
There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—
"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."
The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.
Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.
He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."
He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.
You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.
He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.
But when you say that?
When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."
He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.
So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.
Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).
Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."
You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.
Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.
After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"
Yes, he wants to say.
But he feels it, too.
So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."
He feels that smile of yours against his chest.
Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.
Park the shark with a scent kink is so valid. I also feel like period sex is definitely on the table with him
(Hey so this possessed me so much so that I wrote this at work the moment I saw the ask. I'm not the best at writing in second person yet so it's like, half me rambling and half an attempt at a fic, plus I wrote this on my night shift and cleaned it up half asleep so apologies for any spelling or grammar errors or if it's a little clunky. Anyway, pls enjoy this lil thought blurb that kinda got away from me in length)
Park may be a little ooc but also we only saw like 30 seconds of him sooooo is it really ooc if he isn't fully fleshed out? Also it isn't super gender specific another than referencing you've got a vagina, a period, and nipples.
Word count: 3k
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Same Time Next Month?
Imagine if the Park the Shark moniker came from his frat days in college (you can pry frat bro Park from my cold dead hands) and it got around that he didn’t gaf about blood and would still fuck/eat out someone on their period. Like he’s in med school, he’s gonna be an orthopedic surgeon, why tf would something like blood deter him?
If anything it was almost like he didn’t just “not mind” it, it was that Park craved it. He got off on it just as much as whoever’s legs he was between and thus Park the Shark was born, and he wore it like a badge of fucking honor the rest of the way through school.
Just from how strenuous and demanding orthopedic residency is maybe his sex life, and subsequently the moniker, gets pushed to the back of his mind until an old frat brother comes in and calls him Park the Shark in front of everyone and now the nickname is being whispered through the halls, following him like a shadow because hospital staff thought it was because he’s brutish, cold, and a total asshole. And yeah, he is those things, but the shark moniker had once been positive, a source of pride that fed his ego, it made him an outlier among his peers and made him popular with the ladies.
He had hook ups every now and again when he found the time during his later residency years, after carving out a place for himself among the PTMC staff, but found it brought more headache than pleasure to fuck where he worked- especially when he became an attending, so he gives up and forces himself to focus on work.
Of course until you, that is.
You, a new ED resident who captures his full attention by simply walking into a room and not taking any of his shit for a millisecond, not even batting an eye under the Shark's looming figure and icy glare. You return it with a glare of your own, your lip curled in anger as you snap at him to stand up straight if he's going to talk to you like that and fuck, he’s enamored. Park wants you carnally, almost desperately, and every time you roll your eyes at him or pop your gum in his face he gets hard enough to see stars. You’re infuriating— your competency is infuriating. It would be easier to get over it if you were just stupid but no. No you just had to be top of your class with a spine made of steel and you don’t give him a single inch where he usually takes a mile. The chase takes a while, longer than any other person he's pursued in his life. You’re not an easy one to wear down and you give him hell the entire way, but he’s not quick to give up until he’s got you to say yes to "just one date".
You get to find that you actually kinda like Brendon Park outside of the hospital when he's shed the shark persona, and one date turns into two, two into three, and three into a trip to HR to update your relationship status to make sure all your bases are covered.
The first time you get your period at his house not only is he
1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved)
2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.”
Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—
“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart”
And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.
Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)
Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.
I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.
“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”
If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.
However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.
It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.
He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.
When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done.
He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.
We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”, and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs.
It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.
If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.
He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.
Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.
He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him.
Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.
Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.
Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.
God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.
Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!
He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.
Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.
The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—
He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.
God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.
He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.
It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good—
You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.
Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.
His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.
The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.
Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)
Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.
"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—
"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"
He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.
"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."
(oh my god that was so much longer than I meant it to be. I started my period and apparently this was exactly what my brain wanted to focus on. Anyways happy birthday to me I'm gonna go take a nap, k love you bye 💖🌕🪼)
You make some offhand comment to pope about not liking your work uniform because it’s lowcut enough that creepy guys stare a lot and then he leaves the biggest, nastiest hickey he can manage on your collarbone
Like his moniker extends to his sharp sense of smell and maybe one day you’ve worked a bit harder than normal, you’ve sweat a whole bunch, and you want nothing more than to get home and shower except the moment you step in the door he's on you. Even better if he got to see you work up a sweat but he'll take what he can get. You're on your back, your knees nearly to your ears with his face buried in your crotch. You haven't even changed- your clothes aren't even off but he's huffing deep breaths as if your musk is the best thing he's ever smelled in his life. He can be convinced to fuck you in or after a shower if you're really feeling gross, but he's going to beg to eat you out at least once beforehand (preferably until you're pulling him by his hair away from you, reeling from overstimulation and he has to carry you to the shower because your legs were rendered useless from how enthusiastic he was)
"God, you're a fucking freak, aren't you?" You pant, nails digging into his scalp as he's got your underwear pressed against his nose, inhaling before pulling them away with a salacious grin.
"Yeah sweetheart, I'm a fucking freak. Maybe I’ll keep these in my pocket for when I need a pick me up at work,” he rasped, chuckling at the disgusted scrunch in your nose even as your face grew redder, burying his face right back where you want him the most with an absolutely filthy groan.
pairings: brendon park x f!reader (kind of michael robinavitch x f!reader)
summary: Park hates you, or so you think.
warnings/contents: park seemingly hates her, but really doesn't. respects the reader. smut. biting kink (you and park), brat taming (kind of). implied age-gap. reader can be reader as an attending or a senior resident. jealous!park, jealous!reader. hook-up to friends to lovers <3
notes: oh lawd, i think i've fallen into the shark trap :,(. i may make a longer and more descriptive fic later on based on this, but i just needed to get this out. this was supposed to be a drabble but one thing led to another...bone apple teeth.
word count: 4.1k+ (the actual fic is going to be longer than this btw, let me know if y'all want. we're currently looking at 10k+ words)
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park the shark the attending that you’ve been hooking up with for a couple of months. who knows your body better than you do.
park the shark who at first hated your guts because you were robby’s number one. the one always by his side. the one who foolishly fell in love with her co-worker.
park the shark who hated that you dimmed your light because of your feelings to robby. he’d much rather have you showing off your skills to the man than be meek.
“why the fuck do you hate me?” you asked, bitterly swallowing the liquor. “that’s fucking disgusting,” you passed the whisky to the man next to you.
“that’s what you get for not ordering those fruity drinks,” he remarked, gladly taking the drink from you and downing it.
“how do you know what i drink?” flagging down the bartender, you asked for your usual go-to and turned to park. “and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“i don’t hate you,” he answered, as if you were stupid to think that he hated you. “i hate how you act around robinavitch.”
“excuse me?”
park rolled his eyes, “you’re dewy-eyed every time he comes around,” he started. “i’ve seen you in action, you’re tough, you know your stuff, you command the room, you’re willing to get down and dirty, but when you’re with him?” park made a disgusted face and rolled his eyes. “you’re clueless, as if this a field trip for you and you’ve never encountered an actual medical case.”
balking at his criticism on yourself, you were quiet, mulling over what he said. were you really like that? and if park saw it, who else?
fury ran through you though and steeled yourself, “what’s it to you?”
“i want you to be the best,” he answered. “i know that you can be the best.”
you were stunned at his words.
“you can’t be the best when you’re too busy making sure that robinavitch is noticing you, or whether he’s fucking one of the nurses again,” he sighed heavily.
park the shark who willingly took you to his place that night, something that he doesn’t do very often. and even if he did, he would usually go back to her place, not that he’d ever tell you.
“i hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs.
“i can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, “up,” he commanded, and you obeyed.
lifting you up, you felt your back hit his door and before you could complain, park placed his mouth over yours. wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer.
“so needy,” he smirked against your mouth, at his mouth you grasped his hair and pulled. park responded by pushing you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach. “feel that, princess? hope you can take it.”
park the shark who matched your freak. wasn’t judgemental with what you wanted to do in the bedroom.
“you wanna bite me?” he grinned, flashing his canines. “i thought i was the shark.”
you made a face, “why would you say that to me? i’m like, dry now.”
scoffing, his hands drifted down to your damp panties. “sure, princess,” grinding his thumb against your clit, park watched intently at the way you threw your head back, your breathing becoming laboured. “look at that.”
“brendon,” you gasped, feeling his teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder, dragging your nails down his back, you could hear his grunt against you, the jerk of his hips.
removing himself away from you, brendon licked the bite languidly, a contrast to the erraticness of his hips. “look at you,” he purred, as he took in the multiple marks he’s left across your skin. “beautiful.”
you looked up at him and the meat between his neck and shoulder was practically tantalising. sensing where your attention was, park grinned to himself and lowered his shoulder. “come on, baby.”
“i’m not going to fucking break, bite me,” still a bit hesitant, you moved your mouth back to his traps, sinking your teeth slowly, you could feel brendon squeezing your hips. “that’s a girl,” encouraged.
park the shark who started to treat you slightly better at work. he wasn’t goading you like before, but he was more or less ignoring your entire existence.
“you get in my pants and then you practically ghost me when we’re at work?” you slammed his locker, refusing to back down when he glared at you.
“i didn’t realise i had to converse with you every time i saw you,” he sneered. “did you want flowers as well?”
“no,” you sputtered. “of course not. but i want you talk to me like i’m actually there.”
park sighed, “we didn’t talk before.”
“because i thought you hated me,” when he opened his mouth, you quickly interrupted, “i know that you don’t hate me.”
“i don’t understand why i have to talk to you outside of when i go downstairs.”
“it’s courtesy,” your tone was bordering on whinging you and you quickly reeled yourself back.
“what’s courtesy, princess, is me leaving hickeys where people can’t see it,” his eyes quickly flashed to your breasts, and you frowned, crossing your arms.
“don’t be gross.”
“i usually don’t talk to people i fuck,” sighing, he turned back to his locker.
“fine,” you pouted, too tired to argue, and not that you’d ever admit it, a bit hurt at his statement. “i’ll see you when we both fuck next i guess,” turning to leave, you heard make a noise before grabbing your arm.
“don’t be dramatic,” he bit out, annoyed at the whole situation. “i don’t know what to talk to you about when we’re at work.”
“the weather? the shitty but overpriced cafeteria food? the gossip?” you listed off. “it just makes me feel used, park. like i’m good enough for you to fuck but not good enough for you to talk to.”
park frowned at your statement. “i didn’t mean it like that. i thought that you would prefer for me to not talk to you.”
you couldn’t help but laugh at the miscommunication. “i like talking to you.”
park shifted, as if your words impacted him in a way he couldn’t decipher, “i like talking to you too.”
“don’t ignore me again, i swear to god, otherwise i’ll ban you from sex,” you pointed your finger at him.
he rolled his eyes and then looked around, “this is like your shitty grey’s anatomy.”
you rolled your eyes, “you like my shitty grey’s anatomy.”
“if you ever,” he threatened, a playfully mean look on his face. holding up your hands in surrender, he opened back up his locker. “what are we having tonight?”
you sat down on the bench and watched him, “i want pho,” you watched in appreciation as brendon began changing into his normal clothes. he was always so big but his movements weren’t clunky or awkward, it was always so sure.
tossing his hoodie wordlessly behind him, you barely caught it. “you’re going to get cold,” he stated and you mumbled under your breath.
“do you want to eat in? cause if so, we have to head home and shower,” he mumbled into his locker, grabbing the last of his things. he closed it and turned to you, a small smile gracing his face before it quickly dropped.
“take away?” you suggested. “i’m kinda beat,” you shrugged then stood up.
“you good?”
“tired,” before you could lift your bag to your shoulder, park grabbed it and held it for you. murmuring a ‘thanks’, you moved closer to him. “i just really want to eat pho and watch shitty grey’s anatomy.”
“you’re lucky i have netflix.”
“i have all the dvds, that won’t stop me.”
brendon park who slowly became your friend in public since that talk. he’s actually nice. he’s considerate (in and out of the bedroom), stubborn but loyal, remembers the smallest things you talk to him about and he’s sweet.
brendon park who knows how to deal with you when you’re being particularly bratty.
you weren’t seething out of jealousy, no of course not. you were just being logical. because if park was fucking other people, you needed to know because of health reasons, obviously.
you didn’t know her, she was stationed upstairs with him. but she was really pretty. soft, blonde hair, a smile that unfortunately made you fall in love. she was a stunner and you’re not an idiot, brendon probably thought she was pretty too.
his demeanor was calmer than usual. it seemed like he actually wanted to listen to what she was saying, that he wanted to be in her company.
looking up, park nodded at you in acknowledgement (which you promptly ignored) before finishing his conversation and heading over to you.
“you ready?”
giving him a terse nod, you kept eye contact with the woman from before. “who is she?” you jerked your head towards her.
“one of the or nurses,” he replied.
you hummed and tore your eyes away from her, instead looking at park. you eyed him up and down, disdain clearly on your face.
“what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing,” you said. “i’m heading home.”
“i’m going to ask you again. what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing,” you said slower this time. “i’m going home.”
“i thought we had plans,” he said, starting to get irritated at your avoidance.
before you could reply, the nurse from before came back. her blonde her swishing as she walked, her hips swaying a little bit too much, and a sultry smile on her face as she came up to the two of you. “night doctor park,” she grinned at him, not bothering to pay attention to you.
scoffing you mocked her under your breath, something that park didn’t miss. “you jealous, pup?”
“if you’re fucking her, i need to know, i’m not risking an std because you want to the fuck the entire hospital,” you snarked, tamping down the green eyed monster. you had no right to feel jealous. you were just fucking.
“i’m not robinavitch,” he spat out, as if he was offended at the thought of being with other people. at robby’s mention you frowned and you felt like he hit you in the heart. “i don’t treat the hospital like my own dating show.”
“doesn’t seem like it,” you snapped.
“fucking christ,” park exhaled deeply, and you could practically see him counting to five slowly in his head. “we’re going to my place tonight.”
-
“how the fuck do you think i have time between work and you to find time to chase some other woman,” you groaned as he punctuated his statement with a particularly mean thrust.
“brendon,” you could feel your drool pool beneath you, no doubt seeping into his mattress. clasping the fabric beneath you tightly, you were too fucked out to do anything else.
“come on, pup,” twisting his hand into your hair, brendon yanked your head next to his face. “you were so talkative before.”
gasping his name again, he slowly moved his hand to your throat, the other sneaking around to your stomach. “if you ever think that i’d go around your back,” he tightened his grip around your neck, hips snapping. “you think i want some fucking nobody, huh?”
“say who’s fucking me right now,” he growled into your ear, and when you didn’t respond quickly enough for his liking, he gave another rough jerk of his hips.
“me,” you sputtered out, your hands grasping his forearms, nails digging into the flesh.
“fuck, that’s right,” peppering kisses down your sweaty neck, the hand on your stomach moved further down, fingers latching onto your clit. “you think i fuck just anyone raw? that i just cum inside of any woman, huh?”
you shook your head, one arm going behind his neck, pulling him down to your mouth. needing him closer than you already were. you let him take control, taking whatever he wanted, you just needed him.
“come on, pup,” he goaded you, his hips no longer having a rhythm, as his fingers pressed harder, the circles against your clit becoming tighter. “cum on my cock.”
white hot orgasm rushed through your body, you would have fallen if not for brendon holding you. gasping into his mouth, you chanted his name against his lips.
spilling inside of you, he panted on your back, holding your body tight to his. softly moving you down, you melted into the bed. you never wanted to move, or think about anything ever again. you were content.
brendon hissed as he slipped out of you, his cum slowly dripping onto his sheet. moving to his bathroom, he came out with a warm and damp towel. slowly and gently cleaning you, he tossed the rag to his hamper and began slowly kissing up your neck.
“come on,” you could feel brendon lift you up and you whined in protest. “i’m not having you get a uti, you of all people should know how important this is.”
lifting you on the toilet, you didn’t want to acknowledge just how intimate this was. so, instead, you looked at him impatiently.
“what?”
“get out,” you whinged as you watched him stand next to his sink. “i’m not gonna fake pee!” you exclaimed.
brendon eyed you before nodding and leaving to go back to his bed.
walking out of his bathroom slowly, you were practically ambushed, “jesus, brendon.” without another word he lifted you up and carried you to bed. “i have legs, you know.”
“i know, but i also know that you can’t walk right now,” he grinned devilishly at you, and you couldn’t help but gather the little strength you had left, and smacked his chest.
brendon park who brought you a coffee (one from an actual cafe) and a pastry to the pitt because you said you missed breakfast and you were hungry. who gave every single person a glare as they looked at him in shock as he hunted you down and gave you the food.
“park?” you furrowed your brow, wondering if came down for a consult, but you can’t recall anyone calling for ortho in the pitt.
“pup,” he greeted, then practically shoved the contents in your hand. “eat,” he could practically see the question mark forming on the top of your head and rolled his eyes. “you haven’t eaten since you left my house. eat.”
“brendon,” you said softly, looking around the er. “I’m okay.”
“do i have to feed this to you?” when you didn’t reply, he wordlessly took the pastry back and opened it up, holding it to your face.
“park!” you chided, but nonetheless taking a small bite, very aware of the stares being thrown your way.
javadi looked around, wide-eyed, trying to see if anyone else was watching the scene unfold in front of her. finally seeing whittaker and santos across the room. gesturing with her head to where the two of you stood, she made a face.
“what the?” whittaker wondered out loud. “when did park and her become friends?”
-
“shark bait,” santos practically purred as she rounded the corner. “i always thought it’d be robby that you’d be fucking.”
rolling your eyes, you decided you were far too tired to entertain her antics at the moment. walking away, trinity followed you eagerly, her hands on her stethoscope, “so, is he mean in bed?” not answering her, you continued down the hallway.
“garcia tells me that he talks about you sometimes,” that caused you to pause your steps. smiling, trinity skipped to you, “talks about your plans together. he mentioned that you love those coconut buns from the bakery near the hospital.”
“trin,” you hissed. “stop.”
“tell me if you’re fucking him, so i can change my bet. i don’t really wanna lose fifty bucks,” she whined, rocking on the heels of her feet.
“brendon and i-,”
“brendon?” she repeated, a sly grin on her face.
“is none of your business,” and with that you began walking again, trinity trying to catch up to you.
“what’s going on?” robby held out his hands, a playful smile on his face as he saw the two of you.
“park brought her coffee and pastry because she complained she’s hungry.” eyes wide, you turned to trinity.
“oh?” robby tilted his head towards you, and trinity almost gagged as he gave you the look only reserved for you. “we could have grabbed something, if you were hungry.”
before you could answer, trinity answered for you, “when? between all the patients and nurses needing you, when?”
you both turned to her, you incredulously and robby confused. “santos,” robby snipped, “i think garcia needs a set of hands in room six.”
“shark? when did he start bringing you food?” it was an innocent question, if you didn’t know robby that well. unfortunately, for you, you knew him very well.
“he’s actually nice,” you defended. “when he likes you.”
“when has park ever liked you?” robby made a face and shook his head, “uh, sorry, not meant that way.”
you laughed at his charming awkwardness, “we became friends recently. i like him.”
“you like him?” robby arched a brow, his head tilting.
you could feel a flush approaching your cheeks, and you really didn’t want to do this right now. especially with robby. with a hurried excuse, you scampered away from him.
robby who didn’t realise why park suddenly started appearing a lot happier when he was down for a consult.
robby who could see that the two of you obviously had inside jokes together, inside stories that only the two of you were privy too - something that he once had with you.
robby who didn’t know where the nickname ‘pup’ came from, all he knew was he hated how you lit up at the name, practically preened whenever park said it to you.
robby who always had feelings for you but never wanted to do anything because you’re good. you’re kind, and you’re you. and he was too old and too weathered for someone so good.
brendon who stood by the nurses station in his normal clothes, waiting for you to finish. he ignored the looks that were thrown his way, or the appreciation in some.
he watched as you began your final chart, his eyes roaming all over you. you didn’t seem that tired compared to other days, you actually seemed to be in a pretty good mood. chatting away to him as you kept filling out forms.
“did you see that photo that i sent you during your break?” you briefly looked up to brendon, the back to the computer. “the sushi place on station square.”
“i already made reservations,” brendon simply replied. eyes scanning you and then the report briefly, tsking under his breath and pointed to the mistake.
“i was getting to that,” you snapped playfully. “and thank you.”
he looked back out to the space and saw hastings and robinavitch stopping at the station where the two of you were.
“so i was thinking of coming over tonight?” park practically rolled his eyes at the blatant flirting happening in front of him. he glanced at hastings, leaning over the counter to talk to robby and watched as the other man briefly look over to you.
“i don’t think that’s a good idea,” robby smiled tightly, still glancing between you now and then. not that you realised, too busy frowning at the computer as your screen decided to freeze.
“i swear, you motherfucker,” you cursed under your breath.
listening to the conversation happening right beside you, park closely kept an eye on your mood. anticipating your face scrunching up in distaste at the flirting going on in front of you
“done!” you celebrated as you stood up and slammed your folder shut. “fucking finally,” turning to brendon. “you ready to go, shark?”
brendon hopped off the desk he was leaning on, “let’s go, pup.”
“night,” you nodded to the other two before leading brendon to your locker.
brendon barely glanced at the two as he passed, but he did note gleefully the look on robby’s face.
brendon who isn’t afraid of dropping everything to make sure you’re okay…as friends
you watched mel instructing the breathing patterns and you tried your best to follow her, trying to will down the fast pace of your heart.
“that’s it,” mel encouraged, a smile on her face. “just a couple more.”
you breathed through your nose again, eyes looking around the room. a bit embarrassed at the situation that you were unfortunately placed in. you could see langdon and santos giving you a reassuring look, and robby who looked like he was about to blow a fuse.
before anyone could say anything, you could hear dana bellowing a ‘room three’ to someone and then a harsh opening of the doors. “what the fuck happened?” brendon barked at the room. his attention solely focused on you.
“i’m fine,” you called out. “just a bit of a scare.”
not removing his eyes off you, he addressed the room again.
“a patient got aggressive, said some mean shit, yanked her arm and threw her against some machines,” santos answered quickly, her eyes shifting between the two of you.
the air was charged and mel moved out of the way, eyeing park like he was a predator going to snap at any minute.
“you okay?” he asked softly, eyes running over your face and body, scowling when he saw the red print on your arm. when he saw you nod, he looked away, and then commanded, “out.”
without another word, you watched as your colleagues scurry away. robby hesitating at the door, looking at you softly, fighting every cell in his body that wanted to stay with you.
“i’m okay,” you murmured softly once everyone left. you weren’t, not really, but he didn’t have to know that.
“no, you’re not.”
“bones aren’t even broken,” you joked, trying to smile at him.
“i’m not talking about your bones,” he tsked, stepping forward.
“bren,” you said softly. your muscles relaxing as soon as you could feel his body heat radiate off him.
“we’re staying at mine tonight,” he muttered, tucking a strand of her behind your ear, then dragging down his fingers until he landed on your injured arm. tapping your fingertips with his a couple of times, he looked back up at you. “what were you doing with king before?”
“breathing exercises, helps me,” you watched as he slowly drifted both hands to your wrist and held them gently.
“show me,” he whispered. “i can hear your heartbeat all the way from here.”
brendon who felt his heart racing in his chest, who hasn’t felt this way since he was in high school asking out his first girlfriend.
“we’re dating,” he declared.
“excuse me?” you turned to him, baffled at his sudden announcement. you stopped chopping the carrot and leaned over to pause your music.
“we only have sex with each other, i know what you like, you know what i like, you’re practically over here every day, we make a point to have dinner together at least once a week,” brendon listed off reasons. “do you want me to go on?”
“since when was this us dating?”
brendon stared blankly at you, “if i had it my way, ever since i kissed you in my house. knew you were the woman for me after you yanked my hair.”
feeling yourself beginning to get flustered, you breathed out loudly. “and you kept this from me because?”
brendon shrugged, “you would have never said yes.”
“maybe you just liked me yanking your hair.”
rolling his eyes, “you want to date me.”
“you’re presumptuous,” you replied, a bit amused at his obvious nervousness.
“i’m falling in love with you,” he stated simply and that took your breath away. you looked at his face, scanning every nook and cranny that you familiarised yourself with the last six months, trying to see if he was misleading you.
but you saw none.
“unless you’re still fucking in love with robinavitch, i’m willing to wait until you love me back,” he affirmed, like those were the only two options that you could choose.
“most men ask,” you reminded. “and they usually have flowers or some gifts when they ask.”
“i’m not most men, and i bought you those flowers when we went to the market a couple of days ago,” he pointed to the beautiful flowers on your kitchen table.
“hr’s gonna have a fit,” was all you said. you watched in amusement as brendon took a while to understand your words, and when he did, a bright grin took over his face. ignoring your exclaim of his name, he wrapped you up in his arms.
“the form isn’t that long,” he murmured against your lips.
telling ur bf pope cody that "pope" means "father" which means that it's totally okay and very normal actually for you to call him daddy or dad or papa
Obsessed with the idea of being casually dommed by Pope. Like he makes all the decisions. He picks what you wear, serves you food, and even decides what you do for the day. It can be a little overbearing, but not having to deal with making a bunch of decisions eases your mind.
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