I don’t see enough PTMC Secretary!Reader fics, so I’d love some Brendon Park x Secretary!Reader fluff/meet-cute type fic
hi!! thank you so much for requesting <3 I actually love this one a lot so i'm excited haha, hope you enjoy!
dr. brendon park x secretary!reader who needs to know who he is ✿ 1.5k words
summary: no one will tell you anything about the handsome doctor you saw on the ER floor. turns out they don't have to.
cw: fem!reader, secretary!reader, implied sunshine!reader, reader is implied to be newer at the PTMC, everyone wants to protect reader
the pitt masterlist
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“Woah.” The word leaves your lips involuntarily, pressed from your lungs with something akin to awe. You move a little to the left, escaping from the bar on the window that was obstructing your view.
The doctor you’re watching is stunning. You feel like he’s walked right out of one of your late night fantasies and into the real world.
“Who is that?” You ask, your voice suspiciously thin like you’re out of breath. Lupe looks up at you, then follows your gaze. Her lips purse and she shakes her head.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Your brows furrow, eyes meeting hers before glancing back to the ER floor, only to see that the doctor has vanished.
“I was just asking a question.” You try innocently, taking a seat in your chair again. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“It’s probably better if you didn’t.” Lupe assures you before she turns back to her monitor with no further explanation.
You turn your head back one more time, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You sulk back into your chair, shoulders slumped in defeat, and move on. Well, as much as you can while his silhouette and sharp jawline stay etched in your mind like a wine stain in carpet.
By your next shift, after a night of dreams haunted by a tall, broad, handsome stranger, you decide to go on a hunt for more information despite Lupe’s warning.
You don’t get far before you run into another obstacle. Setting down your coffee at your desk, you slip through the door into the ER and approach the nurse’s stand. Dana looks up at you over her glasses, a chart in her hand that’s forgotten as you approach.
“What’s goin’ on?” She asks, smacking her gum. You run your hands over the counter, nails tapping against the flat top as you try to piece together your question.
“There was a doctor down here yesterday that I’d never seen before.” You play innocent, though there’s something in Dana’s gaze that makes you think she can see right through you. You try not to fold immediately. “I just think it’s a good idea that I know everyone’s name…”
Dana is silent for a long moment before she places the chart down in front of her. She leans back in her chair, taking a long breath, before she sighs and leans toward you again.
“Listen, kid.” The tone of her voice immediately dampens your enthusiasm. She continues, her eyes having an almost motherly gaze when she looks at you over the nurse’s station counter. “I know who you’re askin’ about. I also know that Lupe already told you askin’ after him is a bad idea. And I’m going to reiterate that for you. He’s not nice, he’d eat you alive.”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your shoulders curving in on yourself. You wish you could disappear into the floor. Had they talked about you? Did Lupe tell her you’d been watching him? Does everyone know?
By the time you meet Dana’s gaze again, there’s a pitying smile on her lips. She stands, picking up her chart with one hand and patting one of yours with her other. “It’s better if you drop it.”
But you couldn’t drop it. You found your eyes drifting on more than one occasion toward the emergency room floor, tracing for any familiar details that might suggest your the doctor had returned. He lingered in your dreams, imbedding himself in every fantasy. You didn’t even know his name but you’d imagined him doing things to you that would make anyone else blush if you said them out loud.
You decide to try one last resort. You know you can’t ask any of the doctors, mostly because they’re too frantic and fast-paced for you to have any chance to. But nurses… nurses are fair game, especially ones who have been nice to you since you started working in the ER.
You arrive early, another iced coffee clenched in your hand as you wait like a predator stalking prey. You watch some of the night shift leave, some of the day shift doctors arriving before dawn to take their place. Your victim arrives shortly, and you scramble to exit your car at the same time she does, jogging to reach her side as you shout her name to get her attention.
“Princess!”
She looks up with wide eyes, but then her lips turn up in a smile with only a hint of confusion beneath it. “Hi!”
“I have a question for you.” You say, keeping in step with her as the two of you approach the building. You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you continue, “There was a doctor down here the other day. I’ve never seen him before, and I was wondering-”
“Oh no.” Princess shakes her head, holding up a finger in your direction, “I was told explicitly not to tell you anything about a certain evil orthopedic surgeon that you seem to have your eye on.”
Orthopedics. Well, that’s more information than you’ve gotten out of anyone else. You conveniently ignore the other adjective she’d used to describe him.
You try to push for more, “Not even his name?”
“Not from me.” She shakes her head again, lifting her fingers to mime zipping her lips closed. You groan in defeat, but you still hold the door open for her as you walk in.
You keep your eyes peeled for him, this handsome doctor who has somehow wedged his way between the folds of your brain. But as shifts pass by, days and days of them, you lose hope. Maybe he was just visiting, and that’s why no one wanted to tell you anything? Or had other women like you fallen into the same trap and gotten burned, and that’s why no one had entertained you, even for a moment?
Your brain goes around and around, shifting between fantasies of the mysterious man and disappointment that you’d probably never see him again.
And then, one early Saturday morning, fate decided to intervene.
You’re off work surprisingly, not trapped between white walls or engulfed in the scent of antiseptic. You’re enjoying a nice walk, breathing in the fresh air, and splurge a little with a stop at your favorite coffee shop halfway across town.
You’re waiting at the counter for your order to come out, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Your ears perk up when you hear one of the baristas call out your coffee order, placing in on the counter. You make a mad dash through the small crowd of people also waiting, your hand clasping around the cup. You give a quick ‘thanks!’ to the staff working behind the counter, beginning to lift the straw to your mouth for a drink.
A throat clears behind you. “I believe that’s mine.”
You turn, and to your horror… it’s him. The doctor from the ER, the one who has been present in every fantasy and every dream you’ve had since you first saw him. You’re gaping at him, mouth slightly parted like a fish, and a look of annoyance crosses his face.
“That’s my coffee.” He says again, and some part of your brain must finally reset and work because next you’re practically shoving it into his hand.
“Sorry!” You tell him, trying to put on an apologetic face while simultaneously urging your heart to slow down. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t give you a smile, doesn’t give you any kind of acknowledgment at all. Instead, he begins to turn away.
You can’t let him escape again, you think. Not without at least knowing who he is.
“Hey,” You take a step forward to get his attention again, but it doesn’t work. So instead, you just blurt out, “Do you work at the PTMC?”
This does make him pause. He turns back toward you, his eyes more narrowed but less annoyed this time when they meet yours.
“I do.” He says. He gives you a once-over, his head tilting just the slightest bit to the side. “Do you?”
“Yes.” You tell him with a nod. Your mouth opens for you to speak again, though you aren’t able to get anything out before the barista is calling out your order. The exact same as his.
No wonder you’d gotten them confused.
His eyebrows raise, eyes glancing back at the counter where your coffee sits. “You have a good taste in coffee.” He gives you a nod, and you feel like you won a battle. He doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave, and the giddiness of the interaction has you on a high that almost makes you feel like you don’t need a coffee after all.
It’s not until later that you realize you still never learned his name.
Brendon Park who’s secretly a little pathetic about you. Some smut, mostly aftercare. Kinda a sub drop?
Brendon Park fucks.
Obviously you expected that. You saw it coming. I mean, come on. You knew the guy. One look at him you knew he was getting laid often and putting it down. Hard. He was a hunky, charismatic, rich doctor. Whose biceps filled out his scrubs and whose ass did the same. Walked around the hospital with a cool and cocky demeanor. You saw it coming.
So yeah. You were sure he got around. And that was proved when he got you in bed.
He must have liked a challenge, that’s what it had to be. He could do better- do easier than you. But he was set on you for some reason. And now you were here, knees in your chest, ankles over those big broad shoulders as that massive fucking dick spears into you over and over again. And it’s good. It’s so fucking good. You’ve come… twice? Thrice? Already. But he’s still going. Still thumbing your clit as he fucking plows you just right. He’ had your hands pinned over your head a few minutes ago, on your knees, face in the pillows before he decided he needed to see you, hear you. He ate you out with his hands around your wrist again, keeping you at his mercy as he overstimulated you with a skilled tongue. You’ve been going for… fuck. A while. You’ve lost all track of time.
“Who’s your daddy, baby?” He panted in your ear, more like a growl. You couldn’t think, truly, not when he had you like this. But you managed to answer. “You are!”
He grunted in approval.
“Good girl.”
You had told him it took you a long time to cum sometimes before this. He said he was in no rush. You told him you didn’t like some things. He listened with an easy nod. Warned him you were the kinda girl who got clingy. He seemed unconcerned. Completely unconcerned. Told him you’ve been known to cry. He looked hungry.
Brendon Park was unfazed by every warning, and went to fucking town on you anyway.
And finally, with your ankles next to his head, he came.
He pulled out gingerly, careful and kind with his movements, easing your legs down for you, carefully rubbing your hips to ease the ache. He kissed your cheek. “I’m gonna go get a towel.” He explained, pushing himself off the bed.
Right.
You sat there awkwardly, unsure what to do with yourself as you waited. You settled on pulling your knees up to your chest against his headboard.
He looked surprised at your change in position.
“You okay?” He worried. “C’mon, lay back down and stay comfy. Lemme clean you up” he insisted, gently tugging on your ankle to coax you down. You let him, shyly. Despite him having you in every position 5 minutes ago, this was so embarrassing.
The aftermath always was.
“Don’t get shy on me, baby.” He insisted, kissing your knee. “Nothing I haven’t seen” as he swiped the towel through your tender folds, muttering an apology, kissing your knee.
He smiled at you. Hair sweat damp and wavy, skin glowing, he smiled at you.
Gone was his trademark scowl, or the focused flushed face he’d had during sex. He was smiling. And yeah, he smiled during the date, but you thought that was all part of the act. The seduction to get you into bed.
Why was he smiling now?
Once he’d cleaned you up, he was back out of bed, walking to a dresser and pulling out a pair of boxers to pull on.
Then another pair, and a tee shirt.
“You should really go pee still, but here. If you want a toothbrush I have the little goody bag from my last cleaning in my top drawer under the sink, and there’s cerave by the sink if you want to wash your face”. He rattled off, extending the clothing to you.
You looked between him and your clothes on the floor unsurely.
“What?”
“I should get going.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t drive here, remember?” He reminded you. His face fell uncertainly. Concerned. Brows creased. He came back to the bed, setting the clothes beside you and running a worried hand down your cheek.
“You feeling okay? That was kinda intense, huh?”
You ignored him.
“I’ll just… get an Uber or whatever.”
“You’re welcome to do whatever you need to but. You really don’t have to do that.” He said explicitly.
“I don’t want you in an uber like this. If you’re really uncomfortable I can drive you home, but I would rather you stayed here.” Brendon insisted.
“You would?”
He looked at you dumbly.
“Yes. Of corse I would. I want you to stay the night. But only if you’re okay with that of corse.” He said flat out.
A little smirk came to his lips.
“What, you thought I was gonna kick you out of my bed or something?”
It was a lighthearted joke to him.
Your face was straight.
His fell.
“Oh my god you thought I was just gonna kick you out of my bed?”
He looked… hurt, almost.
“Well you got what you wanted so…”
You still hadn’t taken the clothes, still naked back up against the headboard now.
He looked crushed.
“Is that the kind of guy you think I am?”
You didn’t know how to respond.
“Look, I know I’ve been known to be kinda douchey at the hospital but. I’m not like that in my personal life. Not with the women I date. I thought- we went out earlier, right? We had a nice date, we came back here and kept the fun going.” He explains, like he’s trying to prove he’s not the guy you think he is.
He looked unsure if his series of events was the same as yours.
“I don’t know how to prove it, but I’m not that guy. Really. I like you. Really like you. Have for some time.” He explained.
“I thought-“
You began. Than stopped.
He looked desperate for you to continue.
“What did you think, honey?”
Honey?
“That I was, I don’t know. Like. A challange.”
He muttered the word to himself.
“Jesus fuck. No. No you’re not just some challenge. Why the hell did you even go out with me- come home with me if you thought that?”
You shrugged.
“You’re very persuasive.”
“I was going for charming.” He dryly laughed.
“That too.”
He smiled softly.
“You’re pretty damn charming yourself.” He flirted.
You smiled shyly, and he felt a little better.
A little.
“Let me say it like this. I want you to stay the night with me. I want to cuddle and kiss you and sleep here together tonight, and in the morning I want to make you breakfast and drive you home like a gentleman, and maybe beg you to go out with me again sometimes. Is that okay?”
Shyly, you nodded.
And Brendon smiled gently.
Sighing in relief.
“We need to talk about this again, sometime. Maybe in the morning. But not right now, sweet girl”.
Brendon Park x autistic reader, in the style of this. Reader has photophobia as a symptom of her autism.
Mel never really got why people were so spooked by Dr Park.
Dr Park was always, in her limited but not insignificant experience, a decent guy.
Whenever she worked with Dr Park, he communicated clearly, was soft spoken, was efficient, and competent. He was always polite to her, exchanging a pleasant greeting, and an explicit goodbye. Told her exactly what he needed from her.
And sure. She heard horror stories. Him belittling med students, him snapping at attending. But she just… never had that experience with him.
And it fucking blows Franks mind the first time he sees it.
“The hell was that?” He asked Mel, washing their hands shoulder to shoulder.
“Huh?”
“Shark. He was all nice to you.”
Mel looked at him like a confused puppy. God she was so cute he could kiss her right now.
And the weird part is, Frank realized, Park is kinda nice to him, too. Frank, unlike a lot of people here post his intermission, assumes competence with him. Shows him a little professional consideration. Frank hadn’t realized it till now but… he does.
So a few weeks later, leaving the hospital at the same time, ironically, Frank just asks him in the elevator.
After a masculine nod.
“Hey, weird question. Why are you so nice to King?”
Park is clearly taken back by it, but not thrown. He shrugs.
“She reminds me of my wife” he admits with a shrug, and then leaves the elevator.
And now Frank has even more questions.
Starting with Brendon Park has a wife?
Frank has zero fucking clue what that means.
And it bothers him.
So he starts to observe. Consider.
What is it about Mel? Is it physical? Is it her hair? Her eyes? Her face shape? The glasses? Is his wife also a doctor? Is she in another hospitals ER? He’s got less than half a clue.
He does start watching them interact- Park and Mel- more, though. Watching Park, period.
He doesn’t know how he missed the gold chain on his neck until now. But now that he sees it… yeah. There’s a wedding band on it.
But Mel. Mel was the part of the equation he just couldn’t wrap his head around.
Now that Frank was looking for it though, the incidents were adding up.
Incident 1:
Mel watched Park pass in the cafeteria during a rare lunch they could get away for, and waved politely. And Park stopped, and smiled and nodded back. And then Mel saw something in his hands. His keychain. Must have come out when he got his wallet to pay. And she commented on it. “I like your keychain Dr Park.”. Park looked down at it and smiled fondly. “Oh, the shark? It’s a gift from my wife. She has a pink one, it matches” he admitted with a fond little smile. Frank wasn’t sure anyone had ever heard the Shark say so many words without an insult before. Mel beamed. “That’s so sweet!” “That she is” Park agreed. “Enjoy your break, Dr King.” He bid farewell.
Incident 2:
Park was called in on a peds consult. 6 year old boy. Displaced fracture. Car accident. It was a little anxiety inducing to call Park for peds. High functioning ASD diagnosis. The little guy was having a hell of a time, overwhelmed, scared, and hurt. But he was on shift so… shit. He was stuck with Shark. The poor baby was in pain, and it killed Frank. Boy wasn’t much older than Tanner. Park came in, and nodded at him politely. Not as polite as with Mel but… like they were equals in his mind. He evaluated the case. Then he turned to the boy. And while he was palpating his limbs, he noticed the shark on his tee shirt. And quirked a smile. “Hey. You know that sharks don’t have bones?”. Tears stopped, as the little boy looked up. “Really?”. Park nodded. “Nope. No bones. Just cartilage. That’s the rubbery stuff in your ears.” He explained. The kid touched his ear. Cute. “You like sharks?” He asked. And the little boy nodded. Park chuckled fondly. “Me too. You know sharks are older than dinosaurs too?” “Really?” “Uh huh. I don’t lie buddy, I don’t lie. What’s your favorite kind of shark?”. As the little boy went into a ramble, and Park apparently vehemently agreed about bull sharks, Park looked at the nurses in the corner and nodded. They could finally actually get an IV in this kid now that Park has him distracted about fucking sharks. Huh.
After the consult and decisions were made, the two physicians stoped out into the hall. “Man, how the hell do you know that much about sharks?”. And Park grinned and chuckled. “My wife’s fuckin obsessed with em. You know, it is, stereotype for a reason, right?” Park said, slapping his back and laughing like this was some inside joke they both got. What the fuck?
Incident 3
“Who do you think you are speaking to Dr King like that?” Park bit, harsh and fast, turning on his heels in the ED. He was on his way out, when he heard Ogilvie say… something unsavory. The kind of usual jokes other ED staff made about Mel, half of it going over her head. Half of it, frankly, him, Robby, and Jack let slide because calling out would tell Mel it happened at all. But Park didn’t seem to care. “Dr King is your superior. Dr King is your senior resident. You will address her with the respect she deserves- is that clear? Because if i hear a single god man word about you disrespecting someone in his hospital again, i will personally insure you never get a job in this hospital.”. Frank was wide eyed in shock as the scene developed before him, Ogilvie frozen in shock, Mel the same. “Dr King you didn’t do a single thing wrong. This is all on Ogilvie. Not you.” Park insisted, before leaving in a huff.
It really just got weirder every day.
And Mel had less of a clue than Frank about what was going on.
Until he knew exactly what was going on.
It came on a Thursday afternoon.
Park came out of the elevator, to everyone’s confusion.
“What’re you doing here? We didn’t page ya, did we?” Dana asked, looking up.
Park shook his head.
“No, uh, Y/Ns inbound.” He explained to Dana, who looked up in surprise. “Y/N? The hell happened? She okay?”
Park shook his head, then nodded. “Fuck if I know. She said she uh, gave herself a gnarly burn cooking or something.” He explained seeming half out of it.
“Okay. Well let’s get something ready for your VIP, huh. Lemme see who can take her- I think Al Hashimi can-“
Park shook his head.
“Can Langdon or King take her?”
What?
Brendon Park isn’t insisting on an attending for his wife? That’s-
“Langdon or King?” Dana repeated in surprise.
Something came across Parks face. A knowing obviousness. After a beat Dana shared the same. “Right. Slipped my mind. They’ve got a good track record with people like her.” Dana agreed. “I know.” Park insisted.
Huh?
“Langdon!” Dana hollered, calling him over.
“Need ya to do Dr Park a favor, his wife’s coming in with a burn, you’re gonna patch her up for us.” Dana informed him.
Frank just nodded dumbly. “Okay. Uh, she close?”
Park looked at his phone, life 360 likely. “Yup.” He confirmed. “She looks like she’s parking now.”
Frank nodded.
“I think- what, central 2 is open?”
Dana corrected him. “We got north 4 and the doors close, let’s put her in there for now.”
Park thanked Dana softly.
“Look, uh, y/n has pretty hard core photophobia with florescents” park explained. “I tell her to wear her sunglasses but she’s embarrassed so she doesn’t listen, but if we can keep those on low atleast-“ Park requested.
Huh. Okay. Photophobia. “Okay. Yeah, sure totally, no problem.”
“I can tell you the obvious, but you know the drill. Hyper literal, a bit direct. She can handle pain but not discomfort. Nothing you’re not used to” Park shrugged.
And that’s when the wheel started turning.
There’s no chance-
Parks phone buzzed.
“She’s here.” He announced. “I’m gonna get her from chairs. If you want to-“ “sure” Frank shrugged. The fuck else was there to do?
Park shouldered through the doors and found you fast.
You were… so not what Frank expected. Hell if he expected anything. But you were not it. You sat stiff as a board in a corner chair, knee bounding, something held tight in your hand.
As he got closer he realized, it was a fidget. One you were on track to destroy by how fast you were moving it.
On your knee he could see a long line of burnt flesh. Ouch.
In your hands, a bag covered in accessories.
Almost all being, he must note, shark themed.
Park damn near dropped to his knees. “Sweetheart.” He pouted. “What happened, huh sweet girl?”
“Dropped a cookie sheet” you said, lip wobbling. “Oh, my poor baby. I’m sorry this happened to you.” Park cooed kindly. He had to mean it, too. Beautifully. “I’m sorry-“ “no, no need to be sorry Angel. It was an accident. Accidents happen. You didn’t do anything wrong, you’re not being punished, you didn’t deserve this.” Park insisted.
Punished. Being punished. Always feeling punished.
It was getting so much clearer by the second.
But Frank just couldn’t believe it.
“C’mon we’re all set up for you, baby, we’ll have you feeling better quick.”
“This is Dr Langdon. He’s gonna take care of you, but I’m not going anywhere.” Park insisted. You frowned. “But- the line-“ Park shook his head. “Surgeons wife’s cut the line.”
You looked distressed.
“C’mon, we’ll talk about it later. Faster we patch you up faster we get them help too.” Brendon spun the case. Smooth save, Park.
“Hello.” You greeted Frank awkwardly. “I’m Y/N. Thank you. And I’m sorry” you introduced. “Don’t be sorry. I’m here to help” he insisted automatically.
Park was pretty quiet for most of your treatment, in his defense. He didn’t hover. He didn’t breathe down Franks neck. But he held your hand, and kissed your forward, and called you brave.
He was definitely a very loving husband. That was for sure.
He asked for a print out of care instructions. Not that he didn’t know how to take care of a moderate oven burn. But because he knew you’d want explicit instructions of care.
Yeah. Frank understood.
He understood perfectly, now.
“I didn’t realize your wife was autistic.” Frank said softly as Park waited outside the bathroom for you.
Brendon looked at him dumbfounded.
“You didn’t?”
“Nah man how the hell would I know?”
Park laughed sardonically. “Honestly? Because alot of people here are fucking dicks about it. Thought word got around.”
“Im sorry” Frank sighed. “I know how that shit goes. It’s hard man. Maybe harder on us than them.”
It paints a picture, in a way. How Park became so cold and hard here, when he seems completely soft around his wife. Like he needs an armor to protect him from what people say about her.
Frank hurts for him, honestly.
The door opens, and you come out.
Just as Mel’s walking by.
And Mel stops in her tracks, looking you over.
“Oh my god your bag is so cute” Mel gushed, taking in the 90 trinkets hanging from it. “Is that like, a lemon lemon shark?”
You beamed. “It is! Isn’t he so cute? I found him at a comic con a few years ago. I got Dana this little nurse shark badge reel for Christmas that year too but I think it broke” you rambled explaining. And Mel didn’t miss a beat. “Oh that’s so cute did he have like, the little hat?” “Yeah!”
Park smiled so fondly.
“This is a thing, isn’t it? Autistic girls and sharks?” Park asked Frank, low and soft to not pull away attention.
Oh god, it is, isn’t it.
“That why she likes you?” “Maybe.” Park chuckled.
“That’s so cute. Oh I love your hand sanitizer holder. I wish they made something like that for hospital grade. I have the cutest jellycat hammerhead at home- I love sharks” Mel yammered on. And then you yammered back.
And Park looked at Frank and grinned.
“You guys looking for a couple to double date with?”
the lights are all out, and you’re laying in bed with a sleepy brendon park. you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet, even though he’s tracing nonsense against your back. you ask him to talk, knowing that hearing his voice is the quickest way to settle your mind.
he huffs. because of course he will, whatever you want, but he doesn’t have anything about his day that he really wants to talk about. the OR was slow.
“okay. come here,” he says, adjusting you so that you fit better against his chest. his palm cradles the back of your head, and you feel his fingers against your skull.
“your occipital,” he says, carefully pressing against the bone. “sagittal suture here… somewhere.”
“very sexy.”
“hush.”
he maps out the parietal bone, your zygomatic process, the slope of your mandible, naming each bone as he goes.
you laugh, somewhere along the way, probably at the temporal process. “you can’t name all of my bones.”
his fingers still. “you asked me to talk,” he says. “i’m talking. and yes, i can.”
you roll your eyes, quieting so that he can continue what he started. his fingers poke at your cervical vertebrae (“atlas,” he tells you at C1). he brushes over your clavicle; it tickles.
“scapula,” he murmurs.
you glance up to see that his eyes are closed. he’s mapping you by touch alone, face relaxed. his hair is freshly washed, missing the gel that normally keeps it out of his face during the work day.
your mind says touch, but the weight of his hand gliding across your skin keeps you still.
“first rib.” a feather-light touch. “true ribs, one through seven.” he pauses against each one. “false ribs. eight to twelve.” his voice rumbles through his chest, against your ear. “floating ribs.”
you’re not sure how far he gets in naming bones; you fall asleep somewhere between iliac crest and greater trochanter.
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.”
The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore — one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.
You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he won’t name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth — his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.
Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.
You wanted to get up to finally rinse.
To feel like a person again.
But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.
"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.
"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.
"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."
"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.
His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.
He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.
"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"
"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.
"Mm-mm," he protested.
Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.
He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.
He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."
You could hear his grin.
"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"
A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."
He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.
He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.
"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."
"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.
"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."
It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.
He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.
Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.
He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.
“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly.
“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.
“Joyful,” you finished.
“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”
You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”
“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.
“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”
“The other one, honey.”
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”
Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.
“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”
“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”
“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”
You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”
“Speaking of horny and my ass-”
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”
“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Rey's mind.
Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.
“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.
“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”
Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead.
“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”
“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
cw: afab+f!reader, virginity loss (a/n virginity is a social construct). 4k words.
simon knows you haven't had sex before.
it wasn't a big secret. you'd told him early on in your relationship, when things got a little too heated on the couch and you'd panicked when his hand slid under your shirt and his fingertips grazed your bare stomach.
you'd sat there and twisted the hem of your shirt between your fingers, eyes firmly on the hardwood floor of simon's flat, quietly telling him that it wasn't because you didn't want to, you just hadn't found anyone that you trusted not to make it a… thing. a conquest. an oh look i fucked a virgin story that gets told to mates at the pub. that the older you got the harder it was to find someone who… understood. and the longer you left it? well. the more the anxiety about it built, until the idea of sex became an almost impossible landscape to traverse.
he'd watched the way you fidgeted. listened as you spoke but wouldn't meet his eye.
then shrugged.
"love, i like spendin' time with you. i like kissin' you like we're fuckin' teenagers. not gonna stop seein' you just cause you 'aven't got laid before." he'd paused, considered his words, "ball's in yer court now sweetheart. you want t' fuck? tell me. an' i'll do what i can to make it right for you."
and the ball… stayed in your court. for months. no pressure. no wandering hands where you didn't want them. just dates and kisses and the one time you were ovulating and overwhelmingly horny and asked him to go down on you on the sofa. and even then, with your thighs trembling around his head and your fingers tight in his hair and the taste of you on his tongue he hadn't pushed, just pulled you into his lap after you'd come down and held you like he realised just how overwhelming it was for you to be close to someone in that way.
he was… surprisingly sweet about it all for a man who looked like he might kill someone for breathing wrong in his company.
sweet enough that the idea of having sex with him stopped feeling like something insurmountable and started feeling more like excitement curling through your veins instead of terror.
so you told him. over dinner one evening. all casual.
he'd looked up from his pasta, nodded. "want me to… book a hotel? or a cabin? you wanted to go away for the weekend, anyway." a pause and then, "or is that too much pressure?"
you'd blinked. once. twice. like the idea of making an occasion of it hadn't even crossed your mind. you'd swallowed softly and then nodded. "yeah. that would be… nice actually." but then you'd pulled a face - eyebrows knitted together, lips pursed. "…what if i bleed on their sheets?" like the idea of inconveniencing hotel or air b&b staff was more concerning to you than the fact you might bleed at all.
then it was simon's turn to blink. "… i'll bring some blankets. if yer that worried love." he'd offered back - not mocking. just cataloguing all the things he can do to make this less stressful for you. there's a pause, "might not bleed. not everyone does."
you'd stared at him.
he'd shrugged.
"been doin' some… recon. about how to make it easier for you." he'd admitted quietly. "not… done this with someone who ain't before. don't want to… traumatise you or some shite. want you to enjoy it. not suffer though it."
your heart had flared warm in your chest.
you'd smiled softly down into your pasta.
"cabin would be nice."
the drive was quiet, just the low sound of what you teasingly called simon's dad rock coming from the car speakers. his right hand was on the wheel; left resting on your thigh whenever he didn't need to change gears, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb on the side of your knee.
"love, i want t' talk before we get there."
you spine stiffens automatically at the words, eyes flaring wide as your head snaps around to look at him.
the corners of his lips twitch.
"not like that love. you don't need t' act like i'm sendin' you to the headteachers office."
you can't help but laugh - a soft little huff of air as your shoulder relax.
"sorry, habit." you murmur back, slumping back into the seat. "so, if i'm not in trouble, what do you want to talk about, si?"
he rolls his eyes. "in trouble? when th' fuck 'ave you ever been in trouble with me love?" he grumbles back, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes give away that he's nowhere near mad. there's a moment of silence - not heavy, but there - before he continues carefully, "i just want to talk about… expectations. or a lack of 'em really."
you open your mouth to interject. he squeezes your knee to stop you.
"jus' let me talk a minute love." he says softly, glancing across at you for just a split second. "i jus' want to be clear with you. we're goin' away for the weekend. that's all. i know we've said we'd… y'know. but if you don't want to? if you change yer mind? at any time? that's fine love. i just want t' 'ave a nice weekend with you. that's all."
you're quiet for a moment, warmth flaring in your chest. that feeling that's so close to love you can almost reach out and grab it. for a moment you don't know what to say, how to shape a sentence that conveys how much you appreciate that - or how sure you actually are about this weekend. and when you open your mouth? nothing eloquent comes out.
"i bought fancy knickers."
simon's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, but he doesn't take his eyes off the road. he clears his throat slightly, absolutely shoving the image of you in whatever you mean by fancy knickers somewhere deep in the back of his brain so he doesn't drive you both into a ditch.
you bite your lip, suppress a laugh that threatens to bubble out of your throat. "i just mean… i went out and bought special pants for the occasion. i've been uh, looking forward to it. but… thank you. for being so sweet about it."
he glances sidelong at you, eyebrows pinched into a frown "it's not sweet. it's basic consent, love." he says quietly, squeezing your knee again and for a moment you think he's got more serious talk to get out of his system before you get to your destination; but then his mouth twitches in the corners, "but i am lookin' forward to seein' these fancy knickers, in that case."
simon has outdone himself with his choice of weekend getaway destination.
a cabin nestled in the clearing of a forest. log burner. claw foot bathtub on the deck.
no neighbours for miles; unless you count the owls currently hooting from the trees.
it's perfect.
he presses a kiss to the side of your head, "go unpack. i'll put th' kettle on."
forty minutes later you're curled into simon's side on the back deck, mug clutched in both hands, both just staring at the night sky with quiet awe; the stars visible here in a way they aren't back home.
your new fancy knickers and matching bra have already been slipped on under your sweatpants and hoodie. simon looks down at you, at how soft and open your face looks; the way your jaw hangs slightly loose with amazement as you look up at the sky. his chest flares warm, unable to stop the way his entire expression softens.
"i've been under a lot of nice skies, all over the world." he says quietly. "but this one might be my favourite."
he doesn't need to say it's because you're there. you can tell from the way his arm tightens around your shoulders, the way he leans his weight into you slightly.
you melt inside. like butter left on the counter on a hot day. that same warm feeling from the car flaring in your chest as you tilt your face to his.
then you're kissing him. mug discarded on the deck. half crawled into his lap, his arms wrapping around your waist to steady you.
for the first time in the months you've been together you're not holding anything back. you're not trying to leash yourself to stop this going further than you're ready for. you're all in.
simon can feel the difference. the way you're letting the energy you usually keep simmering under your skin out into the air around you; the way you kiss him deeper, let your hands wander over his chest and biceps.
he's instantly, painfully hard in his sweatpants.
and acutely aware of the fact that you can tell. that the fabric of his sweats does nothing to hide the way he's hardened underneath you, that he's thick and heavy against your inner thigh where you're now practically straddling him. he tenses slightly underneath you; not able to control his reaction but hesitant to be the one to take the next step.
but then you groan into his mouth.
the sound goes straight to his core.
"christ, love. those really are fancy knickers."
he scoops you up in his arms without hesitation, carrying you through the cabin and kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.
you don't think you've ever seen an expression on simon's face quite like the one he wearing now, staring down at you sprawled out beneath him, clothes removed with enough care it made your heart ache.
reverent. that's the only word for it.
"yer really… jesus. yer fuckin' beautiful dove, you know that, right?"
your cheeks heat automatically at the compliment, "it's the underwear. it's doing a lot of the heavy lifting." you reply, mock serious - deflecting.
simon rolls his eyes. "shut up. daft bint. s'all you."
before you can retort he pulls his sweatshirt off over his head, and the only word you're left capable of is "fuck."
you reach out; trace your fingers over the scars that criss cross his torso like a roadmap of everything he's survived. the muscle of his chest and stomach is solid; but there's a soft layer of fat over his abdomen that he gets between deployments - the layer that makes him feel warm and soft and human; not just the soldier everyone else sees.
simon's breath hitches when your nails graze lower, but he catches your wrist, bringing your open palm to his lips to press a kiss against the centre of it.
"lay back for me, love." he murmurs, "i'm takin' care of you first."
you nod, heart slamming in your chest so hard you're sure he can hear it.
your bra comes off first; carefully unhooked and pulled away from your body, placed carefully on the side next to you.
your underwear comes next, the soft black lace you knew was perfect the moment you picked it out in the store. cool air hits your skin as he tugs them down your calves and you fight the instinct to close your legs.
simon looks down at you from below his lashes. "yeah. it's not the fancy knickers love. yer just fuckin' beautiful."
simon settles between your legs, lips pressing a trail down your stomach to where your thighs part; and for a moment he hovers above your bare cunt, nose flaring as the warm scent of you hits him.
he groans.
your ears go hot.
he looks up at you, "gonna go down on you now love, alright?"
you manage a short jerk of your head, pupils blown wide as you stare back down at him.
then his mouth is on you.
the last time he did this - that one night on the couch - is burned into simon’s memory. and he remembers, in beautiful high definition, what each little gasp and groan you made sounded like, and what he did to drag them out of you.
the first slow lick from your slit to your clit pulls a shaky sound from your throat, fingers tightening in the sheets next to you.
he doesn’t rush.
has no intention of skipping steps.
he’s treating this like the main event. like if he could just stay between your spread thighs for the rest of the weekend and the two of you didn’t go any further than that he’d be fine with it, happy about it even.
he explores every inch of you with his tongue; licking broad stripes across your entire cunt, before flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit - little patterns that make your thighs tremble.
“si…” you breathe, feeling yourself relax into the mattress with every touch.
simon pulls away to press a kiss against your inner thigh, “okay up there, sweetheart?”
you nod.
vigorously.
then reach to tangle your fingers in his short hair and tug his mouth back towards you with a desperation that surprises even yourself, like now he’s started you really, really don’t want him to stop.
his lips twitch in the corners, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, like you’ve just convinced him you really are okay.
he seals his lips around your clit and hums softly; the vibration shooting straight up your spine and sparking white behind your eyes. you hips jerk, hard; immediately one of his hands comes to rest on your lower belly, pressing down gently - reassuring rather than controlling - whilst he continues to work you with his mouth. he sucks softly, then harder, alternating rhythms until your fingers are twisted tightly in his hair and your breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.
it’s messy.
the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet of the room - slick, obscene noises that you think should mortify you but actually only turn you on more. he pulls back just to groan softly, eyes flicking up to yours. “yer fuckin’ perfect love. can i open you up proper?”
one finger circles your entrance, spreading slickness - but he waits until he sees your chin jerk in confirmation before pushing in achingly slow. it’s an unfamiliar stretch; his finger thicker than your own, but it’s not unwelcome, not unpleasant. he sinks that first finger to the knuckle before curling it upwards, searching for the soft, spongy part inside you that makes your back arch sharply off the mattress.
“there you are.” he murmurs, a soft kind of satisfaction threaded through his voice.
he doesn’t stop, just keeps working you in a steady rhythm while his mouth finds your clit again.
your eyes flutter shut. body slowly melting into something that feels like syrup and not flesh against the sheets as pleasure crawls through you.
after a few minutes he carefully adds a second finger - immediately slowing when he sees you wince at the slight burn low down in your pelvis, only continuing when he feels your body go soft again. “easy sweetheart.” he murmurs against your folds, the slight pain mixing with pleasure as as he works his fingers in and out, scissoring gently to open you up. your thighs tremble around his ears; you’re gripping his hair too tight, probably hurting him, but he doesn’t complain - if anything he groans against you at the sensation.
you’re right on the edge. stomach tensing, muscles tightening when he pulls back. his mouth and jaw are slick and shiny with you and his eyes are so, so soft when he gazes up at you.
“not yet.” he murmurs, moving so his body covers yours, wiping his face with the back of his hand, leaning down to kiss you. “want t’ see if i can get you there with me inside ya.”
he shifts, stands, tugs his sweatpants and boxers off in one motion.
you swallow. hard. watching his cock spring free - thick, heavy. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
you have no idea how the fuck he’s meant to fit inside you.
he sees your pinched expression, the nervous flicker in your eyes, and he leans down, crawling back over you, resting his forehead against yours. “we go as slow as you need. you say stop, we stop. you say you need a break, we take a break.” he promises, voice thick with want but edged with control.
he reaches across into the bedside drawer, grabs a bottle of lube he’d clearly tucked away there earlier.
he really did do his research.
your pupils blow wide as he squeezes a generous dollop onto his cock. he wraps a calloused hand around his length and strokes it slowly, spreading the slick shine from base to tip, lower lip sucked between your teeth as he starts to guide himself to your entrance.
the blunt head nudges against you, slipping a little because everything is so wet.
he pushes forwards.
the first inch stings. sharply. you hiss through your teeth, nails digging into his shoulders.
simon freezes immediately. “too much?” he asks, voice strained.
“just… a lot.” you manage, trying to breathe through the burn. “give me a minute.”
he stays perfectly still, barely inside you, dropping soft kisses on your face - your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. he reaches between you, pad of his thumb finding your clit, rubbing slow, soothing circles until the edge of pain dulls into an aching fullness. you nod, shaky, but firm.
he sinks in another inch. the stretch is intense - you feel every ridge, every vein as he works himself in deeper; your walls slowly opening up and moulding around him.
then he slips. just a little.
simon is tall - broad and long limbed - and the angle he’s curved himself into is awkward. shoulders hunched, one arm braced at an odd angle so he doesn’t crush you.
his cock slips out completely on the next shallow rock of his hips.
“fuck.” he mutters - frustrated with himself. “sorry love. ‘ang on.”
he tucks a hand under your knee, lifting your leg higher and hooking it over his hip.
the new position makes it easier; opens you up more. so this time when he pushes back in, he slides a little deeper in one smooth glide.
you both groan.
the fullness is overwhelming, foreign, bordering on too much.
but it also feels right in a way that makes your chest ache.
simon’s breathing is ragged against your neck. sweat already coating his skin under your palms. “christ, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. you alright?”
you nod, nails digging into his skin. “move… please.”
he starts rocking into you - slow, shallow thrusts at first. the wet, obscene sound of him moving inside you fills the quiet cabin.
it’s messier than you expected. all of this is.
your bodies don’t slot together like puzzle pieces; there’s sweat, the awkward shift of limbs, your leg keeps slipping off his hip until he grabs it again.
every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, but there’s still a sharp little spark of pain when he finally bottoms out completely. you whimper. simon freezes again. “talk to me dove.”
“it hurts. a bit.” you admit, voice small. “but… don’t stop. please.”
he curses softly and adjusts again, reaching for a pillow and sliding it under the small of your back.
the new angle… changes things. the next thrust makes your toes curl for a reason that isn’t pain. pleasure starts overtaking discomfort -and on the next snap of his hips you rock up to meet him, chasing the sensation. his fingers press firmer against the sensitive little bundle of nerves just above where he's buried inside you.
you feel your cunt flutter around him.
he lets out a completely wrecked sound.
"that's it." simon hisses through his teeth. "yer doin' so fuckin' well love."
the praise goes straight to your head, to your core, setting alight nerves you didn't know could be affected by words.
both your movements grow less coordinated, more desperate. sweat gathers in the space between your bodies. his hips snap a little harder, still careful but less restrained; the slap of skin on skin louder now. his hand that's not still slowly stroking your clit between your bodies finds yours, lacing your fingers together beside your head.
the tenderness of the movement makes your eyes sting.
you come suddenly - a sharp, peak that makes you clamp down around him. it's an unfamiliar wave of pleasure, coming with him inside you like that, and you let out a long, low moan that he feels in his bones, that he feels burning its way into his brain as a new core memory.
simon groans, hips stuttering as he fucks you through it. the overstimulation makes you whine, but you can tell from the way he's tensing that he’s close too.
“gonna come inside you.” he bites out, voice wrecked. “that okay?”
you nod frantically, legs tightening around him. a few more deep, messy thrusts and he buries himself inside you with a broken groan, hips jerking as his own orgasm hits. thick pulses of heat flood you, his cock twitching, face dropped into the curve of your shoulder as he presses his mouth against where your pulse is hammering in your throat.
neither of you move. you just stay wrapped in a little bubble of oh fuck that just happened. simon's collapsed half on top of you, propped up on one elbow so he doesn't smother you completely with his body. his breath is warm on your neck, heart slamming in his chest against your arm.
“you okay love?”
simon's voice is gentler than you've ever heard it, cautious in a way that you know he only ever is with you.
“yeah.” you breathe back. “i’m good.” you shift slightly underneath him, wincing as you unhook your legs from his waist.
he notices. immediately shifts so you can untangle yourselves properly, sliding out of you with a soft, slick noise.
you wince again, glance down, see a faint smear on your thigh; cum, slick - both tinged faintly with pink - and stare down in fascination at the physical evidence of what you've both done lingering on your skin like a brand.
he follows your gaze, jaw tensing when he sees the faint pink mixed into your shared fluids. “you sure you're okay?”
you pull him down next to you, curl into his chest, tucking your face into the curve of his neck. “i'm good. i promise. i’m… i’m happy, si.” there's a brief pause and then you add, almost awkwardly, “...was that okay for you?”
simon leans down and kisses you slowly, before pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead on yours. “you were perfect.” he murmurs. “that was perfect.”
you laugh weakly. “that was not perfect. we were like… tangled giraffes at one point.”
he huffs a quiet laugh against your mouth. “yeah, well. still got there in th’ end. still perfect.” he drags his knuckles down your cheekbone, eyes soft in the low lamplight. “no regrets?”
you watch him pad naked across the room - huge, scarred, relaxed in a way you rarely ever see him - and feel a rush of affection so strong it almost hurts.
“none.” you whisper fiercely - and you mean it. you ache in the best and worst ways, but the warmth in your chest is brighter than any discomfort. “thank you. for not rushing me. for… that.”
simon kisses you again, slower this time, then carefully climbs off the bed. “stay there, dove. i’ll get a cloth and run th’ bath. i reckon that fuckin’ clawfoot thing outside looked big enough for both of us.”
you get that same pang when he wipes down your thighs with a warm, damp cloth and again when he deposits you in the bathtub on the deck, climbing in behind you without a second thought.
simon settles you both into the warm water, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you, the night breeze ghosting over both of your skin. one of his hands strokes lazily up and down your arm without thought.
“next time we’ll try you on top,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “see if we can avoid the giraffe shite.”
you laugh, loud and free in the quiet night, and tilt your head back to kiss him again properly.
yeah, you're already looking forward to the next time.
18+ ⫶ SADLE UP SHY GIRL ℘ requested
timid, yet needy reader rides jack abbot for the first time.
this typically isn’t how things would go.
you wouldn’t be barricading either side of your boyfriend’s hips with your thighs, slowly rocking your hips in his — watching the way his dick disappears between the folds of your pussy before peeking back out as the blush colored tip grazes sweet against your clit.
“what happened to waitin’, sweet’art?” jack grunts, steadying himself against the mattress, propping onto the back of his elbows. his eyes fixated on just how desperate your movements really are, while grinding flush against his cock and whimpering softly.
“i can’t wait …” you whine, almost too desperately as you rock your hips deeper into his. it honestly felt as if your clit was about the burst. the way it throbbed with each passing friction of skin to skin contact — you need it, you need him.
you pulled one of your hands underneath your body, soft palms fumbling at jack’s length, trying to grab at it. earning a groan from jack because what a fucking sight to behold — his pretty girl, you… trying so hard to make yourself feel good on his cock.
he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t harder than ever before, watching the same girl he’d fuck into mattress missionary-style while hiding her face with a pillow on top of him right now.
“tryna’ be a big girl, huh?” he teases with a grin, flashing one of his canines as he reaches a hand underneath you — dwarfing your hand that’s holding the base of his length as he wraps his hand over yours.
“gotta lift those hips up a bit more.” he rasps low and gruff, giving your ass a soft tap with his free hand. “yeah— that’s it, baby.” he praises as you raise your hips while he positions himself in a way that’ll make it easier for him to ease in. “and, juuusttt like that.” he drags out the vowel as he guides your hips down before you’re pushing his hands away from your hips.
your palms pressed flat against his chest, trying to find an equilibrium of balance while tucking your under his thighs. “oh? guess you know what you’re doing, yeah?” his eyebrows raise, and the corner of his eyes wrinkle once he lets out an amused chuckle.
a warm buzzing feeling runs through your body when you nod your head. your lips pursed together as you slowly allow yourself to sink further down into jack’s lap — such an overwhelming stretch, feeling the way he stuffs you full almost immediately as the head of his dick nudges against the hilt.
“oh—f-fuck ..” a moan escapes your throat, before catching your bottom lip in-between your teeth in attempt to stifle the sounds you’re making. you lift your hips, your walls involuntarily squeezing around jack’s length as you drop your ass against his pelvis with a broken moan.
you’re raising your hips again, finding that perfect rhythm as you drop right against that sweet spot inside of you over and over again. completely conscious of how sloppy and inexperienced your bouncing may be, but it feels too good to stop.
“mmh, jack.” you whimper, lashes fluttering open when he doesn’t respond because he’s usually vocal and praising you.
your movement comes to a slow halt once you realize that his eyes are already on you — feeling the embarrassment kick in once you see how his eyes drag from your face, down to place where you two are connected making your tummy folds.
the way he’s just lying there, hands rested alongside your ankles, fixated on you fucking yourself dumb on his cock like an animal in heat. his jaw locked tight, letting out guttural groans that sound closer to growls as he restrains himself from doing things his way.
“stop looking at me like thaat.” you dragged, averting your gaze somewhere else because you’re too shy to hold eye contact. breaking jack out of his trance, “lookin’ at you like what, baby?” his eyes are low, pupils blown wide unable to control his aching lust as he twitches inside you. “like that, stop!” your eyes flicker elsewhere — reaching your arms out, an the last thing jack’s seeing is that pretty pout displayed on your lips as your hands close in near his face.
your palms press above his nose, covering his eyes. “hmm.. this your solution, yeah?” jack’s lashes flutter against your palms with a big grin plastered across his face, he loves when you get like this. too shy to let him watch you bounce on him, yet there you are. picking back up from where you left off as if he hadn’t already seen you before.
“y-yes.” you moan in response, rocking your body back and forth against jack — trying to find back your rhythm, though failing miserably while losing balance. “what’s the matter, hun’? having trouble?” he asks, feeling your staggered movements about his hands slide up your forearms, down to hold at your wrists until you’re pulling away and pushing his hands towards his face instead.
“keep your hands right there.” you instruct, halting your movements ensuring that he’s actually listening before continuing. your hands finding its place against jack’s chest, stabilizing your position — feeling jack’s diaphragm vibrate against your palms as he lets out a low groan. “s—shit.” he curses underneath his breath. “you’re gonna be the end of me, y’know that?” he murmurs, gravely tone slick in lust.
you can barely respond. not when his cock’s stuffing you full, nuzzling perfect against that sweet spot inside of you. “mmph, j—just keep your eyes… off me.” you pant, feeling every inch graze your sensitive walls.
“whatever you say, sweetheart.” the words came out gruff as jack tosses his head back, throwing an arm over his eyes to keep them covered — deciding to indulge in your cute, yet silly request even if he’d already seen every inch of your body seconds ago.
and as impractical as your request could get. it didn’t change the fact that his vision was capped, voluntarily granting your wishes with you on top, riding him as if there were no tomorrow.
fem!reader, mdni. chokehold, doggy style, dom!jack. porn no plot
you’d insist that he fucked you doggy, forearm and bicep curling around your neck, squeezing just enough to enhance the dizzying sensation his cock ramming into your cervix gave you.
his tummy was warm and heavy, pressing up against the divot of the small of your back, arching perfectly for him to fit against you like a puzzle piece.
whining around his arm, desperately pawing back at his tummy, trying to tug him harder against you.
“stop whinin’.” he’s growling against your ear in between rough pants, cock slowly dragging out to just the tip, pausing momentarily before plunging back inside your greedy cunt with sheer force.
“mngh… jus’ need it.” you complain, drooling down against his freckled skin.
“oh, you’re fuckin’ taking it.” grunting as his muscles around your neck contracted. you just nodded along dumbly.
You thought jealousy was some very valid emotion got when someone did something wrong in a Hallmark movie.
But you’d come over to Prices, as you usually do on Thursday nights for dinner. But the gates to the drive through were closed. No problem, you’d just walk through the front gate. You shift your large manecoon, Martian, in your arms, walking through the unlocked gate.
But you see through the large window, John talking to a woman. Brunette and gorgeous, right out a magazine if not for her short stature. She poking and teasing him with a smirk on his face, in a way you never even thought of doing. And theres Price who’s laughing, swatting her hands and rolling his eyes. You hold Martian closer, bottom lip poking out without even realizing. And then John walks away, the woman disappears into the house. Well just for a second, the sliding door opens and she comes out making you gasp. Her eyes find you, a deep ocean blue pair of eyes finding you. The woman gives you a soft smile, a little surprised you’re there.
“Can I help you with something?”
Your eyes widen, looking at the woman and then Martian, as if your cat would give you the right reply to say right now. “No, no! I was just looking for….” You trail off thinking of something that you could be looking for.
Your cat? No, hes in your arms. Your cats collar? No, that was on him right now. Missing a spare baking dish? No. Spare t-shirt you left? No way. She wouldn’t understand. You and Price- Price and you—
You heard the sliding door shuffle, panicking, “I’ll be going now.” You rush out. Readjusting Martian in your arms and scurrying off back to your house.
“Did you get your bag yet or are you just taking in the view?” John asks, coming behind the woman.
She turns, giving an inquisitive look, “There was a girl who just popped up here John,” she nudges him with her elbow, a fake groan in pain escaping the man, “you fooling around John? Mom would be greatful to hear that, she’s desperate for any word of you these days.”
“No I’m not “fooling around” Lottie, she’s my neighbor she- she-“ and John can’t help but stop himself, a smile forming on his face that he tries to hide by wiping his beard.
“Awww John! You’re so damn adorable! Even since you were a kid!” Lottie coos, squeezing his cheeks.
“Please just go home! You’ve barged in here when I’ve got things t’ do.” The man sighs. Lottie whines, stumbling as John pushes her to her car, “You’re not gonna give me something to work with? What happened to ‘respecting your elders!?’”
“My ass, just go! christs sake!”
݁꒰ঌ·🫐·໒꒱ ݁
You weren’t purposely ignoring Price.
Who would want to ignore him of all people?
Just— thinking of the right words to say, you weren’t so good with that. You’d written down your feelings a thousand times over, balled it up and tossed it away hoping the feeling would go away (it worked in the Bee Movie) but to no avail.
You were burning on the inside and yet it hurt. What did she have that you didn’t? Why could she tease John like that? John just like brunettes with long straight hair? Gorgeous, confident—
The feeling made you feel sick.
You tore out another piece of paper from your journal, balling it up and tossing it over your shoulder.
“Littering in your own yard sweetheart?”
You gasp, whipping your head around on the bench. And theres Price looking handover as ever, just off of work in uniform that shows off his husky build.
“I-I wasn’t! This is just- it’s ideas! Ideas for a new project I’m working on. Probably.”
John gives you a small smile, so cute the way you stammer. He takes a seat on the bench, knees brushing against yours, “ ‘M just joking,” he takes a glance to your tattered yard, “Theres still some work to do around here isn’t there?”
“It’s a bit shit,” you giggle, “But the flower beds— the flowers are growing nicely just like you said Price! Thank you.”
John is so enchanted by you, humming in agreement while gently caressing your cheek. He tilts his head, “Havent seen you lately love, you alright?”
“I- we missed our dinner.” You say, internally face palming. Obviously, he was having dinner with someone else.
“That’s right,” John says, hand grazing down your arm and to your hand. Taking it and kissing it, “You’re not mad at me for that, are you?”
You almost turn into a puddle at that. Heat rising beneath your skin. You squeeze his hand back, “Course not- I’ve just- fuck, um-“ you let out a frustrated huff. Deciding now is the time to pick up the balled up pieces of paper, anything to not have to look Price in the eyes.
You swallow your pride, the annoying feeling in the pit of your stomach, “I-I saw you the other day. Our dinner day, with another woman.”
“Another woman.” He repeats and you feel everything drain out of you, still trying, rambling over words. “She was really pretty and you two looked good- What I’m saying is, she was joking and shit with you but I don’t think I can do that with you. Or I can’t compare to that But I- I still would like to be someone important. And I can try my best to be as good and- I mean, I’m sorry- I don’t usually feel like this, so—“
John feels the end of his lip twitch upward, heart beating faster, “That woman-“
“-Yes?” You’re quick to reply, head popping up and finally adorning him with that worried look.
“That woman was my big sister, Lottie.”
You blink, heart sinking out of your ass. Your lips part, “Oh.”
You scoop up all the paper balls in one scoop, fully embarrassed quickly going over to the trash bin as fast as you can. But John is right in your heels, chuckling.
You whine, “Don’t laugh Price.”
“ ‘M not laughing, not at all,” but it’s riddled in his deep voice, making you want to climb into the bin right now. “It’s only normal to be jealous when you see someone with the man you like. I feel the same sometimes with the woman I like.”
“Do you now?” The woman he likes? The woman he likes would be who?
“Course I do,” he hums, hand finding the small of your back and turning you around, large build crowding you between the wall of your cottage. “When I see you in town with a guy, or scurrying off to take a call from someone—“
“Those are just my friends though!”
“I’m sure, but I feel the same way.” He bends his head down, enough that you feel his breath against your lips, “Only thing I can do is prove I’m all yours, right lovie?”
And John kisses you, soft but long, right out the movie, holding you close you almost faint. But he hold you up right in his big arms, letting you go and more than amused with that astonished look on your face.
He nods, already walking towards the house “Let’s have dinner tonight then, dove.”
a/n: John is the type to read one of those balled up thoughts and he is heart just aches because he can already tell you really do like him a lot, even when you’re confused with your own emotions
a/n: John Price!BearHybrid meeting his mate at his local bait shop. That's it. Also been playing Cast 'n' Chill on the switch so that's who I'm basing Rusty off!!!!
The bell over the bait shop door gives its familiar, tinny jangle as John Price steps inside, shoulders ducking instinctively even though he’s cleared the frame a thousand times before.
The place smells like cedar, lake water, and worms—home. Rusty’s shop has been his shop for years. Same warped counter. Same crooked rack of lures. Same mounted fish lining the walls like trophies in a hunter’s den.
John stops.
His eyes lift automatically to the far wall.
Where his fish used to be.
The massive northern pike he’d hauled in three summers ago—caught at dawn, fought for nearly an hour, scarred his forearm when the line snapped and he’d gone in after it bare-handed. Rusty had mounted it himself. Pride of the shop. Pride of John.
Except...
“That’s not my fish,” John rumbles.
Rusty looks up from the register, chewing on a toothpick. “Mornin’ to you too, Price.”
John doesn’t move. His bear half stirs under his skin, a low, uneasy roll in his chest.
Mounted where his pike once hung is something… bigger. Sleeker. Darker. A beast of a fish—broad through the body, scales catching the light like polished stone. A perfect catch. A dominant one.
His nostrils flare.
The shop smells different.
Not wrong. Just… new.
“Rusty,” John says slowly, voice dipping into warning. “Where’s my fish.”
Rusty grins.
“Well,” he drawls, leaning his elbows on the counter, “funny thing about that. Got ourselves a new resident in town.”
John’s eyes narrow.
“Yeah?” The word comes out edged.
“Moved in up past the river bend. Quiet type. Damn good with a rod.” Rusty jerks his chin toward the mount. “Caught that beauty last week. Biggest thing pulled outta these waters in years.”
John’s jaw tightens.
His bear bristles.
Male competition is the first, immediate thought—an instinctive, possessive spike. This is his territory. His river. His shop. His wall.
“And you just took mine down?” John growls.
Rusty snorts. “Relax. Yours is safe in the back. But when someone pulls in a catch like that, it deserves the spotlight.”
John stares up at the fish again.
Something about it hums. Not challenge exactly. Not threat.
Recognition.
His heartbeat slows — then stutters.
Rusty squints at him. “You alright there, son? You’re lookin’ a little… fuzzy around the edges.”
John exhales through his nose. “Who is it.”
Rusty’s grin widens, knowing. “She usually comes in ‘round now for bait.”
She.
The word lands heavy.
John barely has time to process it before the bell over the door rings again.
You step inside like a burst of sunlight cutting through pine and shadow.
Boots dusted with trail dirt. Jacket slung open, layers practical but soft. A fishing vest already half-loaded with gear. Hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of your face, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright.
You’re smiling—wide and toothy and unguarded, like the world has never once given you a reason not to.
John’s breath catches.
The shop changes.
His bear surges forward so fast it makes his skin prickle, claws itching beneath human hands. The air feels thicker, charged. Every sense snaps to attention.
You smell like river water and pine sap and something warm beneath it all—something that hits him low in the gut and curls there, possessive and awed.
Mate.
The word is instinct, not thought.
Your smile falters slightly when you notice where he’s standing—how big he is, how still. Your eyes flick up to the wall, then back to him.
Then realization dawns.
“Oh,” you say, soft and breathless. You laugh softly, embarrassed, turning toward Rusty. “You actually hung it up?”
Rusty grins. “Couldn’t not.”
Pink blooms across your cheeks.
John feels it like a punch to the chest.
Yours.
His bear practically purrs.
"I didn't mean to replace anyone's, Rusty..." You step closer to the counter, fingers fidgeting with the strap of your vest.
"It's no big deal, I'm sure the fisherman will be fine with it."
John finally turns fully toward you.
You’re smaller than him, but not fragile. There’s strength in the way you stand, confidence in your posture, even now—flustered, blushing, caught.
His eyes soften without his permission.
“That was one hell of a catch,” he says, voice rougher than intended.
Your smile returns, brighter somehow. “Thanks.”
And just like that, the tension shifts.
Not rivalry.
Not threat.
Claim.
Rusty watches the two of you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, clapping his hands once, “seems the river’s got good taste.”
John doesn’t look away from you.
Neither of you do.
Somewhere deep inside him, his bear settles—certain, satisfied.
Adrian reuniting with his girlfriend after a three day mission, except, she isn't waiting for him and he freaks out (contains spoilers for peacemaker s2 ending)
inspired by this video
vids referenced:
toucan
capy
bird
weiner dog
kissing gourami
Adrian liked video games, Fargo, crimefighting, Peacemaker and his girlfriend.
Mostly his girlfriend. Everything that Adrian loved could be done with his girlfriend, which made her extra cool.
She didn’t care for appliance night, but she would still let Adrian borrow her Baja for transporting large appliances that his Sebring couldn’t.
They played video games together, even though she didn’t care for Mario. Her taste was slightly odd to him, who would want to play Ghost of Tsushima? That was weird. She was weird, but that was good, that was great. Adrian didn’t mind.
When he saw two birds together, that was them.
When he saw two mailboxes leaning towards each other, that was also them. When Adrian watched a video of a bird furiously flapping its wings but achieving no flight, that was him trying to get her attention. When Adrian saw a video of a toucan in someone’s sleeve, that was literally him when she ‘worked’ (most of her work was reading related, she liked reading, so Adrian didn’t quite get why it was okay for him to interrupt her when she was reading her weird romance books but not when she was reading her ‘work’ books) from home.
When he saw a video of a baby sea gull cheeping and its beautiful mother standing off to the side, that was them. Adrian was the baby cheeping.
When Adrian saw a video of kissing Gouramis, that was so so so so so them. He kissed her just like that! When Adrian saw a video of an armadillo running and playing in the sand, that was literally her waiting for him to come back and when he saw a video of a small shark being caught and released, but not before it’s tummy was tickled he had spammed the video into every group chat he was in: “this is my gf.” It was only her who understood him. It was her who sent him videos of a skunk family and said, “this is us and our video game consoles.” Adrian thought of her every time he saw a rock hyrax and he missed her, so, so bad. She wasn’t a hero, she didn’t go on missions.
She worked at Checkmate, but administratively. Though Adrian didn’t really know what she did, just that she occasionally wore really, really nice fitting suits that made her look so, so awesome. Oh, and cops didn’t like her, which was good, if pigs liked her, Adrian probably wouldn’t be dating her because he wouldn’t like her.
Fleury called her ‘Goodman’ and didn’t understand why she was with Adrian, well Adrian didn’t understand the stupid nicknames Fleury had for her.
He also didn’t like when Fleury referred to her as a shark, Adrian especially didn’t like how that nickname had stuck and now multiple people called her a shark. Adrian should’ve been the only one to call her a shark, he should be the one that tickles her tummy before releasing her into the water.
Adrian was bouncing his leg.
“Dude.” Economos began, looking over his shoulder from the drivers seat to glare. Adrian continued bouncing his leg. He wanted to see his girlfriend so, so bad. It had been three days since he saw her, and this time she was too busy to text him as much as usual, which was awful. She had seventy-three messages to catch up on.
-
Adrian burst through the doors of the van with a wide grin that fell when he realized she wasn’t waiting outside to see him, like usual. He felt a tinge of panic, but pushed it down as he rushed through the doors of Checkmate HQ, only to see that she wasn’t there earlier.
“She’s been kidnapped.” Adrian stated, grave, terrified, about to spin on his heel before Ads gestured him towards the desks. She wasn’t there, in her dedicated spot to the left of Adrian, so he didn’t get why Ads was pointing him that way.
“We need to go rescue her!” Adrian didn’t understand why no one else took this seriously, why no one understood the gravity of the situation they were in.
She was gone, kidnapped, possibly hurt, he had to get her back, not only had he lost Chris, but now he had lost his girlfriend. His chest was tight, this was bad, it was so bad, it was so bad, there wasn’t anyway that this could be better.
“She’s in the conference room.” Economos stated, breaking apart from Adrian and the rest of the group. Oh, they had finished early— Adrian had been desperate to get back, hadn’t even thought to tell her.
Adrian rushed past the desks, didn’t wait to Bordeaux, or Fleury, or flip off Judomaster as went into the first conference room.
It was empty. His panic was rising, what if she had been kidnapped from the conference room? She couldn’t defend herself. Her aim was horrible, she couldn’t throw a knife to save her life and don’t even get him started how bad she was at throwing axes.
What if she was in the process of being kidnapped right now? Why wasn’t she screaming for him? Had she been knocked unconscious?
Adrian opened the next conference door and audibly let out a sigh of relief when he saw her.
There she was, in the center, those bright lights on her while she was dressed in one of her immaculate suits, with her matching small heels. She was talking—that flat, harsh tone that she used sometimes that left no room for negotiation, she hadn’t noticed Adrian, not yet. He rushed in, her head turned slightly towards him just as he was jumping to tackle her, “W-wait Adrian—” she began to say, just as he connected with her torso, tossing the pair of them in mid air and as they were falling, Adrian twisted them around to cushion her fall.
By the time they hit the ground, her face was firmly buried in his armpit, trying to talk but her voice was too muffled to understand, the soot of his suit visibly already on her arms and torso.
“I missed you. Did you see the video I sent you of that the baby capy? It looked like a baked bean. We are totally baked bean capys together.” He pressed three rapid fire kisses to the crown of her head, “Or that weiner dog doing a ‘lifelong plank?’ That’s me but I don’t think it counts because it would be the same as me challenging the weiner dog to a contest of seeing how long it could stand upright for.” Adrian squeezed her, she looked up, he kissed her right cheek, her left cheek, her nose, her forehead, both eyes, her mouth, her chin, lightly smearing the soot that lightly covered her face, “I miss you too, but—” she tried to get up now, but only succeeded in centering herself more because the last thing Adrian was going to do was let her up, “I was in the middle of talking to the press and—”
“Jesus, someone cut that out!” Adrian looked to the side, finally noticing the cameras and film crew behind them.
You look from your place in bed, glasses almost sliding off of your nose. You glance around the room once before pointing at yourself. Simon gives you a dead-serious nod of his head, drilling holes into you with his eyes.
“Huh, what’d I do, Si?”
“All that. I’m tellin’ you t’ stop bein’ a tease.”
You take yourself into account. You are sitting in bed in your ugly, mismatched pajamas, reading a book with everything about you totally undone. You were just nodding off when he walked in. What’s Simon on about?
“I’m-… Are we playing around? Joking? I don’t get it.” You’re about as un-sexy as you can be.
He huffs and walks up to the edge of the bed, reaching under the covers to wrap a large hand around your ankle and pull you to the edge, locked under his gaze as blankets crowd around you. “Look at ya, love. Quit playing games.”
You finally find it in you to laugh at his ambiguity, watching the corners of his mouth quirk. He shifts on his feet uncomfortably, tightening his grip around your ankle. “I don’t understand. I’m very unattractive right now. Startlingly so.”
“Don’t say tha’.” He mutters, leaning over to shove his face into the crook of your neck, humming in relief as he presses into you. You wrestle your arms free to throw around him, curling into his heavy body. The moment goes on sweetly until his hips roll lazily against you, exhaling shakily.
Um. Been feeling some kind of way, so have some fluff.
Price x Reader
banner @/diviniyae
You'd given John the slip.
Zipping through the familiar aisles of one of your favorite stores. You had to see if it was still there.
It didn't matter.
But it did.
You scuttle over to the clearance endcap you had originally seen it on, nestled between the other poor plush toys that sat a little too long for the retail stores liking.
You've always had a soft spot for stuffed animals. Happy little creatures that had always been close friends for a lonely little girl.
With a little digging you find it again. A big green alligator tucked away, weighted beads lining its belly, tail, and limbs.
It was perfect. Not too stiff, no yucky sherpa, no weird scratchy fabrics for its eyes or teeth.
Just a perfectly huggable critter, with a weight that soothed just to hold in your arms.
You'd been eyeballing it for weeks, the toy too expensive for you to justify.
You were a grown woman.
You didn't need plushies.
But with it in sale~
Your only barrier was getting it past John.
You still felt a little embarrassment about your proclivities. You were sensitive, always have been. From yout busy noggin to every extremity.
You were careful about the fabric of your bedding, hands gliding over every fabric and stitch to test against your skin, the type of light bulbs you purchased. Hell, you even had to ration your sniffs when looking for new candles because one too many smell tests would have your skull aching. The wrong candle choice an olfactory nightmare if allowed into your home.
Preferences that stacked and stacked and stacked into something that you felt made you look fussy, obtuse for the sake of it.
Too much.
But not to John.
John took it all in stride. Of course he did.
Your needs weren’t criticised or scoffed at. He asks questions, tries to learn, stands beside you patiently while you hem and haw while picking out produce.
You knew in your little heart if you walked up to him with the plush in hand he wouldn't argue or balk.
You just felt…silly. Especially for what you wanted it for.
Needed it for.
John had become part of your carefully curated routine. He was your morning coffee and cherry scented body wash, an unnegotiable presence in your ‘nest’ he'd teasingly called it. Pillows arranged carefully to cocoon you in just right. John on your free side closest to the door, heavy arm slung over your ribs.
He was warmth, safety, an anchor that centered you amongst the waves of stimulus your brain was keen to stand under and drown.
You would never admit quite how miserable you were when he was gone, a piece of you in vertigo until he returned.
So. Finding a substitute was in order.
You'd foolishly tried a weighted blanket to mimic his weight against you. Yet the miracle accessory that seemed to soothe most, only made you feel suffocated in its own special way, your legs unable to cricket like you needed.
Too much.
Just another one of many.
It wasn't until you'd fallen asleep studying, heavy textbook against your belly that you found the key to your Johnless insomnia. Something about the familiar pressure against your chest, and John's scent still lingering on your sheets had you dozing instantly.
You just needed something a little softer. A little heavier.
Just like the little gator in your arms, and with just a small spritz of John's cologne you could be set.
“Who've you got there sweetheart?”
You jump, flinging the plush critter onto the shelf, immediately feeling bad for treating it that way as you whirl to face John.
He stands just behind you, round cheeks pulled into an amused smile.
“I was just touchin’ stuff” you shrug quickly, forcing yourself to meet John's eyes in an attempt to look genuine. His eyes don't give him away, they never do, but the slight cock of his head does. A purposeful tell, an option for you to tell the truth.
You won't.
It's a stare down for a moment, a common tactic between the two of you, watching and waiting for the other to break. It's usually you regardless of whether or not you look away first and when John hums, noncommittal, baby blues flickering to the little green reptile you know you've lost once again.
He scoops it up from the pile, holding it almost carefully, turning it this way and that. “Cheeky isn't he?” John chuckles, thumbs rubbing over the embroidered white teeth. He points the gators snout in your direction.
“Even made of that material you like. Real soft. Feel.” he comments, petting his fingers over the velvety ridges on its back as he balances it in his wide palm, offering it out to you.
You know.
It's why you chose it. You run your nails over the velvety plush fabric, the texture soothing some itchy little part of your brain as the fabric glides under your nail. You could pet it until you wore holes in it, just like your well loved plushies before it.
You know you sound like a child but you say it anyway, squeezing the beads of the toys little foot between your fingers. The sound not too loud or crackly.
“He's cute. I like the weight of him, seems very huggable.” you try to say casually, but one look at John's all knowing eyes confirms that he knows something. He may not know exactly what he is onto, but he knows he's onto something.
The bastard.
“Well let's not leave him by himself” John says, plopping the little beast into your shared basket, its blank stare holding yours amongst the bags of vegetables and snacks. “If anything I'm sure the dog would love him.”
You just barely fight the urge to smack him on the arm.
Absolutely, not. That little fella did not survive retail hell to get torn up by some animal.
You just barely bite back your scandalized gasp, laughing nervously as a way to fill the space between you as you make your way to the check out, letting John handle the bagging while you thumb through the coupons on your phone.
The drive home is nice, quiet, the pair of you sitting in comfortable silence, John's hand in yours over the center console. Another routine, the man clicking his fingers toward his palm to get your attention until you slip your hand in his.
You fool with the radio, relishing in the brush of his thumb against the back of your hand, mulling over your plan on squirrelling away your new plush friend.
Once home, John ushers you inside with a fond swat to your ass and a kiss, loading all your bags onto one arm as you scurry inside to make room for it all. Your dog watching patiently from the doorway as you move back and forth. Tail thwapping against the floor as he watches the lair of you move back and forth.
Your grocery routine is a well oiled machine, the pair of you moving around each other easily as you rearrange your current stock to make room for the new. John stealing kisses or sneaking in pinches to your rear every time you bend over. And with only a minimal amount of grab-assing the small mountain of groceries dwindle until nothing remains.
Nothing.
Which is another problem.
You frown, dig through the leftover plastic on the kitchen table, in search of your prize. You double check the truck, search all through the living room and hallway. The little green plushie nowhere to be found.
John raises a brow at you and you do your best not to seem only mildly disappointed. “I can't find the alligator….” you trail, looking under the table, just to be sure.
John searches with you, checking the same paths, and after several passes you both conclude he must have been left behind.
You gnaw your lip, try not to appear too stressed about it.
You want to cry really. It's a small mishap, could have happened to anyone.
But of course it would happen to you.
You'd been so close, after watching it for weeks and now it was gone. Left all by its lonesome in some checkout line or worse, left outside to face the elements.
The store was too far of a drive to justify driving back too. And you weren't about to call the store and ask.
We'll order one, love. John tells you, but it's not the same.
It was just a toy, and you weren't about to look like a lunatic in front of your partner about it.
So you hide your moping, curl up on the couch with your favorite blanket and fulfill your duty of choosing a movie for the pair of you while John gets your pizza out of the oven.
You eat like your supposed too, you even sit through the whole movie without fussing with your phone. Your soft cheek pressed against his bicep, arm tangled in his as you play with his fingers, tracing the lines against his palm as you distract yourself.
You hadn't realized you'd fallen asleep until John jostles you with scruffy kisses to your face, rumbly voice sliding underneath you like a net, pulling you up from fuzzy half dreams, nice and easy.
You love him.
It's the first thing you think of when your brain comes back online, your saving grace amongst all the bad luck.
You love him dearly. After years of thinking that you'd never find another who's existence could meld with yours. Who'd see your spinning wheels fit to crash and simply take the wheel and steer rather than slam on the breaks. Leave you behind in mangled burnt rubber.
You love him when he comes home quiet, smelling like iron and gunpowder. You love him when he emerges warm and soft, melted down in the warmth of your shared home and smelling like your shampoo.
You love him even when he puts the cups on the wrong side of the cabinet, or when he fusses with the seat in your truck; even when he forgets silly little plushies at the grocery store.
You love him when he guides you upstairs, herding you into the bathroom to wash your tired face. Helping you brush your teeth with watermelon toothpaste because the regular mint was too much on your sensitive gums.
You think you fall in love with him all over again when you shuffle down the hall, warm and clean and dressed in pajamas that were formerly Johns, and swing open the door to see innocent little eyes staring back at you.
Your green little gator nestled against your pillow, tucked in and waiting for you.
You waste no time lunging for the thing, scooping it up by its stubby arms and hugging it close, the unmistakable scent of John's cologne dusted onto its velvety fur. You bury your nose there, breathing deep.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Your eyes well with happy tears that you just barely manage to keep corralled into your eyeballs.
John comes into view a moment later leaning against the doorway with a know-it-all smirk on his face. How he managed to sneak the toy upstairs was beyond you. You're almost convinced he's a mind reader.
Bastard.
“Now I may not be as cute as he is, but your not goin’ to replace me are you?”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head in the negative as you scurry over to him, wrapping the bulk of him up in a great big hug.
He squeezes you back, planting another soft kiss to the top of your head. A pleased little rumble rolling from his chest as you squeeze tight, murmuring a soft thank and softer kiss just above his heart.
Every ounce of embarrassment or uncertainty about your trivial little gift gone with the wind as you both crawl into bed, a warm, weighted alligator nestled between you and the love of your life.
It’s not intentional, at least, not at first. The first time was a legitimate nip slip. The door handle caught on the strap of your bikini top, and as soon as you straightened up, both of your titties sprang out right in front of him.
But his face. The way his words turned into gibberish mid-sentence, blinking down at you in pure shock while you did your best to cover yourself with your arms.
He wouldn’t stop glancing at you upon your return later that day, kept finding excuses to be near you, to occupy the same rooms.
To be honest, you didn’t hate the feeling of his attention. It didn’t feel scary or dangerous. It settled over your skin like the hot water from a bath, tingling and coaxing across your nervous system. He’s curious about you, that’s all. Curious about your body, the way it looks, the way it feels.
You encourage him after that. Partly because you like the attention, and partly because you like the feeling of having some kind of power over him.
You start showering with the bathroom door cracked open a couple of inches. Start being in such a hurry while getting dressed, carelessly pulling your shirt over your head halfway through stepping out of your room. Start getting your midnight snack in a sweatshirt and thong, seemingly clueless as you lean against the counter and spoon ice cream into your mouth, watching the TV while he watches you.
And he doesn’t do a damn thing about it.
It’s like this is all he wants, to have a half-naked person around all the time for him to look at. He doesn’t seem inclined to touch, or to change the state of your roommate relationship at all. He just likes to see you.
And you like to be seen.
Your bedroom door gets left open all the time now. You shave your legs in the bathroom sink, wearing only a towel that barely covers your ass. Do your makeup in a tiny satin bra, with your favorite music softly playing in the background.
He’s there for it all, leaning against the doorframe, chatting with you about the neighbors, or giving you advice about work. His eyes run up your thighs, linger on your ass and breasts.
It makes you feel like such a pervert that you find yourself constantly aroused from exposing yourself to him. You can hardly glimpse him in the kitchen anymore without fantasizing about him finally feeling you up. Wrapping his arms around you on some random day, learning the truth about your dirty thoughts, in that sticky wetness his fingers would find between your legs.
But you’re both stubborn, and neither of you makes the first move. You continue to change with the door open, and he continues to openly stare at your body. You feel divine, the way he looks at you. The sizzle of desire in the air leaves no room for self consciousness, and you become more and more comfortable revealing your body to him.
You don’t expect it, the day he actually breaks. You haven’t seen him around in a few weeks, probably a mission that needed wrapping up, and you get extra sloppy. You leave your bedroom door open while lotioning your body from the shower.
With your back to the door, you’re absorbed in the routine task, when suddenly you hear a soft, “Let me do that.”
It’s John. Home out of nowhere, looking a little sleep deprived, but otherwise right as rain. He’s not looking at your nude body, he’s staring straight into your eyes, honest and steady.
“O-oh,” you stammer, covering your breasts with one arm. “It’s just lotion, I got it.”
“Let me do it,” he says, like he’s perfectly practiced the words. “I’m good at it.”
He takes one step into your room, and your heart leaps into your throat.
“It’s really okay.” God, why are you so nervous all of a sudden? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? “I don’t want to make you work, you just got home.”
He extends a hand out to you, palm up. “Give me some. Let me take care of it.”
You have to drop your arm away from your breasts to pick up the lotion bottle, and bravely squeeze a healthy dollop into his waiting hand.
John Price’s darling secretary, whose orgasm is scheduled every week, on Friday afternoon.
Friday afternoon, that’s the deal you've found yourself in somehow, after one terribly drunken and unforgivably honest night, where you found yourself naked and panting into your boss’s—
You know what, maybe it’s best if you don’t get into the details. It doesn’t matter now anyway, because you have your routine, and it works for both of you.
First thing in the morning, you bring your boss his coffee.
He takes one sip, and gives you an absentminded, “Thank you darling, shut the door please.”
Which you of course take care of right away, with your heels clacking cheerfully across the vinyl floor.
Then it’s morning briefing time, where you hover near the end of his desk and fill him in on any changes to his schedule that day, remind him of meetings and things he needs to sign off on, and just generally become more and more flustered because of what he’s doing.
Namely, that’s when he scoots his chair farther back from his desk, spreads his legs a bit, and strokes his beard while he looks at you.
Oh, the way that man looks at you.
You’ve tried to describe it to your friend once, and utterly failed because you started stumbling over your words with sudden embarrassment.
But your mind knows. Your subconscious perfectly understands the meaning of that particular gaze he levels at you.
It’s like you’ve found the most important person in the world, a person whose attention feels like it should be rationed in crumbs, and it's suddenly, fully locked onto you.
Not onto what you’re saying, though he does pay vague attention because that’s part of his professional day-to-day. But more than anything, he’s watching the changes in your face, the small shifts of your legs as you stand in one place in heels. It would be unprofessional to lean against his desk, so you just shift your weight slightly, planner in hand, and rattle off military organizational nonsense while Price’s eyes caress your face, linger on the curl of your fingers around the pen, lazily examine that spot where the skin of your throat disappears under your shirt collar.
“How was your weekend?” he'll ask softly, once he's certain you've got through the boring necessities.
"It was lovely, thank you sir. Saw a film with my friend."
He'll stretch out his hips slightly, forcing you to glue your eyes to his face and not drop them to the expanse of warm lap so close by.
“How are you feeling today?” he always inquires.
Which, of course, you know what it means. The words are cordial enough, but you've had this routine long enough to understand what's unsaid.
‘How’s our little arrangement treating you today? Do you need a break?’
To which you reply something like, “Right as rain, sir.”
And that's it. Business settled, coffee delivered, everything ship shape in that little office on base.
And then you get a different sort of attention, because that's what this is all about in the first place -- the fact that you can't get enough of his attention.
Some days, if there really isn't anything going on that morning, he'll let you suck him off. Those are really nice days, because it means he'll be in a good mood after that, smiling at you and giving you soft, happy eyes.
But mostly there isn't time, so he's forced to tend to you in other ways.
Namely, the Captain makes you come stand between his knees, so he can run his hands over your body. He'll talk to you while he does it, tell you a little bit about his weekend, the fishing he did, the reruns he watched, while he undoes the little buttons on your blouse.
He prefers you in those soft fabric bras without any padding, partly because he can see the imprint of your nipples through your shirt, and partly because it's so easy to tug the top down and let your breasts spill out onto his waiting hands.
Price is a boob man, in case you were wondering.
You keep your hands clasped carefully onto your planner behind your back, and endure each tug on your nipple while he shines those gorgeous eyes up at you, his expression full of playful fondness. That's all this is, after all. A little bit of playing with each other, because you both enjoy it.
"Does that feel good, sweetheart?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you miss me over the weekend?"
"I always do, sir."
Sometimes he finds other ways to play with your body, but you get the general idea. Ten minutes of touching and attention, and you're set for the day. Wet, breathless, and practically stumbling over yourself to please him in whatever ways you can.
Ten minutes, and then he's buttoning you back up, making you proper again, and turning back to his coffee with a casual, "That's all for now. Thank you, darling."
Thank you. As if you're the one doing him the favor. You're half convinced it's his own little joke.
Actual work begins about that time, and it often happens where you don't see much of each other. He's occupied with meetings or trainings or briefings most mornings, and you deal with your usual papers and busywork.
For lunch you often pop off to the mess, or occasionally bring sandwiches to the office mini fridge. Lunch is always overshadowed by your anticipating of the midday meeting. It's the next bit of time you get to spend time with Captain Price.
"How was your lunch?"
"Just fine, sir."
"Close the door please."
Much like his, 'How are you feeling today?' question, you believe the door closing is a signal of sorts. That he's ready and willing, and that nothing has come up that keeps him from the midday meeting, as things occasionally do.
Most days, though, he manages to prioritize it.
You appreciate that greatly, because it's your favorite part of the day. The part where you remove all of your clothes apart from your heels, and he guides you into his lap for wandering hands, and soft, interested whispers.
He never takes off a stitch of his own clothes. It's part of the arrangement, you suppose, to help you feel more vulnerable. The contrast of his rough, reinforced clothing against your bare skin, the occasional scratch of velcro, or the poke of a corner of fabric, only makes it better. The complex excitement and fear of it has your heart thumping like a trapped animal, which is obviously the point. The more trapped you feel, the more wrong it is, the wetter your pussy gets, and you both know it.
You attempt to relax like that, melting back against that broad chest, shivering slightly from the cold air of the room, and aware of every motion of those steady hands exploring your most sensitive areas.
When he gets his fingers in your pussy, when he starts touching it exactly the way you like, that's when he asks you the most difficult questions, in quiet little murmurs against your hair.
They're rhetorical, but you give him a quiet, "Yes, sir," or "No, sir," as you're meant to.
He'll ask you if you've been wet on the weekend while you were away. If you've been a selfish girl and touched yourself at all. If you went on any dates, if you let anyone fuck you. If you told them about how you're not allowed to cum, if you took precautions to make sure it didn't happen. If you were generous and let them use you. If you've been thinking about hooking up with anyone else at work, if having a wet pussy all week is making you more interested in being used by random people.
And he touches you through every question, regardless of how you answer. Until your knees are trembling, and every reply is coming out with a little more of a struggle, a little more whimpery and pitiful.
He doesn't make you edge yourself. He's got a pretty clear idea of where your tipping point is, after a few accidents in the early weeks of this. He'll just decide you've had enough, and his sticky fingers will dry while coasting over the other parts of your skin, sampling the feel of your heated body in his hands while you catch your breath and try to calm yourself.
Price always gives himself time to spend with you like that, gently petting you and letting you feel connected to him, until the soft warmth of that is almost as loud in your brain as your throbbing clit.
And then it's time to get proper again. Get dressed, get back on schedule, back to your office duties, with your underwear now uncomfortably sticky against your aching pussy.
Aching, because he's so fond of you that he gives you all this wonderful attention.
The end of the day tends to be the part that's flexible. Sometimes it's just a friendly pat on your ass and a, "See you tomorrow, good work today."
Occasionally he'll inspect your panties, maybe get rid of them for you since they're so wet and useless at that point. More than a few times you've had to ride the train home with nothing on under your skirt, your inner thighs wet from your own arousal wandering down your legs. It's very difficult to not think about fucking strangers when that's happening.
And sometimes, very rarely, he'll fuck you at the end of the day. Especially if it's been a very good day, or if you've done something particularly smart, you'll get bent over his desk as a goodbye, get your pussy filled while your eyes roll back and little whispered, "Thank you, sir"s roll off your tongue.
Those are the days you really wish he was coming home with you.
But then, the best day is always Friday. That's the day you're always extra nervous, extra good, trying your very hardest to do everything exactly right so that nothing will stand in the way of you and getting the orgasm you earned all week.
Price lets you pick it, because he's a very nice boss. Whether it's eating you out on top of his desk, or getting fingered uncomfortably close to the window, or just riding him until your knees have imprints of his chair, you're guaranteed to finally, finally, get to cum. He often stays late so you can get as many as you want, shuddering and gasping as quietly as you can while your pussy spasms in intense, long-delayed release.
You've never felt anything like it. Many partners, many different kinds of experiences, but your Friday afternoon fuck is something different. Something emotional and vulnerable, when you let your body do what it needs to do, while he watches. Watches, and offers hushed little comforts and praises.
Take what you need, you've earned it. You've been such a busy worker this week. His favorite subordinate, but don't tell anyone. Never met anyone so cute and competent at the same time, what a treasure you are. Doesn't that feel so much better? Let's keep going, you deserve it. You're doing so well, darling. That's my girl.
You're left a sweaty, blissed-out mess by the end, when he tucks you into his chest and strokes your back.
