(22) captain donna romanov; anti-hero 🟦

💙we will dance again💙 // 🇮🇱am yisrael chai🇮🇱 // 🦋Et in Arcadia Ego🦋// 🏈finn hudson apologist🏈 // chuck taylor’s bimbo bitch // president of the angelo parker loser club // leader of the david howard thornton gang // HBIC of the joe velasco girlies

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

Donna’s Masterlists and Other Info

DNI and UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR - minors, anti lgbtq+, misogyny, antisemitism, antizionism, hate of any kind, harassment of my followers

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FKA cuzimacomedian

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[pittmaxxing]

robby breeding you and then covering your pussy with duct tape so it all stays inside….

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

i JUST opened this app

[thedamnqueenofhell]

mio squalo

Pairing: Brendon Park x surgeon!reader

Rating: E (I made myself blush, ngl)

Summary: at a medical conference you meet an orthopedic surgeon from a hospital you have your eyes on

Word Count: 3800

Warnings: pussy pronouns because this is an MJ fic; rough sex; reader is called “good girl”; reader is a little subby to Brendon’s dominant streak; light spanking; slight biting

A/N: title means “my shark” in Italian. Graphics by @strangergraphics. Thanks for the beta @shakedownstreet73

Normally conferences like these were one of your favorite things. You loved getting to know fellow surgeons, loved getting to network, and loved the open bars. But this was one of your final conferences before you finished your fellowship in NICU surgery, and so you were on the hunt for an attending position at a good hospital. Which meant you had to be on the top of your game, as surgery was incredibly competitive. So here you were in New York City, hoping to find a position on the east coast.

You had just picked up your hotel key, and you were struggling with your suitcase, backpack, water bottle, key, and phone as you tried to move to where the elevators were.

“Need help?” a deep voice asks you. You look up and your breath hitches. The most muscular man stands in front of you. He has somewhat curly hair, a strong jawline with some stubble on it, blue eyes that remind you of the ocean, and is in slacks and a grey dress shirt. You guess he checked in earlier.

“Yes, thank you,” you say, moving to hand him your water bottle so you’d have a free hand. Instead he grabs your suitcase and backpack, lifting them both with ease.

“I’m Brendon.” You smile and tell him your name. You stick your phone in your pocket, the room key in another, and slide your bottle in the pocket of your backpack. Settled, you move to take your suitcase from Brendon.

“Thanks for helping me get my stuff settled.”

“Couldn’t let you struggle. Will you be at the mixer tonight?”

“I will. Will I see you there?” He nods. “Good. I’ll keep my eye out for you then, Brendon.” You give him one last smile before you head to the elevators.

Once in your room, you decide to break out your favorite outfit for mixers, a one-shoulder jumpsuit in emerald green. There was a belt tie with golden thread that helped cinch the jumpsuit on your waist. You loved how the jumpsuit showed off your back muscles. For more formal events you throw a blazer or shrug on, but for a mixer it was fine without. Slipping on a pair of golden heels and your favorite necklace with a pearl and olive leaf pendant from Tiffany and Company, you transfer your room key and phone to your clutch. You refresh your makeup, deciding to keep it simple with a neutral lip color and some mascara, spritz on your favorite perfume, and head out. The hotel bar where the mixer is being held is already filling up. You head to the bar and order one of the special drinks they are advertising for the event, a raspberry rum and lemonade cocktail. Waiting for your drink, you feel him slide up next to you before you look over. Brendon throws a smile at you as he orders a neat whiskey. He’s still in black slacks, but he’s put on a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone. He has an Omega watch on his wrist, silver with a teal face, and a gold chain on his neck. You think there’s a pendant on it, but it dips below his shirt so you can’t see for sure. His cologne smells like the ocean mixed with some spices like rosemary, and you guess that he paid good money for it.

“Was thinking I was going to have to go looking for you,” you quip, taking a sip of your drink.

“Glad you didn’t,” he says as the two of you make your way to one of the small high top tables spread out nearby. He carries your drink for you, and makes sure that you have an easy path to the table, like he was raised with old-school manners. A gentleman. Something you’re not fully used to, but it still makes you smile.

“So what kind of surgery is your focus?” you ask him. You have an idea, looking at all his muscles, but he may surprise you.

“Why don’t you guess?” Brendon smirks over his glass.

“You scream ortho. Probably focusing on sports injuries, but I bet you also have a soft spot for the old ladies. Am I close?”

“Spot on. The old ladies love me, too.”

“Your turn.” Brandon looks at you for a moment before speaking.

“You have a very calming presence, one that a lot of surgeons lack. Pedes or geriatrics. Your patients probably feel safer with you than the other surgeons.”

“Close. My residency was in orthopedics, but my fellowship is in NICU orthopedics. I’m actually at the tail end of my fellowship. On the prowl for an attending position, preferably in a trauma center.”

“NICU ortho is tough. They’re so small. If you were able to land the fellowship and complete it, any hospital would be lucky to have you. Where are you looking?”

“It is tough. My fellowship was at the Medical University of South Carolina, but I miss the winters. So I’ve been looking in the north east. I’ve applied to Yale New Haven, the children’s trauma center in Hartford, Pittsburgh Trauma and Presby in Pennsylvania, a bunch in Massachusetts, and a bunch in New York and Jersey.”

“MUSC. Level one. So is my hospital.”

“What hospital is that?”

“You actually applied there. I work at —”

“No! Let me guess.” You interrupt Brendon, enjoying trying to figure him out.

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“You look Italian. Sound like you’re from Jersey or Long Island. But I didn’t name any specifically from those states. You don’t scream Eli to me, so no Yale. Possibly the children’s hospital in Hartford but you didn’t mention Pedes. And even teens fall under pediatrics. So that leaves PTMC and Presby. I’ve already talked with the ortho attendings at Presby, and you don’t scream resident or fellow. You’re too sure of your craft, and you carry yourself confidently. So PTMC?” Brendon can’t help the shocked look that comes to his face.

“You’re good. And correct. I was raised on Long Island. Big Italian family. Don’t like how pretentious the Ivies are. And I’m an attending at PTMC. When do we officially interview you?”

“Officially? Next week. Is this an unofficial interview?”

“No, I’m not on the interview panel. We’ll meet officially when they bring you in for a tour, but other than that I have no say. But if I was on the interview panel I definitely would want to push to hire you. I’m impressed already and I barely know you.” You preen at his compliments. You can tell he doesn’t give compliments often.

The two of you talk more about your upbringing. He went into orthopedics when his dad broke a leg and healed up perfectly thanks to the surgeon. Brendon had been eight. He has four siblings, being smack in the middle of them. Huge Italian family, and one of his favorite ways to unwind is to cook pasta from scratch. He asks if you want another drink, and goes to get it when you say yes. You sneak a glance at how amazing his pants fit him. You can tell he doesn’t skip out on squats when he goes to the gym.

You told him about your childhood, why you wanted to sub specialize in NICU orthopedics, and how you loved making your own chicken soup from scratch.

“If you decide to accept an offer at PTMC, you’ll have to show me sometime how you made the soup.” Your face heats up a little over his flirting.

“You seem sure I’ll get an offer.”

“They’d be dumb not to. We have pediatric orthopedics and we have NICU surgeons, but we don’t have someone talented enough to do both.”

“In that case, you can make the pasta for the soup from scratch.”

“Are you presenting at all this weekend?”

“I am not. Here to network and learn. Are you?”

“I am. Tomorrow afternoon at two. Last July we successfully reattached a woman’s leg after a traumatic amputation due to a waterslide collapse. So I’ll be presenting on what made it a favorable reattachment and how we proceeded with it.”

“Holy shit, that sounds insane. I’ll have to go to your session.”

“It was on the Fourth of July as well. We had multiple blown off fingers, one on a twelve year old kid, as well as having to amputate a woman’s leg after she ended up with necrotizing fasciitis. The attending in the ED and one of his fourth years originally thought it was just a rash. Thankfully they made sure to mark the rash and told her to come back if it spread.”

“I can’t imagine thinking I had a rash and end up losing my leg.”

“Yeah. The most insane part is her boss fired her for coming back on her lunch break due to the rash spreading. Dr. Robinavitch, the head of the ED, ended up testifying when she sued him. Rumor has it he even helped her sue and found her a pro bono lawyer. She couldn’t waitress anymore, not until she got fitted and used to using a prosthetic, but thanks to winning her case it didn’t impact her ability to pay her bills.”

“Never a dull moment in a trauma center.”

“What are some of your most impactful stories?”

“Charleston is below sea level, so if it rains a lot during high tide, the city floods. During one of these times the flood waters pushed a manhole cover up and away. A high schooler was walking to school and went down.”

“Through the manhole?” Brendon’s brows climb up.

“One of her legs went down. The other got caught on the street. She’s lucky she didn’t go fully under. But she broke a bunch of bones on the leg that hit the street.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. And then since Charleston has four colleges on the peninsula there were always tons of injuries from frat boys.”

“As a reformed frat boy, they are dumb.” You laugh at Brendon’s admission.

“What frat?” Brendon tells you which one he was in, and also that he was on his college’s track and field team.

“I would’ve guessed football.”

“They tried to poach me, but shot put was where my heart was.”

The two of you spend the rest of the night talking about your jobs, schooling, and what you do for fun. Brendon obviously hits the gym often, and you tell him what you love to do.

“Looks like the night is winding down,” Brendon says as the crowd starts to thin. “Can I walk you back to your room?”

“I’d like that.” You smile at him, and he leads you out of the bar, his hand on the small of your back.

“What floor are you on?” You ask him.

“Top floor. You?”

“Oh I bet you have an amazing view. I’m on floor 12.”

“I can see Lady Liberty from the bedroom.”

“Oh, you have a separate bedroom? Mr. Fancy pants.”

“You want to see the view?” You look at Brandon as the two of you enter the elevator.

“Yeah, let’s see your view,” you say when you get into the elevator. He pressed the button for the top floor, and the two of you chatted about the conference on the way up.

Once at his room you make a beeline for the bedroom. Your room doesn’t have a separate sleeping area, so either PTMC dropped a lot more money than your hospital, or Brendon paid for the upgrade himself. Based on what you could tell about him, you were betting on the latter. Brendon joins you near the window and the two of you look out at the NYC skyline. You can see the Statue of Liberty, lit up against the night sky.

“What a view.”

“Yeah, I always try to upgrade my room at a conference. So PTMC let me book the presidential suite and they will reimburse me for whatever a standard room would have cost.”

“Good deal. Nice room and a beautiful view. Perfect way to relax after a day of conference stuff,” you say as you take it in. He has a sitting area, a dining area, and the bedroom. A full bath and a half bath.

“A very beautiful view,” Brendon says. You turn to look at him, and he’s not looking out of the window like you expected. He’s looking at you.

“Smooth,” you joke. Brendon walks towards you, an easy grace to his movements.

“Glad you didn’t think it was cringe. Can I kiss you?” You nod, and before you even finish nodding his lips are crashing on yours. Brendon kissed you like he was devouring you, nibbling your lips and licking where he bit. You run your fingers through his hair, and he groans at the feeling of your nails on his scalp. He backs you up to the bed, and you sit once you feel the mattress at the back of your legs.

“This okay?” He asks. You nod in response. “I need words when I ask you something.”

“Yes, Brendon. Kiss me more?” Brendon smirks and shifts so you’re laying down and he’s on top of you. He brings his lips to yours, arm next to your head to bear his weight. You can feel yourself getting wetter, and based on what you’re feeling you know Brendon is also getting excited. Brendon kisses along your neck, softly.

“Don’t want to give you marks.”

“At least not where anyone can see,” you quip. Brendon’s eyes go from a calm ocean to a stormy sea, filled with lust. He reaches behind you to unzip the back of your jumpsuit, allowing him to pull the top down towards your waist. Brendon lets out a strangled moan when he realizes you don’t have a bra on. You notice his face and giggle.

“It has a built-in bra.” Brendon kisses down your neck, and takes a nipple in his mouth. His tongue flicks back and forth before he grazes your nipple with his teeth. He then does the same to the other one.

“Fuck, that feels so good,” you moan, snaking a hand though his hair. He stops for a moment to take his shirt and undershirt off. You marvel at his toned body, the muscles of his abs, his toned pecs, and his biceps. He looks like he could do bench presses with your entire body. Muscles earned from hard work in the gym, muscles needed for his job. Chest hair sprinkling his chest. And you finally see the charm at the end of his necklace. It looks like a chili pepper. Brendon crawls back to the bed. He kisses you once more, before bringing his mouth back down to your nipples.

“Perfect fucking tits. I bet you have a perfect pussy as well,” he says before nipping at your tit.

“Why don’t you help me out of this and find out for yourself?” Brendon’s gaze turns predatory as he fully takes off your jumper, leaving you in your lacy thong. Brendon grabs the thong with his teeth and slowly pulls it down and off you.

“You know how to use that mouth, don’t you,” you say at the sight of him tossing your thong to the side. Brendon slowly kisses the insides of your thighs, and settles between them. His broad shoulders open you up more than you’re used to.

“Bet you can’t wait to find out. You going to be a good girl and take what I give you?” You nod, unable to form words. You suspected Brendon was dominating in the bedroom, and him calling you good girl got to you. He nipped at your inner thigh.

“Need words,” he all but growled.

“Fuck. Yes, I’ll be a good girl for you. Please, I need to feel you.”

“My hands are on you. You can feel those,” he teased, kissing the spot where your leg met your groin.

“I need to feel you doing something to my pussy. Feel how wet you make me.”

“She’s glistening. So excited for me. I was right, such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs as he licks a stripe up your folds. You keen at the contact, back arching. He places one of his large hands on your belly to keep you on the bed, looking up and smirking as he does it. His hands, his arms, all of him is so big you can only imagine what his cock will look like. Brendon dives face first into your cunt, eating you like he’s a man starved. You felt your orgasm washing over you like a wave, and you rode the wave out. Brendon didn’t stop, instead opting to push a finger in you.

“Fuck, shit, so sensitive,” you cry out.

“Think I can pull at least one more from you before I let you have this cock, baby,” Brendon said, as he lazily pumped his finger in and out of you, before bringing his mouth down to your clit again. You feel him add a second finger, and with surgical precision he finds the spongy spot inside of you. He makes a “come here” movement at the same time he flicks his tongue on your clit and your second orgasm hits you like a hurricane. You try to squeeze your legs shut involuntarily but Brendon’s broad shoulders prevent that. He doesn’t stop finger fucking or licking you until your orgasm is over. Panting, he pushes himself up and brings his lips to yours. The taste of your arousal on his lips makes you lightheaded.

“Please, I need you in me.” Brendon nods at your words and stands up. He slowly unbuckles his belt, sliding it all the way off, as if he’s enjoying teasing you. He then unbuttons his slacks, letting them drop to the floor as he steps out of them. His light grey briefs do nothing to hide how hard he is, all for you. The fabric is darker in a spot, already wet with precum. He slowly pulled them off and his cock sprung free. He was long and thick, like the rest of him. And if his skills with his tongue and hands were any indication, you had a feeling he knew exactly how to use it. You moved to lick him, dying to taste him, but he stopped you.

“Another time, I really need to be inside you,” Brendon said. He reached into his bag and pulled out a condom, rolling it on his cock.

“On all fours. And let me know if it gets to be too much.”

“I doubt it will be. I like it rough,” you say as you move to get in position.

“Oh sweetheart, you have no idea how hot that is.” Brendon got behind you and moved his cock up and down your pussy lips, collecting your wetness. You wiggled your ass, and he brought a hand down on it. You moaned at the feeling as the heat of his spank spread.

“You like that, did you?” he asked as he slapped your other ass cheek. You moaned and nodded. Brendon finally lined himself up and sank into your cunt. The stretch of him was delightful and made you see stars.

“Fuck, Bren, feels so good,” the nickname slipping from your mouth.

“Pussy feels like it was made for me. Taking me so well,” he says as he begins to thrust. You arch your back, allowing him to get deeper. Brendon knows what he’s doing, hitting your g spot with almost every thrust, peppering in spanks to your ass with some thrusts. He bends over, putting his arm around your front.

“You feel so fucking good. Being such a good girl for me,” he whispers in your ear. He releases you and pulls out. “On your back, I want to see your face as you come again,” he says. You’re quick to do as he says, eager to have him back inside you. He lines his cock up to you again.

“You love being told what to do, don’t you?” You nod, and he gives your tits a slap. “Words,” he growls.

“Fuck, yes,” you moan. “Love how dominant you are. Taking what you want.”

“Good girl,” Brendon says as he sinks in you again. He brings one of your legs up to his shoulder, and you wrap the other around his waist. He leans down and kisses, sucks, and nips on your tits, and you know you’re going to have bruises and the thought makes you happy. He brings a hand down in between the two of you, expertly finding your clit with his thumb.

“You’re going to give me another one, aren’t you? Let me feel you come around my cock.” You’re in that headspace where you can’t form coherent thoughts so all you can do is moan as your third orgasm of the night crashes over you.

“So fucked out, so beautiful like this,” Brendon says as you fall apart. He kisses you as he comes, groaning into your mouth. The two of you stay that way for a moment, Brendon softening inside you, before he pulls out.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, kissing your forehead. You lay on the bed, in a fucked out bliss, while Brendon deals with the condom.

“Stay the night?” he asks you as he returns to the bed. You nod, and he smiles. He grabs a pair of sleep shorts for himself, and a shirt for you. He helps you put the shirt on since you’re still feeling like jelly from your three orgasms. The two of you cuddle in the bed, you laying in the crook of his arm, hand playing with his chest hair. You brush a finger over his necklace.

“Chili pepper?”

“Cornicello. It’s an Italian symbol to ward off the evil eye. My nonna gave it to me when I was a teen. I rarely take it off.” You nod and play with it a little more.

“I love that.” The two of you lay in bed for a while, making plans for the rest of the conference.

“Now I really hope I get a position in Pittsburgh.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Cause I really don’t want this to be the only time we fuck.” Brendon laughs at that. “Plus, I really want to get to know you some more.” He pulls you in closer and tells you he feels the same.

Four weeks later Brendon is in his office, charting, when his phone lights up with a text from you.

You: I got the job!

Him: here?

You: yup! Know anyone who can give me a tour of Pittsburgh ;)

Brendon laughs, and gives you a call, already planning all the places he’s going to take you.

[passionwillow]

Dominique Luca would love a curvy girl. Grabbing at her full hips, the plush ass. Resting a hand on those thick thighs, biting at them before he devours her.. Pushing on her soft tummy to feel his cock inside..

I have many thoughts.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

i’m listening

[whatrealbeautylookslike]

ok ok ok ok. gonna start a robby x jewish!reader fic where reader is an unofficial caregiver for mrs. kovalenko. say they come over to bring her some food and find her unconscious? they can only think to bring her to the place she told them about with the nice jewish doctor...

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

do you know how high and low i’ve been looking for more jewish reader x michael robinavich i love you

[zivistardust]

As much as I think Brendon should be a sweet adoring lover, and a soft dom if anything, hard dom Brendon is really getting me going rn. As intense in bed as he is in the OR.

He wants obedience. You’re supposed to make his life better, not worse, so don’t be another problem for him. Sit pretty and obey like a good girl.

He wants you in Burgundy satin tied tight exactly how he wants you- with a medical degree of concern for your health and safety. He wants you at his feet kneeling with your head on his knee like a good pet. He wants to use your sweet little mouth as his own personal cock sleeve to decompress from the day while he enjoys the expensive bourbon he damn well fucking earned.

He wants you stripped bare while he’s still clothed becuase that’s how things work between you two.

He wants you on his king size bed, spread open and vulnerable and bind folded because there’s no better rush than having your trust, having you at his mercy. Knowing you’ll let him do anything.

He wants you over his lap, or just bent over his bed pretty so he can torture your ass with his cat of 9 tails.

He wants to make you cum over and over and over, because that’s his choice not yours. He wants you sobbing against his pillow, makeup smudged all over your face protesting that you can’t take anymore but not saying the one word that’ll make him stop.

Bites your hips, your ass, your thighs and tits. Slaps your pussy and asks you whose it is.

He plays dark and heavy and intense. And after he scoops you up, cleans your face and tells you how good you were. Yes please.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

LET ME OUT I NEED DICK

[somethinginyourbones]

The way I need Noah to do a Quinn audio now. To hear him whimpering into my ear like Shawn was 😩 but I know he never will lmaooo that man blushes too easily.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

friend, when i tell you i need this like i need air

[annsfics]

♡ just one taste ♡

♡ pairing: brendon park x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: the moment he sets his eyes on you, dr. brendon park is sickened by how soft and weak you seem. as such, he makes it a personal mission to get under your skin every time he crosses your path as revenge for you invading his every thought. intoxicating little thing that you are, however, he can hardly get enough... despite his efforts to the contrary.

♡ content: enemies to lovers, jack & robby both pine after you, reader is a spoiled crybaby brat but also a sweetheart, reader slaps dr. park & almost does so again later, kissing, fingering, p in v sex, dom!brendon, sub-coded!reader, dubcon (brendon decides to go in raw w/o asking reader if she's ok with it (she is)), sub drop, teasing (sexual & otherwise), reader has hair long enough to make a braid, medical inaccuracies, dacryphilia, slut-shaming, misogyny, reader eats meat in 1 scene, brendon gets a little physically rough with her in 1 smutty portion [idk. if i missed anything, just tell me]

"It won't need surgery," Park remarks while shaking his head.

Mr. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God." Turning his head to the right, he looks at Dr. Park. "How do we fix it so I can get the hell out of here?"

Standing half-hidden behind Robby, and close enough that your breasts brush against the back of his arm, you glance curiously toward the clock on the wall, worried that this ortho surgeon can smell fear like a shark does blood in water. As long as you don't make eye contact, he'll never know that you're here.

It's not that you've heard an extraordinary amount of stories about this Dr. Park fellow—hardly any, truth be told, since the ED isn't exactly his domain—but the ones you have make you want to run and hide beneath the nurses station until he's gone back to his designated floor of practice.

Glancing around the room in search of an aid, Park quickly takes stock of you—one he's never seen before, and, who, instead of focusing on the teaching opportunity presented to her, would rather stare adoringly at the back of Dr. Robby's head, apparently.

Seeing the older man's hand slyly brush against your thigh when he thinks no one is looking is when Brendon decides to make an example out of you.

Sleeping your way to the top? Taking the easy route? He'll get some satisfaction out of seeing you squirm when he holds you to the fire before a live audience.

"You," he barks while zeroing in.

Jerking your head in his direction, you nearly stumble into Robby. Staring with wide eyes, you think to begin backing up before making a run for it. "M-Me?" You say while pointing to your chest uncertainly.

"Did I stutter?" He spits. "Come over here and help me pop this joint back into place. Now."

You swallow thickly and the back of your neck warms.

You half hope that Robby will save you, but that wouldn't be very professional if he stepped between you and his colleague, now, would it?

Not that he's always been when it comes to favoring and babying you, but... No one else needs to know that. Except half the ED, who he's stopped hiding it from, anyway.

Stepping forward, your arm brushes against Robby's—what if you latched onto it and refused to let go until Mr. Ortho picked somebody else to torture?—and you walk on unsteady legs toward him.

Standing at full height with a puffed-out chest, he nods at the man's affected leg. "Get yourself into position."

You blink stupidly, followed by a nervous laugh. "I... What?"

"Jesus Christ," he mumbles under his breath.

Leaning down, he positions his lips next to your ear. "Put your right leg on the edge of the bed."

At least he had the forethought to lower it beforehand, you think.

"Or do you not want to learn?" He growls.

Doing as instructed, you plop your Skecher next to the man's injured leg.

Dr. Park pinches his nose while exhaling sharply.

Looking back to Robby, he gestures to you. "Is this what you're teaching down here now? Incompetence?"

You can't see it, but you just know Robby's temper is being summoned for duty.

"Give her a break, Park, she's just nervous. First time she's ever popped a joint."

Park snorts. "I bet," he mumbles doubtfully.

"Should I—"

You promptly shut your mouth when he puts his hands on you. Grabbing the back of your right thigh with one hand and your shin with the other, he repositions your leg between the patient's.

"Don't move," he commands.

You're afraid that if you do, Mr. Quinn won't be the only injured party in the room by the end of things.

Stepping to the side with crossed arms, he stares you down. "Now, grip the back of his thigh and calf in both your hands."

You bend over and do just that and proceed to grab handfuls of squishy flesh smattered with dark hair.

Park circles around behind you to see things from your exact angle. "Rotate the leg outward. You'll feel a click. When you do, shove it back into the socket.

You hesitate. "What if... What if I make it worse, or—"

Mr. Quinn lifts his head and grants you a worried look. "Maybe you should take over, doc. Don't think I like the sound of that."

He levels him with a stern gaze. "I'm right behind her. This is a teaching hospital. Without trying, those at the bottom can't move up." Park leans in close. "Unless you find a workaround, it seems."

You open your mouth to ask just what he means by that, until he startles you with a yell.

"Now turn it," he bellows.

Slowly, you swivel his leg outward and the gentleman sucks in a sharp inhalation of breath.

"Fuck, I don't think—" He begins.

When you hear a click, you hesitate.

Mr. Quinn's protestations are cut short when Park commands you like he's a drill sergeant and you're one of his subordinates. "Now, put your hand on his foot and push!"

Doing as you're told, you bear down, and like magic, things slide right into place where they belong.

Mr. Quinn looses a ragged breath and sighs with relief. "Ah, that feels better," he says contentedly.

"For now," Park replies. "You'll be sore for a few weeks, but we'll send you home with crutches and meds to help with the swelling and pain. As well as a follow-up with me put on the books."

"Long as it ain't surgery," he replies with a shrug while folding his hands together atop his stomach.

Taking a step back, you're startled by the sound of a single set of hands clapping.

You look at Whitaker, who's smiling happily for your job well done, but it quickly melts off his face when Park burns a hole right through him with a venomous glare.

What is this guy's problem?

Taking a step forward, Park sneers at you. "Go on," he says with a jerk of his head. "Back to your teacher."

He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne. And then he lowers his lips until only you can hear what leaves them when he whispers in your ear. "Pet."

You gulp, then scurry away and back to your previous position. Only this time, you hide almost entirely behind Robby's towering form. Safe, safe, safe is all you can think once you've reached him.

You'd very much like to never do that again. Popping joints you can maybe handle. The asshole teacher, not so much.

You prefer gentle instruction when available. Patient, even.

"Class dismissed," he announces, much to your relief.

Seeing how the patient was handed off to him, Park is required to do a few pages of paperwork before he can go, which he reluctantly accepts the task of completing, as if he has another choice.

He's a man who's not easily distracted—he's always precise, straight to the point, and efficient. But he'll be damned if your annoying little self hasn't stepped on his every last nerve without even trying.

Studying you as you chart at the nurse's station—oblivious to his staring daggers at you—he watches as Abbot enters through the ambulance bay doors, only to make a beeline straight to where you sit. Leaning over the counter in front of you, he reaches forward and says something Brendon can't discern before giving you a gentle tap under your chin and walking away to begin his shift.

A moment later, Robby exits Trauma 2 and rubs sanitizer over each of his hands before picking up a blue nitrile glove and shooting it between your shoulder blades. Just as quickly, he turns around and pretends to be looking over a stack of paperwork as you ignorantly swivel this way and that, searching for your attacker.

After a moment, he walks by, you look up, he smiles—giving himself away on purpose—and plants a kiss on the crown of your head before going in search of Abbot.

Makes him fucking sick to watch this goddamn rom-com. This place has gone from pulling out bullets to now being a pathetic romance novel.

He'd like to believe that when he's not down here, the two of them push you to your limits to see what you're capable of—if much of anything, soft thing that you look to be—instead of succumbing to your pretty eyes or sweet smile because they're that fucking pussy-whipped. And by a resident of all things.

Shaking his head, he returns his attentions to something more worthwhile—which isn't saying much—paperwork.

"Not the only fish circlin' that pond, Park," remarks Dana, who's come to stand beside him.

He rolls his eyes without looking up. "Not interested."

She chuckles. "I remember a couple attendings tellin' me the same thing not all that long ago. Now look at 'em—wrapped around her little finger."

"It's a problem that you can say that," he spits. "It's unprofessional. Grossly so." He looks at her. "And you know it."

She shrugs while draping her forearm atop the counter they stand at. "Brought the light to Rob's life that he needed. Can't complain about that. As for Jack... Never thought he'd smile at a woman ever again after losin' his wife. But there she sits: sunshine in human fuckin' form."

He returns to scrawling his signature across printer paper. "You're making me nauseous."

She laughs, then pats him on the back. "Don't gotta be so tough all the time. Let your hair down every once in awhile. Never know what could happen, kid."

He deigns that she's lucky she left when she did because Park was nearly at his boiling point. If she'd kept talking, he would've blown his fucking top like a barrel of dynamite blasting through a hillside.

A sheet of paper is slammed down beside of you, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"Sign it," snaps Park.

With now trembling hands, you drag the document closer.

"Even highlighted it for you," he says while pointing to the designated line. "Sorry it wasn't in pink," he sneers.

"What is it?" You ask innocently while looking at him.

"A fucking marriage license. What do you think it is? It's about the procedure I had you perform today."

Turing away, your eyes begin to sting. Why is he always so mean?

You pick up a pen, click the ballpoint down, and write your dainty signature upon the line provided.

Snatching the document away, he stands at full height again.

"You ready?" Calls Robby from across the way, looking at none other than yourself.

You nod while grabbing your bag and sliding it over your shoulder. "Yes."

Park shakes his head in disapproval, but Robby hardly pays him any mind before wrapping an arm around your shoulders to lead the pair of you to the parking lot.

You're barely out the sliding doors before you feel your braid coming undone. Reaching up, you slide your fingers along the end of your strands, only to come up empty-handed. "Did you—" Pulling away, you begin turning this way and that, searching the asphalt for your missing hair band.

"You drop something?" He asks.

"My hair band," you mutter while retracing your steps.

He sighs, wanting nothing more than to get home so he can jump in the shower. "You don't have another?"

You frown, then straighten, and return to his side. "I'll get one out once we're in the truck."

When Park reaches the elevators, the indicator overhead dings and the doors slide open, welcoming him inside the steel and aluminum box. Stepping over the threshold, he presses the button for the 7th floor—appreciating the pretty little cream-colored hairband that's wrapped tightly around his wrist when he does so.

Things are busy as ever today. You began your morning by running through half a dozen patients, and every time one walked out the door, two more popped up on the board.

No wonder why Robby seems to deflate every time he looks at it anymore.

It's nearing 5 before you bother to take a second bathroom break, and just as you've exited the restroom, you bump into Mel, who seems to be in an overstimulated tizzy.

You know the feeling quite well.

"Hey," you say quietly while grabbing her by the shoulders. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Oh, sorry," she starts while nervously pushing her glasses back into place.

Good thing they didn't shatter on the floor, you think.

"I have an ultrasound that needs to go up to the NICU. I tried sending it over email, but an office assistant said it was too dark—which I don't really see how, unless it's a problem with the monitor, which they should probably get look at by IT—so, I was going to bring a printed copy up, and maybe they'd—"

"Slow down," you say while laughing quietly. "If you're busy—and you look like you are—I could deliver it for you."

"Really?" She says excitedly while bending at the knees, then springing up. "That would just be—so great! I have so much to get to. And there's this—"

You hate to interrupt her, truly, but it's probably best that the requested image is delivered sooner rather than later. Slipping it from Mel's hands, you grant her a reassuring nod. "No problem. I love going up there. Consider it done."

You're practically glowing by the time you make it back to the elevator.

Holding and kissing babies, as well as talking neonatal medicine and pregnancy with the fine doctors upstairs always puts you in a chipper mood. Plus, there'd been chocolate chip cookies in their break room, which you'd helped yourself to a couple of before reluctantly heading back the way you came.

It's not that you don't love the Pitt—awful name for it, really, if not also terribly fitting—but little ones and expectant mothers are where your heart truly lies, you're quickly coming to learn. Everything is just so...pink and squishy up there, and smells like baby powder. Such a pleasant place.

You certainly prefer that over pools of blood and erratic drunkards running half-naked through the common area downstairs.

Bouncing happily on the balls of your feet, you wait for the elevator to reach the floor you're currently on, and just as you make to sweep inside after the doors have shoved open, you pause.

With the heels of his palms planted atop the railing behind him, Dr. Park slowly lifts his head, trailing his eyes along you all the while.

"Going down?" He questions.

You chew your lip for a moment and consider turning back around and claiming you forgot something, but you're sure Robby is already looking for you. He won't be pleased if you're gone any longer than is necessary.

Which you've already been...

With a sigh, you come inside. "Yes," you chirp before pressing the A button.

"Not surprised," he retorts.

Your brows furrow in question, but you ultimately choose not to say anything.

He sure does seem to love his private jokes.

When the doors close, you remain at attention, watching as the floors pass by.

6

5

4

3

Park steps forward and flips the emergency stop switch, bringing the machine to a sudden halt.

Swinging around, you mean to ask him if something is wrong, until he shoves you back against a wall.

Your heart now hammering away between your breasts—terrified that you're about to be assaulted—you open your mouth to scream, until he speaks.

"What the fuck is it about you, huh?"

Your eyes flit between his. "W-What?"

"First, you get Robby and Abbot wrapped around your goddamn finger, and now I can't get you out of my fucking head. You wanna try explaining that to me? I meet you once—one fucking time—and now it's all I can do to not think about bending you over the desk in my office. I'm doing paperwork, in surgery—hell, driving myself home—and am I concentrating on what I should be?" He slips the tip of his tongue between pursed lips before shaking his head with raised brows for emphasis. "No," he says while slamming his hand against the metal wall beside your head, causing you to squeak in fear. "All I can focus on is the thought of you."

Half of you thinks to begin blubbering like a baby—wailing for him to let you go so you can return to the ED—while the other half is fighting against a hysterical laugh climbing its way up your throat. Nervous response in the face of absolute fear, apparently.

Before you can do either—before you can so much as get the wiring in your brain to work properly so you can actually formulate a plan, or even string together a coherent sentence like pearls on a string—he leans in impossibly close while gripping your jawline firmly in his hand.

"Just one taste," he rasps. "Just one, and I can finally get you out of my system."

He doesn't ask. Instead, he merely takes when he crushes his lips painfully to yours.

Ravenously does he devour you. Forcing your lips apart with his own, his tongue plunges inside and deftly explores the cavernous space within. He runs its tip along your teeth, the fleshy walls of your cheeks, and even the solid roof of your mouth before flicking it against your own, tempting it to stir to life.

You make to slip away from him, but his other hand flies to your hip and slams it back against the wall to hold you firmly in place. "I told you before: don't fucking move," he rumbles, repeating his command from the day you treated... What was the man's name again? Quigey? Quill?

Feeling suddenly dizzy, you can no longer remember.

Working his way lower, he nips at your neck with his canines while submerging his fingers in your hair and tugging painfully against the strands.

You whimper, and it only spurs him on all the more.

Sucking at your pulse point, he wedges a knee between your thighs and plants a hand against your belly. And then he slides it lower. And lower. And—

Shoving him away, he stumbles back. Looking down at your pants, you're horrified to see that he untied the neat little bow you had done in the front.

He advances on you again, until you yell for him to stop.

And to his credit—as well as your surprise—he obeys.

With violently trembling hands, you attempt at tying a knot, only to fail miserably at the task.

"What...What were you trying to—" You begin, but fall short when an amused look crosses his sharp features.

He chuckles darkly. "Most of us learned about sex ed well before medical school, sweetheart. Unless you're still waiting on lessons from Robby and Abbot for that, too?"

You glare at him. "I'm not the kind of girl who—"

"What?" He spits, interrupting. "Gets felt up in an elevator?"

He steps forward. "No, you just prefer to climb the corporate ladder by climbing on top of something else at night, I imagine. Just to indulge my curiosity: have you given it up for both your attendings yet, or are you holding out on them like your pussy is some prize to be won, so long as they give you what you want in terms of a career?"

Slap.

You reel back in horror and tense up in preparation for the gesture to be returned tenfold when he knocks you on your ass.

Instead, however, Park merely fumes while staring you down with fists clenched tightly at his sides.

You startle when he stomps forward and sends the elevator slightly reverberating from the movement. Grabbing either of your arms, he pins them above your head while lowering his lips dangerously close to your ear. Close enough that the tip of his nose swipes against your cheek. "Do not ever do that again," he growls.

You swallow thickly when you feel his erection pressing against your belly, but keep your mouth shut about it, lest he take things further. One way or another...

Finally, you nod fervently, and he releases you. Planting your hands on your knees, you double over and struggle to catch your breath. Your face is burning hot, as is another part of you, but you choose to ignore it as best you can.

After adjusting himself, he steps forward and flips the switch back into place. With a jolt, the elevator is off again.

Standing straight once more—by God do your legs feel like jelly beneath you—you swiftly tie two loops together to remake a bow at the front of your pants before throwing your head forward and gathering your hair into a ponytail. Messy will do just fine.

Just as the doors spread apart, you race to get as far from him as possible.

Difficult feat, since he's clearly sticking around on your floor for a bit.

You can't get past the feeling of mortification which has covered you like a veil.

Not when a shark swims but a handful of feet from where you sit, talking to Robby about God knows what.

You did nothing wrong. He came onto you. You couldn't have fought back if you wanted to! Did you want to? Yes, of course!

He's insufferable and egotistical and pretentious and mean. He's just so mean!

The steady pulse which is still going strong between your thighs clearly has different ideas about him, though. Stupid, useless thing.

Studying Robby from beneath your lashes—because you refuse to look at the other one—you trail your eyes along his handsome, weathered face and soft belly. Yes, most assuredly more your type. Stern and strict when he needs to be, and sweet on you when you deserve it.

You do so adore him.

When Park folds his arms, however, you bolt out of your chair when you catch sight of what he has.

Coming to stand beside the two of them, you stare up at him until he ackowledges you.

He hardly glances in your direction before returning to conversing with Robby, though.

"Ahem," you say—feigning clearing your throat.

They both grow silent.

Looking at you with a raised brow, Park doesn't say a word.

"You have something of mine," you state with an outstretched palm.

Looking at you like you're a bothersome fly who won't leave him be, he shrugs ignorantly. "Mind telling me what that might be?"

Your eyes drop to his wrist before flitting upward again. "My hair tie. You stole it the day we met a couple weeks ago, didn't you?"

He snorts incredulously while unwinding his beefy arms. "Are you accusing me of theft?"

Robby holds up his palms before half placing himself in front of you. "Alright, just calm down." He looks at Park's wrist, then turns back to you. "Sweetheart, what would Dr. Park want with one of your hair ties?"

You shrug, then gesture to him. "I have no idea, why don't you ask him?"

Robby runs a palm down his face in exasperation before turning fully toward you. "We are not making a scene out of something so miniscule," he states lowly.

You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off. "Honey, look at me."

You do, but while scowling.

"Let it go." He nods toward the computer station. "And finish up with your charting. We're going to be grabbing a new patient in a few once I'm done here."

You grit your teeth. Child that this bastard has turned you into, you have half a mind to throw a damn tantrum—stomping feet, screaming; the whole works.

Instead, you act the adult and get back to work.

But you've won either way, because now he's on Robby's radar.

"You wanna tell me what that was with Park earlier today?" Robby says between bites of his sub.

The two of you are currently parked in an empty lot, downing your dinner to-go, you're both that hungry after your grueling shifts. When you began whining that your stomach was hurting, Robby promptly swung into a drive-thru to order for you whatever you liked. Now, you feel quite content as you snack on toasted bread and grilled meats.

Stealing one of his fries from the cupholder between you, you munch on it momentarily before speaking. If you tell him about the elevator incident, his head may very well pop like a cherry tomato. Not that you enjoy lying to him by any means, but...it's also not like the two of you are together. You flirt while at work, and he's been driving you back and forth while your car is in the shop.

That's it.

"I told you: he stole my hair tie and I wanted it back. Yes, it seems small and stupid, but it's something I did technically purchase, which doesn't rightfully belong to him. Maybe if he was actually using it for his own hair I wouldn't have cared." You look at him. "But he isn't."

He leans his head back against the seat and takes another bite. "Why would he bother taking it in the first place? That's what I'm asking."

Truth be told, you have as much explanation as he. You don't get it either. So, he hates just the thought of you, but has presumedly been wearing something which belongs to you every day for the last couple of weeks?

Make it make sense.

You take a sip of your drink and shake your head. "Maybe he uses it as a fidget toy."

Things are soon back to smooth sailing for you. You stay attached to Robby's side during the day like usual, and bask in Jack's attention at night before you're due to go home.

There's no hide or hair of Park because he's clearly gone back to his ivory tower to stay.

Fine with you if you never set eyes on him again. But every time you pass the elevators, you can't help the stirring you feel within your loins at the sight of them.

When you try relieving the pent-up sexual frustration one night, you're just in the middle of things—hand firmly settled between your slick thighs while lying nakedly atop your bed—but despite every effort to think of anyone else, such as Robby, Jack, hell even Langdon at one point, your mind keeps drifting off to him instead.

Eventually, you gave up and went to sleep, despite being so close.

You refused to give him the satisfaction, even if he'd never know it.

"Hey, Shark Bait," Santos calls from a handful of feet away.

Your head shoots up and you glare. "What?" You spit.

Sarcastically widening her eyes, she throws her hands up and turns back around. "Geeze, I'll ask somebody else, then. Try getting laid at some point—might be good for you."

Now being the evening, Jack mouths to Robby across the room Shark Bait?, to which he's granted a shaking head in return.

So help you God if she makes that your new nickname, you'll—

"What seems to be the problem?" Jack inquires while straddling the seat next to you.

Boredly typing the same thing repeatedly into the computer because you're exhausted, you shrug. Your forearm rests atop the desk you sit at while your chin is positioned atop it. If your head gets any lower, Robby may very well have to carry you out of here.

Now there's an idea.

"Tired," you mumble.

He settles a palm atop your thigh, which awakens you even slightly.

"Robby says you've been in a mood all day."

"Been tired all day," you pout.

He squeezes your thigh and you whimper, wishing he'd do a great deal more than that.

"That whole Shark Bait comment have anything to do with Park?"

Groaning in irritation, you finally lay your forehead atop your arm. "He's an asshole."

He lets out a low whistle. "Never heard a foul word come from those pretty lips before. He must've really done a number on you."

"He stole my hair tie," you complain.

Jack snorts. "Please tell me that is not what this is all about."

No, you want to say. It's not. What it's about is that he has given me the female equivalent of blue balls. Something which you and Robby could easily take care of if I wasn't such a coward and finally bothered asking for as much.

"No."

Sliding his hand off your thigh, he rests it atop the back of the chair he occupies. "Honey, I can't read your mind."

Gently banging your head off your arm, you remain silent for a moment. "I'm just frustrated."

He raises a brow in interest. "This uh...frustration. Does what Santos said have something to do with it?"

You don't reply.

Wheeling closer, he speaks lowly to you. "Sweetheart, if you need a vibrator, I'd be all too happy to get you one."

Your head sprouts up so quickly that it makes you dizzy.

"Yeah, thought that'd get your attention," he says with satisfaction.

You narrow your eyes at him, which he finds to be all too adorable a look for you. Like a pissed off kitten.

Before you can think up a smart aleck reply, Robby comes over and slides a hand up your back before gently massaging your neck.

He keeps that up, and you'll curl up in his lap in one of the hospital beds before finally drifting off to sleep.

"C'mon, let me take you home."

You make to stand, but stumble slightly before falling into his side.

Jack picks up your bag and hands it to Robby, who slides onto his shoulder before holding you close and leading you outside.

When your car was first carted away on the back of a tow truck, your sense of stability went with it. How would you get around? Run errands? Get to and from work?

Your episode of spiraling was short-lived, however, when Robby caught sight of you exiting an Uber the following morning before starting your shift. He'd promptly questioned where your personal vehicle was, and when you awkwardly mumbled as to its current state and subsequent whereabouts, he told you he'd be your designate chauffer until it was made road-worthy again.

You'd thought to protest, simply because you didn't desire for him to go out of his way, waste extra gas, and be a burden on top of it all, but ultimately decided that you were selfish enough to accept his offer if it meant spending more time with him. Especially one-on-one.

So, imagine the great sense of disappointment which settles over you when you receive a call that your vehicle is ready to be retrieved and taken home.

Telling Robby is a rather interesting exchange.

"I could just rip the alternator out," he'd said with an earnest expression.

You'd giggled, assuming he was joking.

"I'm serious," he'd continued while sliding a hand down your arm. "I'm going to miss my passenger."

After assuring you at length that if you ever needed anything—not limited strictly to a ride—you could call him any time and he'd come running.

You were grateful to know that he cared that much.

"I mean it," Robby had reiterated in the parking lot before leaving work. Cupping your cheek in his hand, he stood oppressively close as his warm, chocolate-brown eyes gazed into yours. "Anything."

Maybe he'd hoped for more time—a proper opportunity to ignite something more between the two of you. You had wanted him to, but if it was all mere flirtation, sided with a bit of adoring affection... You didn't want to make yourself seem like some lovestruck, dewy-eyed schoolgirl obsessed with being the teacher's pet.

So you had simply nodded while pawing gently at his soft middle.

When he leaned down, your eyes nearly fluttered closed in anticipation of a kiss. Your heart had quivered at the exciting prospect. And he did grant you one, but only on the forehead before stepping away to head home.

If one more man saw fit to tease the bundle of nerves between your legs—whether intended or not—you might very well end up attacking one of them in an on-call room to finally satiate your sexual needs.

Just as you've popped open the door to your car, you glance to the left and see—the phrase 'speak (or in your case, think) of the devil and he shall appear' comes to mind—the very man who's kept you so riled up in the first place.

With a huff, you sink into the car and shut the door behind you. Ignoring the way your hands tremble just from the sight of Park, you click your seatbelt into place, turn the ignition over and... It makes an awful whirring sound, like it's struggling for life.

No.

Oh no.

You just got it back! Coupled with a bill you can't even bear to look at a second time...

Then again, when Jack saw you staring down at it with elbows propped up and fingers pressed into your temples as the cogs in your mind slowly rolled as you thought of the things you could sell and the ways in which you could start cutting back to cover the due costs, he'd snatched it away before settling his glasses upon the bridge of his nose and whistling quietly. "You know if you'd brought it to me or Robby instead, you wouldn't have had to pay a dime, right?"

He'd lowered his chin while looking at you from over the rim of his glasses.

"You're both already so busy. That—that wasn't an option. Even if I did, I still would've had to pay for parts."

Walking over to the printer, he laid it face down before pressing the big blue button which in turn spat out another copy of it.

"I'll take care of it," he'd said while handing you the original for record-keeping.

You'd blinked before flying into a torrent of insistence that he not.

Jack had then leaned over while gripping the back of your chair. "And no, you wouldn't have paid for parts, either. Between the two of us, we make more than enough to ensure you're taken care of."

You'd chuckled nervously while leaning back. "Think of all the trouble I saved you, though."

Gripping your chin, he grew utterly serious. "Next time, it's our hands under the hood. Got it?"

You'd nodded in agreement, then watched as he tucked the bill away into his back pocket. "I find out you've paid a cent on it," he began while straightening. "And you and I will be having a talk."

You watched silently as he walked away, appreciating his unsteady gait all the while.

Throwing yourself back against the driver's seat with a groan, you squeeze your eyes shut while thinking he may just get his wish. And very soon.

After sliding your keys out of the ignition, a rapping of knuckles against the window beside you causes you to shriek. Peering out, you frown at the sight of Park waiting for you with folded arms.

Tossing your keys into the cupholder, you sigh before exiting. "Yes?" You ask while keeping the door open, lest you need to suddenly lock yourself within the safety of your vehicle's confines.

"What, Robby finally get tired of carting your ass around?"

You glower at him from beneath your lashes. "No. I just got my car back from the shop."

A smirk flits briefly across his lips. "Not a very good one, apparently." Coming around to the front, he looks at you. "Problem with women and thinking they know anything about anything with a motor."

You sneer, and he leans down and tucks his fingers under the car's grill. "Pop the hood."

You hesitate. "And how do I know you're not going to just make it worse?"

He snorts. "It is a tempting thought: the idea of you being stranded here and taking a morning shower in the sink in the women's restroom."

You shrug casually. "I'll just call Robby to come and get me. Maybe ask him to take me home with him." You grin. "Both the ER cowboys have a hard time telling me no."

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Course they call themselves that." Instead of telling you a second time, he chooses instead to stare you down.

With a huff, you finally oblige him. As long as it rids you of his annoying presence, you'll be happy.

"C'mere and shine a flashlight on it. Can't see shit with only the streetlight overhead."

Slipping your phone from your pocket, you come to stand next to him while illuminating the engine bay with your device.

Reaching forward, he fiddles with what on one end looks like a very odd screw before pulling it out. Marching over his vehicle—of course it's a muscle car—he messes around in the trunk for a moment before bringing over a roll of shop rags. "Spark plugs are fuckin' filthy," he remarks before wiping it down.

Returning it to where it goes, he starts on the next one while looking at you. "Don't go back to that shop. This should've been a basic diagnostic step."

"Well, it ran fine this morning. So I'm sure they fixed the main problem," you say with a shrug.

"While leaving another one go," he spits. He shakes his head while turning away. "Sheer laziness."

You roll your eyes. Seems a simple enough fix, so you're not all that perturbed by it.

As he works, Park makes small talk with you. "Where were you coming from that day?"

You can feel your cheeks warm. He just couldn't resist the temptation of reliving it, could he?

"6th floor." You smile. "I love it there."

He huffs. "Figures. So you like kids, then?"

You nod vigorously. "I do."

"Got any of your own?" he asks while half glancing to you.

"Not yet," you reply. "But I will someday. When the right man comes along."

Finishing up, he stands back and wipes his hands with a clean towel. "Figures," he states while surveying you. "You seem the mothering type."

You narrow your eyes while crossing your arms. "I fail to see how that's a bad thing."

His eyes flit to the driver's side of the car. "Turn it over."

You shake your head, but ultimately do as you're told.

You may have a bit of a mouth on you, but he nevertheless appreciates just how obedient you are.

To your relief, the engine roars to life. Leaning back, you breathe a sigh of relief.

No restroom showers for you.

With a thunk, Park shuts the hood of your car and you switch it back off again momentarily so that you can reluctantly thank him for his assistance.

Returning to his own sedan, he tosses the shop rags back into the trunk before fetching a bottle of sanitizer and lathering his hands until they're clean and smelling of alcohol.

"Thank you," you murmur, watching him walk back over to you. "And for your peace of mind: yes, I will go somewhere else in the future for so much as an oil change."

He hums in acknowledgment to what you've said. Intent on crowding, he doesn't plant his feet until you're backed against the side of your car. "Wha—What're y—"

With a neutral expression painted upon his finely carved face, he grips either of your hips in his hands before shoving them against the glass behind them. "I might've only said one taste," he drawls. "But I didn't say of what."

Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along your neck. "Since I'm sure there's so many other places for me to go."

Cupping you over your pants, he prods against your heat with his index and middle finger, causing you to jolt in response.

"How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?" He rumbles.

You fight to keep your eyes open when all they seem to want to do is roll back in your head as he presses the heel of his palm to your clit.

"N—None."

He scoffs. "Good girls know better than to lie to their betters."

You squirm beneath his hand. "I—"

Yanking against the bow at the front of your pants shuts you up entirely. "You want it?" He groans. "Because if you don't," he continues while slowly sinking his hand beneath the hem of your panties. "Then you're going to have to use your words and tell me as much."

Silence suddenly seems like such a preferable option to you.

Traveling lower, when his hand finally cups your bare, weeping cunt with no layers between the two of you to hinder the experience, your eyes fluttered closed while a gasp of satisfaction escapes your lips.

"God, you're fucking soaked," he growls.

Prodding against your clit with the pad of his thumb, you whine.

"Please."

He swiftly runs a single finger between your sopping folds before circling that perfect bundle of nerves with your own lubrication. "Needy little thing," he mocks before sliding the tip of his tongue up the length of your neck. "Bet it doesn't take much for you," he whispers right against your ear—his warm breath puffing against the shell of it. "Does it?" he asks before easing a single digit inside of you.

"O—Oh God," you gasp.

"Just as desperate as I thought you'd be," he commentates before slipping another between your fluttering walls.

Curling the digits upwards, you practically jump onto your tiptoes.

With two fingers massaging the fleshy ledge inside of you while his thumb continues working at your swollen clit, it's all you can do not to beg him. For what, you're not sure.

To keep going? He already seems intent on that. To never stop? Tempting enough prospect. To bend you over the hood of either of your vehicles so he can have his way with you? God, what you wouldn't give just to finish around the throbbing length of his cock.

He pauses his ministrations and you begin to quietly cry in panicked frustration. "Please, please don't," you plead through teary eyes.

Having you right where he wants you at long last, he savors the moment. Brushing tears from your heated cheeks, he clicks his tongue mockingly. "Don't what?" he glances down to where half his hand is submerged in your body cavity. "Keep going?"

"No!" You cry. "Don't stop!"

He chuckles. "So pathetic," he mutters before kissing away your tears. "You'd give anything just to come on my hand in a parking lot of all places, wouldn't you?"

You've lost control of your senses. As much is confirmed when you nod so hard that something twinges in your neck.

When movement begins again, you nearly start bawling from a sense of gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," pours from your lips.

He grunts as his fingers keep beckoning forth your orgasm.

As you near your apex, you reach up and sink your nails into either of his shoulders and hold on for dear life as an overwhelming crash of white light soon explodes behind your eyelids. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you squeeze tightly around his slick fingers, trying to suck them inside.

Whatever it is which you say as you come undone is garbled and utterly nonsensical. But you somehow know that he understands whatever it is which you meant by it.

Removing his hand from between your legs is when you finally open your eyes. The world seems a bit hazy—blurry, even—and your body drained of all energy.

You watch with fascination as he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks. "Just as good as I thought," he breathes.

You try retying the front of your pants, but with your coordination now shot, you quickly give up.

Gently grabbing you by the neck, he pulls you in toward him and gives you an open-mouthed kiss, just the same as the one in the elevator.

"See you around," he says with a smirk before stalking off.

You're out of sorts for the next few days—crying at the drop of a hat, latching onto Robby for attention (proceeded by feeling guilty about it), berating yourself for every little mistake you make, and following Jack around like a lost puppy when he comes in early a couple days in a row for his shift...

Suffice to say that you're not yourself.

Not after what happened between you and Park.

Just like he did between your legs, he's also now burrowed into your head somehow. Like a parasite. Or a nasty insect you'd love to squash with the heel of your tennis shoe.

You don't understand what's the matter with you. Why all you want is to be held; pampered; cherished with reassuring words.

It had something to do with things afterward, you think.

One moment, you were on Cloud Nine while he fingered you to completion, and the next, you were bawling in your kitchen because your spoon fell out of your cereal bowl and onto the floor the following morning.

You decide you hate him. And that you made a mistake. Who does that in public? Anyone could've seen! Talk about a lack of self-respect...

You avoid traveling in the elevators at all costs now, instead opting for the stairs every time something needs ran here or there. Makes for good cardio. That's what you tell yourself when you're out of breath three floors up one day. You deem the sacrifice of getting a little sweaty worth it, though, if it removes almost any and all chances of you running into him.

Your dreams of never setting eyes on his stupid face ever again, which you'd like to punch like one of those inflatable clowns, doesn't last long when you run into him—literally—after exiting the women's restroom one day. Bounding off his chest, you seethe while glaring up at him.

Noticing how your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy—not that he should be surprised, crybaby that you seem to be—he folds his arms behind him. "Don't tell me the princess of the ER didn't get her afternoon nap today."

You are so past obnoxious banter with him. You go to step around him, until he gently grabs you by your wrist. "Hey—"

Shoving his chest, he staggers back, then jeers. "Who the hell do you think you a—"

"You left me!" You cry.

His brows furrow while his eyes flit between yours for understanding. "What?"

Your chin wobbles and you sniffle. "You got what you wanted and then you just left me there! I felt so used and—and disgusting. We didn't talk about it, or, or—"

He snickers. "You really are a brat when you're not the constant center of attention, aren't you?"

Roaring in anger, you draw an open palm back, which he swiftly catches and pins against a wall. "What did I tell you about that?"

You pout. "I wouldn't have. Not really."

You're not so sure of that.

And then your eyes well with tears. "Why are you so mean to me?!" You wail.

"Jesus Christ," he curses lowly. "Get your fucking act together."

You only begin to cry harder.

Realization finally dawns on him then of what's come over you. And his stomach sinks.

Moron, he mentally chastises.

Drawing you into his chest, you attempt to battle against him with ineffectual fists before soon succumbing to the warmth you've been needing.

"You really are a sub, aren't you?"

You sinks your nails into his pectoral. "Why did you just call me a sandwich?" You cry.

He rolls his eyes. It's a fucking miracle you ever made it through medical school.

He sighs while settling his cheek atop your head and keeping both arms wrapped firmly around you. So help him God if so much as a janitor rounds the corner and finds him in such a compromising, and not to mention pitiful, position...

"It's called a drop. We were intimate, and instead of me sticking around like I apparently should've and giving you the attention you're clearly reeling from the loss of, this is the result: you being an emotional mess, which is becoming everybody else's problem to deal with."

"You're a mess," you mumble against his chest while snuggling against it.

"When it comes to you, apparently," he grumbles discontentedly.

You hum in satisfaction from the affection he's finally giving you. Not that you need it, of course. You still hate him and never want to see him again, but... It's rather nice to be embraced.

"I can't believe I'm saying this," he starts while running a large palm up your back.

You nuzzle against his neck. "Mm, what?"

"You are the very opposite of what I usually go after," he mumbles.

You interrupt before he can continue. "Well that's not very nice."

"Never said I had any intention of being that," Park snipes. He kisses the crown of your head. "Come to dinner with me."

You shrug in an attempt to play hard to get. "Maybe I already have plans."

He grits his teeth. He's liable to tighten his arms until he snaps you in two so you'll never be his problem again if you keep testing his patience. "I won't ask twice. Turn me down, and we're done. For good."

You frown at the ultimatum. Being given direction is nice so you're not left figuring things out on your own all the time—it's why you're so fond of Robby—but taking orders? Boy, does it make your blood boil.

"Fine," you spit while clutching at his shirt.

"Fine."

Things have changed. At times, you think for the better, while others, the worst. Robby and Jack have both backed off since the entirety of the ED caught wind that Park has suddenly claimed you as his.

They're both still friendly—kind and helpful, even—but no longer sweet on you like they once were. You understand why, even if you miss that aspect of your relationship with each of them.

Jack seems fond of Mohan now, and because she's so very kind, you hope something works out between them, even if you're sort of jealous... On both ends.

You might've daydreamed about kissing her once or twice...

Robby on the other hand seems a tad withdrawn. You think he's hurt, but don't know what to say or do to make it right. Loss of the affection there once was between you has been hard to take on both your ends. You're unaware of it, but he can't stop replaying the day of the joint reset. If he'd only left you with Mel tending to an abscess, this never would've happened.

He blames himself for his loss of you.

Robby had been concerned initially—whether it was genuine, or because he was desperate to find a reason why you shouldn't be with Shark, is up for debate—but because of how stoic Park is at all times, as well as the temper he's known to have, the worry was there that he would mistreat you. Not handle you like fine China as he and Jack both have.

Not that the orthopedic surgeon's disposition ever changes, but he's different with you. Softer, gentler, and more attentive. And you beam from the love he showers you with.

So Robby relinquishes what was clearly never his while throwing himself into work on his new bike, and planning an eventual trip that's been weighing on him.

Stepping over an unfamiliar threshold, Brendon's living space somehow is both exactly as you imagined it and not. You'd envisioned something industrial looking—all high ceilings and black and grey and white coloring, made to look sterile like an OR.

Instead, there's ambient lighting, a soft couch (not made of leather, also to your shock), a collection of DVDs, which unsurprisingly includes Jaws, a kitchen with a tea kettle on the stove, and an assortment of healthy green plants littered around the space.

"Not what you had in mind?" he asks while tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

A man with a decorative grab and go bowl? Now you are most certainly taken aback.

"No," you quip.

"What did you expect, then?" he asks while stalking toward you. "Dungeons and coffins and moats?"

You blink. "Did—Did you just quote Twilight?"

He grins before cupping your face between his hands and kissing you. "I'll give you a tour," he whispers against your lips.

He's very organized, which is to be expected, given how meticulous and detail-oriented he is. But the one thing—above any other—which you couldn't stop staring at, was a ratty old teddy bear sitting high on a shelf in his bedroom.

"My mom made it for me when I was a kid," he'd said while retrieving a t-shirt and checkered pajama pants from his dresser. "Found it in her house after she passed. I couldn't bear to part with it."

He'd shook his head without mirth. "No, I didn't intend for that to be a pun."

Padding over to him, you'd wound your arms around his waist while gazing up at the adorable children's toy. Would he like for you to sew an eye back onto it? No. That would've been for her and her alone to do. He's perfect just as he is, you deem.

"I think it's sweet. There's nothing wrong with holding onto mementos. Postcards, clothes, books, photos, toys." You shrugged. "They're important."

He cleared his throat while sinking a slightly trembling hand into your hair. "My only regret is her not getting to meet you," he said thickly.

Reaching up, you brushed a tear from his cheek. "I still can one day. If you'd like to take me to where she's buried, we'll get her her favorite flowers. Then have lunch with her and talk."

He buried his face in your shoulder then, and began to sob.

After preparing the both of you plates of fancy seafood pasta, coupled with glasses of red wine, Brendon rests his head in your lap as you each watch a movie from his couch together. Goodfellas is an excellent film, in your opinion, but all it really serves to do is make you hungry for more pasta.

Once the credits are rolling, he switches off the flatscreen before leading you into the bedroom and shutting the door behind the two of you.

You quietly pant as Brendon kisses your right inner thigh before switching to the other side and sucking against the supple skin found there.

He's been at it for the better part of an hour—letting his hands roam your naked body and his tongue your salivating mouth before sinking his head between your legs. Only, he refuses to show any amount of attention to your throbbing clit.

He's got you so wet that it's dripping on to his smooth, navy-blue sheets which smell of something dark and spicy, but every time you lift your hips and quietly whimper "please", he chuckles and blows against your sensitive bundle before mumbling "not yet" and licking at your pubic mound.

Clenching the tangled sheets beneath you, Brendon plants wet kisses from the bend of your knee all the way to the crook of your thigh. Spreading your slick labia apart with his index and middle finger, he gently blows against your swollen clit with a concentrated stream of air, which causes your back to arch and hips to buck in response.

"Always so needy," he rumbles from the foot of the bed.

You press the heels of your palms against damp lashes.

Swiping a finger through your folds just to tease you, you release a quiet sob. "Please. Please just put something inside of me."

He shakes his head, though you can barely make him out in the dark. "You're not calling the shots here, are you?"

You pout. "No."

"Didn't think so."

He lifts your left leg over his shoulder before peppering kisses down the length of it.

You curl your toes as he gets closer to your cunt, then deflate when he drops your limb back onto the mattress.

Planting two fingers between your folds, his eyes flit to you. "This what you want? Hm?"

You nod excitedly. "Yes! Yes, please."

He hums thoughtfully. "Well, if you insist," he says mockingly.

You just know he's about to piss you off even more with whatever he's about to do.

Sinking his middle finger inside of you, Brendon appreciates how your pulsating walls squeeze repeatedly around it—but he knows it's something else which they're frantic for.

You wiggle your hips. "Can you finger me?"

He doesn't move the digit—just leaves it lodged inside of you. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I would." He glances up to you. "But I don't," he spits.

Tangling your fingers in your hair, you throw your head back and begin to sob. "I can't take much more."

He sinks a second digit inside. "You'll take whatever I tell you to until I've had my fill."

Feeling your walls clench, your own body gives away just how much you enjoy the filthy things he says to you.

Completely hopeless that you'll get to orgasm tonight, you break into a full on weeping fit.

He sighs in relief at the sound. "There she is. That's my good girl," he drawls heatedly.

With painstaking slowness, he begins to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. "God you're making such a mess," he murmurs. "Getting it all over the sheets."

"Sorry," you whimper.

And then he smacks your pussy. "Quiet."

You bite your lower lip to obey.

This isn't the first time you two have been intimate, but it is the first time it's been in his house—his bed, specifically. As such, he feels wholly in control here. A safe word was decided long ago, however: hammerhead. Completely ridiculous, but better than nothing at all.

As he eases his fingers in and out of your wet heat, the sounds it makes fill the silence which surrounds you. It's humiliating, really.

You spread your legs impossibly wider.

Pulling his fingers out, you start crying again. "Oh, God—"

"What did I just say?" he barks.

You shut your mouth again.

You hear the shifting of clothes—thank God, he's finally undressing and ready to give you what you've been after the whole time—and then the bed dips on either side of you. Resting back on his haunches and straddling your thighs, Brendon works at his cock with a closed fist, breathing heavily as he circles the tip with his thumb.

"This what you wanted?" he questions.

"Yes, please," you sigh.

Manuevering himself to the side, he grips both of your knees and plants your feet before spreading your legs apart. "You don't move unless you're told to."

"Yes, sir," you whisper.

Climbing atop you, he swipes the head of his weeping cock against your slick entrance, which he's made more than ready to take him.

"Wait," you say while half sitting up. Leaning back on your elbows, you study him. "You didn't put on a condom."

"I don't do condoms," he replies matter-of-factly.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Wha—How many women have you had unprotected sex with, then? We...we used them at my place."

"None."

Your brows furrow.

You're so very perplexed.

Squeezing one of your breasts with his free hand, he explains. "I told myself that if I ever brought a woman home, I wouldn't allow anything to stand between us. Including a cheap fucking piece of rubber."

You lay back again. "How many have you brought here?" you inquire quietly.

Easing between your walls without warning, he groans. "This would be a first."

Knocking your legs apart with his knee, he circles his hips before bottoming out against your cunt.

Prodding gently against your belly, you can feel the tip of his cock.

Oh, dear God, this is heavenly...

"But, what..." You swallow thickly. "Um..."

You can't formulate a thought with him now rocking his hips rhythmically against your own.

"Will you pull out?" you ask.

"No."

Your eyes flutter closed. "Birth control doesn't always—"

He licks your lips. "Guess there's a conversation we'll need to have in the morning, then."

You slide your fingers into his hair. "Oh, yeah?"

His cock twitches at the breathless way you say that. "You wanna be a mother, don't you?"

You cup his cheek. "Someday."

"Might as well start trying now," he grunts before gripping your hips to begin pounding away.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

WOAHWOAHWOAH YOU CANT JUST END IT THERE GANG?????

[tumbleweedstillhaspanic]

Kitten and the Shark: Dr. Park x Reader

Possibly more chapters to follow if anyone likes this enough to want more.

-----

Dr. Brendon Park has well earned the nickname Park the Shark around PTMC. He's no stranger to making the medical staff around him cower in fear and shed a tear or two. However, when his favorite nurse from the ED finds herself crying hidden away in the hallway, Dr. Park takes it upon himself to find the source of her sorrow and fix it for her. Y/N has earned her reputation as the sacrifice sent to go into any exam room anytime Park the Shark comes down to the ED for a consult. She's not thrilled she seems to have earned his respect and she'd less thrilled when she overhears gossip his feeling for her go beyond professional respect. When he comes to her aid it hits her that maybe there's more to Park the Shark than she's previously assumed.

TW: Mentions of an abusive childhood, foster care system, probably behavior HR would shudder at from Park and Reader

=====

The fluorescent lighting was too bright even on this floor of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The lighting was making the pounding headache developing in the base of her skull all the more apparent.

She cringed knowing that the lighting wasn’t the only thing to blame for the blistering headache; the tears weren’t helping. She swallowed the thick lump in her throat trying her hardest to will the flowing tears to end to no avail.

She pulled her knees tighter against her frame trying to give herself a mental pep talk: “Come on, Y/N this is so stupid. Stop it, stop crying and man up. You’ve been through worse. You’ve had worse said to you. Men have tried harder and failed to hurt you. Stop crying. STOP.”

The mental pep talk did little to soothe her, the words that had been snapped at her playing like a horrible loop in her brain: “Who gave you your nursing license? You call this prepped? Useless, just pathetic. I suggest you find a different path before you really fuck something up around here.”

The words had been so quick and so careless uttered from the lips of the new ortho surgeon who’d been paged down to the ED for a consult. Dr. Baker was a new addition to the orthopedic department; and this was not Y/N’s first interaction with him.

Sure, she’d previously noticed that Dr. Baker could be arrogant in the worst possible way.

She was accustomed to a fair share of narcissism when it came to interacting with the occasional surgeon. They tended to be a smug bunch; it just came with the territory. She’d always thought that it was fair; to be that high and mighty when you were responsible for literally piecing people back together.

The arrogance had gone beyond the usual over inflated ego she had become accustomed to dealing with in her short career thus far.

It had been beyond simple arrogance; it had been cruel.

She had never been spoken to with such heartlessness in her nursing career though she knew she’d not been in the game for that long.

She was the ED’s newest baby nurse…though she had to roll her eyes at the term baby nurse. She was not some young fresh bushy tailed girl right out of nursing school. 

She had worked prior to actually deciding to give her education a chance. She had waitressed through most of her late teens and her twenties; scraping by fresh out of the foster care system discarded into the real world at 18 years old with no one to guide her or care. She had scraped and fought and survived for years until she’d finally worked up the nerve to try for something more.

The student loans had not been pretty and she lived on ramen most of the time now trying to pay them off; but she had managed. She had worked her ass off and gotten into a good nursing school program. She’d studied her ass off though the entire process and passed any and all licensing exams. She’d applied for several hospitals and PTMC had been willing to take her on.

She had done so well up until this point. She was a grown woman, not a child. So, why was she weeping like a little girl?

She was not a naive, sensitive little girl. She’d had a life prior to her career. She was almost thirty four for heaven's sake. She was a grown woman; which made her feel all the more ridiculous.

Deep down she knew what had set her off; the words: useless, pathetic.

How many times had she had similar words uttered at her with so little thought when she was far too young to understand that she’d done nothing wrong?

From her mother, to whatever slime of a man her mother had brought home, to so many foster families she’d lost count…she’d had so many horrible words thrown in her direction.

She was no stranger to cruelty. She had always prided herself in being so strong; so willing to take shit and kick it back in whoever was dumb enough to throw it her direction.

She felt far from strong at the moment. 

The cruel words hit too close to the bone; and she felt her usual strong will being knocked off center.

Her childhood had been a nightmare; one she had hoped she was getting over or at the very least learning to cope with. It seemed though that wounds she’d carried since she was a little girl were still not quite healed. A single cruel statement had ripped those wounds wide open and now she was here hiding far from the ED hoping to escape the judgmental and concerned gazes of her coworkers.

She took deep shuddering breaths trying so hard to push back the looming sense of failure hanging over her. It hung against her like a thick cloud though; she was unable to see through it as it smothered her.

She stared straight ahead, her gaze at the white wall in front of her blurring with her tears, her back pressed against the wall, the hard tile below her little comfort as she pulled her knees tight against her chest in a defensive stance.

She was almost so lost in misery that she almost didn’t notice the looming shadow beside her and the sound of footsteps approaching her.

His voice sounded out louder than her internal despair. “You’re crying.”

She gazed up at the source of the voice grimacing at the sight of him. Great, just fucking great.

This was the last person she needed to see her crying like a child in some deserted hallway in the hospital basement.

She gazed up at Dr. Brendon Park, her stomach knotting up.

Dr. Park had a reputation; one she’d been warned about the very first time he’d been summoned down to the ED for a consult.

She’d heard the murmured warnings from her fellow nurses, residents, student doctors, and attendees. Park the Shark was not a pleasant individual.

She’d almost cackled at the nickname the first time she’d heard it. She’d almost thought it had to be a joke. It sounded so ridiculous, how could it not be a joke?

The intense man who’d walked into that consult fit the nickname. He was not warm and friendly. He did not bring light and joy to the room. He was a tall hulking man; all muscle and scowl. He did not waste time on meaningless conversation, preferring to get straight to the point. He walked into the room as though he owned the damn place. He was clearly an expert in his field, and he was damn well aware of it. Any resident who was dumb enough to attempt small talk or try to ask what Park deemed as a dumb question was quickly and efficiently told that they were wasting his time.

Park the Shark was cold blooded. 

Y/N had stood by stunned as she’d taken in Park the Shark for the first time; tall, broad shouldered, dark hair slicked back with pomade, and deep blue eyes that might be lovely if his gaze wasn’t so calculating. 

She had watched Dr. Brendon Park assess that shattered femur during that consult taking note of the intensity of his gaze as he stared at the x-ray and the patient.

He was straight to the point expressing a plan of treatment to a nearby resident who was quite literally staring up at Park wide-eyed. 

She could still remember the stone cold expression on Park’s face as he’d stared down at the resident and to Robby the offer that left his lips tinged with sarcasm. “Do you need me to repeat myself?”

The resident had parted their lips looking as though they were considering taking Dr. Park up on the offer for a brief moment only for Robby to speak up, saving the poor idiot from ruin. “Nope, we got it. Thanks, Shark.”

Y/N had felt just as wide-eyed as Shark exited that little exam room, his eyes turning to her for the briefest moment.

Though he’d only gazed at her for a second the moment had felt overwhelming.

She had told herself then that she could continue to scoot through her career never having to interact with Park the Shark as long as she lived.

Life wasn’t that generous though; because it seemed anytime a consult was called for Ortho then either Dr. Garcia or Dr. Park was the chosen surgeon to make their way down to the ED.

Y/N preferred Garcia. At least she seemed…human…she was sarcastic as hell and more than likely to throw out an insult than a thank you, but she didn’t have that same brooding gaze Dr. Park seemed to possess.

It had been Y/N’s own fault really; that Park had even noticed Y/N.

She had a big fat mouth and she’d let it run when Dr. Park had found himself staring down at a horribly fractured arm accessing a split that was not entirely up to par. “Who did this?”

Y/N noticed the uncomfortable shift of gaze in the room Dr. Langdon exchanged a glance with Dr. King, who was staring at Dr. Ogilvie.

Y/N sighed realizing no one in the room was going to man up and spill the beans. Before she could stop it the words left her. “Dr. Ogilvie set it. The splint the paramedics placed became dislodged when we had to sedate the patient after they became combative.”

She ignored the harsh look of betrayal Dr. James Ogilvie sent her direction, her attention more focused on Dr. Park who was now staring at her with that same look of intensity he often wore unchanging on his face. “What is wrong with this splint?”

Dr. Ogilvie was fast to speak his tone defensive his pride far too wounded to keep his lips sealed. “There’s nothing wrong with the splint. The bone is set in a natural position. There’s no deformity in the limb that would suggest that splinting is the wrong choice.”

Y/N’s big mouth once again won out over any sense of self preservation as she spoke up seeing the problem. “It’s too tight…the splint. It’s restricting bloodflow”.

She shifted in place, wanting nothing more than to sink into the cracks in the tiles below her as all eyes in the room turned to her. 

She felt herself tense under the gaze of one set of cold blue eyes. 

She almost missed the slight upturn of Dr. Park’s lips as he spoke nodding to Dr. Ogilvie. “Nurse, Y/L/N is right. It’s too damn tight. You’re going to give a patient nerve damage with a splint like this.”

Y/N had almost missed the nod that Dr. Park sent her as he’d left the room, the truth hitting her; she’d won the bastard’s respect?

Now it seemed that anytime Dr. Brendon Park had a reason to come up to the ED; he seemed to regard her with an odd sense of respect.

Of course; her damn coworkers had noticed and she was more often than not the sacrificial lamb chosen to go be in the exam room with Park the Shark.

She’d been dumbfounded when Park more often than not threw questions in her direction when he was being critical of something he’d discovered someone had done wrong. She’d not missed the hint of a smirk on his lips when she was able to answer his questions. The approval did not even fade when she admitted that she was unsure of an answer. It seemed Park appreciated someone who admitted when they didn’t know; instead of trying to throw some bullshit his way to appease him.

Y/N was none too thrilled that she had seemingly become Dr. Park’s apparent favorite nurse in the ED. Dana, the charge nurse, had told her to consider it a compliment from her peers; Park was a tough cookie and he was not above telling someone the harsh truth. If he thought she was worth her salt as a nurse; then Dana insisted Y/N should take the compliment.

Nurses Princess and Perlah seemed to have a different take on the strange sense of respect Y/N seemed to earn from Dr. Park.

She’d overheard the whispered gossip Princess forgoing her usual choice in reverting to Tagalog when gossiping with Perlah given Nurse Donnie had joined the conversation. “He’s sweet on her. Park the Shark has a big fat crush. It’s obvious. She’s the only one around here he’s halfway human to. Have you seen the way he looks at her? He wants to eat her up.”

Perlah affirmed the assessment. “He’s been eager to come down for every consult from Ortho lately, it used to be like pulling teeth to get him down here. He’s not suddenly interested in being helpful to the ED. Y/N is what he’s interested in.”

Y/N had backed away from the exam room she’d been ready to enter before she’d overheard the gossiping nurses, her mind spinning. 

She had adopted a strict code of denial after overhearing that bit of whispered gossip. There was no way in hell that ominous callous Dr. Park the Shark had any sort of romantic interest in her.

She’d maybe felt uneasy around him after overhearing what seemed to be the opinion of at least two of her fellow nurses.

She had not avoided Dr. Park of course; she was still apparently the chosen offering to the Shark by her coworkers. Still though; she couldn’t shake the thought from the back of her mind…did Park the Shark really suddenly give a damn about coming down to the ED for every consult just because of her?

Y/N stared up at Dr. Park her exhausted brain finally absorbing the observation he’d made about her current emotional state. She dared to respond, the comment meant to be sharp in a weak attempt to protect her shame, but the weepiness to her tone made it seem more pitiful than venomous. “No shit, a whole medical degree just to make that astute observation.”

Dr. Park only raised a brow not shrinking away from the attempts at stinging him so he’d back off. 

He took her by shock sitting down beside her on the ground, the sight almost comical with as massive of a build as he had. She’d be lying if she tried to pretend she’d not maybe admired his physique just the slightest. The man hit the gym and he did it regularly from what she could see from the form fitting deep purple scrubs he sported. 

He spoke, his gaze still locked on her still all too intense as though she was one of his patients and he was assessing her and forming a treatment plan to put her back together. “Who made you cry? What happened?”

She took a deep shaky breath, everything in her wanting to be scathing and bitchy and scare him off. It would be easy to be rude to him and get him to fuck off and leave her to her misery.

She pushed back the need to attempt to wound him with words a part of her convinced that Dr. Park was well versed in dodging attempts at cruelty. “It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” was the response she received Y/N not helping but to stare at him as though he’d sprouted a second head.

“Dr. Park the Shark has time…are you the same doctor who practically stomps into the ED for a consultation and insists that we get straight to the point because his time is so precious?” She blurted out, Park rolling his eyes at the question.

Her jaw practically dropped by the words that left his lips. “I have time for you.”

She pushed back the strange sense of fluttering warmth that washed over her at the earnest simplicity of the comment. He had time for her…Dr. Park who seemed to act like his time was some gift he was granting the peons around PTMC had time for her?

She sighed, resigning herself to the realization that she would need to trauma dump on the last person she wanted to have a bonding moment with. “I…I’m not usually this…weak. I’ve…uh, growing up was hard. I know that sounds cliche. Everyone claims they had the hardest childhood, but mine was…fucked.”

She held her knees all the tighter against her frame as though it would keep her safe as she recalled her past. “My mother wasn’t…she shouldn't have ever had kids. There was nothing maternal in that woman. My dad was in and out of trouble. Pretty sure he spent most of my childhood locked up. When he was out, he was great. I mean as great as a convicted felon can be at fatherhood. I think he loved me, but he just always screwed it up…living a straight clean life. My mom usually found guys to keep her company while my dad was locked up…and they…they were disgusting, not even worth being called men. I learned to dodge the gaze of men who were way too old to be looking at me the way they did early in my life…The last guy she decided to hook up with, I was barely twelve years old…he introduced her the wonderful world of heroin and a year later my little brother, little sister, and I were in the custody of child protective services. My parents sucked but their parents sucked harder. My dad wasn’t exactly in the position to get custody and no one wanted me, so I went to the system…mom had zero interest in getting me or my siblings back so her parental rights were cut off and I stayed in the system. I was an angry kid…traumatized in more ways than one. No one wants a preteen with issues. I bounced around from foster home to foster home to group home to group home…my sister was about the same. My brother was lucky…he was young and cute and some family snatched him up and adopted him in a closed adoption. I wasn’t lucky…I grew up tough and I learned to take shit that was thrown my way.”

She paused, avoiding his gaze, her childhood not entirely her favorite subject to broach especially with someone who made her as nervous as Park. “I, I thought I was over it…I mean I guess you never get over some things, but I thought I was coping. Then Dr. Baker…just he said some things that just… it cut me open and I felt so small.”

She widened her eyes as Park spoke his voice holding an edge she was not accustomed to…yes, the man always sounded severe. He was no nonsense; direct and cold…but his voice held something that went beyond assertiveness…there was a ferocity there. “Dr. Baker? My Dr. Baker in ortho? What did he do?”

She dared to say the words, her voice trembling. “He said I was pathetic and useless…that I should change careers, implied my nursing license was unearned. I…I tried to tell him that I didn’t even place the IV. I, it was the paramedics that brought her in. I tried to salvage it and start a new one but…”

She didn’t have time to continue as Dr. Park stood up at an alarming speed for someone who was as pure muscle as him. “I’ll take care of it.”

She stared up at him as he strode away his shoulders tense, clearly moving with purpose.

She spoke her voice soft as she snapped out of the shock. “What the hell was that? What do you mean you’ll take care of it?”

She felt her stomach sink a frustrated groan leaving her lips as it hit her. 

She’d just given the Shark a whiff of blood and now he was headed for the kill. Fuck her life.

—-------------------------------

She found Dr. Park in a record breaking time, given the man was far taller than her and had a head start on finding Dr. Baker.

She was not quick enough to stop Dr. Baker from meeting his fate though.

She cringed as she approached the floor the ortho department called home and found a clearly pissed off Dr. Park had cornered Dr. Baker in a literal corner.

They were tucked away in the hallway far from prying eyes and ears. Dr. Avery Baker looked horrified and Dr. Brendon Park looked like he was ready to bite. 

Dr. Brendon Park was a large man; his gym routine had given him a strong broad shouldered physique. He insisted being strong was favorable in his line of work; standing in the OR for hours literally having to hammer into bones at times to form them back in place.

He was far larger than his opponent. Dr. Baker stared up at the head of the orthopedic department, his eyes wide with fear. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“Nurse, Y/N...ED. You had some choice words to say about your opinion of an IV placement. Does that ring a bell?” Park snapped Y/N cringing as she approached the pair.

She parted her lips wanting to plead with Park to let the idiot go. This was a mess. This was such a cliche; big scary Dr. Park coming to defend her honor while she tearfully pleaded with him to stop like he was her pissed off boyfriend beating the tar out of some idiot who’d groped her at a seedy bar.

She bit back any pleas knowing that she could not risk this becoming the clear messy cliche she was picturing in her mind.

Dr. Baker spoke, his eyes growing all the wider. She was almost convinced they might bug out of his head at this rate. “I…the IV was a mess, the veins were all blown out. The thing had to be redone. The patient was struggling and knocked it loose. She’s a nurse in the emergency department, she should be able to start an IV on a distressed patient.”

Dr. Park was fast to reply, nearing closer to the man if that was even possible with how he was towering over him. “She didn’t start the IV. If you’d given her a second to explain she could have told you that the EMT’s started it. She was trying to fix their mistake but you went off on her.”

“I…I didn’t…” Dr. Baker attempted to defend himself Dr. Park not giving him the chance.

Park spoke again, glaring down at the man. “I believe you called her useless and pathetic, implied her license was unearned and she needed to find a new career path. Does any of that sound familiar?”

Dr. Baker parted his lips struggling to form a sentence truly realizing just how deep in the shit he currently was.

Dr. Park spoke again, his voice making it obvious that the next words that left him were not an empty threat. “If you ever think of even glancing her way again or dare to say another word to her, the only useless and pathetic thing around here will be your career path in my ortho department. You step out of line again with her, then I’ll make sure the only cases you’re getting around here are setting casts on kids legs, no operating room time, no glory of learning a thing from me. You’re here because I recruited you to join my department. You are still new enough in your career that you’ve got a thing or two to learn. Trust me I’m the best orthopedic surgeon you’re going to meet, you want to stay on my good side. Are we clear?”

Dr. Baker frantically nodded his head, Dr. Park backed up just enough for the man to scurry off.

Y/N cringed as Dr. Baker gazed in her direction quickly scurrying off in the opposite direction.

She spoke her voice tight as she approached Park. “Why did you do that?”

Dr. Park turned to face her, raising a brow clearly not expecting her to witness his act of taking care of it for her. “Kid is a jerk. There’s a difference between confidence in your craft and dumb arrogance. I gave him a dose of reality.”

“And that reality dose involved threatening him to never even look in my direction or you were going to make his career a living hell? What are you going to do when he goes running off to HR?” Y/N snapped, crossing her arms gritting her jaw the headache she had been fighting off making its presence all too known.

Dr. Park scoffed at the comment fast to reassure her. “He won’t run tattling to HR. He’s eager enough to earn my approval. I smelled it on him the second I recruited him to this department. Kid is barely out of his fourth year of residency.”

She resisted the urge to press her palm to her face wanting to argue that this wasn’t the point.

She parted her lips to point out how idiotic this all was as Dr. Park spoke again, clearing his throat. “He made you cry.”

“You make people cry all the time.” She pointed out rolling her eyes at the comment knowing damn well that Dr. Park was no stranger to making the staff around this hospital get a little teary eyed if he really tore into them.

Park sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck almost looking nervous…it wasn’t a look she thought she’d ever see on him. “I don’t make you cry…I’d never make you cry. It’d be like…kicking a kitten or something.”

“A kitten?” She parroted dumbfounded by the statement and the possible meaning behind why it was so important that he not make her cry.

She glanced around the department relieved that it was just the two of them standing here sharing this exchange. The last thing she needed was this entire situation joining the rumor mill.

Dr. Park nodded his head, a hint of a smile crossing his lips. “Yeah, you know, all fluffy and cute. The first day I met you, you were wearing these earrings, plastic daisies and this lilac shirt under your scrubs ... .the head band you were wearing matched the shirt. You were so…cute.”

“Cute?” She blurted out trying to grasp the fact that Dr. Park, who scared the shit out of practically everyone in this building, thought she looked cute and seemed to remember the exact details of what she was wearing the first day he’d met her.

“Yeah, cute…I mean don’t get me wrong. You have a smart mouth and you curse way more than is probably socially appropriate in our profession. So you know…kitten has claws. I like claws.” He admitted the smile only grew all the more leaving her all the more dumbfounded.

He was…flirting? Seriously, he was flirting? 

Why did she feel her heart rate pick up at it? Why did the words leave her lips, her tone far more flirty than it had a right to be. “Makes sense…a shark might appreciate claws.”

The smile only grew all the more apparent he taking a deep breath dropping his hand from the back of his neck.

He straightened his face as it seemed he mentally came to a decision. “I have a surgery tonight…should end at eight. Your shift ends at seven. Wait for me outside the ED, near the ambulance bay.”

She raised a brow wanting to respond that she would do no such thing but found herself speechless as he spoke again sounding as though he was directing her on a treatment plan for a patient in the ED. “We’re going to dinner.”

“You’re ordering me to go to dinner with you?” She remarked, causing him to roll his eyes in return.

He spoke clearing his throat realizing he had to try a little harder; drop a bit of the shark persona if he was going to get anywhere. “I’m asking you to dinner. Will you have dinner with me?”

She rolled the request through her mind, the offer taking her by shock. He was asking her to dinner? 

He cleared his throat, almost doubting himself for a moment he was quick to speak again. “I’m not pressuring you. I didn’t defend you in hopes of pressuring you into a date. I meant what I said…he made you cry and I don’t like it. I’d do the same if anyone else made you cry. I’d kick my own ass for making you cry. If you aren’t interested, I won’t hold it against you.”

Y/N snapped out of her shock, it hitting her. This was by far the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her…he’d defended her just because some one made her cry. 

Big intimidating Park the Shark who made everyone cower and run for the hills because of how mean he could be didn’t like it when she cried.

She made her choice nodding her head. “I’ll meet you by the ambulance bay. It’s a date.”

“Can’t wait, Kitten.” he remarked, causing her to let out a huff rolling her eyes though the smile that crossed her features was undeniable.

She spoke as she turned to walk away ignoring the racing of her heartbeat and the giddy feeling of butterflies settling in her belly. “I’m looking forward to it, Shark.”

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

more of this 🥹

[rr-after-dark]

Hooked - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.

Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare

Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical

A/N:  that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic

Word Count: 14.2k

While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”

“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”

You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”

“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”

“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”

“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”

“You’re leaving? Why?”

“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”

Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”

Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”

You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”

“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”

Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”

Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”

You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”

Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”

“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”

His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”

Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."

Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”

“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”

You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”

Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”

Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.

“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”

Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”

You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.

Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.

Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”

You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”

Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”

“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”

Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”

Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”

“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”

“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”

You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”

You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”

Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.

He has a handsome smile.

Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”

Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”

When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”

“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”

“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”

“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”

You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.

Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.

With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.

Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.

You melt – just a little.

Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.

But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”

At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”

You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.

“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”

“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”

Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”

“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”

He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”

“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”

He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”

“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”

“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”

“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”

Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”

It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”

You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”

The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.

It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.

Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”

“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”

Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”

You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”

“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”

Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.

And Brendon Park is smitten.

The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”

You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”

His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”

“I have work to do, Frank.”

“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”

Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”

“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”

Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”

He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”

“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”

“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”

As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.

Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”

“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”

“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”

Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”

Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”

“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”

Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”

Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”

Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”

Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?

Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”

You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”

“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”

That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.

Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”

Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”

“Look.”

Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“We get along great, actually.”

“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”

Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).

You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”

Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”

“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”

“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”

You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”

“Give it a period.”

“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”

Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.

“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”

“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”

“No gym buddies to gab with?”

“No gym buddies,” he confirms.

“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”

“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”

“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”

And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-

Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”

After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”

“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”

You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.

Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”

“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”

“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.

Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”

“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”

Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”

You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”

“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”

“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”

You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”

He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.

Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”

“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”

He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”

You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”

He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”

“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”

With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”

“He said, frowning.”

“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.

But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.

You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.

Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.

And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.

The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.

Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”

“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”

With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”

But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”

“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”

“Whatever you say, big guy.”

If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.

Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”

When you say yes, his heart sings.

After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.

Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.

With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”

“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”

You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.

Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-

There are the tears.

Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?

Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.

When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.

Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”

Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”

You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.

Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”

You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”

Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”

Then you start crying even more.

That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.

And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.

But at least you have the weekend to wallow.

Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-

Fuck.

Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.

You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”

“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”

Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”

“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”

Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”

“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”

“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”

Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”

“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”

Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”

“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”

Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”

“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”

The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.

God, you’re an idiot.

With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”

“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”

“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”

“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”

My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”

After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”

You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”

“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.

But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”

He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”

Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.

You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.

Park’s pupils dilate.

In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”

‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”

“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.

Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.

As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”

Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”

You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.

And then he kisses you.

It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.

Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.

Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”

Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”

He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”

“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”

He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”

As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”

At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.

Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.

So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.

You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”

Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”

Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”

As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”

You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.

Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”

You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”

He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”

While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.

You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”

You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”

“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”

Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”

God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”

With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”

“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”

“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”

“Really?”

“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”

You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.

When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”

You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”

Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”

You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”

“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”

You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”

“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”

Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”

The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”

“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access.  He murmurs, “Good girl.”

Fuck, you’re soaked.

As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”

You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”

“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”

You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”

“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.

“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”

“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”

With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”

Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”

Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.

“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.

Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.

When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”

You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”

“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”

Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”

“Shut up; yes, you did.”

You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.

He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”

You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.

Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”

“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”

“Well, they do say he was hung.”

Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”

Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”

When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”

From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.

Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”

Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”

Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”

When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.

You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.

“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”

While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”

You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.

Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”

All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.

“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”

Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”

“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”

“That I’m a crybaby?”

He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

And you weep.

The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.

“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.

He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.

Then you bite him.

Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.

“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.

Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.

Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.

He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”

You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”

Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.

Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”

You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”

“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.

You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”

“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”

“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”

Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”

You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”

Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”

“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt,  “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”

“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”

You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”

“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”

“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”

Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.

You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”

“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”

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[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

there are no words in any language i speak that can describe how incredible this was

[ghostgvrl]

brendon park x fem!reader nsfw headcannons

warnings: mean!brendon, piv, cunnilingus, squirting, fingering, mentions of blowjobs and pussyjobs, spitting, spanking, biting, hip/thigh riding, period sex, 69ing.

a/n: guys i promise i have so many actual fics in the works for “the pitt” but i have many horny thoughts on my mind and i need to get them out!!! idec if he had one minute of screen time he’s so fucking hotttttt nghhhh~

18+ MDNI!

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ brendon is so mean in bed it’s not even funny. this man will throw you around like you weigh nothing as his cock is thrusting inside of you so hard it makes you feel lightheaded.

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ speaking of him being mean, he’s a biter! he especially loves to bite you in sensitive spots like where your neck meets your shoulder, your inner thighs, and sometimes the swell of your breasts, too.

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ he loves to overstimulate you. he’ll make you cum so many times on his fingers you’ll lose count! fat tears will roll down your soft cheeks as you plead to him, “please…bren, *hic* i can’t….” he’ll just brush your tears away with his thumb and shush you. “yes you can baby, just one more. it’s okay honey, i’ve got you….” it’s never just one more. he always says that but then wants you to cum again on his face and again on his cock. it’s not his fault, he can’t help it! he wants to make you cum so hard you squirt on his expensive satin sheets. and once you do, he lets out the most pornagraphic moan you’ve ever heard as he mumbles, “there she is..”

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ he didn’t get the nickname “park the shark” for no reason, this man loves to get wet and he loves to fuck you while you’re on your period. he’ll have you on your back with your legs on his shoulders, his fat dick pumping in and out of your sopping wet cunt. “fuck, yes baby. do y’ hear that? she’s fucking crying for me…” you do hear it. it’s the sound of your wet cunt sucking in his cock like she doesn’t want to let go, as your hips meet with soft “plap, plap, plaps.”

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ it doesn’t matter how big you might think you are, this man still towers over you and overpowers the fuck out of you. one of his hands can grab both of yours and put them over your head. speaking of this man’s hands, you love when he spanks you. especially when he leaves huge handprints on your asscheeks. it’s claiming in a way, and that’s why he likes it too. but eventually his hand will come down to play with your pussy because of how wet you’re getting for him, if you aren’t already grinding it down on his thigh. <3

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ brendon loves pussyjobs almost as much as he loves blowjobs tbh. he’s a big boy, so obviously he has a big cock, and sometimes it can be too much for you! :( he’ll spit a long trail of saliva onto your already wet cunt as he presses your thighs together and fucks his cock onto your folds.

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ veryyyyy talkative in bed! which is something you may not expect from the intimidating orthopedic surgeon, but he can’t help it!! when he feels good he’s got to vocalize it. and he knows you love it too. “you’re such a fucking good girl for me, is this pussy mine? huh? whose this pussy belong to, baby?” he’ll ask you, making direct eye contact as he’s squishing your cheeks together with his large hand. “yours….its yours, brendon..” you moan out and his teeth tug on his bottom lip as he nods feverishly, his cock pounding into your cunt, hitting your g-spot perfectly. “oh…she fucking clenched down on me from that, baby do you like that? yeah?” he’ll tease you as he thrusts faster.

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ could probably eat you out for hours to be honest. especially if he’s very pent up from work. it’s de-stressing for him. he’ll spread open your perfect folds as his tongue plays with your clit and then goes back to fucking your tight hole.

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ sometimes when you’re both too tired from work, he’ll put you on his hip and let you ride it until you cream on him. his hands will be on your hips as he helps you grind on his hip bone, your cunt dripping onto his warm skin. your face will be in the crook of his neck, your soft moans going straight to his already throbbing cock. “that’s it honey, jus’ like that…fuck, yeah..”

˚⊱🦈 ⊰˚ i don’t know why, but i feel like he’s a big 69 guy! you sucking his big dick with your perfect mouth pussy as his tongue fucks your sweet cunt? yes please!!! maybe he’ll even give your ass a few spanks so you can cum harder for him.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

ugh need him

[basiccortez]

Hear me out—reader keeps calling Park “Bruce” and he’s obviously confused because his name is Brendon?? And she’s like, “you know, Bruce, the shark from Finding Nemo.” 🤣🤣

I know it says reader but I feel like this is perfect girl dad!Park vibes

It was the perfect morning. The sun was poking through the curtains, basking the room in a soft glow. You were snuggled into Brendon's bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin surrounding you. Brendon didn't have a surgery until later in the morning, and wanted to spend this time cuddle up with you. But that was hard to do with a two year old.

"Bruce!" A shrill voice calls from down the hall, the sound echoing from the baby monitor sitting on the bedside table. You sigh, knowing that your serene moment in your husband's arms before the rush of the day was slowly coming to an end.

It was rare that you got to have time with Brendon in the morning. The mornings were usually hectic. Brendon woke up early to get to the gym, wanting to get in a good pump before going to work all day. By the time he came home, you and your daughter were awake and beginning to start on breakfast. He'd go shower, and then switch you so you could get ready for your day as a trauma physician.

"Bruce!" You hear your daughter's voice again. This time Brendon stirs, groaning and rolling himself away from you to check the time on his phone.

"Does she not understand what sleeping in is?" Brendon mumbles, setting his phone down and rolling back over towards you.

"She's two," You argue, flipping the blankets back and sliding out of them. "I'll go get her back to bed. I think she's just playing." You slip your feet into your slippers and walk down the hall towards the baby pink room. You smile as you push open the door, seeing your husband's twin standing up in her crib.

Her hair was sticking up in every direction. Somehow in the middle of the night she had kicked off her pajamas, only thing on her small body was her nighttime diaper. Just like Brendon, your daughter ran hot, typically kicking her clothes off or fighting you on wearing them (similar to her father).

"Good morning, Princess," You coo walking towards her. It takes her a moment to realize who had come into get her. It was like a slow motion train wreck, her bottom lip starts to quiver, tears well in her eyes, and big cry escapes her lips.

"NO!" She throws herself down onto her bed. "No! Bruce!"

Your eyebrows furrow as you look around her room, trying to see if there was a stuffed animal laying around that she had tossed in the middle of the night. You weren't sure who Bruce was, but you didn't find anything that would help come to the conclusion.

"Do you want breakfast?" You ask your daughter.

She shakes her head, her cheeks red as she cries "Bruce! Want Bruce!"

"Who's Bruce, baby?" You ask her softly, trying to calm her down. You had hit the terrible twos a few months ago, and it was heartbreaking to go through. She had so many emotions in such a small body, and didn't know how to express them. "A stuffy?" You point towards her collection of stuffed animals across the room. "A blanket?"

"No! Bruce!"

"I'm sorry baby," You say, picking her up. She wrapped her arms around your neck, crying into your shoulder as you tried to soothe her. "Let's go get breakfast started, okay?" She just nods as you walk down towards the kitchen, still crying. "Pancakes today?" She nods again, sniffling.

You keep her in your arms as you move around the kitchen, grabbing the pancake mix, eggs, oil, and a mixing bowl. You had gotten pretty damn good at cooking breakfast while holding on to a small child. Your daughter's cries had turned to sniffles, watching as you mixed the pancake batter together. You placed a kiss on her cheek, pouring the batter out on the griddle.

"I think we should plant flowers today," You say to her, looking at the backyard. It was officially spring in Pittsburgh and you were dying to get started on your flower boxes. "What do you think? Daddy can help-"

"Bruce!" She shouts, lifting her head from your shoulder, and flinging her arms out towards someone behind you. You turn around, seeing your husband wearing a confused expression on his face.

"Who's Bruce?" Brendon asks, walking towards the two of you. He takes your daughter from your arms with ease, greeting her with a kiss on her cheek. "Morning baby, why the tears? Hm?"

She just answers his question with "Bruce!"

It was then that you had realized what she was saying. You shook your head laughing. Brendon looked even more confused now.

"Did I miss something?" Brendon asked.

"Bruce," You answered and Brendon nodded his head slowly, still confused. "We let Santos babysit her last night, and she asked if they could watch Finding Nemo. Bruce is the name of the shark."

"Ohhh," Brendon said, turning to look at his little girl. "Daddy's the shark, isn't he?" Your daughter nods, a bright smile on her face. "So she was calling for me earlier."

"Yeah she was," You frown a little bit, rubbing your hand on her back. "I'm sorry baby, I didn't know who Bruce was. I didn't mean to make you sad."

"'s okay, mommy," She buries her head into Brendon's neck. "Bruce here now."

"Yeah, Bruce is here now," Brendon smiles.

gotta love shark and his pup!

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

more of this i beg

[shadeofpeach]

Cuteness aggression

Pairing: Frank Langdon x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff.

Summary: Frank isn't just in love with you; he suffers from a severe case of cuteness aggression.

There was a side of Frank that only appeared behind closed doors: the side that became completely overwhelmed by how much he adored you.

Frank emerged from the bedroom, blinking against the morning light. He stopped at the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the frame, and that’s when he saw you.

You were wearing his favorite t-shirt, draped down to your mid-thigh, the sleeves falling past your elbows and you were completely lost in your own world. Your headphones were on and you were swaying your hips while flipping pancakes.

Frank’s morning brain short circuited. Seeing you in his clothes, looking so effortlessly bright and happy, triggered a physical reaction. He felt a sudden frantic urge to go over there and just… crunch you.

He didn't move for a full minute. He just watched your hair bounce and listened to your bubbly humming. His jaw was set so tight it ached.

"Absolutely not," he rasped to the empty hallway. "This is uncalled for."

You didn't hear him coming until a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you backward until your back was flush against his chest.

He squeezed you so hard you let out a startled "Oof!" as the air left your lungs. He buried his face in the back of your neck, his nose shoving aside your hair to find skin. He pressed his face there with a frustrated groan.

He nipped at the curve of your shoulder. Nothing that would leave a mark but enough to let you know he was losing his mind.

"Frank!" you giggled, trying to turn in his arms but he wouldn't let go.

He shifted his weight, dragging you into a forceful sway that was an aggressive cuddling.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowed with affection. He grabbed your face, his palms squishing your cheeks until your features were bunched up.

"You're a menace," he grumbled, his voice gravelly from sleep. "I'm trying to be a serious person and you're in here singing to the stove in my shirt. I want to put you in a pocket and never let you out."

You let out a cute and shy laugh. He peppered a trail of rough kisses along your pulse point, each one punctuated by a playful growl. "You are so cheesy sometimes."

He pulled back just an inch. "I can't help it," he muttered. Without warning, he leaned in and took a soft nip at the apple of your cheek. He didn't break the skin, of course, but the sensation was firm enough to make you shriek with laughter.

"Stop! You’re going to leave a mark!" you protested.

"Good," he rumbled, breaking into a lopsided grin. He pressed a final kiss to the spot he had just bitten, his lips soft and warm against your skin. He tucked his chin over your shoulder, holding you in a crushing embrace that made the oversized t-shirt bunch up between you. He stayed like that for a long moment, breathing you in and letting the aggression settle into a quiet warmth.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, "Now, finish the pancakes before I decide to just carry you back to bed and keep you there all day."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡

the pitt masterlist

[clarktologist]

ㅤㅤTWO HANDS [AND A BIT OF TEETH]

summary: you're very clingy with your boyfriend, and he's happy to return the favor. until teeth get involved. OR the three times you bite frank langdon and the one time he bites you back. pairing: frank langdon x girlfriend!reader tags: afab reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, objectification & destruction of frank langdon's limbs, playfulbf!frank langdon unlocked, nonsexual & childlike wrestling between adults, frank refers to reader as a dog [affectionately], seduction in the form of nipping word count: 3.2k notes: this is for everyone that gets something similar to cuteness aggression and just wants to bite people [<- me!] all of these end in dialouge on purpose, i swear... please reblog if you enjoy!

1. UNCONTROLLABLE URGES

The sunset stretches through the blinds of your apartment, spilling over the harwood floor like liquid gold. Your fingers unfurl to brush through the rays from where you’re sprawled out on your back, eyes watching the shadow that breaks up the light. There’s a slight ache in the small of your back from lying on the floor for so long, but you make no attempt to move.

“You own a couch.”

Your head tilts back to look at the doorway, an almost goofy smile stretching across your mouth at the upside-down view of Frank. He looks the exact same as he does everyday, and you had seen him only a few minutes ago when you had abandoned him in the kitchen to finish making his meal prep, but the sight of him still makes your heart thud a bit harder against your rib cage.

“If I get on the couch, I won’t get anything done.” Your bottom lip pushes out in a pout, hands folding on your stomach. 

One bushy eyebrow raises as his gaze trails over you, prowling closer slowly. “And you’re getting things done by laying on the floor?” he asks.

He leans over you, devishly charming with his hair falling onto his forehead. You’re not sure how you got a Disney prince as a boyfriend, but you thank whoever, or whatever, is above you that you did. Now, you get the pleasure of staring at his handsome face whenever you want.

Admittedly, Frank wasn’t incorrect. Originally, you had disappeared into the living room in order to at least begin to organize your vast array of bookshelves, however the task had become larger and more overwhelming the longer you had debated where to start. You had sat down to get a look at the big picture, somehow ending up on your back and distracted by the rays of sunlight coming through the windows.

There’s a huff as you take his outstretched hand, letting him drag you up onto your feet. You take the opportunity to slide your palm along his abdomen, appreciating the soft twitch of muscle that happens in response. As much as you love all of his reactions to your touches, you love the unintentional ones the most. 

Noticing your lack of response and the forlorn gaze you have trained on the bookshelves, Frank presses his face into your hair, breath brushing against your hairline. “Do you want some help?” he mumbles gently. The question comes out almost hesitant, aware that you didn’t like to ask for help much.

You stay silent for a breath, eyes glancing over the books you’ve hoarded over the last few years. You debate just giving up on the project completely, leaving the literature to spill wherever it’d like, spine showing or not.

Finally, rationality wins out and you groan, turning to bury your face into his sweater. “Yes, please.”

He holds you for just a moment, thumb brushing along your shoulder from where his arm has curled around your body, before you finally separate to get to work.

The plan is simple at first. Frank grabs the books from the higher shelves while you start on the lower, pulling them out so that they can stack on the floor and await their sentencing. Color-coded or alphabetically by author or separated by just genre - the possibilities are endless.

That is, until your boyfriend pulls off his sweater, revealing the curve of muscles that are his biceps.

You’re quickly distracted by the sight, staring up at him with parted lips. Poor, sweet Frank just continues working, surprisingly focused on the task at hand despite being so blatantly ogled. 

Perhaps he’s used to being stared at by you. Perhaps he’s just happy to be allowed to help you out, for once.

Now, you’re on the same bookshelf in the middle of your array, your elbow pressed into his abdomen with every reach forward. His arm is right there, muscles tensing every time he reaches up for another book to place it in the growing stack in his free hand.

You try to push back the urge. You really do. You press your tongue between your teeth, biting down on it just enough to feel the pressure. Remind yourself that it’s not normal to want to consume your partner whole, to cause them pain out of pure love and lust for them.

But then he reaches up again, that dip of muscle stretching from just beneath his elbow all the way to his wrist, and your brain shortcircuits. 

It happens quickly. Your chin tilts forward slowly and your lips part, the top set of your teeth finding the juiciest part of his muscle and pressing down. For a moment, you don’t even worry about if you’re causing him pain. The squish of his arm beneath your teeth is satisfying enough to dull out everything else.

Frank yelps in surprise, dropping the book in his hand to press the heel of it into your forehead with just enough force to push your head away. “Hey!”

You give him a sheepish smile as his hand moves to rub at the teeth-shaped indents in his skin. His face is an array of emotions, although amusement and confusion ring out above them all. The only thing missing seems to be anger, or anything similar, which only makes you fall more in love, if possible.

His hand darts out to slide over your head, fingers curling around your skull to bring your head into his chest. His fingertips press into your scalp as he scrunches at the roots of your hair, chest rumbling with a laugh as you wiggle in protest. “That was mean! I’m trying to help you and you bite me!”

“You were the one slutting yourself out, this is not my fault!” Your palm presses into his abdomen, whether out of your struggle or a need to objectify him more, trying to pry out of his hold on your head. “Waving it in my face like a dog with a bone!”

Frank laughs as he finally lets you go, playfully shoving at your shoulder to get you away. “Start organizing your books, puppy. Stay far away from me until you learn how to control yourself.”

2. GAINING THE UPPER HAND

“The fact that you are a doctor and save lives every day never fails to astonish me.” You deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you look down at your boyfriend.

It had been Frank’s idea to build a fort. Something about how his parents had never let him make one out of blankets and pillows, too afraid of the mess he’d make, and how he thought it’d be fun to eat dinner. 

You had been ecstatic. That is, until you realize that your boyfriend was completely incapable of doing anything that didn’t require too-complicated words and needles.

His brow is furrowed in slight irritation, a lot of confusion, as he stands up, kicking off a throw blanket that had snagged around his ankle. His elbow brushes against your arm as he crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursing as he stares down at the mess he made. “It’s just not staying,” he mumbles beneath his breath.

“Because you’re not anchoring down the blankets. You can’t use pillows to hold up a blanket, babe, they’re not stable enough.” Your fingers point at the decorative pillow he had placed atop the corner of the blanket, glancing up at him through the corner of your eye. “You gotta go find some heavy books or something.”

Frank’s head turns to look at you, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he raises his eyebrows. “Books? In our fort? That doesn’t sound too comfortable.” Then, he steps to the side, curling his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Well, you’re not laying on them, are you?” You tease back, tilting your head to touch your temple to his.

He huffs, breath brushing over your collarbone, before his fingertips are pressing into your ribs. “Oh, yeah? You’re the fort expert now, huh?” He locks one arm around your waist while the other continues poking and prodding, ignoring your squeals and wriggling. “A little fort architect, aren’t you?”

“Frank!” You squeak, laughing as you crouch down to attempt to slide out of his hold. “Let me go!”

Your boyfriend crouches with you until both of your knees are on the ground, his arm loosely locked around your neck now while fingertips dance on the most ticklish parts of your body. Your hands grab at his forearm, attempting to pull him off, but he simply just wrestles you onto the heap of blankets that was his attempt at a fort. 

The two of you roll on the floor together in a mess of limbs, Frank curling both of his arms around you at every chance that he could get. The blankets curl around your legs and waist as you twist and wriggle, laughing until your lungs hurt and you’re begging him to let you go.

The wrestling only ends whenever he moves to wrap his forearm around you again. Willing to try to get anything to get out of your predicament, your teeth find his skin easily, sinking in just enough to leave a bitemark.

As any grown man would, Frank squeals, removing his injured arm away from you while his other one just tightens around your waist. “What have we said about biting me?” He scolds playfully, pulling you closer to the curve of his body, until your hips are flush to his. 

“You wouldn’t let me go!” You retort, although you make no attempt to pull away from him. Instead, you roll over to face him, passing him an innocent smile.

He softens when your fingers wrap around the forearm you had bitten, your thumb brushing against the indents in his skin. Leaning down, he presses his lips to your mouth, kissing you sweetly for a brief moment before pulling away just enough to mumble. “Can we give up on the fort?”

You laugh, then shake your head. “Nope. But I will finish it for you.”

“Deal.”

3. RUIN THE MOMENT

Frank had to stay late at work. And while you didn’t mind, you had to admit to yourself that you missed your boyfriend more than probably healthy.

Rather than be dramatic about it or just sit wallowing until he somehow managed to find his way home, you decided to do something nice for Frank. He did sweet gestures for you like it was as easy as breathing, and now was the perfect time to do something for him.

In the couple hours it took him to finally get off of work, you had made the relaxation spot of his dreams. The comfiest throw blankets on the couch, greasy boxes of his favorite takeout on the coffee table, the big lights off and only a small orange lamp illuminating your cozy living room.

When Frank gets home, you’re tucked into yourself on the couch, scrolling through something on your phone aimlessly. Your head perks up like a dog at the sound of the front door opening, hanging off the back of the couch to grin at him as soon as he’s stepped through the doorframe.

“Hi, baby.” You greet him, voice quiet. The hospital was always overstimulating, therefore you always made sure to keep calm and gentle when he got home. Like a dog coming home from a shelter.

Frank drops his bag onto the ground to pick up later, hand raising to rub at his face. He shuffles over to the couch at the sound of your voice, plopping down beside you and placing a hand on your thigh to remind you that he’s present. “Hi.”

After a moment of just staring at him, you slowly move to crawl behind him, propped up between the back of the couch and his back. Your fingers find his shoulders, pressing into the tight muscles there and letting yourself smile at the soft hum of relief it draws from him.

“Exhausting day?” you murmur. Your thumbs find a particularly large knot, rubbing firm circles to try and loosen it.

He nods slowly, head dropping forward with a quiet groan. “Just a lot happening. Didn’t have a chance to sit down all shift.” His eyelashes flutter closed as he lets himself relax, sinking further into your touch.

After the knots are nonexistent, you curl your arms around his neck, leaning over his shoulder. Your lips press into the hinge of his jaw first, sweet and chaste. A rush of air leaves his mouth as he sighs, back pressing into your chest.

“I’m sorry you had a long day.” You mumble the words into his skin, pressing a kiss to the space beneath his jaw before along his carotid. You reach the juncture of where his neck meets his collarbone, the rest of his shoulder covered by his scrub top, huffing in playful petulance at the lack of skin.

Frank tilts his head to the side just a smidge, the muscle in his neck tensing at the movement. There’s a small grin dancing across his lips when you spare a glance up at him, causing you to smile against his skin. “Feelin’ better now,” he muses.

A giggle bubbles out of you, moving your arms to wrap them around his waist. Now, you’re fully curled around him from behind, palms pressing into his abdomen and lips traveling along his neck. His body’s a heavy weight pressed into your front, welcomed in the quiet serene of your dimly lit apartment.

Now, one would say that your priority was ensuring that Frank stayed calm and lax, especially with the lengths you have gone to ensure that your home was a place of relaxation. Unfortunately, you love your boyfriend to the point of wanting to consume him, and the way his neck is flexing is way too tempting.

One look up at him and a distracting slow kiss to his neck reveals that his eyes have closed, lost in a trance of your hold and the feel of your mouth against his skin.

It’s your time.

You place a few more kisses along his neck before you nip at his carotid, giggling softly at the surprised gasp that it elicits. Frank groans in mock exasperation, one hand reaching up to cup the side of your face. He turns to look at you, sleepy blue eyes narrowing at your beaming expression.

“This fuckin’ mouth is going to get you in trouble.” He grumbles tiredly, hand sliding down until his pinky hooks beneath your mandible. 

His thumb presses at the seam of your lips until you part them, sliding inside your mouth to slide against your top teeth, pushing up gently against the pointed end of your canine. Your jaw raises at the push, lips widening in a grin at the touch. Your bottom teeth move to press up against the skin of his fingertip, laughing when he finally takes his finger out of your mouth.

“Bad dog.” He playfully remarks, fingers patting against your cheek.

“Woof,” you respond.

4. CAN’T BEAT ‘EM, JOIN ‘EM

The best thing about having Frank Langdon as a boyfriend is that whatever clingy level you were at, he would match. If you chose to have your own space, he’d respect it and find something else to do somewhere else. If you wanted to cling to him like a koala, he’d ensure to have two hands back on you at all times. If you wanted a happy middle, he’d be glad to just sit with one hand on your knee while you watched television.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten all forms of boundaries today. The worst part about Frank’s off days is that he tended to get bored and understimulated without the buzz of the Pitt, and therefore he loved to bother you while you were trying to take much needed alone time.

“Honey.” The pet name drips off of his tongue in a purr as he hangs his body around the threshold of the kitchen, pretty face poking in as he grins. “You almost done with lunch?”

You look up from where you’re pushing vegetables around in a pan, eyebrow quirking. It was never very good when he started off any question with a pet name, much less said like that. “No,” you respond, drawing out the word. “What do you want?”

Frank huffs as he steps into the kitchen, almost immediately crawling into your personal space. One arm curls around your waist while he leans on your other side, peeking at the stove like a curious child. Boredom practically radiates off of him, especially with the way his finger taps against the counter.

“Nothin’. Can’t I just ask my girl a question?” He presses a brisk kiss to your cheek, arm tightening around your waist slightly. His palm flattens on your abdomen, pinky brushing the waistband of your shorts. Devilish.

You keep your spine straight, attempting to brush him off. The last thing you need is to get distracted from filling your grumbling stomach, no matter how good your boyfriend smells or how warm he feels behind you. “I know when you want something, Frank.”

His chin tucks into the crook between your neck and shoulder, a hum reverberating from his chest into your neck. “Just to be with you,” he cheekily responds. His thumb brushes along your sternum from where his fingers have splayed further.

“Frank.” You warn, although there’s no irritation in your tone. “Let me finish lunch.”

He whines like a petulant child, pulling you closer with a tighter grib on your stomach. “I’m bored,” he complains. 

You choose to ignore him, instead focusing on turning the heat down on the stove. In retaliation at being ignored, his lips find your shoulder, exposed by the thin strap of your tank top. 

A sudden pinch spreads across your shoulder as he nips at the skin covering your collarbone not once, but twice, closer to your neck on the second one. Despite the shiver that crawls up your spine at the cool feeling of his teeth against you, you manage to stay strong. 

Unfortunately, your boyfriend is stubborn and very attention-seeking.

His next bite is a bit harder, directly on your neck. He soothes the slight sting with an open-mouthed kiss just above where your skin reddens, tongue lathing as an apology. “Too hard?” He mumbles teasingly.

“Don’t be an ass.” It’s meant to be a tough remark, something to show that he isn’t affecting you as much as he thinks he is, but it comes off as more of a whine.

He continues to kiss along your neck, laughing slightly at your remark. When your head tilts and your grip tightens on the spatula in your hand, his hand moves from your abdomen to the knob on the front of the stove, turning it until he clicks. Then, he gently grabs your jaw, tilting your head to kiss your lips.

Despite the fact that he finally has your direct attention, he still nips at your bottom lip, grinning victoriously as he pulls away.

“Shut up,” you grumble.

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

i need a disney prince boyfriend to gnaw on

[thelightofday]

mmm thinking of brendon with a breeding kink

mmm don’t even get me STARTEDDDD 😮‍💨

one thing about this man is he absolutely has a nasty ass mouth and he KNOWS it gets to you and maybe he’s a little hesitant at first w the breeding kink bc he’s never truly wanted to have kids until you but

your hands grip the bathroom counter, knuckles white, as he fucks into you from behind with a purpose—like he could do it forever. like he’ll never get enough of you. both of you are so insatiable you couldn’t even make it to the bed after showering.

park growls, voice low and tickling your ear. “you wanna get ruined, huh? wanna be so fuckin’ full you can't walk straight?" his thrusts turn sloppy, deep and relentless. “better be glad you’re on the pill or i’d fuckin’ knock you up baby. make sure everyone knows who you belong to— who’s fucking you full.”

and when you clench around him—a desperate, pulsing squeeze—he snarls. “ohh, she likes that, huh?” tone a little mocking. "you’d love to be all round with my baby wouldn’t you? so worried about everyone in the ED finding out about us but what if i just knock you up baby? what’ll they think then, huh? sweet little nurse sunshine full of the shark’s baby. they’d lose their minds.”

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

[lo-jo-s-blog]

Park the shark x marine biologist!reader pt.5

warnings: Shark being a weirdo as per. Smut. MDNI. Oral (f recieving), PinV. Biting!!! Tiniest bit of blood eva. Possible medical malpractice?

series masterlist divider credit @dividers-are-us 

A/N: Thanks for all the patience! first time writing smut so bear with me.

“Sweetheart. Let me take you to bed.”

You had sworn you wouldn’t sleep with him. Not on the first real date. But here you were on his lap, the evidence of his arousal obvious beneath you. 

Here you were inches away from his mouth, breathless just from kissing his gorgeous face.

Here you were definitely about to sleep with him.

You nod slowly. Intentionally.

“Uh-uh let me hear you say it baby.”

“Brendon” you whine embarrassingly desperate already “take me to bed. Please.”

“So polite.” He leans back in to kiss you with renewed hunger, standing up on the couch, carrying you in his arms with no struggle. 

The thick arms you had been fixated on from the moment he entered your view were wrapped around you as he brought you upstairs, never once unlatching from your own hungry mouth, keeping an unhurried stride.

Your arms find themselves wrapped around him, fingers at the nape of his neck as he walks towards the bed, resuming your position straddling his tree trunk thighs as he sits on the mattress's edge.

Your hands move to his face, fingers grasping his strong jaw and tracing the sharp angles of his cheek bones.

His hands stay set on your hips, rocking you into the rigid length pressing into the seam of his pants. You grind down with more pressure and the groan that escaped from his mouth sent a burst of excitement through your body.

You continue the slow, sensual rhythm of your hips, and you knew you would do whatever it took for him to make that sound again.

He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, biting and releasing it with a pull, mouthing along your jaw and neck, pressing wet kisses at your collar bone, sucking marks into your skin.

You could feel the sharp pain of his canines on your pulse as he bit down on the sensitive spot on your neck, soothing it with his tongue.

You move your hands slowly from his neck, down his chest. Fingers toying with the hem of his now untucked dress shirt. 

“You want it off sweetheart?”

“Mmhm” you keen, reaching for the buttons.

He stops your hand. “Ask me.” 

You could have guessed he would be as demanding in the bedroom as he was in the other aspects of his life. 

You had half a mind to push him to the bed and make him beg for you.

You knew you could, this beast of a man was just as wrapped around your finger as you were his- and you knew how to handle beasts after all, maybe a firm hand is just what he needed.

But another night. 

Right now you were thrumming with need, practically vibrating with desire. If giving in meant getting what you want faster, well that was just fine by you.

“Please Bren, wanna see you”

He smirked and released your hand.

With every button you undid more of his sculpted body was revealed. Goddamn you were practically salivating.

“Your turn baby. Gonna let me see you?” your dress was pulled over your head before he could finish his sentence- he chuckled at your eagerness. Before taking in the sight of you now in just the set you had worn for him.

His eyes lock to your chest, the lacy bra you had worn for him framing your tits perfectly.

His hands skim up your waist to palm your breasts “So fucking pretty.” Your nipples pebble in the cold of his room, which he noticed immediately, lowering his head to take one into his mouth through the fabric. 

You let out a pathetically needy moan at the contact. 

“It feels good doesn’t it?” It’s not really a question but you answer anyway.

“Yeah Bren dont stop.”

“Fit so perfectly in my hands baby. Like you were made for me.”

The winding of your hips quickens in pace and pressure as you grind down on to his length.

“Want you so bad Br-“ he flips you on to your back in an instant, holding his body above your own and looking down at you with manic, lust black eyes.  

“Gonna make my pretty girl feel good” he kisses his way down your torso, leaving little bites as he reaches lower, lower,  lower. 

He arrives at your clothed core, his warm breath fanning over you. “Can I take these off?”

“If you don’t start touching me right now I might die.”

His eyebrows raise just barely “yes ma’am.”

He takes the flimsy fabric between his fingertips ripping them apart 

“Brendon! Those were nice- OW!”

He cuts you off with a chomp to your inner thigh. Sucking a bruise close to your wetness that would surely last a week. “Desperate measures baby. Couldn’t let my favourite patient die on my watch.”

“You’re buying me new ones”

“I’ll buy you as many as you want”

He dives into you with his tongue licking a broad stripe across your weeping pussy that has you crying out in ecstasy. 

He holds your hips close against his face and the view of your legs spread wide apart to accommodate for the breadth of his shoulders makes you squirm.

While he circles your clit you realise the silence. Silence that was so expected with Brendon. But now…was noticeable.

Was sex really what got the man to talk?

Your thoughts are quieted as he lightly scrapes his teeth against your bundle of nerves causing you to jolt up.

“Oh my god Brendon. don’t s-stop. Don’t you dare stop”

He doesn’t respond, maintaining his technique perfectly drawing you closer and closer to the edge.

He licks into you, not pulling away. It's as if he doesn't need to breathe. You draw your hand to the side of his neck where in your hazy, hallucinogenic pleasure you expect to find gills. 

You don't find them, but the next press of his nose against you has you drawing bright red scratches in their place.

He is unrelenting in his mission to tip you over, bringing a hand from your thigh to rest on your lower stomach, stopping your squirming and adding a delicious pressure. 

Then bringing his free hand to draw a finger into your heat. The thickness of one of his digits breaches your weeping slit in a ‘come hither’ motion, making you cry out and grab his gelled hair.

He adds a second, and then a third as your moans crescendo, scissoring his fingers- stretching you out. All the while maintaining his tongue’s ministrations on your clit.

You cum with a gasping squeal, taking the hand splayed across your stomach and gripping it in your own.

He doesn't relent, rolling his tongue across your over sensitive bud until you’re pushing his head away from your core.

The sight that greets you is downright sinful.

His face is flush and glistens with your slick. “Taste so good sweetheart.”

He continues to suck his marks into the meat of your thighs. 

“Please Bren. Need you.”

He crawls up the bed caging your body between it and his own, stopping with his thigh between your splayed legs pressing against your sopping cunt. 

He leans down to kiss you, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

You take his lower lip into his mouth, mimicking his earlier nips to yours, but as you go to playfully nibble at him his fingers find your pebbled nipple- pinching in a way that causes you to bite down with more force than you had meant.

He pulls away but not before the identifiable metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. 

His nostrils are flaring as he brushes his bleeding lip with the back of his hand to watch it drip. 

He smiles revealing stained red against brilliant white. “When’d you get so filthy baby?”

His expression is so feral you can barely recognise him as human before he's diving back down to your mouth, claiming it with his blood soaked tongue. He takes your hands between his giant one, pinning them above your head as he litters your skin with blood smeared welts.

His free hand moves to his belt, finally stripping completely and freeing his thick angry cock.

It’s beautiful.

It's huge.

Thick, long, leaking from its turgid red tip.

“Brendon, I don't know if that's going to fit.”

He pauses his bruising kisses, grip on your wrists softening. “I worked you open pretty good, but nothing you don’t want sweetheart. We can stop here and go finish that bottle.” His words are sweet and for a second the animal disappears from his face and he's the most human you've ever seen him look.

“No. Want you just- slow. Okay?” though you doubt how long you’ll stick to that.

He nods “you say the word and we stop.” and then he's kissing you again, slowly but the hunger remains.

Inching forward he begins to rub his length along your slit, the tip catching on your clit making you moan into his mouth.

When he breaches your entrance, the stretch of his girth makes your breath stutter. He’s so big. You feel as though you’re being ripped apart by pleasure, a mouth watering white hot pain tinges the edges of the ecstasy the feel of his cock dragging along your walls brings.

And the noises he lets out above you only add to your arousal.

When he’s fully sheathed inside you, the sharp bones of his hips meeting your softness, he doesn’t pull back. 

He stays, trying to push impossibly deeper, grinding into you causing the coarse patch of trimmed hair at his base to rub against your clit, sparking electricity through your nerves.

“Fuck” he breathes out, breath ragged “you feel so fucking perfect.” It's a beautiful thing to see his composed veneer slip like this.

“So deep. Please move.”

With your permission he begins a slow, firm rhythm of thrusts, the head of his cock pressing against that spongy spot inside making you gasp.

He sees this, doesn't have to ask: There? That feel good? Just starts fucking into you harder, hitting that same spot at the same pace but with a brutal force that has you seeing stars.

“F-f-aster Bren. Please” you mewl, already abandoning the idea that you could ever just have this man slowly. There were clearly no small doses with him.

“Yeah I know you want fucking more. Knew you’d take me so well baby, look so pretty with my cock in you.”

His words excite and surprise you, a far cry from the silent man you know.

You rock your hips to meet his frantically increasing pace “Yeah thats right take what im giving you.”

He grabs your legs, placing them on his shoulders, changing the angle of his movements, somehow reaching even deeper inside you. You let out matching cries of pleasure at this, his even louder when you involuntarily clench around him. You see a determination flood his dark eyes, he’s going to make you do that again.

He takes hold of your leg again, pressing a kiss, and of course a small bite to the skin of your ankle- set on covering your entire body with memories of his presence- before pressing them back, basically folding you in half and pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

It's all consuming. The powerful momentum of his cock inside you, the way his body surrounds you, his warm breath on your skin. Almost too intense.

You feel like you're treading water, gasping for breath in a sea of him. 

And then he lifts his head, locking you back in his sights. Zeroing in on you with his familiar cold stare. Something different behind it now.

The image of him above you, combined with the overstimulating intensity of his movements is too much. He swipes his thumb across his still bleeding lip, wiping it off.

He presses his thumb against your lips.

You suck it into your mouth, savouring the mixed taste of his sweat and blood, swirling it across your tongue.

With all it takes is one more deep thrust and you’re drowning.

His pace doesn't falter when you clench around him, he keeps his thumb in your mouth, not letting your head move, keeping your eyes on him.

You can tell he’s not far behind, the veins of his neck bulging, his heaving pants.

“Inside. On the pill.”

“I know.” He grunts between gritted teeth.

The aftershocks of your orgasm continue to make you tighten around him, milking his cock until he spills deep inside of you.

He doesn’t fall on you entirely, just lets himself rest lower, still holding himself up on his forearms. You wish he’d smother you under his weight.

He’s back at your neck, pressing soft kisses to the deep purple marks he’d left there.

You take a moment to catch your breath on the rumpled sheets of Brendon Parks' formerly immaculately made bed before breaking the silence “You’re so much more talkative during sex.”

He doesn’t respond but you can feel the smile.

“Seriously, am I going to have to blow you to find out your favourite colour?” you feel him twitch inside you at that.

“Don’t say that I have to go to work tomorrow”.

Of course. Back to his non-stop schedule. The bubble of post-sex happiness is already beginning to fade. All you want to do is stay exactly where you are, and you have no idea when you’ll see him next. That is if he even does want to see you again.

You’re sure he’s as into you as you are him. But he’s so hard to read. 

And he did invite you to his home on the first date and you practically threw yourself at him. What man would say no to that.

And then he's pulling out of you. Leaving you tragically empty. Slinking down the bed. Watching his pearly cum leak out of your poor, abused hole.

Admiring his handiwork.

He swipes a finger through his spend, making you wince. Oversensitive.

“I’m sorry baby lemme clean you up.” He brings the finger to your mouth. Again. You were learning so much about him.

You lick his finger clean before he presses a firm kiss to your lips.

“C’mon” He wraps his arms underneath you, lifting you off the bed as you squeak “Lets actually get you cleaned up”.

He brings you to his en suite bathroom, the giant shower calling your name.

He waits for the water to heat up before sitting you under its stream on the inbuilt bench. With him standing above you, you’re eye level with his flaccid dick. 

It’s gorgeous even while soft. 

He lathers you in soap, paying special attention to your breasts, eyes intent on watching the suds slide off them in his hands.

He brings a washcloth to your pussy, cleaning himself off of you with a small flash of disappointment in his eyes. You suddenly remember the words you couldn’t process in the heat of the moment. 

He said he knew you were on the pill. That made sense, you supposed. He had access to your medical records after all. But had he happened upon that information or gone looking for it?

Was that creepy? Or the hottest thing you had ever imagined? You feel yourself heat up at the thought of him making sure he could cum inside you, thinking about you in that way.

Under the soft bathroom light- so different to the clinical light of a hospital, closer to the murky aquarium tank- you see just how many lovebites litter your body.

“I’m going to have to start calling you shark like everyone else”.

He snorts, “You can call me whatever you like." before reaching for his expensive looking shampoo, rubbing the liquid in his palms before bringing them to his head.

“Wait. Sit here, let me.” You nod to the space next to you. 

He hesitates for a second, the water washing away most of the shampoo before he obliges, sitting beside you and passing the bottle.

You squirt some on to your palms, massaging his scalp, cleansing his brown hair of the gel.

He leans into your touch. Eyes closed for a second, but as soon as the danger of getting shampoo in his eyes is gone, they're back on you.

You repeat the intimate gesture with conditioner, revelling in the chance to rake your fingers through his tresses.

He removes your hand from his hair, kissing your wrist. “Thank you sweetheart. You stay here for a bit- Toothbrush and moisturisers all in the cabinet. Gonna change the sheets.”

You’re sad to watch him go but relish watching him wrap a towel around himself, water dripping off his toned body. Taking pride in the many marks you’ve left him with. 

He pops his toothbrush in his mouth, beginning to brush as he exits the room.

Does this mean he wants you to spend the night? You know he has to work early, and you do as well. You’ll have to go home at some point to make sure to conceal the hickeys.

You step out of the shower, taking advantage of his fluffy towels, the fresh toothbrush and his fancy moisturiser. You smell like his body wash now.

You step out to a beautiful image.

Freshly made bed. Him in grey sweatpants drying off his hair.

He nods towards a soft, worn shirt. “This should be fine for tonight. I’ll drive you home early.”

That answers your question. All your insecurities dissipate in that instant. 

Much to your chagrin you have to temporarily tear your eyes from him to pull the shirt over yourself, wrapping yourself up in its comforting masculine scent.

When you look up though. 

“Your hair?!” You exclaim, almost horrified staring at the nearly dry locks.

He doesn't flinch. “What about it?” 

“You have curls?!”

“I’m not blind.”

Gone is the sleek, gelled helmet of hair you’ve seen him in previously. Replaced by a dark head of soft looking curls. All you can do is stare in silence, mouth agape.

“What, you don’t like them?” He doesn’t say it with any insecurity.

“No, they’re just... different. to your usual style. I like them a lot actually.” It’s true. They soften all his features, and while you are obviously attracted to the sharp angles and corded muscles of the man you met, this is nice. “Both are nice.”

“I actually hate the gel, it's a bitch to wash out. I only wear it back at work. It makes me feel cleaner.”

“You wore gel at the aquarium, and earlier tonight.”

“Cause I was going to work to catch up on paperwork right after and I came straight from work tonight. What am I supposed to do? Gel it in the bathroom and wash it out before I leave? No one there has ever seen me without it and that’s not about to start now. As far as they’re concerned it just grows that way.” He speaks while crossing the room to where you stand, gripping your waist in a way that emphasises his arm muscles- it seems like everything does that- reminding you that his corners and edges are still there under the curls.

“Do you not have any work friends?” You reach a hand up to run your hands through the slightly damp curly mop.

He moves you into the bed, pulling back the covers “No.” 

He turns off the lights before joining you in bed, his warm body finding yours in seconds, enclosing you in his embrace

“Shen? He seems nice”

“Shen gave you the wrong pain medication” his deadpan has a tiredness behind it, you get the sense that he usually keeps a more regimented sleep schedule than tonight.

“He was probably wing-manning you. He gave you an excuse to see me again.”

“I would’ve done that no matter what. He deserves no credit.” 

An easy hush covers you both. You feel so peaceful in his protective hold, sleep will come quickly.

“Purple by the way.”

“Hmm?”

“My favourite colour is purple.”

A/N: AHHHH they finally did it. I love them baddddd. anyway yeah this took foreva cause i was in assignment hell but am mostly out of it now. REQUESTS OPEN dont be shy.

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[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

this was my treat after my work day i’m so obsessed i need him bad

[superbisexuals]

He came, was a dick, served cunt, and left

I am obsessed with him

[legit9thlunaticwarrior]

mmmm another morally grey man for my collection