andrew and gf whose foreplay wont be interrupted even if one of his brothers is in the same room (18+)
#notproofread
series masterlist
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to be completely fair, craig had truly been asleep when it began.
it was a movie night of sorts at the cody house — with movie night meaning craig was doing coke on the far end of the couch while you, j and pope watched some shitty movie on cable tv.
it wasn't planned, but just ended up happening. it started with craig hogging the couch to do drugs, only to be joined by you and pope due to you being bored of lounging at the pool, inviting j along to join you when he'd unsuspectingly passed by the living room.
j had some sort of soft spot for you, craig had noticed. so did deran. something about you being a good addition of normalcy to the fuckery that went down in that house on a daily basis. baz was suspicious of you. and craig was... well.
and as the night progressed, craig got his usual munchies after snorting coke and promptly fell asleep on the couch. he didn't care much for the movie or the company.
when he woke up, eyes squinting, he realized that across from him were you and andrew, with no j in sight. the somber light filling up the room let him know that the sun was rising and that he'd been asleep for at least a few hours.
from his seat, craig had the perfect side view of you perched on pope's lap. your hips were straddling his legs as he leaned back on the couch and your fingers were running through his hair. there was no way for him to really take in the image. he could under no circumstance open his eyes all the way, nor could he alter his breathing lest you realize he was awake.
he wasn't sure what his move here was, but he figured he didn't want to interrupt as he heard the words that had woken him up in the first place.
"andy, wait- your brother's right there," you'd whispered in a scandalized but hushed giggle.
pope's face was buried in your neck, low wet sounds to be heard from the contact.
"'s fine, baby. he's asleep," pope mumbled, his grip keeping you hostage against him, "plus, i don't care. want you."
"yeah?" you mumbled, nosing at andrew's cheek before reaching his lips.
the telltale sound of macking of lips interrupted your whispers. craig could hear you sigh in between kisses. he had to tune out pope, wanting to hear your sounds exclusively.
after some kissing, craig heard your breaths grow heavier, with one last few wet kisses taking place before you spoke again.
"want you, andy," you murmured, sitting up a little on pope's lap.
"i know you do, baby. want me to take you to bed?"
"mhm," you sounded breathless already.
"need you to be ready for me first, yeah?"
craig began to regret his choices, but he was in too deep now.
your silhouette was all the could pay attention to as he tried to discreetly watch.
he groaned internally when your body began to rock against his brother's, head slightly thrown back and your tiny shorts digging into your inner thighs, practically disappearing from sight. the curve of your back was torturously deep and your ass stuck out as you used his brother to get off. he would've killed to be the one under you at that moment.
"like this?"
"yeah, baby, just like that," pope grunted, "use my bulge to get off, c'mon, baby."
and you obeyed him. craig saw you lean forward, hands gripping at pope's shoulders as he slouched back on the couch. your breath picked up. now you were panting and sighing as you ground down on pope.
"feel so good, andy- so big, ffffuck,"
your movements were slow at first. pope's hands guided you, head tilting back against the couch at how incredible you must've felt. the arch of your back only deepened and you threw your head back. you seemed possessed from where craig was looking.
within minutes your desperation reached its peak.
"a-andy, take me to your room- please—"
pope tsk'd, "gotta rub that pretty clit on me first, sweetheart."
"but andy-"
with a forceful move, pope somehow pulled you even closer as he pressed himself against you. the two of you ground against each other noisily. the shuffle of clothes filled up the room as you attempted but failed at keeping your cries of pope's name muffled.
echoes of "a-andy..." and "'sso good, baby" were shared interchangeably between you as pope dragged you against him like a rag doll.
"i need more, andy..."
"i know you do, baby," pope hummed patronizingly, "just want this pussy sloppy and ready for me."
craig was running out of patience by then, but your whines at every word from pope kept him going. he was already half hard under the pillow he'd conveniently left in his lap before falling asleep.
when you pouted, pope's hand found your chin, forcing your eyes on his.
"wanna know what i'm gonna do to this pretty pussy as soon as you come, baby?"
the 'uh-huh' that left your lips was so pathetic craig had to hold back a groan. pope was free to audibly do so.
"'m gonna throw you on my bed," he started, words slow and calculated like all things pope, "'n then 'm gonna bend you over and lick at that pussy from behind til you're begging me to stop."
craig had no time to be disgusted by hearing his brother utter those words. not when you interrupted with a needy gasp. your hips lost their rhythm, now humping at pope with what could only be described as insanity.
"you want that?"
"please—! andy- i need-"
"wanna know what i'm gonna do after that, baby?" you nodded desperately, prompting him to continue, "gonna fuck you til the bed's shaking. gonna make it so good for you, baby, you won't remember anything other than 'andyandyandy-" the last few words took on a mocking tone, pitch a little higher to imitate your previous wails of his name.
those words were enough to make you come. your movements halted with a full-body shudder. you froze and shook and sighed and cried out. all while pope groaned under his breath and moved you against him. fucking bastard.
before you could recuperate, maybe respond to all those threats, pope got up with you on his lap, easily hauling you over his shoulder. you let out a squeal that was a little too loud for craig not to wake up (had he actually been asleep), but he remained with his eyes half-closed.
when pope turned around, he gave craig the perfect view of your ass bent over his shoulder, clad in only a tiny pair of sleeping shorts that had ridden up so much he could see every crevice of your ass and pussy.
they were embarrassingly drenched, panties glossy as they contoured your puffy lips.
on his way out, pope kept muttering dirty shit, clearly careless about whether or not your giggles had woken craig up or not.
it didn't take long for the familiar sound of a door slamming shut to be heard, nor for the loud squeaking of the bed to begin.
craig finally opened his eyes, practically bloodshot at all the restraint he'd practiced.
He doesn't know how not to devote his entire self to a cause– whether it be his country, his job, his wife. It tears him apart. As a soldier, his devotion strips him of his individuality, then his leg. His duty as a husband, cut terribly short, takes in its death his heart.
But after ten years of wandering, a pup without its leash, Jack Abbot is surprised to feel the familiar ache in jaw when he spots the night shift's new resident. He tells himself to ignore it, to not sink his teeth in where he ought not to, but then you smile at him like he matters and remind him how good it feels to have something worth a little sweat and blood.
You think he's cute. Jack Abbot, hardened army vet and TEMS physician, is cute. You treat his shepherd like a pug. You pepper kisses on his cheeks and squeal when he puts on the sweater you ordered for him (with his credit card).
He goes along with it, is the boyfriend you want him to be, because it makes you smile. Plus, you're too distracted cooing at him to notice the way Jack stares down everyone in a ten-foot radius.
Tags | smut, controlling behavior, unethical work romance, blatant favoritism, toxic workplace, swearing, fauxcest , park is almost paternal to reader, calls her 'kid', sugardaddy park if u squint, age gap
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
A chorus of greetings and pleasantries gets murmured in the room as he steps into the office. Ignoring the young residents under his wing – more than half of them lost causes if it had been up to him. He runs his eyes across his domain.
Brendon Park has always believed that the path of medicine could – and should – only be taken up by the cream of the crop. Life was not something you put in the hands of those who were ‘good enough’. What use does he have of overeager students who can’t differentiate a vein from an artery or the top student who buckles at the smallest hint of criticism?
Only those who are the best deserve to be doctors. And only those who beat the best deserve to become a surgeon.
“Where’s the kid?”
The newbies look at each other, confused. Clearly, not being given a heads-up of the culture and hierarchy in the Orthopedics Department.
His assistant speaks, “She is finishing up a consult in the ER. She should be here any –”
“… next time one of Frank’s idiots calls, tell them they better make sure it is compartment syndrome or I will shave off their senior resident's pretty hair.”
There she is. The crème de la crème.
She composes herself once she finally catches her attendings’ steely eyes and the suffocating tension he likes to maintain in his surroundings.
“Good morning, Dr. Park.”
“Good morning, doctor. Rough shift?” He cocks his head as the two of you ignore the gawking, trembling residents who are here to observe the surgery and continue your conversation next to each other in the sink. “Robby told me to let you sit this one out.”
The reminder of Robby’s cautious text about ‘giving you a break’ as if he knew you better than him makes his blood simmer once more. He lets his senses focus on the cold water running through his palms instead.
“Fuck, no,” you groan, scrubbing your hands aggressively, still frustrated. “I’m fine. It’s just – I fucking hate newbies.”
He actually chuckles at that, letting your shoulders bump as he walks in first, hands raised.
“You’re distracted,” he lets his words hit you where it matters. Your pride. “Fix it before you get in my OR.”
He sees it. The side of you that mirrors him. The way the irritation sloughs off of you like a false skin, the intensity in your eyes that held the same focus he does, the deep breath you take as your chest expands like a well-oiled machine revving up to do its purpose.
Robby doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about.
“Yes, Dr. Park.”
Everyone knew who you were.
Shark’s favorite – his little prodigy. One he snatched from the ER Department, right under Robby’s nose, to hone into his successor.
The bias wasn’t for show.
You were brilliant, skilled, and had the most potential. You graduated top of your class, beat out your peers in your first rotation as a med student, and got offered a residency program by all departments in the PTMC.
It was almost a little too familiar with his experience when he was an upcoming resident.
And now, after thrashing the other attendings, he gets to have his own perfect protégé.
A student he considers as one of the great successes in his career.
Even now, he can’t help but marvel at you as you skillfully ride his cock.
A true overachiever, through and through.
“That’s it, baby. You’re doing so well," he pats the flesh of your ass almost paternally. The small irritating voice of Jack Abbot reminds him that positive reinforcement is quite effective when done sparingly.
They say surgeons are narcissistic to a fault. That they’d fuck themselves if they could. Maybe that’s why he loved fucking you so much – his mini me.
You’re the perfect specimen. The perfect woman.
“Does it feel good, Dr. Park?”
After all, surgeons would fuck themselves if they could.
And his little me wasn’t any different.
He tried to stay away. Swore to himself that he would not derail your career in any way. Women have it hard enough to get into male-dominated fields as it is, much less if you were to become a pariah because of him.
It would be unfair and cruel to be a bump in your career – and your belly, god forbid – when he swore to himself you would be the one to soar alongside him.
Instead, he focuses on more wholesome approaches. Or as wholesome as he could manage.
If he couldn’t have you, he had to monopolize you.
Controlled your schedule, made sure any and every surgery that comes your way went through him first because no one gets to overwork his student but him.
"Cancel all her consultations this Friday. We're doing the spinal fusion."
His assistant visibly stiffens, rapidly scrolling through his schedule. "Doctor Abbot requested her assistance for --"
He glances at him in bored disapproval. "Abbot isn't her attending isn't he?"
The young man nods. Capable but expendable, and he is smart enough to know it. "No, Dr. Park."
"Good. And tell him he can find his own senior resident to torture," he swivels his chair, done with the conversation. "This one's mine."
He had you moved into a condominium near his – lied through his teeth about the hospital paying for it too. Some bullshit about wanting their star resident to focus on her work.
"It should be for move-in next week," the realtor eagerly rattles as Park signs the lease, making sure to verify that it was his other bank account in the contract lest you be smart enough to check it and figure out your nice new condo didn't come from the good graces of the hospital.
"Quite an investment, doctor. Should be worth double by next year. Are you planning to flip it?"
Park signs on the last line.
"'s for my kid."
It eventually escalated to gym sessions together, then the same tailored diet plan because he refuses to let his successor survive on questionable food, and eventually syncing your health apps so he could oversee your fitness and sleep schedule.
'Bedtime.'
You actually stare at your phone like an unruly child.
'Can't sleep. I'll just study for the case tomorrow.'
Before you could flip another page laid in front of your table a call was already blaring through your phone. The shark emoji gave no doubts as to who was calling.
To his hypocrisy, he was also in front of his study table.
"I need you on peak performance tomorrow. Bed, now."
He crosses his arms and your eyes actually drop at how his shirt constricts across his biceps. Fuck.
Whatever, you can just remove your watch so he can stop tracking your bedtime like a fucking --
"Prop your phone up on the bedside table," you press your lips together, caught. "I know your tricks, kid."
In under five minutes, you were tucked in your comforter, staring at your screen as he uses the reading glasses he refuses to let anyone else see him wear.
He doesn't look at his phone again but you knew better than to try and test him. And even though it kills you to admit it, the soft sounds of the flips of the paper was lulling you to sleep.
"Goodnight, Dr. Park."
His reply, if any, slipped past unheard. Only his gentle eyes lingered in your memory as the last thing you saw.
It satisfied the desire, for a while.
When it no longer worked, he tried for the opposite.
He put some space, gave you cases separate from his, called you ‘kid’ to remind himself that he was decades ahead of you.
This time, you saw right through him.
Smart girl, that you were. Ballsy, too.
Chasing him down to his office and demanding an explanation for his abrupt indifference after indulging you with his warped attention.
Try as she might, Gloria couldn't find anyone who would talk about what actually happened that day. All she knows is that it was not pretty. A vicious argument between two top predators of the PTMC.
One that nobody knew ended in you spread out in what was his pristine desk, a quick plan B trip to the pharmacy, and a meeting in HR where the two of you had to declare your relationship once and for all.
It was a scandal and a headache for the higher-ups. They even had half the mind to transfer you to another hospital but he had assured them that he too would quit if that ever happened – making them lose not only an esteemed student but also an irreplaceable attending. Thus, a compromise was reached and the relationship was to be hidden until you officially finished your residency.
Not that he fucking cared. He could be the picture of restraint provided they keep their filthy little paws off of what was his.
What was now finally his.
“Getting tired, kid? Hmm? Need some help? I told you, you needed more leg work in the gym,” he grins maniacally at your whine, your little claws burying into his chest in defiance.
“I can do it. I can –”
You shriek as he slapped your ass, now meeting your thrusts as he bounces you on his cock, punishing your weak efforts with brutality. Grabbing both of your wrists with one hand as he pulls you down meanly to meet his pace.
“This all my little genius can amount to, hm? Can’t even ride her attending’s cock properly?”
You whined, shaking your head. “No – Please, Dr. Park. I can do it! I swear!”
“So polite,” he smirks, settling back down and letting you gyrate weakly in his lap.
He pinches your clit cruelly, heart pounding in glee at your cry. A notification pops on his phone as well as the smartwatch he had bought for you – ten minutes till 10.
Should be enough time.
“Get on with it, kid. It’s almost bedtime for you.”
Fandom: Animal Kingdom
Pairing: Andrew “Pope” Cody x Fem!Reader
WC: 1.2K+
Warnings: 18+ mdni, no reader descriptors except fem-presenting language, smut (cockwarming, delayed orgasm to help stamina, Pope navigates pre-ejac with reader’s help, cockring, slight fingering f!receiving, prone bone).
a/n: this pervy blurb got away from me and became much longer than I expected but enjoy!
masterlist | ao3 | next read: no rest for the wicked
Pope is patient, in his own way.
After you slid the cock ring onto him, his face told you he was not only skeptical, but embarrassed. His cock is nestled between your legs, the first slide making you both gasp. For what it was worth, the temptation of allowing him to fuck into you was there for you too.
“Do we have to…?” Pope grumbled, his tone taking a turn for sultry.
You could have shivered at the flirty nature of his voice. The way it only ever came out just for you. When he wanted to be close and intimate, the thought turned you on all on its own. You scolded yourself quietly, desiring to be steadfast about this one thing. Pope had been coming quickly with you since you met. You could barely touch his thigh or drift your manicured fingertips over his dick through his clothes, and still, he would be leaking through his underwear and pants.
There were a few times that he came unexpectedly, embarrassed and apologetic as his cock twitched inside of you. To say you didn’t like seeing his forehead wrinkle and gasping out as he came would be an understatement. But, you didn’t always want to come on his tongue or fingers. You needed to be full of him when you did.
Somehow, you convinced him to try cockwarming after a Google search that was starting to feel like remorse and wiggling hips from either party. Pope laid behind you, his rough palm light on your hip as he tsked at you for swiveling your hips onto his gradually hardening shaft.
“Please stop moving so much,” Pope breathed against the back of your neck.
“I’m adjusting.”
“Torturing, more like it,” Pope shuddered, remaining still.
“I never thought I could be this wet without you moving,” you whined.
“You’re always this wet for me,” Pope exhaled wearily, his control tested and slipping through a loose grip.
Turns out, you were having a harder time than he was.
Or so you believed. There was no doubt in your mind that Pope’s tip was leaking sticky rivulets into you then. The amount of times he admitted that part of why he came so quickly was because it was without a condom and his mind wandered to the two of you having a baby—another stroke to your ego.
His fingertips drifted over the outside of your thigh, featherlight wisps that made you clench as it heightened any sensations you felt.
“Can I move?” Pope asked, gentle.
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, nibbling and biting affectionately. You reached between your legs, recalling a line that the informative article said about cockwarming creating closeness without thrusting, but all be to hell, you felt close enough.
“No, not yet,” you protested.
Reaching back, you grabbed his hand. Without much need to tell him what to do, his fingers got to work along your clit. He withdrew his fingers briefly, wetting his fingers swiftly before you could further admonish him. Pope slipped his arm under the pillow your head rested on, his thick bicep and forearm enclosing your neck, and a hand twiddling your nipples.
You moaned and his cock twitched. Your walls responded in kind and, worse, you backed your ass up against him. The short buzz of his pubic hair was welcome friction. When you started to bounce along his dick, his determination didn’t stop you. He should have been grateful to feel any sensation and prompt response to your pussy, but he hated knowing he disappointed you, too.
You wanted to believe he could handle it, wanted to take something for yourself while he instead did long division in his mind because thinking about you carrying his child would surely make him explode.
You became reckless on his dick and very quickly did math stop mattering to him. Pope drew back enough to watch you take what was yours, desperate and pining to come, your creamy wetness lathering and gathering at the root of him. A low moan vibrated through him and into you as he rubbed blisteringly along your needy cunt.
Pope felt that familiar flutter around his dick that made him want to fuck into you until you were screaming out his name and getting a complaint from your neighbors.
“Now? Please, I need to—“ He swallowed thickly.
“Please, please, please,” you sputtered.
He was rolling you over once your pleas finished, placing you flat onto your stomach while you pushed the pillows out of the way from your head. Pope sat up straight, enjoying the view of you wiggling your ass back onto him even then. Seeing you prone and splayed out for him always did it for him, but seeing how you needed it as badly felt like his balls were a ticking time bomb.
Pope gripped handfuls of your ass as he pistoned his hips to help you reach your first orgasm of the night. Your lithe frame tried escaping his brutal thrusts, aided by the clumsy fingers of your own hand you pressed between your legs. Your muscles wound up tight, shaking before he could say you were coming on his cock, and the slapping of skin and your wetness between you two was masked by a moan that would surely guarantee a noise complaint tomorrow morning.
He was proud as he helped you ride through your climax, lowering down onto your back the way you liked until your hips were in sync like a calm wave during low tide.
“How was that?” He murmured in your ear. Those same ears that were ringing and stuffy. You nodded as the listlessness of your orgasm left you barely responsive.
You slowly licked your lips as drool pooled on the bed beneath you, unable to come up with a coherent sentence. Pope dragged your arm from between your legs, replacing your fingers with his as he pumped his hips into you.
“Give me one more, one more, and I’ll fill you up. I need to. I need to, yeah? I can’t stop cumming for you. I need it. Don’t you?” He was kissing the side of your face, his hips becoming gruff and poignant as they fucked into your sensitive cunt.
“Andrew—I, fuck.” You just managed to squeak out as you came again, a panting and trembling mess beneath him.
It was a fair punishment for breaking the rules of engagement to milk his cock with such confinement holding him back. The cock ring only felt tighter as the time passed, and he was sure he was going to come.
“That’s it,” Pope cooed. “Can I cum now? Tell me I can. I want to so badly. I’ve been saving it for you. I’m gonna fill you to the brim. Yeah? That’s what you want?”
You whimpered, sure you were still managing to ride out your second orgasm while his dirty words carried on. Pope dropped his head beside yours as another intense plea escaped your lips.
“Please, Andrew,” you whimpered out.
Enough for him, he raised his head to press a fierce kiss to your lips that soon was broken by stuttering hips and a broken moan against your mouth. It was nearly painful how deeply he burrowed himself into you, yet you reached back to dig your fingernails into his thigh to draw him in. As if he were plugging you full of his seed and nothing would be left to spill.
Your mixed breaths intermingled as he mindfully pulled back to look at you. Heavy lids shared between you, he gave you a knowing and cocky smile you didn’t often come by.
“The cock ring stays on,” you laughed, approval dripping from the words.
s1!andrew ‘pope’ cody trying to talk reader through it but he cums instead…
and you, his most loyal and sweet girl. you had waited for him, visited him when he was solitary, gave him that intimacy he secretly hungered for. pope was never one to forget, and especially not when you were there for him when his own family wasn’t.
to defend him, he had been locked away for three years. the weight of prison had stuck with him, scarring the deepest parts of him he thought he could hide. he didn’t realize until he came out. that, paired with his brothers not letting him in jobs, and his precious mother secretly feeding him his medication; it was a frustrating start back to how things were before.
he promised, when he got out, that he’d make it up to you the right way.
and, to defend him, he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had offered to give him any form of recognition unless it was transactional. you always had a way of surprising him, really— and he thinks he’s getting spoiled after he first got a taste of it. love. patience. acceptance.
and he thinks he can get obsessed with it, too. to drown in that feeling, to let it fill his lungs with something different than regret and guilt.
you were staying at his house. he remembered you always had a knack for literature. said it ‘expanded your vocabulary’. he often indulged in what you read, too, reading along with you late nights before he went to prison. he enjoyed it, thoroughly; because you looked so peaceful and focused. he analyzed you, sitting in his bed— in his sheets— enjoying the gentle sound of silence that didn’t need to be filled. you were just getting to the good part when he slowly began to kiss the soft skin of the inside of your thighs, head wandering dangerously low. when you didn’t stop him, and put your book aside, he realized suddenly how difficult the situation was for you, too. having to wait, to visit so often.
he’d make sure you felt how grateful he was.
he coaxed about two orgasms from you like that. his mouth a suction against your clit, his rough, hardened fingers gently splitting you open after such a long wait. “c’mon, baby. give it to me,” he would say, “i know you can do it.” he drew it out as long as possible before you were already tired— soft, pliable matter on his bed— the most important form that democritus could ever teach him.
“you look like an angel. so beautiful.” he’d tell you the sweetest things as he placed pillows behind your head and hips, prepping you for what was to come.
he needed to see you. to hear you. he’s sure he would die if he didn’t. he wasn’t much for being on top, but it was a special moment for the both of you after being separated for so long.
his rough hands were pressing your knees down to your chest, slightly stretching your hamstrings, but you didn’t mind. he switched every now and then, rubbing tight circles on your puffy clit as he pounded into you, his eyes focused on your expression.
“so perfect f’me, baby. look at you— missed you to death in there. gonna make you feel every day i spent without you.”
in the very little times you opened your eyes, you caught him biting down on his knuckles, eyes focused on where you two connected. he didn’t try to hide his groans, either; he wasn’t one to feel embarrassed about being vocal in bed. you could tell he was seconds away from cumming in you, but he’s sure he can prolong it. maybe.
“fu- fuck, baby… sucking the life out of me. i’m sorry for making you wait,” he’d say, his voice shaking at the end. “she’s telling me how you feel. telling me all of your pain. i-i’ll make it all up to you, baby. i promise…” you felt his hips stutter as he spoke, his cheeks flushed completely down to his chest.
he came inside of you with a loud groan, biting down on his knuckles so hard he broke skin. his steady rythm continued because he made a promise, even if it overwhelmed his senses completely. he leaned down to kiss you, teeth stained red, and you tasted the iron on his tongue as you two kissed.
and he’d do it all over again. he’d risk it all once more just to see his sweet girl come back to him, proving someone really craved him in a way where it was mutual.
a.n.: soo not proofread and i just got back from church. lord please forgive me of my sins
edit: oh my god thank you for all of your support!! i appreciate it!
he’s cornering u in the kitchen, stripped of his shirt, sweatpants low on his hips. your heart beating out your chest as you hold your big tee shirt down. “yknow..a good niece would just do what her uncle says. you dont wanna help me, when i’ve been workin’ so hard round here?” he tilts his head, and the space between you closes so much that you have to hold your hands on his chest for an allusion of distance.
“n-no i do, i just…i don’t think we should be doing that.” “it’s okay, you’re a big girl and i won’t tell. i’ll help you.” he grabs your wrist, a short gasp coming from you when he shoves it down his pants, feeling his bare, hardening cock through the fabric. “rub it, mhm. like that. i’ll do it too.” he whispers, hand coming under your shirt and cupping your clad pussy, licking his lips at how wet you are. ofc you are.
“see, not so bad. s’that feel good?” his breath picks up when your hand does, nodding up at him with big eyes. “mhm, being a good girl. helpin’ your uncle like this, specially when he needs it. just been so tense, honeybee.” “Pope…we shouldn’t,” you frown, and he wants to kiss your little pouty lips.
“s’ok honey, you won’t get in trouble, not with me, not with anyone else. and it feels soo good, right? feels good when i touch this?” his middle finger prods at your clit, flicking it under his digit and getting a soft moan out of you. “yeah? i know honey, i know. if it feels good then it can’t be bad, right?”
popey love clit!!!!!!!! :( :( popey loves ur clit soo much...
it's his fav stim toy. he crawls down the bed and tugs softly at your panties until he can finally get his lips around it, and then he stays there for hours, just gently sucking and licking at it while his mind goes blank!! your fingers tangle into his dark curls, scratching softly at his scalp. sweet pope is in heaven
his hands grip your thighs, tugging them close around his head because he loves the pressure. it barely even registers as sexual for him because it just makes him feel safe and sleepy :( he loves the feeling of ur clit in his mouth, it's so soft and fun to flick with his tongue. it's just an added bonus that it makes you come
when the two of you are at home, he always has a hand down your panties so he can toy with your sweet little bud. he'll come up to you while you're doing the dishes and just silently shove his hand in ur pants, rubbing your clit while he nuzzles into your hair and nips at your earlobe 😵💫 and then when your back starts to arch against him and you get distracted, he murmurs "baby, gettin' soap everywhere..." but he's not really mad <3
sometimes when you're in public and he gets stressed u catch pope looking longingly at your pussy, his fingers twitching towards you before he gives a heavy sigh and pulls them back, turning away from you to avoid the temptation :( pls give him a kiss and promise him he can have clit time when you get back home!!!
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Six: Made for Me
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: Once Brendon has you safe and comfortable at home, your shared heat and rut take over. You finally learn the perfection that comes with accepting your fated mate.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, scenting, mating time yay, oh god so many smut tags here we go, musk kink, fingering, fisting, piv, riding, mating press, missionary, creampie, breeding (they even talk about it youre welcome), knotting, mutual mating bites, multiple orgasms, everyone cries during sex, just so much smushy lovey pillow talk
Content Warnings: smut smut smut, minor blood (from bites)
Author's Note: i love this one so much everybody be nice!! also i Think this is the final chapter but i Might write an epilogue
Word Count: 7.6k
Brendon’s on high alert until he has you – softly crying, anxious, needy – safe in his car, strapped in, protected from the rest of the world. Even then, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, unable to relax while you’re still so upset. He holds you close with his right arm, tugging you to his chest, kissing the top of your head at every red light.
Meanwhile, you’re restless. Your hormones and your emotions are all over the place. Arousal pools in your gut and spills out between your legs while anxiety grips your brain stem. There’s an unreality that you’re not sure how to deal with in the liminal space of Brendon’s car. All you know is that you need him. So you keep your nose at his neck and try to breathe.
Once Brendon has you inside your apartment, the scents and sights and sounds familiar, the anxiety slips behind the raw need that comes with your heat. As Brendon gets his bearings in your space for the first time, you follow him around like a lost puppy, your limbs getting weaker and your brain going squishy. While he puts your things away from your backpack, you yank on his scrub top and stand on your toes to kiss him.
Brendon wraps you in an all-enveloping embrace, his huge arms sturdy around your shivering form. You whine and palm at his cock through his scrubs, consumed by how badly you need him, but he catches your hand and presses kisses to your knuckles instead. “Not yet, baby, you’ve gotta relax a little first. Your nervous system’s fried. We’re gonna eat something and then we’re gonna sleep a bit and then you can have whatever you want whenever you want until your heat’s over.”
You grip his shirt tight and your eyes are wide and teary. “You’ll stay with me?”
He’s never felt his heart splintered in so many pieces. This is the time where he can turn all your fear to safety. Solemn and assuring, he cradles your face and vows, “Nothing on earth could stop me from being with you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Tilting your chin upward, he kisses you. Sweet and warm and slow. You melt against him. Suddenly, you can see sturdiness in his eyes, complete authority that you can yield to. Looking down at you sternly, knowing that you’re beginning to fold into the role of omega to his alpha, he asks, “Now what do you want to eat, sweetheart? We can order in or I can make something from what you have here for now.”
You shake your head and reply, “You pick. Can’t think.”
Brendon sighs and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “That bad already, huh?”
“I always have a hard time,” you start, trying hard to focus on what you want to say. “During my heat, I mean. With talking.”
He gives you another soft kiss. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of everything.”
When you gaze up at him this time, he can see any of your worries evaporating and turning to nothing but trust. “I know you will.”
So Brendon steps away from you and into the kitchen. Immediately, you whine at the lack of closeness. Brendon knows why, of course, because you’re his. So he smiles, rolls his eyes overdramatically to make it clear he’s playing, and opens his arms for you. “Come on, koala, hop up.”
You let out a happy squeal and jump onto him, wrapping your legs around his hips and your arms around the back of his neck. You nestle your nose against his scent gland and breathe deeply as Brendon walks around your kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and fridge to see the state of things. He’s pleased to find that you’ve definitely been preparing for your heat. Not only is the place loaded with baked goods from your days of nesting, but there are plenty of groceries. All your favorite snacks, fruits and vegetables, the works.
Brendon presses a kiss to the side of your head and says, “Good girl. I’m really proud of you for taking care of yourself.” You grin and squeeze him tightly, all awash in happy chemicals having him in your space and, frankly, having an alpha strong enough to carry you around like it’s nothing in the first place. Brendon collects a Tupperware of baked goods and a few Gatorades before telling you, “After you get a little rest, you’ll need to eat something with protein and nutrients, but this’ll do for now. Where’s your nest, kitten?”
You nod over toward your bedroom and he obediently goes that direction, one arm beneath your ass and the other balancing the snacks. He can balance your whole weight with only one of his huge arms. His strength is intoxicating.
After pushing open the door to your bedroom, Brendon sees your nest and stops in his tracks. You’ve always been a little intense about your nest and it doesn’t necessarily match with the cutesy homemaker image that a lot of omegas aspire to when it comes to designing their space. Instead of dreamy, gauzy linens and low lights, it’s a bit more…chaotic. Like you’ve turned your bed into a blanket fort. The bed is pushed into the corner and you’ve tented it in beneath sheets and blankets tied to your ceiling. The far wall has built-in shelves where you’ve painstakingly arranged everything you could possibly need during your heat in overflowing baskets: All your sex toys, your favorite snacks, lotions you like, scents that make you happy, a speaker you can connect to your phone with its own remote.
On the opposite side of the bed from the bookshelf, Brendon notices a large swath of canvas rolled up and attached to the ceiling; with just a bit of observation, he realizes that, when it comes down, you can use it as a screen with a projector on the bookshelf. Your own personal movie theater. There’s an ocean of stuffies in the far corner, mostly Jellycats, and he wonders how you’d decided which ones to collect. Among them, there’s a collection of lots of fuzzy blankets and favorite pieces of clothing. You’ve got miniature paper lantern string lights criss-crossing along the top of the whole space, their pastel colors shining soft rainbows on everything.
A serene smile spreads over Brendon’s face as he takes in the space, imagining himself curled up with you as often as you’ll have him. You pull your face from his neck, eyes wide with worry at the idea of being rejected, and whisper, “I know it’s messy.”
He squeezes you tight, meets your eyes seriously, and assures you the way he always does and always will, “It’s perfect, princess. I promise.”
As Brendon sets you down on your own two feet again, you straighten up and give him a sweet, proud smile. “You really like it?”
“I really do,” he confirms. As his eyes chase every detail of your most intimate space, there’s a vibrant enthusiasm about him right now that you haven’t seen before. His energy is high and bright and addictive. Now that you’re totally safe, away from any real or perceived danger, he can relax into being the loving, supportive, affectionate alpha he really is. “Everything is just so…you. I love that; it feels so special.” He draws a step closer and breathes deeply. “And, god, it smells fucking incredible.”
Before he can fold into the incredible display of coziness, you wrinkle your nose, nudge him in the bicep, and tell him, “No outside clothes.”
Brendon nods like that makes sense. To him, it does. You’re his perfect, precious girl and everything you do is just as perfect and precious as the rest of you. So he strips off his scrub top and discards it in the nearby hamper. Then, seeing your pupils dilate as you get your first real look at his body, Brendon turns to you with a cocky smile on his face. He steps out of his pants and kicks them away, leaving him in only his tight heather gray boxer briefs.
On his next breath, the mild, sweet scent of your slick coats his lungs. Beside himself as your pheromones unfurl into their most primal level, Brendon grips the door frame to your en suite bathroom and groans, “Oh, fuck. You smell so- God.”
He surges forward without thinking and grabs you. His fingers find yours and he lifts your wrist to his nose. You’ve never seen such a peaceful, ecstatic expression on his harsh features as when his nose touches the scent gland at your wrist. He knows that, between your legs, it’ll be ten times as intense, your slick and your sweat and your scent all mingling into a cocktail designed specifically and exclusively for him to consume.
Your hands go uselessly to the tie on your scrub bottoms to try to get your clothes off, but your fingers are shaky and awkward. You pout and demand, “Help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, taking the reins for you. Brendon makes quick work of your pants and then your tee. When he has you in only a sports bra and frumpy panties – thankfully your heat stops you from feeling any embarrassment that you aren’t wearing something ‘cute’ underneath your clothes – Brendon can hardly breathe for how gorgeous you are. It’s his turn for shaky hands as he tentatively touches your waist, not wanting to push you too hard too soon. He breathes out slowly, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You bite your lip and glance down at the floor, swaying gently under his praise. “Thank you.”
Brendon tilts your chin up, needing to see your eyes, and checks, “Do you want to put on some pajamas?”
With a sheepish, flirtatious smile, you shake your head no and start to remove your bra and underwear. Brendon steps forward to help you, thinking of nothing but making sure you’re comfortable. It’s strange, this rut. On one hand, the sight of you naked in front of him has his cock throbbing with desire. But, on a much deeper, more visceral level, the singular focus on his mind is ensuring that you’re safe, comfortable, loved. He thought he’d want to claim and mark and fuck his mate until you were both numb, but, first and foremost, he wants to give you whatever you need. It goes beyond ‘want,’ actually. If you aren’t perfectly content, he can’t even breathe.
So, when he steps out of his own boxer briefs to join you in nakedness, it doesn’t even feel sexual to either of you. It’s comfort, simply speaking. You take his hand. Unable to disguise your nerves at the vulnerability, you pull him into your nest, immediately curling your arms around your knees because it feels so intense to have an alpha in here. To have his heady spicy scent filling the cracks and crevices of all your most beloved things.
Noticing your strained posture, Brendon rubs your back and murmurs, “You don’t have to be worried about anything, pup. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Right now. Just being with you here. Let’s just relax a while, okay?”
You smile easily at that and suggest, “Music?”
“Music sounds good,” he confirms. He takes your phone from your discarded clothes, connects to the speakers with bluetooth, and scrolls through your playlists. He smirks and offers, “How about ‘Heat Wave’? Is that for your heat?”
You giggle and nod, so he hits play. As “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” flits through the speakers, Brendon nestles backwards, sprawling out his large body, and pulls you to his chest. You sling your leg over his, your warmth permeating him, and everything starts to make sense for the first time today. You take a deep breath and let it out. Finally. Skin on skin. Body on body. Self on self. This is what you’ve needed to fully relax.
Brendon can’t believe how calm he feels. The irritation, the anger, the restlessness are all gone with your weight on him. When he’s had to deal with his rut alone, he’s always so damn frustrated that he can barely breathe, let alone think. He thrusts into fleshlights or his hand until his cock can’t do anything more, but he’ll still be agonizingly turned on, seeking out something to fuck.
Now, though? With you? He can feel the pulse of his cock, a quiet hum reminding him of what he craves, but it doesn’t feel urgent or consuming. Just there. Because it’s yours now, not his. His rut isn’t something to fight through; it’s something to give to you. It’s his biology knowing how to protect and nurture yours.
After a few songs swing by, your breaths are even and slow and you start to purr. Brendon’s whole body shimmers when he feels that soft vibration against his chest. He kisses the top of your head and checks, “Feeling better now, sweet girl?”
“Mhmm,” you coo, eyes still closed. “You’re comfy.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles, shifting his weight so you can have even more of his body as a pillow. As he adjusts, his hand moves to your comfort pile, where he finds a pair of suspiciously familiar basketball shorts. And a navy tee. Followed by a white tank top and boxer briefs. Eyes widening with surprise and amusement, he straightens up slightly to get your attention. “Baby, are these mine? When the hell did you steal these?” Tears prickle at your eyes and you whimper, guilt tightening around your throat at the idea that he might be upset with you. But he laughs and hugs you close, flipping you into his lap, quick to assure, “No, don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m not mad at all. It’s really sweet. I’m…impressed, honestly. I’m so crazy about you that I didn’t even notice my fucking gym bag going missing.”
You giggle and avert your eyes, telling him dreamily, “They smell good.”
“Yeah?” With you seated on his thighs now, Brendon rests his hands on your lower back, nips gentle kisses up your neck, and teases as you smile, “My gross gym clothes do it for you?”
His joking tone dies in the air when you pull back to answer. Your pupils are blown so wide he can’t see the color of your irises at all. You’re not teasing or bashful anymore. Every feature reveals pure and simple lust.
You nod slowly, the admission not at all shameful with your heat prickling through your body. Without thinking, following desires that don’t have names or words, you take his hands in yours and lift them up above his head. He just follows your lead with wide eyes; he’s not going to stop you from doing anything you want to him. With him. For him. He’s yours.
With heavy lids like you’re high, you nuzzle into his armpit, breathing deeply. After morning surgeries and the high intensity of his search for you, Brendon smells like his gym clothes. Warm, masculine, animalistic. It adds a richness to all the smells that have already sent your logical brain far, far away. His breath catches in his throat and his cock twitches against your stomach. He’s never been wanted so viscerally and it has his hips bucking involuntarily, his toes curling into your sheets, his mind racing.
You lick a long stripe up the center of his chest, chasing a bead of his sweat until the salt coats your tongue. His breaths speed up until he’s on the border of panting. His eyes lock onto your drunken expression while you burnish his chest with your cheeks, scenting him and inhaling him at the same time. You move lower, no agenda or intention to your movements. When you reach his thick, dark pubic hair, you brush your nose deep against his skin. The mix of his pheromones has slick dripping from your core.
Not a thought in your pretty little head as you lavish at the scent glands of his inner thighs, you rub your bare cunt over his shin because it’s the closest thing you can get friction with.
Brendon’s hand goes to the side of your face. You look up at him with nothing behind your eyes. Breathless, he groans, “Christ, baby, you’re gone, aren’t you?”
All of a sudden, as your alpha, he understands what you need more deeply than you do. His logical mind wants to make sure you’re fed and clean and well-rested, wants to make good on his initial plan, but it’s like he can see through you right now. And he knows that you need him. You won’t even feel the hunger or the tiredness until that first, most primal need is filled.
So he orders in his lowest, most wanting voice, not disguising the plain want, “Come here, omega.”
Your brain tingles. You crawl upward and sit in his lap and wait patiently. In the next millisecond, he locks his mouth with yours. He’s all teeth and tongue and you let him claim every millimeter of the kiss, leading it, demanding from you. The smell of your slick is overwhelming, soft and almost floral and spreading like a secret you only want to share with him.
His dominant hand drops between your bodies, fingers plunging into your ample wetness. With no resistance, he twists his wrist to curl his two middle fingers up into your cunt. For all the times he’s imagined your hot wet pussy inviting him in, he still couldn’t have gotten all of the delicious, divine details right. Everything is in technicolor, ultra high definition, his brain operating on a different frequency than it’s ever been able to access before. You cry out when he adds his third finger, feeling your need, and you both already need so, so much more. Against your mouth, he growls, “Fuck. Fuck.”
His thumb barely touches your clit and you’re in outer space. Your hips chase his touch and your tits bounce in his face as a result and he has to take one of your nipples between his teeth or he’ll fucking die right here and now. His free hand flies up to grab your other breast as he sucks and nibbles your sensitive nub relentlessly. Moans drip down the edges of your lips and he drowns in them as they pour over your tits.
Brendon’s sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your breast and you gasp. He shoves you forward, flopping you onto your back, without releasing you for a single second. His nails dig into your hip as he holds you down, mouth going to the other side to torture you equally. He shoves a fourth finger into your cunt and you wail in response. It doesn’t hurt, not when you’re in heat, but it stretches and it sings. Your back arches and pleasure zaps up your spine alongside the pain. You throw your head back as your clit thrums and your cunt devours and your whole body vaporizes into delicious agony.
You cum without warning and without preamble, swallowing his hand nearly to his knuckles. Your thighs thrash back and forth as ecstasy strangles you. The presence of your mate’s pheromones, his presence, his eyes locked on you, his everything, shatters you.
“You’re doing so good for me,” Brendon purrs as you clamp down around his fingers over and over, the orgasm refusing to let up until he does. And he’s not going to. The hand on your hip crushes you into the bed, refusing to let you squirm away. His thumb leaves your clit and you whine from the loss – until his thumb joins his other four fingers inside of your sopping cunt.
Tears crest over your waterline out of nowhere. The intensity of having most of Brendon Park’s massive, surgically precise hand inside of you has your brain on fire. But you breathe through it. You grab at his hair and yank to ground yourself, forcing him into another kiss. This time, you’re the one who bites at his lips, his jaw, his throat, his ear, whatever you can get. When you tighten your teeth around his trap, biting down hard enough to draw blood, Brendon growls, “There you go, pup. Good fucking girl. Don’t you ever hold back with me.”
Your thighs clamp around his wrist as your cunt tightens again, if it ever even stopped in the first place, and he chases you up the bed, not letting you get away. With the orgasm at its peak, beside yourself, unable to think of anything else, you cry, “Breed me, Bren, please. I need- I need your knot right now. Right now.”
Brendon snarls and pulls his hand from inside of you, using the slick that drips from his fingers to lube his fat cock. You realize with a thrill that he needed to use all his fingers to warm you up like that because his cock is positively monstrous. In his full rut, it has to be the size of a can of Monster. Fitting. Even with your heat making you loose and drenched, you have a hard time imagining it fitting between your legs. But all doubt dies when Brendon shoves your legs back next to your ears and lines himself up with your entrance.
He straightens up just enough to watch, rapt, as he slides his cock into you for the first time. It stretches you wide. The sight of your slick coating him, the sight of each inch sinking into you, the sight of your eyes closed and your mouth open in rapture – it’s all too much for him to bear. His hand slams into the wall above you, the drywall cracking and chipping beneath his cruel fingers, and he finally bottoms out at your cervix.
When he actually starts to thrust, each one opening you like never before, your hands scramble upwards, nails clawing into his biceps. He shivers when you leave behind harsh red lines that trail down his stomach before grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him in impossible closer.
“Baby, I’m not-” He gasps in a breath when you moan, unable to handle him using pet names while he’s deep inside of you. “I don’t have an implant or anything. You could actually- Fuck. Fuck. Jesus. You can’t- you can’t grab me like that, honey, I won’t last.”
“Don’t care,” you pant, rolling your hips up to meet every pump of his cock. You need him closer. Deeper. More. More more more. You manage to find words only because they’re identical to your thoughts: “Wanna give you so many pups, Bren. Wanna be yours for good.” Your voice breaks and you beg, “Please, alpha, please. ”
“You don’t have to beg. You never have to beg for anything from your alpha,” he rumbles. His lips go to your neck and his cock drills into you and he swears warmly, “Anything you want, princess. Anything. It’s all yours. Everything I have is yours now.”
“Knot,” you gasp. Back arching. Lungs burning. Stomach flipping. You can see fireworks in your mind and Brendon’s eyes are so fucking intense as they bore into you and all you can do is whine and groan, “Need your knot. All I need.”
When you feel him beginning to swell, his balls tightening and his thighs stuttering, your brain goes totally flat from everything but pleasure and need. It’s a white-out of thought and logic. Nothing exists but Brendon and the fact that only he can give you what your body truly craves.
His lips connect with yours one more time as his cum paints you with vibrant adoration. Your breath is his breath and your body is his body. You hold his knot so well, immediately wrapping your legs around his hips to encourage him to stay there, with you, as long as he can. His chest against yours. Breathing together. Lazily kissing and scenting and nuzzling each other. You’d stay here forever if you could.
“Brendon,” you whisper reluctantly against his ear, “this is really nice, but you’re squishing me to death and I need to pee.”
His low chuckle vibrates your whole body. Without taking his cock from your body, he slides his knees forward so he can take more of his own weight on his legs. It relieves the pressure on your chest just enough, but he’s still playfully holding you down. He kisses the tip of your nose and teases, “Is that better, princess?”
Not quite able to get to a better comeback, you cut back, “If you want me to piss myself.”
“Mmm. Don’t tempt me. I’m pretty sure I could get off on anything you’d give me.” As you laugh, he gives you one more kiss, deep and knowing, and shifts off of you as his knot softens. You reach up with grabby hands and he smiles as he tugs you out of the bed and into his arms. Cum and slick drips from you and onto his skin as he steadies you against his torso. God, you’re burning up. They don’t call it heat for no reason. Bringing you to the en suite bathroom, he touches the back of his hand to your forehead and murmurs, “You want a nice cool bath, sweetheart?”
You nod with heavy lids. “Mhmm. Sounds nice.”
“Good.” He sets you carefully on the toilet – your limbs are clearly still out of commission for the time being. Brendon draws you a bath, swirls in some sweet-smelling oils, and helps you in once you’re finished. With a firm kiss to your forehead, he orders, “Stay here a minute to get your temperature closer to normal. I’ll change the sheets and get you something to eat, okay?”
You nod again, happy to do whatever he tells you.
While you soak and get sleepier and sleepier, Brendon does what he said, yes, but he also indulges in some behaviors he knows are maybe slightly silly alpha things. He checks your door locks over, makes sure your windows are properly secured, checks to see if there are batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. You’ll forgive him for feeling a bit crazy right now. When you’re not in his arms or in his sight, the edginess returns, something at the base of his brain stem insisting that he do anything he possibly can, no matter how minor, to care for you.
By the time he goes back to the bathroom to collect you, you’re asleep in the tub, head against the wall, mouth open slightly. Brendon takes a minute to gaze at you, so open and vulnerable, certain that you’re completely safe with your alpha in your apartment. He rumbles a bit with pride at knowing he makes you feel that way – fucked out and content.
Ever so gently, he kneels down and touches your cheek. You stir slightly, turning your head and giving him a sweet, innocent smile. Then you once again lift your arms for him. Brendon’s addicted to the sight of you so easily expecting his strength. He guides you to your feet, helps you step out, and then dries you off with the closest soft towel he can find. All the while, you put your weight on him, trusting him, yielding to him. Your brain is fuzzy and happy and your body is loose and calm.
Brendon guides you back into your nest, where he’s replaced your sheets with the ones he found in your laundry room specifically for your heat, extra silky soft and moisture-wicking. You sink into the coziness, thoughtless in the most wonderful way. Before joining you, he pops into the kitchen for a minute and then presents you with a makeshift charcuterie board on a plate that he’s put together from your fridge, focusing on meats and cheeses to try to get you enough protein and fat to get through your heat comfortably.
The moment you see the food, you realize that you’re ravenous. Your stomach growls loud and Brendon laughs affectionately as you snatch the plate greedily from him. Looking for all the world like a wild animal, you wolf down food fast and furious until your stomach stops screaming for more.
Brendon rubs your back as you eat, praising, “Good girl. Need you nice and strong.”
When you’ve finished the actual food Brendon wanted you to eat, you look at him with bubbly hope and ask, “Dessert?”
He grins and cracks open the container of your homemade snickerdoodles, chewy and pillowy. You open your mouth obediently and he happily feeds you a piece, taking another for himself. He groans loud, “I hit the fucking mate jackpot; these are insanely good.”
You preen like a peacocking alpha as he feeds you another cookie, happy and giggly in the best way. As you lazily lick the extra cinnamon sugar from his fingers, lips wrapping around his digits, he watches with dilated pupils and praises, “That’s my good girl.”
You giggle and lean forward to nuzzle his neck with yours, mixing your scents unabashedly now that it’s just the two of you in your happy cocoon. “You already said that.”
“It’s still true,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pull you into a kiss. He sets the container aside and then takes your hand in his. “Now that you’re with me again, sweetheart, I need to ask if you were being serious earlier. About- about giving me pups.” He cradles your face in his hand and studies your expression. You can’t quite read all the details of his. “I can send someone to pick up some emergency contraception for this week that was just-”
“I was serious,” you tell him softly. Your eyes run over his, wide, needy, scared of rejection. Searching for love and stability in the one place you need to be able to find it. “But if- if you’re not ready to do that with me, or if you don’t want-”
“I want to,” he whispers. It sounds like an admission, like something he’s never been willing to say – or maybe something he’s never been allowed to want. He touches his forehead to yours and, so soft you can barely hear, he says, “I love you.”
You maul him with a hug, shoving him onto his back. He catches you with a wheezing laugh as your weight knocks the wind out of him. As your hands push down his broad shoulders, your tentative smile glows into something huge. “You do?”
With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, he rests his hands on your waist and tells you, “I knew I loved you the day you shoved your finger in my chest and chewed me out for being an ass to Frankie. Nobody talks to me like that.” Then, much more urgently, he goes on, “I’ve been working to be good enough for you every day since. So if- if you think I’m good enough to be- if you’re willing to give that to me.” He can barely breathe as he almost cries, “Yes, please.”
You throw your arms around the back of his neck and nestle into his chest and say, on the verge of giggling and crying at the same time as it bubbles out of you, “I love you so much, Bren. You’re gonna be such a good dad.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replies with a sigh, “but I think, maybe, if I follow your lead, I could become one.” He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Now get some rest, princess. Your body’s working really hard; gotta keep your energy up.”
You nod and shift onto your side, bringing him to face you. All teasing and sweet, you tangle up your limbs with his and ask, “Does this mean you’re gonna buy me a nice house and a big fat diamond?”
Needing to kiss you again, he nods and holds you and promises, “And anything else you could ever want. They pay me way too much money at that damn hospital; you need a new car and a better place and a huge ‘fuck you’ ring that stops other alphas from even looking at you.”
“Mmm.” Your eyelids start to feel heavy as that settles into your cells. You have it now. The mate, the life, the dream you’ve always had. Sleepy and adoring, you breathe, “Tell me you love me again.”
Brendon kisses your cheek as he cradles your head, making sure you’re comfortable no matter how you position yourself. “I love you, cherry.”
When you’re woken up by the need pulsing between your thighs, you’re curled up between Brendon’s legs, enveloped by his body that seems much larger in rut. He’s sitting up straight, watching the door like a hawk, with his hands resting on your hip and your waist like he’s ready to scoop you up and haul you to safety at any second. He notices the change to your breathing and focuses all his attention on you right away.
“Hi, baby.” With gentler hands than you would’ve thought him capable of, Brendon cups your flaming cheek and murmurs, “You’re burning up. What can I do?”
Your tongue feels weird and heavy in your mouth again, your brain flickering away as another wave of heat starts to wash over you. It’s always been hard for you to put words together when you’re in heat. So you just sit up, turn yourself around, and maneuver so you’re in his lap. He instinctively shifts his weight to make space for you, arms coming to rest on your lower back. You drop your mouth to his neck, lap your tongue over his scent gland until you feel his cock rapidly hardening beneath you. Right against his ear, you whine, “Knot.”
Brendon kisses you warmly, like he’s greeting you after a long time away. His hands trail down to your hips and he manhandles you to push your hips back and forth, your slick running over his shaft. “Your wish is my command, princess.”
You nod your heavy head and feel your cunt beginning to pulse just from the way he’s looking at you with complete adoration in those blue eyes. As he lifts you up a bit by the waist so he can notch himself against your entrance, you coo, “My alpha. Love you.”
Brendon plunges into you in one slow, needy thrust. An uninhibited wine spills from his lips when he’s once again enveloped in your perfect warmth. He slowly grinds his hips up into yours, groaning with every little twitch of your pussy, “Fuck, kitten, I’ve never- never felt this good with anyone. It’s like you were made for me.”
Beginning to bounce on him because you can’t stand any teasing right now, you whimper, “I was.”
Brendon snaps when he hears that. When he knows it down to his core. Because this isn’t a choice between the two of you. Not really. It’s destiny. It’s fate. It’s fucking magic. You were always going to mold to him. His cock was always going to be the only one that could satisfy you fully.
He growls under his breath and flips you onto your back, needing to have you closer. You’re powerless to his strength, limp, and that’s exactly how you want it. You want to be a small, helpless thing that he takes charge of. Protects. Possesses. He links his fingers with yours above your head, holding you down but grounding himself, too. With his lips hovering above your scent gland, he asks softly, “That better, baby?”
“Perfect,” you moan. “Yours.”
“That’s right.” His thrusts speed up, the sound of his cock plunging inside of you obscene in the timeless quiet of your bedroom. “All mine.”
Brendon drops one hand to your clit and the contact has you keening upward. Your legs snap him in closer, locking around his muscular ass. Your eyes close and your back arches and you can only moan and take whatever he’ll give you. Finally, finally, you’re being taken care of the way you’ve always wanted, your whole body held and tended to and ravished.
As your orgasm threatens, in Brendon’s complete and total control, a droplet of water hits your chest and your eyes flicker open. It’s not sweat from his shiny forehead like you’d thought, though. When you look up at Brendon, you find his forehead wrinkled, his eyes pink, his breaths shaky. You reach up and brush his cheek, bringing his focus back to you. Barely able to speak with everything swirling around your mind, you breathe, “You’re crying.”
He nods and sniffles and swallows hard, trying to come up with the words. Unable to stand making eye contact while he’s being so fucking vulnerable, he buries his face in the side of your neck and nearly weeps, “Never thought I’d have this. Never thought I’d have a mate as perfect as you. Never thought I could deserve a woman who’s so fucking beautiful and kind and smart and who wants to give me a family and I just- I just-”
His voice chokes off as a wave of pleasure billows through you, making your cunt clamp down around him. Feeling overwhelmed with light and softness and adoration, you tilt your head to the side and whimper a request Brendon Park’s been waiting his whole life to hear without even knowing: “Bite.”
He doesn’t second-guess you. He doesn’t challenge you.
He bites.
Brendon doesn’t fuck around with claming you once he has permission. When he hears your true need for his ownership. His cock is pistoning like a machine designed for your pleasure and he’s thrumming on your clit with his thumb and his teeth don’t hesitate to pierce your neck. You loose an orchestral crescendo cry when the perfect, blissful, heavenly pain stamps you as his. There’s no stopping the orgasm that slaps you across the face and holds you down by the throat while Brendon grips your hand above your head, keeping you in place while his teeth forever mark you as his possession.
As he tastes your blood – strangely sweet with your hormones swelling – Brendon kisses your neck, leaving the shape of his lips all over your skin. You’re whimpering and crying and you can hardly move with the intense, addictive pleasure that’s boiling you alive. He flips you so he’s on his back and you’re in his lap, barely able to keep yourself upright, insanely cute to him in your woozy lust. Then he tilts his head to the side and taps his own scent gland with two fingers. “Your turn, princess. Don’t be shy.”
He’s expecting you to protest, to giggle, to turn bashful at the idea.
Not you.
Not his omega.
You bend down, rolling your hips all the while, and kiss your own blood off his lips before lathing your tongue up his neck. You drag your teeth over his pulse, his tendons, breathing his scent deeply and licking up his sweat. You’re drunk on him. On the pheromones you can only produce together. When your teeth graze his scent gland, you feel him shiver beneath you. His hands lock onto your hips to keep your bodies grinding together as you lose control at last.
Opening up your mouth wide, you start off by sucking his flesh into your mouth, enjoying the way his breath stutters and his thrusts deepen with each added sensation. By the time you add your teeth, you can feel his knot starting to swell up as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm to stay with you longer, panting and groaning and right on the edge with your teeth meeting his skin.
When you break the skin, tasting the fat and iron of his blood, Brendon’s world explodes into the second Big Bang. Sparks and stars and fire. Everything is you. Every molecule, every atom, every neutron and quark and particle. You pull off him with a proud smile, his blood at the corners of your thrilled lips. His pupils turn to pinpricks so he can memorize it, the light of your bedroom a flashbang that burns the memory into the film of his soul. He’s never cum so hard in his life, his knot quickly filling and locking the two of you in place.
You collapse onto his chest and he holds you so close. His soft voice is a constant stream against your ear as his hands run up and down your back and sides. I love you. I love you. I love you. Your sopping pussy keeps gently pulsing around him, the aftershocks still rattling you both. There’s no ecstasy like the one that comes after mating. Neither of you need to speak to know it to your cores: This is it. It’s the end of dating, the end of craving, the end of begging. Never again will you go without.
As the haze of broken skin begins to recede, you gently kiss across Brendon’s chest. You bring your lips to his and you both half-smile against each other. It’s perfectly simple, the two of you, and it makes more sense than anything you’ve ever known. Still hard inside of you, Brending shifts you both upwards so he can hold you in his lap. His hands roam lazily, happily, knowingly. He’s learned the curves and edges of you now.
With both your brains turning on again and your bodies still intertwined, Brendon kisses your temple and murmurs against your ear, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? About us?”
You brush your thumb over his chin – there’s evening stubble there now, rakishly handsome – and admit gently, “I knew the first time we met.”
With a sigh, he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve been together so much sooner.”
You give him an ‘as if’ sort of look. “Because you’re kind of an asshole, Bren.”
“Fair enough,” he laughs. “God, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t imagine my life without you now.”
“I know. Me too.” You go back to kissing him for another minute, unable to resist with him completely at your mercy. After a minute, you explain further, “I just wanted to see if we liked each other beyond, y’know, the whole biology thing. If we could fit together.”
“I always liked you,” he says back, fingers tracing beads of sweat that fall down your body, “even before I could smell you.”
You giggle and smack his chest. “Liar.”
“No, I swear,” he insists urgently. Even though he’s softening now, neither of you goes to move, too enamored with one another. “I thought you were competent. Good with patients. Funny. Pretty.”
“Those are just facts, Brendon. Everyone thinks I’m wonderful.”
“And I thought you were so modest,” he needles. While your laugh brushes against his skin, he tells you, much more softly now, “Every time there was a page for me to the ED, I hoped it was you because, every time we worked together, I left so fucking frustrated.”
You scoff and tease, “Weren’t you trying to say you’ve always liked me a second ago?”
“No, baby, I mean…” Brendon struggles to find the right words, but you wait patiently, beyond curious. Nobody gets to see this version of him: Reflective, sweet, innocent. He meets your eyes again and tries to explain, “I wasn’t frustrated the way I always am with Robinavitch or the Ken doll or the mousy one or- God, they’re all so fucking stupid compared to you,” he laughs, making you do the same. “I would leave every consult with you frustrated that I wasn’t good the way you are. Frustrated that you put people at ease without trying while everyone’s scared of me even when I try to be softer. Frustrated that you don’t let anything stop you when sometimes I get so fed up I have to punch a wall. Frustrated because you made me want to be better – a better doctor, yes, but a better man and a better alpha, too. Nobody’s ever made me feel like that.”
You pout your lower lip and hold back tears. You can’t help but kiss him. There are no alternatives. And he really, really likes being kissed by you. With every touch of your lips, he can taste the rest of his life. When you pull back at last, you’ve sniffled back the tears and replaced them with an adorable, mischievous smile. You tell him cheekily, “I didn’t like you back then, if you were wondering.”
“You made that plenty clear, baby,” he chuckles, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze. “What changed your mind?”
With a soft shrug, you give him the truth: “You told Frankie you’d go to his track meet.”
“It meant that much to you?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. It feels like a secret, but you want to tell him all your secrets, especially the ones you’d never share with anyone else. “Becaues you listened to me. Apologies don’t count if you don’t change your behavior – and you did. But I could tell it wasn’t just for me. You really wanted to make it up to him. To fix what you’d broken.” You gingerly trace the harsh angles of his face with your forefinger, memorizing the lines. When you touch his lower lip, he sighs and smiles contentedly. You tell him, “That’s the sign of a good man, I think. A good partner apologizes and means it. A good father screws up and then fixes it. I didn’t have a choice in being your mate, but I made the choice to love you.”
Brendon blinks hard. He covers your hand with his and kisses each of your fingers. Rough and thick with love, he breathes, “Christ, kitten, are you trying to make me cry here?”
You kiss him so softly it could be a butterfly’s wing. “You already did, softie.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
A masterpiece!!!! I’m obsessed! I loved this series so much. I swear I see you post something and I’m like oh yea this about to be gooooood! Amazing job!
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Five: Safe
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: An emergency code in the hospital finally pushes you and Brendon into each other's arms for good.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, heat/rut, kinda hurt/comfort, panic, possessive/protective park, brendon threatens robby bc....im me
Content: umm so a "code silver" is a feral alpha on the loose in the hospital, so i guess there's a level of implied threat? it's just kinda high tension/panic
A/N: i like stealing ideas from myself bc i have good ideas!! anyway just wanted to get this out since i have to focus on mrs. danforth for the next 48 hours. expect happy slutty emotional mating fest sometime in the next week!!
Word Count: 2.1k
You know you’re going to be pushing it the moment you start getting ready for the day. You feel a little warm but not quite feverish, a little aroused but not quite dripping with it, a little emotional but not quite overwhelmed. But it’s just one shift; you’ve made it through a day feeling like this before without issue. You load up with a scent-suppressing lotion for the sake of your coworkers, take a deep breath, and resolve to make it work for a few more hours before you can super casually find a way to ask Brendon to spend your heat with you even though you just had your first kiss two days ago.
You even go the extra mile and ask Robby to put you on lighter duty and stick you with omega patients if possible to keep yourself and everyone else calm. It’s a thankfully easy day in the ED where you get to text Brendon and hang around with your friends pretty regularly in between sutures and meds and intubations. Your heat’s definitely threatening, but it’s under control with regular breaks, a steady water schedule, and plenty of support from the rest of the staff when you need help.
And then things get derailed.
You’re in the middle of tapping away at Frankie’s chart after his latest rehab appointment when a robotic voice crackles through all the hospital’s speakers.
“This is a Code Silver. All omegas report to their nearest shelter. If you cannot access a shelter, press the silver button on any patient remote for additional security instructions. Repeat: This is a Code Silver. All omegas report to their nearest shelter. If you cannot…”
Panic bubbles up in your throat as your instincts flare, all senses fading out so that you can focus on getting to safety during your heat. Code Silver. Feral alpha on the loose in the hospital. Usually they’re in the ED after being picked up for an assault or reckless accident.
You can’t remember where the nearest shelter is up here; you’re not on the ED floor and you’ve never thought to check up here. From behind the glass wall, you see nurses and doctors milling around, none of them alarmed the way you are as they head to the pockets of the hospital designed to protect them.
Inside of you, everything is burning. Your stomach tightens up and your hands start to sweat. The lights are too bright. The sounds are too loud. You catch yourself whimpering under your breath as your feet start to feel like hundred pound weights holding you to the floor.
You have to get out of here. There could be danger anywhere. You have to move. But the idea of the omega shelter is terrifying to you right now. Too many smells, too many bodies.
So you just give in to your instincts and run.
Brendon hears the code in the middle of surgery. Forty-five minutes deep in an ACL reconstruction, his mind goes blank. His ears start ringing and, for the first time in his career, the surgical field in front of him is complete gibberish. Usually he can read the bones and tendons much more easily than any text. They make sense to him when nothing and nobody else does.
But, right now, all he can see on a loop over and over is your distress.
He knows you’re going into heat and a major stress is the last thing you need. He knows you’re sensitive and sweet and in the exact right headspace to be scared.
And you’re alone.
Wherever you are in the hospital, no matter how many people may be around or what you were doing when the code was called, you don’t have your mate there. For an omega in heat, away from their nest with nothing else for comfort, there’s nothing more frightening.
After a few deep breaths to try to stop himself from losing it, Brendon withdraws from his position and quietly orders, “Garcia, I need you to take over for me.”
“What? Why? We’re right in the middle of-”
He barks, “Take over. Now.”
With Brendon giving her no choice as he withdraws the arthroscope and sets his tools aside, Garcia shifts over and starts mentally going over the steps she needs to take. She rapidly gets herself up to speed and demands, “What the fuck is going on, Park?”
“I have to find her,” he rumbles back, already pushing out of the suite. “Atterman’s on call if you need more support.”
Garcia understands right away. She shakes her head and sighs to the rest of the team, “Remind me of this moment if I ever think about bonding with an omega at the hospital.”
The nearest nurse laughs and then it’s back to business.
Brendon rips off his surgical gown and cap, tosses out all his PPE, and sprints away from the surgical wing at a full clip. He shoves into the nearest stairwell – the elevators stop functioning during most of the emergency codes – and launches down them until he’s at the bottom floor. The ED is going on business as usual, its few omega doctors safely in their nearby shelter while Robby and Abbot lead the charge in keeping the machine running smoothly without them. It’s chaotic to say the least, but Park still catches the lightest trace of your scent among all the others. It doesn’t go toward the Pitt’s shelter or any of the exits. You’re not here.
Brendon practically barrels into Robby, catching him off-guard. As Robby stumbles back when Park’s hand goes into his chest, Brendon pushes, “Robinavitch. Where is she?”
Robby can smell the rut bleeding off Park’s skin. He can see it in Park’s overly dilated eyes, the sweat on his brow, the way his breaths are more like pants. It puts him on edge immediately. With a gentle voice, he tries, “Park, you’re supposed to stay in your department during-”
“Don’t. Don’t start with me right now.” His voice is pure danger. It’s a match hovering above gasoline. Lethal. “Where’s my fucking omega?”
“I think your rut’s breaking through, Shark,” Robby says with a heavy, serious tone. A warning. Alpha to alpha. “You need to go home or at least get back to your office before-”
“No,” Park growls back. A real growl, not the kind you hear in any old alpha argument. It makes Robby’s scent go sour as he shrinks beneath Park’s presence. Everyone within ten feet notices and shivers from the intensity. Park’s fingers bruise into Robby’s shoulder as he insists, “I need to know where she is. Right now. Or I’m going to put your head through the desk and ask the next dumbass doctor I see instead.”
Robby’s frozen in submission and can’t do anything but rush out the truth, “She was supposed to be with a patient up in physio a half hour ago. The- the teen whose leg you worked on together. She probably went into their shelter, but I don’t know for sure. Start there.”
Park lets go of Robby with a push and turns around. He burns through to the nearest stairwell, leaping upward three steps at a time. Right now, if that feral alpha came across him, Park would rip him limb from limb with his bare hands if it meant getting one single step closer to you.
At the physical therapy department, on the same floor as ortho, Park shuts his eyes and breathes deeply to try to catch your scent. The alphas and betas work quietly, on edge as they wait for either the all-clear or a follow-up code that they have to shelter in place, too. But Park just pushes past all of them, his eyes half-lidded as he chases down the faintest trace of you, getting stronger with his every step. There’s a pool of you by the orthopedic surgery rehab suite, tracking back and forth, mixed up with lots of others. Your appointment with the kid and his family. He passes by the suite, toward the omega shelter, and immediately loses your scent. With his brows furrowed, Park backtracks a few paces to the next-closest intersection of halls. He tracks your scent toward the wing of offices, where it gets stronger and stronger. His pace picks up when he realizes where you’ve gone, heart pounding against his ribcage.
Brendon pushes his office door open, following his nose, and finds the blinds in his glass office drawn, something he rarely does, with all the lights off. Frustration rises in his gut when he can’t see you right away, relaxing on the couch opposite his desk or something. But your smell is so vibrant and it definitely dead-ends here. So he locks the door behind himself and tentatively asks into the quiet, “Are you alright?”
Your tiny voice slides out from behind his desk. He can hear you shivering and it makes him snarl at the idea that anything has hurt you or frightened you. “Is it safe now, Bren?”
“They haven’t called the code yet, but the lock on my door is as good as the shelters,” he tells you quietly, carefully crossing his office toward your voice. He flicks on the dim lamp on the bookshelf behind his desk and finds you when the light fills the room’s corners. You’re curled up around yourself beneath his desk, your whole body shaking slightly. Low and protective, he asks, “What are you doing in here? You should’ve gone to the shelter, baby.”
Your eyes are so wide and frightened he can hardly bear to look at you without surging forward to hold you. But he doesn’t want to move too fast. Scaring you even further right now would be a fate worse than death for him. After a second, you squeak out, “I- I saw all the security guards drawing their weapons and everyone rushing around and I just- I got scared. I didn’t want to be trapped in there with everyone.”
He nods slowly. Really slowly. Like the gears that control the motion need grease. “You were scared. So you came to my office.”
You nod gently, too. Tentatively. Your tongue is heavy and your brain is moving so slowly, but his presence is a guiding star. His scent is finally helping your heart rate slow down. With chattering teeth, you whimper, “Smells safe here.”
He drops down onto the floor to get a better look at you and sees that you’ve wrapped yourself in his hoodie, which had been hanging on the wall, wearing it backwards with the hood high up on your neck, the perfect spot for burying your nose. You’ve also dragged the throw pillows from the couch under his desk and rummaged around for his spare scrubs and the clothes in his gym bag.
You’re nesting.
This isn’t just an omega being freaked out by a Code Silver. He’s seen that before. You’re definitely in heat early, triggered by the stress. It’s radiating off of you in waves. And now you’re seeking out the comfort of your mate to calm your fear because it’s ten times as visceral as it would be at any other time in your cycle. This is pure instinct.
Something deep inside of Park stirs as he looks at you. Puzzle pieces snapping into place. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it as he presents his hands. “Can I help you come out, angel? I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
After a minute of studying him for any signs of deception, you gingerly crawl out from under the desk, but you don’t stand up. Instead, you fold into his arms. He cradles the back of your head and shifts you fully into his lap. While he breathes deeply, encouraging you to match his slower pace, you press your nose to his neck, softly whimpering and shaking against his chest.
He kisses your temple and soothes into your skin, “You don’t have to be scared anymore. You’re safe with me. Nothing will ever hurt you while I’m here, pup.”
Pleasure shivers up your spine when he calls you that. You’re lost in a sea of his scent and his strength. You barely even hear it when the code is called off, buried inside of Brendon’s safety. You don’t even realize how your fingers are gripping into him hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is protecting you. He wants to envelope you in his arms so tightly that you can live there forever, never having to touch the cruel earth that could dirty your feet.
After a minute of quiet, Brendon murmurs, “I’m gonna get you home and take care of you now, angel. Don’t worry about a thing.”
With your fists clutching his scrubs and your tears staining them dark, you nod and manage to whisper, “Alpha.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Four: Gonna Make Our Own Lightning
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: How Brendon Park realizes you're his with a first kiss that triggers his rut.
A/N: just a wittle more fluff before we properly get down to business next chapter uwu
Word Count: 2.6k
If you asked Brendon Park when he realized the two of you were mates, it would be tonight.
It’s been a long fucking day at the hospital. Wall-to-wall traumas for both of you, keeping you annoyingly apart when all Brendon wants is to get called in for a consult so he can steal you away for a few minutes. Park’s leaving later than usual, late enough that the summer sun is already setting, and usually he’d just peel out of the parking lot and speed home, but today he slows down for one reason and one reason alone: He sees you standing underneath the bus stop shelter at the end of the hospital’s street, making conversation with one of the ED nurses.
Absolutely not.
The luxe black car – a convertible, definitely classic, with a super long back and a shape that makes you think of Grease or James Bond – stops right in front of you. One of the tinted windows rolls down slowly and Brendon’s eyes rake over you with surprise. He asks bluntly, worry and frustration mixed up, “Why are you taking the bus?”
Still taking in the insane car he’s driving, you tell him, “My car wouldn’t start this morning.”
He leans over and pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”
“You don’t have to-”
“C’mon, let’s skip that part,” he insists. “You know you wanna ride in the fancy car anyway. In.”
With a sneaking smile, you hop down from the curb and tell him your address as you set your backpack on the floor first. Sliding onto the rich red tufted leather interior, you gawk, “This thing’s a fucking boat, Bren.”
“1960 Lincoln Continental. Last cool car ever made in America,” he explains seriously. You can tell he’s one of those guys who would call a car his baby. Once the door’s closed behind you, Brendon takes a deep breath and wrinkles up his nose. As he pulls into traffic, sliding one hand behind you on the seat without actually touching you, he mutters, “You smell like Abbot.”
“Really?” You try to sniff yourself, but all you’re getting is oceans and oceans of Brendon. You’d been expecting his scent to get stronger alongside yours, but it’s even more consuming than you’d figured it would be. “We had a long meeting together right at the end of the day.”
Gruffly – more like pouty – he sighs and admits, “I don’t like it.”
You take in his possessive little frown and giggle, “Jealous much?”
“Yes.” He clenches his jaw and tries not to sound too growly about it even though he’s currently fantasizing about shoving his second-favorite ED doctor Jack Abbot’s skull through a wall just for unintentionally leaving some of his scent on your precious body. “Jealous. Much.”
In response, you scooch closer on the bench seat and nuzzle in under his arm, reaching up on your right side and tugging his hand down so it’s on your shoulder, his fingers draping down over the top of your chest. He rumbles involuntarily while you cozy up, one of your palms floating down to rest on his thigh. You haven’t heard him do that before and it makes you a little dizzy. Basking in the fullness of his cinnamon and nutmeg radiance, you give his muscular thigh a squeeze that may be slightly selfish and check, “Does that help?”
Grinning wide and stupid, he pulls you closer to his chest so he can happily suffocate in your smell and teases, “You putting the moves on me, cherry?”
You nod firmly. “Yes, yes I am. Is that alright with you?”
“I think I can let it slide this time.”
“Okay, good, because I’m very comfy here. Can I put on some music?”
“Whatever you want,” he says immediately. “Tape collection’s in the glovebox.”
You scoff. “Tapes?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sweetheart, tapes. The whole car’s authentic to its era.”
“Wow, you are such a loser,” you tease as you lean forward and pop open the storage, taking out his book of cassettes. Your nose wrinkles adorably as you observe, “This is all rock and metal crap. Is that all you usually listen to?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“I guess not, but I still hate it.”
“My apologies, princess.” Even if he’s making fun of you, the way he says it definitely stirs something around in your fluttery stomach. “I’ve got some more classic stuff toward the back.”
You flip through until you find a tolerable album and then take it out of its case. “The Feel of Neil Diamond. Finally something decent.” You push it into the tape deck, the vintage buttons providing a nice satisfying click. “This is the one with ‘Cherry, Cherry,’ right? My friends would sing that at me all the time in med school.” Then you give him a mischievous glance and ask, “Can we put the top down? The weather’s nice.”
He chuckles and nods, flipping the switch so that the convertible retracts and folds back. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” you giggle as you scrub through the tape until you hear those punchy guitar strums that start up “Cherry, Cherry.” The light and vibrant beat fills the car and spills onto the street and you squeal in a way that makes Brendon’s heart dance. He drums his thumb against the wheel while warmth fills him up. You sit up straighter and swing your shoulders back and forth, lifting your hands all the way up to clap along with the record. The breeze threads through your fingers and you throw your head back to smile with the sunset. Your voice parts your lips almost without you noticing.
When he hears you sing along, unabashed and unashamed, for Brendon, it may as well be the first time hearing after a lifetime living in silence. He’s leaving Plato’s cave, striving toward your sunlight, to experience the fullness of breathtaking beauty and truth for the first time. This is the most at ease you’ve ever been with him. You stop smelling as tart and sharp as you do at work. It’s sweeter. So much sweeter. The pastel spring blossoms alongside the juicy summer fruit. Brendon takes a deep breath of the breeze carrying your full scent and it coats his entire consciousness.
You look over at him and smile.
And he knows.
It’s you, isn’t it?
His pupils dilate. Heat blooms in his cheek, his chest, his stomach, his everywhere. Yes, everywhere. The world reorients and he knows something for certain for the first time in his life: You are his mate. Fated. Something rare and special and sacred.
You’re his.
You always have been.
As the song fades out, Brendon stops the car next to the curb in front of your building. Then, before even turning the engine off, before thinking or letting you think, before he can dare to so much as breathe the moment away, he kisses you. It’s so urgent, so needy, that it steals your breath and pushes you halfway back against the seat. You squeak out a surprised sound. When he goes to pull back, scared he’s misread everything, you shake your head and whine and yank his lips back to yours, both your hands on the sides of his face.
Not caring in the slightest that there are people walking by and you’re in a convertible with the top down, you push Brendon back against the bench seat and crawl into his lap. His hands snap to your waist, thumbs rough on your hips, and you grind down on him without even thinking about it. Your body begs against his. You play with his thick hair and press your chest to his as he rolls his tongue over yours. He catches your lower lip between his teeth. He growls under his breath as you whimper into his mouth.
When he finally manages to pull away from you, knowing that he’s not going to push further than this right now when he can’t have all of you, Brendon’s breaths are hard and fast and shallow. He presses his forehead to yours and takes what feels like hours to steady himself. Then he kisses you again. Soft this time. He murmurs in disbelief, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
A wave of perfect rom-com giddiness washes through you alongside slick that’s invading Brendon’s nose, concrete proof that you really, really fucking want him. You bury your face in his shoulder, too giggle to look at him, and ask, “Do I still smell like Dr. Abbot?”
“No,” he laughs, running his hands up and down your sides. “You’re perfect.”
“Maybe you just like how Dr. Abbot smells now.”
He nips a kiss onto the side of your head and replies, “I don’t think that’s it, sweetheart.”
You lean back and look at him mock-seriously, pushing a finger into the center of his chest. “You just like when I smell like you instead of anyone else.”
Brendon presses his nose to your scent gland, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as a shiver zaps up your spine. When he breathes in, it’s an intoxicating mix of you both. He has to admit that you wearing him like cologne turns him on like nothing he’s ever experienced. So he places a careful kiss on the sensitive skin that makes you sigh dreamily, imagining how good it’ll be when it’s his teeth instead, and agrees, “I do. I really do.”
you: HE KISSED ME
you: HE RESCUED ME FROM THE BUS STOP IN HIS SEXY CONVERTIBLE AND THEN HE KISSED ME
trin: RED ALERT
trin: WEE WOO WEE WOO
trin: GUYS ITS ALL HAPPENING
denny: was it good???
trin: yeah i want the dirty details
yoyo: how hot from 1-10
you: 10 but im not screwing around giving it that
you: like it was some john hughes nora ephron level making out
you: i need to throw out these panties lowkey
trin: donate them to me im lonely
yoyo: PERVERT
denny: PERVERT
you: PERVERT
trin: :(((
trin: soooo y’all are gonna fuck nasty soon?
you: jfc we better im so horny im gonna die
yoyo: you should tell him that
trin: i know it was rejected last time but send a slick pic maybe???
trin: maybe???
you: trinity santos shut the fuck up challenge level impossible
denny: idk im kinda on her side here
you: MY SWEET OMEGA PRINCE NO
denny: im just thinking he might send a dick pic back!!
you: god am i the only one who wants to keep romance alive in this world
yoyo: yes
trin: yes
denny: i just think if he’s your mate then maybe it would be nice to know what you’re getting into
you: im gonna know in, like, four days anyway!!
trin: CAN I GET A YEEHAW IN CHAT
you: …
you: yeehaw
you: (im really happy)
trin: YEEEEAAAHHH!!
Park wakes up on edge, his arm instinctively reaching to the other side of the bed for a mate who isn’t next to him. It’s still nighttime dark; he has surgery at 6:30. You won’t even be awake for another two hours. After last night, the lack of you – an abyss of his need – has him growling under his breath the entire time he gets ready for work. He’s annoyed with every tiny thing: He hates the way his spoon feels in his mouth during breakfast, he’s pissed at himself for not packing his bag correctly the night before, he nearly tears his scrubs to shreds when one pant leg gets caught on his foot.
At least his car is still thick with the smell of you from last night. That soothes him more than he cares to admit, especially when that same Neil Diamond tape starts automatically. But by the time he’s scrubbed in, he’s annoyed again, snapping at residents and furrowing his brow. Park the Shark at his worst.
The weirdest part? Everyone smells fucking terrible. Especially the omegas. His favorite surgical nurse whose presence usually pulls him back from irritation during procedures because she smells like a damn Parisian bakery? Vile. Like bread gone moldy and overly saccharine like straight molasses coating his throat. He’d think he was getting sick or something if it weren’t for the fact that all the betadine and latex gloves smell the same.
The first nice smell all day comes when he heads down to the ED for a consult. Yours, of course. But it’s faint, just a slight undertone. You aren’t here right now. Already groaning as he snaps on his gloves, he joins Robby, Santos, and Whitaker next to a gnarly busted elbow joint. Because it’s them, he doesn’t greet anyone, just asks bluntly, “Where’s cherry?”
By the patient’s head, Santos cuts him an amused sideways glance as Robby answers, “She scrubbed in with Garcia for an appy about an hour ago. Probably wrapping up by now.”
He grunts in response, obviously displeased by the answer. Turning his attention to the severed elbow on the table, he asks, “What’ve we got?”
Robby and Santos lead him through the case over the next few minutes. Whitaker shrinks into the corner, but Park doesn’t notice, laser-focused on his work as always. He’s already charting out the surgical plan in his mind, mostly ignoring his coworkers because they don’t really know what they’re talking about anyway.
It’s only when he’s about to leave and Robby stops him that Park realizes what’s going on. Robby puts his hand on Brendon’s chest and lowers his voice. His tone is knowing and sympathetic, but he still has to say it. “You should head home, Dr. Park. I’ll page Torres for this.”
“What are you talking-”
“Look at Whitaker,” Robby murmurs. Park’s dark eyes flick over to Dennis, who’s in the corner with glassy eyes and pink cheeks. He’s clearly trying to focus on whatever Santos is talking about, but there’s a soft wobble to his lip and a flightiness in his eyes. Robby swallows hard and tells him seriously, “You stink, brother. If it’s affecting my doctors, you can’t be down here. Get to a pharmacy and schedule your leave.”
Park rolls his shoulders and nods. He has a hard time believing that one kiss from the right omega has hurtled him into the beginning of his rut, but it’s undeniable now. His heart rate is high and his brain is on alert and his stomach is growling for my carbs. God, he hates when Garcia’s right.
Brendon takes out his phone, shoots off an email to Torres and the other ortho surgeons, and mutters, “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. We gotta look out for each other.”
you: i missed you today :(( thought you’d come down for this super sexy femur break i had to call ortho for
brendon 🦈: Sorry, sweetheart. Robinavitch kicked me out of the ED during my first consult.
you: ooooh what did you do naughty boy?
brendon 🦈: Rut started for real. It was affecting omegas. Had to leave early.
you: oh
you: already?
brendon 🦈: What do you mean?
you: nothing. i guess you did smell pretty yummy yesterday
brendon 🦈: Yeah?
you: mhmm
you: are you gonna be able to work tomorrow before the weekend starts?
brendon 🦈: Yeah. Just picked up a rut delay pack at the pharmacy to buy myself a day or two. Scheduled my leave starting Monday.
you: me too
brendon 🦈: You too?
you: yeah
you: me too
You’re going to be into heat the next few days. The knowledge weighs heavily on Brendon’s mind, flooding around him like a pornographic haze tailored specifically to the part of his brain that the pill pack hasn’t yet started suppressing. Brendon’s whole body twitches with the desire to hop in his car and storm to your apartment and screw your brains out. Because he can’t have you, he wraps his hand around his cock and fucks his fist to sleep.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Three: For Good Luck
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: Your attention and affection rapidly soften Brendon into an alpha you think you could be with for real.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, loverboy park, lots of flirting and tension, pure fluff, picks up immediately after chapter two's cliffhanger don't worry guys
Content: nothing methinks
A/N: i just love writing this ,..,.,,. lowkey some of my best work i fear
Word Count: 4.1k
There’s one thing you know for certain when you see Brendon’s text: You have to one-up him. Otherwise, you’re going to absolutely melt and die when you hear his voice through your phone, leaving you to imagine every other detail for yourself. You can’t let him have that much power. Definitely not.
So you hit FaceTime.
Brendon’s at home, on his luxurious oversized bed, with one arm behind his head. And he’s shirtless. You can’t bear to imagine that he’s wearing something so scandalous as boxers or gray sweats on his lower half. He has late-night scruff that would burn so well against your inner thighs and his brow is cocked in amusement.
You prop your phone on the kitchen counter so you can keep cleaning up and ask before he has a chance to speak, “Why’d you ask me to call instead of texting back like a normal person?”
“I wanted to hear your voice,” he replies easily. At work, his tone is so direct and clear, a bright brass section that cuts through everything around it. At night, he sounds so rough and masculine, more the plucking upright bass that vibrates underneath it all, holding it together even if it isn’t obvious. “Why’d you FaceTime instead?”
“I wanted to see your face,” you reply in an identical tone. Then you lean forward onto the counter, propped on your elbows, and ask him seriously, “Why’d you want to hear my voice?”
“I like your voice,” he says, fast but sounding almost meek. Like it’s a secret. Trying desperately hard not to stare down the front of your shirt – he has a perfect view between your breasts right now; it’s downright unfair – Brendon smirks when he sees the mostly-empty second or third glass of wine you’ve downed. “How drunk are you right now?”
You challenge him with your eyes. “Only a little tipsy. Definitely still within all of my doctorly sensibilities.”
Something bristles in Park’s stomach, then. Your silly tone, your tiny outfit, your echoey apartment. He manages to keep his voice steady as he checks, “Are you alone?”
Missing his actual point, you nod and hum back, “Mhmm. No roommates or anything.”
His voice takes on a new gravelly quality, somewhere in the family of a snarl. The darkness isn’t directed at you but at the idea that there could be danger. “Are your doors locked?”
That gets your full attention as you head into the bedroom. “Hm? Yeah, why?”
Brendon’s quiet for a moment. He’s looking around your background as though he could come through your phone and be there by your side if he tried hard enough. His eyes return to center and, almost bashful, he tells you gently, “I don’t like the idea of you being home alone with the doors unlocked. Stupid alpha stuff.”
“Not stupid,” you’re quick to correct. A tender smile parts your lips as you flop down onto your bed, laying on your stomach with your feet up and swinging behind you. “Sweet. Really sweet. You’ll make an omega swoon someday.”
His lips twitch into a smirk at your ‘90s romcom posture. “It kinda looks like I’m making one swoon right now.”
You bat your eyes playfully at him and swear there’s a touch of pink on his chest. “Are you hitting on me, Brendon?”
“You sent me that cute little picture,” he cuts back right away, definitely still imagining the way your lips and tongue played with the batter on your fingers. Then he drops any pretense and relents with a shrug, “Of course I’m hitting on you. You’re…lovely.”
“Lovely?” You raise your eyebrows and giggle. Now there’s definitely some blush on his neck, creeping toward his cheeks. “That’s the first word to come to mind?”
Brendon groans and covers his head with his arm. “Cut me some slack; I’m not good at this stuff.”
But then you nudge, “What stuff would that be?”
“I just asked for some slack, sweetheart.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be nice.” You lower your voice and tell him pointedly, “But you called me sweetheart first, beefcake.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Never been called that before.”
“I seriously doubt that. You’re, like, made of pecs and biceps.”
His smile brightens to life, all preening and cute, and you can practically smell his scent blooming through your phone. “Gotta be able to crack those femurs, right?”
You nod seriously and drawl, “Mhmm, sure, that’s why alphas are always getting so buff.”
He pouts, mostly jokingly. “Please, I’ve been working out my whole life.”
“Garcia says you’ve been bulking lately,” you tease, all lilting and adorable.
You honestly make his stomach turn in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant. It’s like there’s a little bird trapped in his ribcage that debates taking flight every time you speak. He waves off the idea that there’s some reason he needs to get bigger lately. “Garcia’s just nosy.”
“Really?” You pepper in all your omega wiles, voice airy and soft, eyes wide and yearning. “I thought your arms looked huge today. Definitely bigger than usual.”
Brendon sits up even straighter and grins wider. He’s barely resisting the urge to flex for you just to hear you point out his muscles again. “You think so?”
All flirty and sexy, you offer, “Yeah, when we were in surgery together, your scrubs were fighting for their lives against those seams. Very distracting.”
“Oh, I’m distracting?” Brendon scoffs affectionately, “Meanwhile standing next to you is like being waterboarded by fruit salad.”
“Hey!”
“Shit, that made it sound unpleasant, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it did!”
Stifling his laughter, Brendon amends, “Standing next to you is like…” His eyes go far away for a moment as he sinks into the memory of your scent. “My grandmother made these candied cherries when I was a kid. Before she died. They’re different when you make them by hand. Not that syrupy stuff that comes in jars. It’s not just sweet. There’s still that sour bite. She’d add fresh-squeezed orange juice to amp up the tartness. And then she’d serve them over apple pie she made with Granny Smiths from the tree out back.” He sounds almost choked up. Like he’s still in that old tiled kitchen where his grandmother wiped her hand on her red gingham apron while letting him steal bites of sweets before dinner. While you’re watching him remember in breathless love, he murmurs, “I’ve never been able to find something that tastes exactly as good as that. Something that makes me feel all of the things I felt back then. Then I stood next to you. And it felt like home again.”
You go quiet. For a long time. Brendon’s certain he’s royally fucked up by being so vulnerable with you, to the point where he’s on the verge of backpedaling it. But then you sniffle a bit and whimper, “I don’t even know what to say. That’s the sweetest thing an alpha’s ever said about me.”
He shrugs modestly, his expression gentle. “It’s just true.
Feeling so overwhelmed with affection you might burst, you murmur the only thing you can manage to think amidst the haze of sweetness, “Your voice gets softer when you’re tired.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I was about to go to sleep when some cute omega sent me a picture I couldn’t ignore.”
You lilt, “Could’ve waited to respond until morning.”
With a scoff, Brendon teases, “And leave you spending the whole night freaking out?”
“I was not-”
He levels you with a gaze. “Cherry.”
“Okay, fine.” You roll your eyes and pout. “I would’ve been freaking out.”
His smile grows addictively. “Because you like me.”
You half-jokingly cover your camera and announce flatly, “I’m going to bed now.”
“I like you back,” he says like his life is on the line. Like it’s the only truth he’s ever known. “Don't go.”
You remove your hand slowly and he drowns in the glow of your growing smile. God, he wishes he could touch you. To feel the way the skin next to your eyes crinkles beneath his thumb. To know the exact way your heartbeat would speed up against his palm if he ran his hand across your chest, kissing his way along the tops of your shoulders from behind you, his other hand roaming lower over your stomach. To feel your pulse quicken underneath his tongue.
But all he can say is, “Stay with me a while. Stay with me until you’re ready to go to sleep.”
With your voice softer than he’s ever heard, you reply, “Okay. I will.” Then you give him a playful smirk and add, “But you have to close your eyes while I get ready. I’m an ugly goblin when I do my bedtime skincare.”
He huffs out a laugh, “I seriously doubt that.”
“Stay tuned, loverboy,” you giggle as you bring your phone to the bathroom and prop it up against your mirror. Brendon watches, borderline entranced, as you bend over the sink and wash your face, splashing water over your skin that drips down onto your silk camisole. You pat yourself dry and he makes a show of clamping his eyes shut when you catch him looking. You snicker and say, “That’s a good boy.”
While you apply some kind of goo from an eye dropper and then a thicker goo from a tub, something strange happens inside of Brendon. You talk to him easily as you moisturize, speaking easily about your life and peppering him with questions about his. All the while, he just…looks at you. His heart is untying decades of knots and his mind is carving out new synapses and sulci. Every new opening is filled with you. Somehow, even the imagining of your scent is enough to rend him from the inside out.
“Are you even listening to me anymore, Brendon?”
“Sorry, sorry, just…” His voice is as wondrous as his blue eyes. You could swim in those eyes, laze and drift along the crystal river of him while the sun revels on your face. And you could survive on nothing but his breath as he says, “You’re as pretty as ever.”
You give him a cute smile like an influencer, hands under your chin. “Thank you very much.” Then you look at him sternly and warn, “I wear a retainer to bed. If you ever make fun of me for that-”
He grins as you slot the plastic over your top teeth. “I swear I won’t, especially when I see you in bed again.”
“‘When,’” you reply, waggling your eyebrows at him. “What an ambitious man.”
“Always have been, always will be,” he replies. “Any other sleep rituals I need to know about before you can trust that I’m not gonna decide you’re a – what did you say? – a goblin?”
“I also sleep with the TV on.”
“Horror of horrors.”
“And I hog sheets.”
“I’m very difficult to hog from.”
“Because you’re just so big and strong?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“I’ll just have to use you as a blanket, then.”
“That works for me.”
Pause.
You both smile and stifle your laughs.
You snuggle up under your covers, plug your phone in, turn your TV on low, and arrange the pillows on your bed so you can prop your phone up across from you. He does the same, one arm beneath his head as he gazes at you. After a beat of looking at each other, you bite your lower lip and ask, speech adorably altered by your retainer, “Stay with me until I’m asleep?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs with an undeniable smile, “I’d like that.”
Your smile goes serene and calm as you close your eyes. The way you nestle into your blankets has him burning up with a phrase he saw on his sister’s social media one time: Cuteness aggression. He wants to curl you against his chest and crush you – but in, like, a very normal way. A way that makes his alpha instincts roll around and squirm under his skin.
After about fifteen minutes, he tsks at you and admonishes, “Stop opening your eyes to check that I’m still here and actually go to sleep.”
“Promise you’re not gonna hang up?”
“I promise.”
And when you wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, you see Brendon still on the call, softly snoring through the receiver, his face totally relaxed. His features are so soft when he’s asleep. Innocent, really. This isn’t Park the Shark. This is your alpha. And your alpha always keeps his promises.
As you tug on your scrubs, which definitely fit a bit tighter today around your breasts with the beginning of your preheat creeping in, your phone buzzes urgently on your bedside table. Something inside of you knows it’s Brendon without checking. So you hastily finish getting your clothes in order and snatch your phone into your hands, greedy for more of his attention even if you fell asleep with his eyes on you less than twelve hours ago.
brendon 🦈: Good morning, sweetheart. About to scrub in for a complex spinal reconstruction with several complicating factors. Major trauma in a patient with preexisting deformities. It’s going to take 10-12 hours if the team is fast. I wanted to let you know so that you wouldn’t think I was avoiding you or regretted our call last night. Park.
you: that’s really sweet!! thank you for thinking of me and my silly little feelings <3
you: you know you don’t have to text me like you’re sending a letter, jane austen
brendon 🦈: Right. Sure. Like I said, not good at this stuff.
brendon 🦈: Your feelings are never silly to me.
brendon 🦈: I’ll be able to take a half-hour stretch and food break sometime in the afternoon while the neurosurgeon corrects the upper spine damage in case we end up having some overlapping time.
you: even if we don’t, im gonna leave a whole bunch of brownies in the pitt lounge. come grab some!! if you don’t im gonna be really mean to you because you have to compliment me on them
brendon 🦈: Sold.
brendon 🦈: Don’t think I could handle you being mean to me after the whole ‘hey mister’ speech a while ago. That still haunts me.
you: i know i can be pretty brutal. that’s what everyone’s always saying about me
brendon 🦈: I don’t doubt it for a second.
brendon 🦈: Alright, time to scrub. Have a good day for me.
you: good luck in surgery, beefcake. you’ve got this.
It’s the first time Brendon Park has ever smiled while scrubbing in.
Everyone in the ED notices that you’re especially chipper this morning, your smile wide and your scent bright and your oversized container of brownies tempting everyone from the break room. Now that your suppressants are completely flushed from your system and you’re definitely in your pre-heat, you get to see just how ridiculous your alpha coworkers are firsthand. It’s rare that omegas with full-time jobs still go through natural cycles when they aren’t mated, so it’s equally rare for alphas to be exposed to them.
By lunch, you’ve already had Langdon bringing you coffee (a delicious sugary drink from the cafe next door, not the sad pot in the breakroom), Robby offering to let you take your breaks in his office so you can stretch out on his suede couch, and Abbot absently touching you about a thousand times. His hand briefly between your shoulders as he slides into a patient’s room behind you, his fingers brushing an eyelash from your cheek as if he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, his arm brushing against yours when you walk through the halls together. And – your favorite part – everyone keeps passing off pediatric cases to you and then watching you tenderly care for pups with this dark sort of sweetness in their eyes. Even your friends are being stupid, which is cute. Trinity readjusts your badge clip on your scrub top like it’s just an impulse. Garcia insists on opening doors for you and checking rooms before you go through their doors.
None of it is helping you stave off your heat, of course. All the extra doting and attention only has you blooming even more, the stir of your hormones becoming more visceral by the hour. Exactly when it’ll strike is unpredictable. That’s your big problem with oral suppressants vs. an implant. You have a rough timeline – a week of them leaving your body, a week of slight changes and nesting urges, a week of pre-heat, a week of heat – but it’s not an exact science. Stress, scents, and all sorts of factors can speed it up or slow it down without your control.
Honestly, it’s probably for the best that you and Brendon don’t have any contact today. It gives you a little time to cool down from all the happy chemicals last night caused. You can try to focus on your work, getting things wrapped up before-
Shoot. It’s about lunch time when you realize that you actually still have to do that. You walk up to Robby at the hub and get his attention by tugging his long-sleeve. “Hi, Dr. Robby, can we talk a sec? Really quick, I promise.”
He straightens up when he smells you, rolling his shoulders as his mind automatically supplies what this must be about. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to get my, um, my leave on the schedule,” you tell him sheepishly. Yes, you’re absolutely entitled to it under the Biological Orientation Non-Discrimination act, but there’s still a certain level of awkwardness in telling your boss that you need a full work week off to fantasize about being bred by a hunky orthopedic surgeon you both work with regularly. Not that he needs to know that particular part. Still, you clear your throat and say, “I think I’ll need to start about five to seven days from now.”
Robby nods and takes his work phone from his pocket to open up the shared ED shift calendar. “No problem. I’ll make sure we have extra coverage starting in four. Just in case you need to head out early. Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”
You shrug as warmth rises in your cheeks despite trying to act totally nonchalant. “Um, usually no more than five days. But, um, I have a feeling that it might be, like, kind of, ah, intense this time.”
“Got it.” He types in some notes and gives you an affirming smile. “I’m sure we’ll be in shambles without you, but make sure you take care of yourself first and foremost.”
You give him a joking little salute. “Will do, cap.”
He does one back and nudges you on the shoulder. “Get back to work.”
“It’s time for my lunch, actually. I’ll see you later.”
He waves you off and returns to his charts. “Have fun; be nice to the other kids.”
“Always.”
You make your way across the floor to the doctors’ lounge, but Trinity intercepts you before you get there, tugging you to the side. She slaps you on the arm and hisses, “Cherry, look.”
You follow her not-so-subtle point with your eyes toward the breakroom, where Brendon is holding one brownie in his right hand and two in his left as he ducks out toward the elevator. You pinch your eyebrows together and scoff, “So what? Hungry pre-rut alpha eats baked goods. Not exactly an award-winning headline, Trin.”
“Not that.” She smacks your arm again and you yelp quietly to tell her to stop. “He took the note you left on the container. The one with all the little hearts on it.”
With your heart fluttering, you reason, “Maybe he grabbed it on accident.”
“No way; he put it in his pocket.”
Melting all the way to the wick, you ask, “Why do you think he would do that?”
“Probably because he didn’t like the idea of anyone else having it,” she practically squeals. You haven’t had time to tell her all about the call last night, so you’re toying with her. Just a bit. It’s adorable having her so invested. She grins and says, “This is good. Really good.”
“Is it?”
She gives you a ‘told you so’ type of look. “He might as well have written ‘Property of Shark’ on your forehead.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” She snatches your hand and beelines for the elevator. Then, before you can protest or even laugh at her, she pushes you into the car the moment Brendon gets into it.
As you nearly collide with his chest, you realize he already has a mouth full of a fourth brownie beyond the ones in his hands. He swallows hard, gives you a sheepish glance, and stammers, “Hi, sweetheart. I’m, ah, I’m just heading back up to surgery but I needed to get some calories first.”
“A thousand calories of baked goods,” you observe, amused, as the elevator doors slide shut and trap the two of you together. “Perfect for when you need a sugar crash mid-spinal-fusion.”
He laughs, embarrassed, and the surprised sound is so cute you nearly explode. “I have some protein up in my office, promise. I was gonna save these for later.”
“Mhmm, sure.” You nudge him with your hip and say, “I brought a special box just for you. I was gonna run it up to your office before I left to surprise you.”
His lips perk up into a smile. “Just for me, huh?”
Sing-songy, you tell him, “Left you a little love note and everything.”
“Oh?”
Then you poke him in the bicep and tease, “But I guess you already took my love note for my coworkers.”
“Caught in the act,” he mutters. Then he shrugs and just tells you the truth: “I, ah, I don’t really know why I took it. Felt like kind of a good luck charm. Back half of this surgery’s a real beast.”
The elevator doors open and you follow him toward his office, whispering as you pass nurses and doctors, “Cutie.”
He fake pouts, stopping just shy of his office and leaning against the wall. “Am not.”
But you smile and nod and prod, “Are too.”
Suddenly, you (dramatically, maybe a touch silly) steal a glance in either direction and tug him a bit out of the way even though nobody’s looking. Before he can ask what you’re doing, you stand on your toes and press your lips to his cheek. Firm and fierce. His breaths go shallow – and then he forgets how to breathe altogether when you place another kiss a bit higher up, right where his cheekbone meets his hairline. His eyes close and he takes in a deep draw of your scent through his nose, its sweet cherry and tart citrus. You’re flooding him with it on purpose, he can tell, and it’s soothing him to his core. His hands steady at his sides. His heart rate is even. He feels strong and sharp and powerful. Like an alpha. All because of you.
Finally, you gently kiss near his ear, where the very top of his jawbone clenches down with a new kind of lust, and murmur against his skin, “For good luck, Shark.”
He turns his head and catches your eyes. Your foreheads are nearly touching. “Thank you.”
“Not that you need it,” you add, kissing the tip of his nose now to make him shake his head and laugh. You put on an infomercial tone and say, “Park the Shark is the best orthopedic sports medicine surgeon on the eastern seaboard.”
Softening somehow, he smiles and searches your expression. “What about when I’m just Brendon?”
You lower your voice and let it go natural again, soft and flirtatious. “Just Brendon is my favorite.”
“Your favorite what?”
Reaching up, you brush your fingers through the fine hair on the side of his head. He’s due for a trim, you think, and you wonder what it would be like to cut it for him. If he’d like that. By the way he nuzzles into your touch, you bet he would. So you tell him simply, “My favorite.”
As his cheeks flush bright pink, he laughs quietly under his breath and whispers, “Gotcha.”
You give him a gentle shove to his bicep and order, “Go eat your protein and get back to saving lives, Just Brendon. I’ll see you soon.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“I know so.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Two: Standing Offer
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: While your friends meddle and your nesting urges start, Park keeps finding himself drawn to you as you start to smell better and better.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, flirting, sexual tension, silly goofy times, is it even an rrad fic if langdon doesnt catch strays??
Content: canon-typical medical content, medical inaccuracies to an offensive degree i assume
A/N: im actually too lazy to make smau pics for the texts bc these convos are too long uwu
Word Count: 7.3k
santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?
When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.
See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.
So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.
Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.
So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.
In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”
Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”
Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”
He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”
“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”
Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”
He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”
“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”
His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”
Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”
“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”
She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”
Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.
Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.
As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.
“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”
“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”
“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”
You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”
Then Lagndon’s scent flares.
Intentionally.
Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.
You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”
Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”
Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”
“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”
“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”
“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”
Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”
You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”
Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”
“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”
You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.
Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”
“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”
“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”
Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”
Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”
Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”
Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”
After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”
To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”
Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”
Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”
Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”
Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”
Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.
Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”
“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”
You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”
Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”
“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”
“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”
As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”
“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”
You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.
Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”
Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.
Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”
Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”
“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”
Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”
He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”
She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”
Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”
You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”
“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”
Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.
Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”
“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”
But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”
“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”
“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”
“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”
“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”
“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”
As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”
Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”
“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”
Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”
“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”
You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.
Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.
You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”
Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”
“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”
When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”
Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”
Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”
“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”
Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”
There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”
Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”
Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”
He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”
Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.
You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))
While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”
“Shit, seriously?”
Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”
“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”
Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.
“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”
Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.
Your heart climbs into your throat.
Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”
You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.
“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”
Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”
“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”
Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”
After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.
“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”
“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”
Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”
You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”
He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”
“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”
You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”
Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”
“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.
He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”
“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”
He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”
You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”
Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”
“Why not?”
“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”
“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”
His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”
“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”
With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”
“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”
“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”
He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”
You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”
That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.
you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’
denny: i think that’s good!!
yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible
trin: omegas are fucking useless
trin: you should send something slutty
you: no i definitely shouldnt
you: what should i say instead??
trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY
trin: SEND A SLICK PIC
you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity
trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU
you: not like literally right now!!!
trin: WHY NOT
you: BECAUSE
yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe
you: not you too
denny: yeah you guys don’t get it
denny: this is about forever not just sex
you: that’s what im saying
trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking
yoyo: exactly
trin: exactly
denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy”
you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight
trin: nonono come on cherry
trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate
trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point
you: you really think so?
trin: yeah i do
yoyo: agreed
yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it
denny: just be your nice pretty self :))
you: you’re so cute den ily
denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७
you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ
denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა
you: ₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥ ̞ ̥ᐢ₎
trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner
trin: lmo (love my omegas)
you: im taken
yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap
you: GOODNIGHT
You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.
So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.
you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective
you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better
you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite
dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you.
dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies.
dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy.
you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey?
dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece.
you: me too!!
dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces?
you: ill bring them to pitt vultures
Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.
With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.
denny: you sent that to park???????
you: do you think it’s too much?
trin: OH MY GOD
trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE
trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!!
denny: not too much! im just surprised <33
denny: you look super cute
yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that
yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man
trin: careful garcia ill get jealous
trin: im so proud of you slut
denny: are you gonna bring some to work??
trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY
trin: but yeah actually
you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!
While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your messages nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.
Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter One: Mulled Wine
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: You've known that harsh, frustrating Dr. Park is your fated mate for months, a fact you've been able to keep to yourself thanks to your suppressants. Then he shows you a rare moment of human kindness. And catches your scent. And things feel very, very different.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, kind of enemies to lovers, trinity santos is a meddler, everyone is confused about their feelings
Content: canon-typical medical content, park is an ass (not to reader)
A/N: thank you to do the anon who dropped several fated mates asks when i requested park omegaverse ideas! ill be taking a variety of your thoughts for this series so thank you very much. oops writing another series when i have ten unfinished ones ahaha!!! nothing's real
Word Count: 4.4k
Six months ago, your world stopped in the middle of the Pitt during a random Tuesday shift.
You’d joined the ED only a few weeks prior, a transfer from the VA after Jack Abbot, who’d been your patient, recommended you join him at his hospital. He said it was not only a better environment for omegas but that you’d have more opportunities to find your niche during your residency. You wanted to find a surgical fellowship after your residency, and putting in hours in an emergency department would let you log some OR time if you played your cards right.
That day, you'd helped triage the worst broken femur you’d ever seen from an insane football injury and paged for an ortho consult. Dr. Brendon Park came downstairs within minutes; his sub-specialty in sports injuries had him as the first line of defense.
When he pushed through the door, a thick cloud of clove and amber filled your nostrils.
Your pupils dilated. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, your chest, your stomach, your everywhere. Yes, everywhere. The world reoriented and you knew something for certain for the first time in your life: Brendon Park is your mate. Fated. Something rare and special and sacred, even among medical professionals who write it off as a medical phenomenon.
This was supposed to be the most important moment of your entire life. A moment that makes an omega’s knees weak and their world restart for the better. The two of you were supposed to leave the room enamored with each other, ready to explore the possibilities of your life together.
There were two problems with this new reality of yours.
You had been on scent blockers for nearly a decade, which made you unrecognizable to him, and,
Dr. Brendon Park is a big, huge, massive, planetary fucking asshole
“He’s the most stereotypical alpha I’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering. Always peacocking around scenting all over everybody and grinding to be ‘The Top-Rated Orthopedic Surgeon on the East Coast Three Years Running,’” Trinity sneers, doing a decent impression of him as she walks out of yet another awful consult with Park the Shark, snapping off her gloves and punting them in the trash. “You know I had a dream about clocking him in the jaw the other night after we had to work on that hand amputation together?”
Next to you, Whitaker says, sounding almost wistful, “You should try it for all of us omegas who can’t stand him. At least it would give us some entertainment.”
You nod along as you peck away at your chart. It’s a major point of frustration for you; Park is so annoying you want to swat him like a fly, but something in your biology stops you from bad-mouthing him when you can still smell him lingering in the ED. You hate the fact that you get tongue-tied whenever he comes up, the thought of his autumnal scent like a warm, addictive blanket around your shoulders.
Trinity leans over the desk and waves her hand in your face. “Earth to cherry,” she teases, using the nickname based on your scent the way affectionate alphas do to their omega friends, “I’m being mean about Park; don’t you want to pile on while I’m still pissed?”
“Um, not today,” you try weakly, catching Park’s bulky frame talking with Robby in the corner of your eye. “I need to, ah, to get to-” Thankfully, an ambulance rolls into the bay before you have to come up with some lame excuse to duck out of the conversation and away from Park’s smell. You nod toward it and say, “That’s my ride. See you later, guys.”
As you jog over to the EMTs as they unload a crying, embarrassed, upset teenage boy, Park watches you carefully, his subconscious making sure you get to your destination safely. He’s always liked you more than the other ED residents who always find some way to piss him off. The only doctor he fully respects down in this hellhole is Abbot and Abbot chose you personally, which automatically gave you some cred in Park’s mind, but it’s more than that. It’s something in the way you speak, maybe, or how you hold yourself around patients. He can’t quite place his thumb on it, but you’re just better than the rest of your class.
After an hour of waiting on imaging and taking a thorough history for the teenage athlete with his shattered knee, you reluctantly page for an orthopedic surgery consult – and brace yourself when it’s Park who returns it right away. You half-jokingly warn the family, “The surgeon who’s coming down gets called Shark by everyone in the emergency department, but don’t let his whole thing scare you. He’s one of the best sports medicine surgeons on the eastern seaboard; you’ll be in great hands.”
Your patient’s mom smiles and gives your forearm a gentle touch. “Thank you, doctor. I’m glad to hear that.”
As usual, Park walks into the room already talking. “Saw you bringing in a kid from an ambulance earlier; what have we got going on here?”
“This is Franklin Murray, but he goes by Frankie.” You give the kid a warm, affirming smile as he stares nervously at the hulking doctor who’s just come in, his alpha scent stinking up the room and making all of you feel small, even Garcia as she stands in the corner. “Fifteen, male, no secondary sex yet. He came to the ED today via ambulance with both parents showing a traumatic fracture to the patella with ACL and meniscus involvement due to an accident at a track meet. After thorough evaluation, I’m guessing the next course of-”
“You’re guessing?” Park grunts as he tugs on his gloves and starts to roughly maneuver the poor kid’s swollen knee around. Through Frankie’s winces and yelps, Park chastises you, “I don’t like the sound of that. Try again.”
You bite your tongue and grimace. “The likely course of treatment would be either open reduction and internal fixation or arthroscopic repair of the tendons with stabilization of the kneecap, but I’m not the orthopedic surgeon here, thus the consult.”
“Good work on these fixes,” he murmurs, almost under his breath, like he doesn't want to give you any praise. But it makes your traitorous heart flutter anyway. Park shakes his head out and snatches the X-Ray machine over, flipping through the scans with that familiar intensity on his face. You can always imagine, far too clearly for your ongoing sanity, what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of a look like that while he drills into you, reckless and sweating, giving you exactly what you need. It’s exhausting. While you swallow hard and avert your eyes, Park gives Frankie a stern expression and informs him, “Kid, you’re not gonna be running on this leg anymore. Time to buckle down on your school work to diversify your options.”
Your mouth falls open as Mrs. Murray chokes out, “Are you serious? You really believe it’s that catastrophic of an injury?”
Arms crossed over your chest, you glare daggers at Park and say to the room before he can, “Actually, Dr. Park is the one who’s guessing now. He can assess the severity of the injury and perform the right surgery to repair it, but he definitely can’t see into the future when it comes to healing, rehabilitation, and physical therapy.”
Park gives you a flat not-smile and tells Mrs. Murray, “Twelve years in orthopedics with a specialization in sports injuries; I know what a long-term disability looks like when I see it.” While you debate how unprofessional it would be to jump on his back and bang some sense into his thick skull with your fists, he glances at Garcia and says, “Get him prepped. I’ll have my team prepare Surgery Three. Come find me when we’re ready to scrub.”
Garcia nods. “Of course, Dr. Park.”
As Park leaves the room without another word, you turn to Frankie and his parents, all of whom now have tears in their eyes because of that stupid-ass alpha, and tell them, “Look, Frankie, you’re not gonna run for the rest of this season, but that definitely doesn’t mean you’ll never run again. Stay positive and focus on following your post-op instructions to a tee, okay? I’ve seen athletes come back from much worse than this and there are actually a lot of studies that show a positive outlook can improve outcomes during recovery, so keep your chin up. For me. Promise?”
Frankie gives you a weak smile, sniffles, and nods.
“Okay, good. I’ll be the first one to check on you after your surgery. I’ll introduce you to our awesome rehab team – they’re so amazing, I promise – and we’ll get you on the right schedule to get you back on track – and on the track. Good?”
Mrs. Murray pulls you into a hug. The gentleness of getting a hug from another omega always makes you feel light and soft. The feeling only doubles when she pulls away and says, “You’ve been so great during all of this, thank you.”
“That means the world to me.” You assure one more time, “We’re all going to make sure he gets the best care possible. You and your husband can wait here at the hospital in one of our family lounges or you can ask reception to give you a call when he’s coming out of anesthesia. Either way, I’ll see you later this evening.”
Then you give all of them another professional smile, walk confidently and slowly out of the room – and then absolutely book it toward the elevator when you spot Park about to successfully escape back upstairs.
“Hey, mister, you stop right there!” You snatch Park by the arm (using your rage to ignore the part of your brain that notices how large and firm his bicep is) and try to drag him away from the elevator toward the nearest corner where you can have him partially alone. After letting you struggle to move his massive form for a second or two, he goes along with you. He doesn’t speak, just gives you one of those ‘get on with it’ looks of his. You furrow your brows, set your jaw cruelly, and shove your finger hard into his broad chest. “You absolutely cannot talk to patients like that. You crushed his dreams without even caring and that’s not acceptable. He’s just a kid!”
“He’s fifteen,” Park scoffs back. “It’s time for him to start learning the ropes of the real world.” Then he laughs, sounding a bit condescending for your taste, and puts his big hand on your shoulder, “And that’s doctor mister, pup.”
The word makes you do a double take. Calling another adult that is so overtly intimate – almost familial – that it has absolutely no place at work. If someone overheard it, they’d assume you were married. Or they’d report him. And, honestly, it’s a spear straight through your resolve to resist him.
A tiny whimper escapes your lips without your permission and you have to pinch your thighs together to attempt to convince yourself not to get all slick when you don’t have a panty liner on. With your eyes shamefully averted, tears stinging them and face burning hot because you’re so embarrassed you whisper, “You can’t call me that when you’re not- when we’re not-”
“I’m sorry,” he replies, earnest, urgent. Regret floods his body; he knows exactly what kind of effect sudden intimacy like that could have on an omega. He cups your cheek, forcing you to look up, but he’s sure to drop his hand away as soon as he has your eyes. You can still feel the strength of his smooth skin on yours when it’s gone and you miss it immediately. You’ve never noticed how pretty his blue eyes are when they’re focused solely on you. “I- I honestly don’t know why I said that. I’ve never called someone – anyone, not even girlfriends – that before.” He tilts his head to the side and searches your face like there’s a mirror in your eyes and maybe he can understand himself by looking into them. After a minute of tense silence, he mutters, “I know I’m…me. I know how people talk about me and they’re not wrong. But I’m not a sexist. I’m not someone who ever questions omegas being doctors or treats them any different than the idiot alphas I work with and- Sorry. Genuinely sorry. I really don’t know what came over me.”
Suddenly unable to stop himself, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, almost like a stress ball, and goes on quickly, like the words are just tumbling out of him, “You’re an incredibly competent doctor and I appreciate that you don’t just fold to me the way a lot of people do. It makes me a better physician when you challenge me. I know I could, ah, work on my bedside manner. If it matters to you, I’ll go back to Frankie and his parents and apologize before his surgery, alright? You’re right; he’s- he’s just a kid. Hasn’t even presented yet. He doesn’t need me talking to him like that when he’s already scared shitless. You’re a kind doctor and a good hire and you shouldn’t ever doubt yourself.” With his voice now shaking slightly – that’s new to him, very new – Park finishes, “I hope you can forgive me. For- for saying that just now and for being a dick. I promise I’ll be better for you.”
For you.
It slips out.
He doesn’t know why.
But he doesn’t apologize for that one.
You study him for another moment, smelling the subtle change to his scent. It’s lighter and sweeter now, more like warm cinnamon instead of harsh clove, and you’re officially a little drunk on it when it’s served up with a side of him actually showing you some vulnerability and care. Without overthinking it, you throw your arms around the back of his neck and murmur, “I forgive you. Thank you for saying all that. It matters, I promise.”
For one split second, he can write it off as normal omega sweetness, the same way he does when his nurses hug him after a successful procedure. He knows how to respond to those hugs. Hands briefly on the upper back, posture tall but open, a professional compliment exchanged. But then his nose makes brief, soft contact with the scent gland on your neck.
There’s only so much scent blockers can do.
They can’t stop someone from smelling your pheromones directly above your skin, especially at the strongest gland on your body. Crisp green apple and nectarine and cherry, the exact sorts of fruits that marry well with cinnamon and cloves. The two of you are a mulled wine slowly simmering over a fire, the rich steam filling a small space with its intoxicating aroma.
Brendon’s cells rearrange. His heartbeat speeds up and his veins are suddenly full of something sweet and syrupy. His eyes flutter shut and he softly noses your neck, the tiny gesture completely instinctual, a quiet, barely-audible moan coming from somewhere deep inside of him. Somewhere completely foreign. He pulls in a deep breath and lets you coat his throat and lungs. When you feel the bridge of his nose touch your jaw, you gasp softly.
Brendon’s right hand slides down your spine slowly, resting at the small of your back, pulling you close against him with a campfire rumble in his chest. His other hand goes to the back of your head, protective, intense, and you twine your fingers in the soft hair at the base of his neck, loose and slightly curled after a day of surgeries. Your nails scratch his scalp softly, right at the edge of his scruff, and he shivers. You roll onto your tiptoes and bare your neck more, thoughtless, pressing your chest to his and falling into the dream of having a mate who adores you completely. Who holds you like this. You sink into the intimacy of the moment and he does, too, both of your bodies molding to the other.
Time ticks by in slow motion. Neither of you have any clue how long the embrace lasts, but you’re pretty sure you could stay safe and cocooned inside of it forever. This is what everyone’s talking about; it has to be.
Then Garcia clears her throat behind Brendon and quietly says, “Um, Dr. Park? Sorry to, ah, interrupt, but I finished with Frankie’s prep; it’s time to take him in for the surgery.”
Brendon pulls away as quickly as possible, eyes blown wide and dark. Pure shock rolling over him in waves. It takes herculean force to stop looking at you. At his mate. He tightens his jaw. Rolls his shoulders. “I’ll, ah, I’ll see you around.” He has to swallow hard and breathe slowly, focusing on Garcia’s and Santos’ nearby scents, to get his cock to soften. Before turning around, he murmurs seriously to you, “Thank you for your understanding. Sorry again.”
You whisper breathlessly, “It’s okay.”
Brendon gives you one more curious, scrutinizing look – Did you feel what he just felt? Does his scent make you go wild like that? Does this mean something? – before turning around and heading with Garcia toward the surgical wing.
Materializing behind you after following Garcia around like a stray, Trinity balks, “What in the holy hell shit fuck was that?”
“I, ah, I- He- He apologized to me. For being mean to my patient,” you rush out to try to explain the truly bizarre scene she’d walked in on. Oh, fuck, your panties are ruined. Your head is pounding and blood whooshes loud and fast in your ears. Blinking fast as your pupils adjust to the lights after being so wide, you awkwardly stammer out, “Um, I have to tell you something, Trin, because if I don’t talk about it with someone I think I’m going to die.”
Back at Santos’ and Whitaker’s shared apartment that evening, Dennis’ jaw has gone slack as he leans forward over his Chinese food and clarifies, “Park the goddamn Shark is your fated mate? How did you- When did you-”
“The first time I met him,” you admit sheepishly as you push your food around your plate. “I could tell right away. Clearly he doesn’t use any suppressants or blockers; it’s completely and totally overwhelming. The first few months, I could hardly think around him until I got used to it.”
Trinity’s eyebrows go up. “Overwhelming? Park? I barely know what he smells like.”
“Yeah, because you’re an alpha.” Whitaker rolls his eyes and then gives you a sympathetic half-smile. “Park does smell really strong. I mean, not as strong as Robby, but-”
It’s your turn to question, “Robby? I can barely smell him at all. What is it…menthol?”
“Peppermint,” Dennis sighs wistfully. “And a little bit of this kind of cold smell I can’t place. Like that Dentyne ice gum with the crystals in it.”
Trinity hangs her head and groans, “I need more non-omega friends; this is brutal.”
Whitaker shushes her and asks you, “How have you been doing it all this time? I just have a crush on Robby and working with him every day makes me want to vomit.”
“It helped a lot that he was always a dick to me,” you reply with a heavy sigh. “Now that he’s all ‘I promise I’ll be better for you’ I just- I’m fucked.”
Dennis whispers like he’s watching a rom-com, “He said that?”
“Yeah, he did.” You flop back on the couch, your appetite dying. Then you throw your arm over your forehead and groan, “And my breakthrough heat is scheduled for next month, of course, because I have the worst luck in the world.”
Whitaker stares at you like you’re absolutely bonkers. “Why haven’t you switched to the implant for your suppressants? The technology’s been available for years now. I haven’t had a heat since before med school.”
“I had one for a year, but the side effects were too strong for me. I guess that makes sense. My secondary hormone levels have always been through the roof. Hard to suppress.”
“You should have a blood panel done,” Trinity adds, “the hormones behind the whole ‘fated mates’ legend can cause-”
“Trinity, please. I’m also a doctor. I know.”
She raises her hands up in defeat. “Well, are you at least certain that you have enough time off planned for when you take the placebo pills? I know I helped you out on your breakthrough heat last year, but now I have-”
Whitaker leaps off the couch. “What?!”
Trinity yanks him back onto the cushion. “It’s not a big deal, huckleberry, that’s something friends do if they need to. Don’t be such a prude.” Then, exasperated, she returns her attention to you. “Like I was saying, it’s gonna be way worse now that you know your mate’s just out and about in the hospital. Now that you know what he smells like. You have to tell him.”
“No. Not an option. I can’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s not like you can avoid it forever.” When you frown, she narrows her eyes at you and gestures like ‘duh,’ “Y’know, it’s fate.”
“I’ve been doing a great job avoiding it until today! And you said yourself that’s a myth! We absolutely can avoid…what do they call it now to make it sound all serious?”
“Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response,” Dennis says with dramatic, sarcastic air quotes. “Like it’s some disease and not a normal part of evolution.”
“I mean,” Trinity treads carefully, “it is kind of a disease, if you think about it.” She looks to you for confirmation, offering, “Like, something’s happening to you that you can’t control, and it’s because of your hormones, and you don’t want it to be happening. We treat endocrine disorders, right? How is EMPR any different?”
A bit tentatively, you reply, “Who said I don’t want it?”
“You, just now.” Trinity shrugs and says, “You said you don’t want Brendon. So wouldn’t you rather be – sorry for phrasing it like this, but I’m sure you get what I mean – a normal omega? Den can just go around having crushes and once him and an alpha click, they get to choose who to mate with. Isn’t that how it should be? Your body’s doing something to get in the way.”
“Well, yeah, I guess if you say it like that, but-” You gesture around dramatically, trying to make sense of your own thoughts while your friends look on in pity. It doesn’t even make sense to you, not really, which is part of the problem. You’re doctors; you want to be able to sort everything into neat boxes, but there are always exceptions. Some of those exceptions are diseases, some of them are normal variations, some of them are advantages. They all just are and it’s up to your field to decide which category they fit into. So you tell them the truth: “Look, when I hugged him today after he showed me a different side of him, that’s- It was- Jesus, honestly, it’s the best I’ve felt in my entire life. Seriously. I felt so safe and so comfortable and, yeah, okay, so turned on. But it definitely didn’t feel like something was wrong and that’s definitely not a feeling I’d medicate away. I've never felt anything like it.”
She pushes, “Even if that feeling is entirely dependent on proximity to Park the Shark?”
After a minute of quiet, tears sting at your eyes. You’ve never felt so confused. You whimper out, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Oh, cherry.” Trinity scooches closer and wraps her arms around you. She lets her scent flare in an attempt to comfort you, but all it does is make you long for the way it felt when Brendon’s scent finally fell into place with yours. Still, you nestle into the nook of her neck and try to breathe deeply and let your nervous system calm down. “We can figure this out. The three of us – well, us two, at least – are plenty capable of dealing with something as simple as hormones, right? We’ve got, like, two decades of medical training between us -- and Garcia, too, who I’m sure would help out if I asked.”
You pull back and swat tears off your cheek. You feel pathetic and silly and sad all at once. “Help with what?”
Trinity takes out her phone, already scheming. “When’s your heat, sweetheart?”
Still sniffling while Dennis tries to follow what the hell is happening, you take out your phone and open the tracking app. “I start my month of placebo pills tomorrow, so just about four weeks.”
With a tight nod, she says, “That means Shark’s gonna start smelling you like crazy this week while the suppressants leave your system.”
“Fuck, I hadn’t even thought of that,” you groan, pacing around the apartment and debating the merits of hiding under a rock for the next six weeks. “I’ve never had to do this with my mate just walking around all the time. The rest of you stupid alphas won’t even pick it up until the last week before my heat starts. I’m supposed to be-”
“Okay, time to end the spiral,” Whitaker interrupts, standing up and steadying you with hands on your shoulders. “Trinity’s right. We’ll figure this out.”
“I texted Garcia and she’s down,” Trinity replies, trying to sound encouraging. “For the next couple weeks, we run recon on Park. There’s no way he’s ‘the Shark’ 24/7, right? He’s gotta be some semblance of normal underneath all that. We’ll get enough details for you to decide if you can, y’know, invite him to, ah, to do your whole heat thing with you this time or if you need more time to, ah, to trust him with your- with your precious-”
Finally, that makes you laugh. “Are you blushing?”
Definitely turning red, she practically shrieks, “It’s weird to think about!”
You howl, “We’ve literally had sex before.”
“That doesn’t count; we were both-”
“Doesn’t count?” Trying desperately hard to keep a straight face through the laughter, you tell her with a pout, “You’re hurting my feelings here, rosemary.”
“I’m just saying; this is Park we’re talking about. Picturing him all knotted up in your sweet little nest is like-” She shakes her head like the concept is truly revolting. “Not trying to yuck your yum, but…yuck.” Then she forces a smile and adds, “But, hey, if it doesn’t work out, well, you always have dildos.”
A little softer now, you sigh, “Dildos don’t make me feel like he does.”
“Maybe if we added a good vibrator too it could get you there?”
♡ 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.
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 not like an Abercrombie model but 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 a 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 under 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 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 your 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 flesh.
“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.”
Summary: You’re in the last year of your PhD program at Carnegie Mellon, conducting research at PTMC. You don’t have time to be distracted, certainly not by a handsome orthopedic surgeon with an attitude problem.
WC: 2,708
A/N: set seven years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); fem reader; possible medical/probable computer science inaccuracies (contrary to what your local Karen thinks, Google is not a replacement for an actual degree); you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; mild d/s undertones if you squint and look upside down; Abbot cameo because I’m weak for that old man
—————————————————
The first time you meet Brendon Park, you’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet with your laptop on your knees, a screwdriver between your teeth, and your head half-buried behind an open control-panel. There’s papers scattered next to you and a granola bar discarded by your feet. When the closet door opens, you jump like a startled raccoon caught raiding a trash bin.
“What the fuck?”
The man in the doorway freezes when he sees you, and you scramble to take the screwdriver out of your mouth and offer a timid smile.
“Um…hi?”
He does not smile back.
In fact, the man who just walked into your temporary work space doesn’t look like he smiles much at all. His startlingly blue eyes glint like ice as he stares you down, and his perfect Cupid’s bow is curled by the start of a sneer. His dark hair is gelled back from the harsh lines of his face, and his tall form is corded with muscles his scrubs do nothing to hide. Everything about him screams precision and control, and he looks at your poorly contained chaos the way other people look at particularly ugly bugs.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is low, sharp. The voice of someone used to being obeyed. You feel heat stain your cheeks.
“I’m uh, there wasn’t-, I didn’t want to-”
His arctic eyes narrow, and you wince.
“The room I was assigned to got double-booked,” you manage, pleased with yourself for getting out a complete sentence this time.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re squatting in here.”
“It has an Ethernet port?”
He holds your gaze for another moment before dropping his eyes to the visitor badge clipped to your shirt. It says your name, followed by “Carnegie Mellon University” and then “IT Consultant.” A little bit of the suspicion leaves his expression when he realizes you’re at least allowed to be in the hospital, if not this particular closet.
“You work for CMU?”
“Kind of? I’m in my last year of grad school.”
He says nothing, and you hurriedly continue.
“I’m in computer science. My dissertation deals with healthcare systems, and PTMC is a teaching hospital-, which you already know, sorry, and they work a lot with CMU. Which, you probably also already know sorry, but I’m working on my model here, and the room I was supposed to be in got double-booked, but I already told you that so sor-”
“Stop apologizing.”
“Sorry,” you blurt instinctively.
He levels you with a deeply unimpressed look, which is why you’re shocked when he asks you-
“What’s your dissertation title?”
“Oh, uh, it’s-, well it deals with healthcare systems and how to improve them-”
“I’m not a computer engineer, but I’m also not a fucking idiot. Give me the real title.”
“I’m s-”
He arches one dark eyebrow. It’s arrogant, almost condescending, but it makes your pulse do something embarrassing.
“-not sorry,”you amend. “My working title right now is: Hybrid Model-Predictive and Machine Learning Approaches for Adaptive Patient Flow Control.”
He’s silent for a moment, gaze calculating.
“How does your model account for unique versus overlapping variation caused by the nonlinear rotation of personnel on care teams?”
This time it’s your turn to stare. Most people kind of short-circuit when you start explaining what it is you actually study. This man not only clearly understands what you’re talking about, but he just asked you a surprisingly perceptive question. He must sense your surprise, because he snorts and says:
“I told you I’m not a fucking idiot.”
He’s still staring at you like you’re a bug under a microscope, but the rigid line of his back has relaxed a bit, and he no longer looks like he might bodily drag you out of the supply closet. In fact, you think he might even look…amused. Your heart gives another embarrassing stutter, and you hurry to answer his question.
You don’t know how long the two of you stay like that — him taking up the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, and you sitting on the floor with your screwdriver and notes and granola bar. All you know is that he’s listening, really listening, while you ramble on and on about your project. He nods when appropriate, asks astute questions, and then seems to genuinely care about the answer. When your long-winded speech finally peters out, he cocks his head.
On anyone else, the movement would convey curiosity, maybe deep thought. On him though, it looks like a predator considering prey. The thought should not make heat curl in your belly, but it does.
“Do you want an actual desk to work at?” he finally asks.
You blink twice.
“I don’t need one, I’m okay staying here-”
“That’s not what I asked.”
That tone again. The one that makes it clear he’s used to being in charge and expects obedience. It makes something in you sit up straighter.
“An actual desk would be nice,” you admit.
He nods once, as if in approval.
“Good.”
Your brain blue screens for a second. It was a completely innocent word, spoken in a completely innocent context. At least that’’s what you tell yourself as the part of you that likes his commanding tone decides it really likes when that command is shadowed with a hint of approval. He’s pleased with you that part of you whispers, and you feel your cheeks go nuclear. You’re a grown woman who’s a few months away from completing her doctorate in computer engineering. You should not care if a random, kind of rude, kind of overbearing stranger in a hospital is pleased with you. But you do, and to your absolute horror, he seems to know it, too.
The corner of his mouth crooks up in the smallest, yet somehow smuggest, smirk you’ve ever seen.
“You’re terrible,” you blurt out.
Two things happen at once. First, you physically recoil, appalled by your own words. You hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but apparently your self-control vanished somewhere along with your dignity. Second, far from being offended, he looks pleased. The ghost of a smirk becomes an actual grin. Granted, it’s a small one, still somewhat mocking and entirely too self-satisfied, but it’s a grin. One that only emphasizes the sharp beauty of his features and makes you blue screen again.
“Come on, closet gremlin. I have somewhere for you to work.”
You shoot him an embarrassed scowl that does nothing but make him roll his eyes at you, and hurry to gather your things. You can feel his gaze on you while you unplug your laptop before shoving everything into your backpack, and the weight of it feels like a physical touch. When you finally stand up, your entire body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you hope he can’t see the way you’re practically vibrating out of your skin.
“Let’s go,” he says and turns to leave.
“Wait! Didn’t you need something?” you ask.
“Nope.”
He leads the way into the brightly lit hallway, and you trail behind like a lost puppy.
“So why’d you come in the closet?”
“Because I heard you talking to yourself from all the way out here.”
“I do not talk to myself.”
“You were either talking to yourself or the wall. You can decide which one is less flattering.”
You stick your tongue out at his back, but you still follow obediently as he wends his way through the seemingly endless maze of hospital corridors. You notice as you walk that he doesn’t so much as offer a nod in greeting to the various people you pass. It’s early on a Monday, barely after six, and the atmosphere is a bit more relaxed than you’ve seen it later in the day. The staff who are already here call greetings to each other, some stopping to catch up about their weekends. Your stranger, however, ignores everyone like they don’t exist. It’s only when you step onto a nearly empty elevator that he finally deigns to acknowledge someone.
“Abbot,” he says to the lone occupant of the car.
“Park.”
The other man nods to your stranger — Park, apparently — before giving you a curious look. He’s older, with silver staining his hair and five o’clock shadow, and the beginning of crows feet bracketing his eyes. He’s handsome though, very handsome, and you flush a bit when he gives you a kind smile and says good morning.
Neither man fills the quiet that follows, and the three of you ride in silence until Abbot gets off in the next floor. Two floors later, and Park is striding out of the elevator with you hurrying behind him to keep pace.
A sign on the wall tells you you’re now in the in the surgical wing. He continues past the reception desk and the charge desk, veers down a hallway labeled “orthopedics,” and then finally stops outside the third door on the left. The name plate beside it reads “Dr. Brendon Park, Orthopedic Surgery.”
“Do not touch anything,” he says once he opens the door.
Inside is a small but fastidiously neat office. The desk has nothing on it except a monitor, phone, and a pencil holder holding exactly three pens. The only decorations on the walls are his framed diplomas, and the filing cabinets lining the far wall gleam like they came straight from the factory. A muted blue accent chair and bookshelf round out the space.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing at the desk.
You shuffle into the room and gingerly perch in his high-backed office chair. From here you can see just how spotless his desk is. The smooth wooden surface is perfectly polished with not a single crumb or water ring in sight. It’s either brand new, or he’s neurotic about keeping it clean. Your money is on the latter.
“When I said don’t touch anything, I didn’t mean the desk,” he says when you just sit there staring.
Your huff of annoyance is promptly ignored. Grumbling under your breath, you set your bag on the floor and pull your laptop out of it with as much dignity as possible. Which is to say absolutely none, as your screwdriver and a rogue pencil fall out of the bag and roll across the floor. You think his eye twitches.
“Am I even allowed to be in here?” you ask while your laptop boots up.
“All the important drawers are locked. I keep the first edition books at my house. Feel free to steal the monitor though, it’s hospital property.”
You scowl.
“You don’t seem to like me very much, so why are you letting me use your office?”
He pauses, considering. He’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, and you fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny when he spends a minute just looking at you. You also fight the urge to stare at the way his scrub sleeves are pulled tight around his biceps. Finally, he says:
“The room you said you were assigned to, I passed it before I passed your closet cave.”
You hiss of indignation.
“They were celebrating Dr. Bell’s birthday in it.”
That shocks you into silence. The person at reception had told you the room was being reassigned last minute to accommodate an important meeting. Which you guess technically wasn’t a lie, since parties were a kind of meeting in the loosest sense, but it feels like a lie. The knowledge that you got booted so someone could have space to store their cupcakes fills you with a mixture of frustration and humiliation.
As a woman in a heavily male-dominated field, you’re used to being overlooked or stepped over, but this is a new low even for you. Part of you knows that they didn’t pick you, specifically, to kick out — they likely just needed a room, and space for the unpaid grad student was considered the least essential. Still, it stings.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
Park, Dr. Park, whatever he wants to be called, nods his head briefly towards your computer.
“You’re smart, ambitious. Your project could do a lot to benefit the hospital, even if the idiots on the second floor don’t realize it yet.”
A pause.
“Let’s be clear though, this is not me being nice. When you patent that program and get rich, I expect a 20% cut.”
Whatever complicated emotions you had are momentarily shoved aside by a reluctant laugh.
“Aren’t you already rich?” you ask, gesturing widely to encompass him, the office, and whatever being a surgeon at a major hospital entails.
He shrugs.
“Yes.”
He pushes off the bookshelf then and crosses the small space to stand next to you. The sudden proximity makes your breath catch, but you quickly realize he’s not interested in you. In fact, he completely ignores you in favor of opening the top drawer of the desk and pulling out a notepad. He grabs one of his three identical pens and scribbles something down for you, a phone number you realize.
“I have rounds this morning,” he says. “Do not call me.”
He then proceeds to hand you the paper with the number you’re not supposed to call before putting everything away.
“Do not touch anything, do not move anything, do not-”
“What, breathe on anything?”
Just like earlier, your snappy comment seems to entertain him greatly. He actually huffs a ghost of a laugh. Then slowly, so slowly you know he’s giving you time to move if you want to, he spins the office chair until you’re facing him. He leans even further towards you, placing his hands on either armrest so you’re trapped between him and the back of the chair.
If you thought your brain had malfunctioned in the closet, it has now officially combusted. His eyes are somehow bluer up close, he smells like a devastating mix of bergamot and vetiver, and the velvet darkness of his voice feels like a physical caress. Arousal hits you hot and fast, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together instinctively. He notes the motion with a slow, lazy smile, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.
“You,” he drawls. “Are awfully mouthy for someone who’s receiving a favor.”
You do your best to ignore the heat licking through your veins and glower back.
“You are awfully rude for someone whose job is supposed to be helping people.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“I think you like me rude,” he murmurs.
Time feels suspended for a second.
He’s brusque, supercilious. He’s kind of an asshole. But he listened to you ramble about your machine learning model and actually seemed interested. He gave you a place to work. Your brain is too overwhelmed by his proximity to sift through the dichotomy, and your body is too turned on to care. For one fleeting second, you think he might kiss you. You think you might let him.
Then the moment is shattered by the sound of his pager going off. He stays in place for one more tense breath, caging you in place, before straightening and taking a step back. The heated intensity immediately vanishes from his face, and the same perfect coldness from when you first met him takes its place. You, on the other hand, can do nothing but stare at him with uneven breathing, wet panties, and cotton candy for brains.
“I’ll be back after rounds,” he says, either unaware of your inability to function or choosing to ignore it. “I doubt anyone will bother you, but if they do, tell them Park said to fuck off.”
That startles a laugh out of you. His face doesn’t change, but you think the sound pleases him. He heads to the door, grabs his stethoscope from the hook next to it, and pauses just before stepping out. He looks back at you. You’re searching for something to say to him, maybe thank you, when be beats you to it.
“Bye, closet gremlin,” he smirks, then leaves before you can respond.
You stare after him for a moment, blinking slowly.
Then you knock over his cup of pens and settle in to work.
Thisssss omg the tension!!! I love a grumpy/sunshine situation but Park is in a category all his own. I would freaking die if this happened to me but man was it so fun to read!
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