Shark Day — Brendon Park x f!Reader
18+ mini
Summary: You take Brendon to the aquarium for his birthday. Brendon tells you it’s a stupid idea. Brendon spends two hours staring at fish.
WC: 4,548
Warnings: established relationship; oral (f! receiving); unprotected piv (don’t do this in real life kids); overstimulation; hint of d/s dynamics for the desperate (guys, it’s me, I’m desperate); why would you talk about your feelings when you can just fuck about your feelings
A/N: grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); this was supposed to be short and sweet and PG fucking slutty muse whoops; technically part of the Gremlin universe, but can 100% be read alone; if you live in Pittsburgh, don’t come for me over the aquarium inaccuracies
Masterlist
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“I swear to fucking god if you start singing happy birthday, I will throw you out of the car.”
“But I’m the one driving. We would both die.”
“I said what I fucking said.”
You smile in delight. Brendon scowls back.
The day has been pretty unremarkable up to this point. He left home before you were even awake and spent the day operating and terrorizing surgical residents. You attended some meetings on campus in the morning before moving over to the hospital to work on your model. Very normal. But despite his best efforts to get you to treat this like any other Tuesday, you’re fairly vibrating with energy. It’s his birthday after all.
Well, technically tomorrow is his birthday. But he’s on call tomorrow, and you never plan things when he’s on call. It’s like saying it’s quiet in the ED — there’s no empirical evidence to suggest any negative causal effect, but everyone knows you just don’t do it.
So here you are, driving your silently-fuming boyfriend to a mystery destination, while he tries to kill you with his eyes for daring to celebrate him. You beam and wonder, not for the first time, if there’s something wrong with you. It’s probably not healthy to enjoy antagonizing him so much. But the longer the two of you are together, the more you realize that the more annoyed he gets, the more fun you’re probably having. And right now, he is livid.
“You can’t be mad yet — you don’t even know where we’re going,” you remind him.
“That’s the first issue,” he snaps back. “The fact that you’re the one driving.”
“Hey! I’m a perfectly good driver. I’ve never gotten a ticket.”
“Because giving you a ticket would be like kicking a sad puppy. Doesn’t change the fact that your spatial awareness skills are shit and you can’t park to save your life.”
You reach over and smack his arm without taking your eyes off the road.
“What the fuck?”
“See? I didn’t even have to look. I have great spacial awareness.”
“I will murder you in your sl-“
“Oh look, we’re here.”
He pauses mid-death threat as you turn into the parking lot, sees where you are, then resumes said death threat with vigor.
“I will kill you while you sleep. Why are we at the aquarium?”
It seems like a pretty obvious question, so you ignore him and his steadily rising blood pressure while you park. You’re not nearly as bad at it as he likes to pretend, but it does take a fair amount of concentration to get the car parallel to the lines. He waits like a gentleman while you focus, then immediately resumes his grumbling once you cut the engine.
“This is stupid,” he snipes.
“Have you ever even been to an aquarium?”
“No. There are better ways to waste my time.”
Then he gets out of the car, rounds the hood, and opens the door for you. He also doesn’t immediately back away after he helps you out. Instead he crowds you against the door, bracing his hands against the hood and caging you in.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he mutters lowly.
You hum in response. Having anyone else this close would make you feel nervous, but right now all you feel is safe and loved. Especially since he dips down just enough to press a kiss on top of your head. You do take a moment to search his eyes for any sign that he’s actually unhappy, but you don’t find any. Instead, there’s a spark of interest buried beneath five layers of false affront. God, you love him.
“Come on,” you say, ducking under his arm and dodging his attempt to snag your waist. “It’ll be fun.”
“You think coding books are fun. Excuse me if I don’t trust your judgment.”
But he turns and follows you, and after a few steps of dignified distance, he slips his hand into yours.
When you first met Brendon Park, you got the impression that he tolerated few people and liked even fewer. You had been correct. You also would have put money on him being incapable of basic niceness, and you had again, been correct. Even after a couple of months together, he’s still more likely to say have you always been this annoying when he sees you instead of I missed you. But what you never would have guessed and what you weigh far more than his verbal hostility, is his seemingly pathological need to be physically close to you.
If the two of you are sitting on the couch, he tugs you against his side. When you’re eating dinner, he hooks one ankle around yours under the table. Sharing a bed with him is always an exercise in patience, since you don’t like being touched when you sleep, and he would like nothing more than to fuse himself to your back.
His need to touch you persists even in public. Maybe especially in public. He thinks most people are idiots, and he doesn’t like idiots near you. Ergo, he keeps you tucked close when you’re out together. He always has a hand on your waist or the small of your back, and he uses his size as a buffer between you and everyone else. You’d teased him once, saying he wouldn’t die if you wandered into the next grocery aisle without him, and he’d referred to you as annoying-ass gremlin for the rest of the night. He’d also continued keeping you glued to his side.
He does the same now, using your hand to anchor you as you navigate the entrance to the aquarium even though there aren’t many people here. You’d chosen a weekday evening purposefully. He’s surprisingly tolerant of children, but you know he’ll still enjoy himself more without fifty million families running around.
“I still think this is stupid,” he grumbles once you pass ticketing and security and enter the main atrium. “I want it on the record that I’m only staying because you would pout otherwise.”
“Mm hmm. Come on, I want to see the sharks first.”
“You think you’re fucking funny.”
You do, actually, and you’re also right.
Brendon Park doesn’t like celebrating his birthday. Brendon Park thinks aquariums are dumb. Brendon Park spends the next two hours looking in every single tank and reading every single sign in the aquarium you took him to for his birthday.
The aquarium is attached to a zoo, but he seems completely uninterested in both land creatures and marine mammals. He doesn’t even venture into the zoo exhibits, and he walks past polar bears, sea lions, and seals like they’re not there. He does pause by the crocodiles for a minute, but he moves on quickly.
The fish are the only thing that hold his attention. He stands in the coral reef exhibit, arms crossed and unmoving, for a solid twenty minutes. Just his eyes shift, tracking the fish as they dart around the display. At one point you find him zeroed in on a clown fish hovering around an anemone, and you ask him if it’s because he likes Finding Nemo. He tells you to mind your own business.
The thing he loves most though is the open ocean exhibit. All the practice he gets standing for hours during surgery pays off, because he parks himself in front of the massive tank and then ceases acknowledging the outside world. The only things that exist to him are the 90,000 gallons of water, the sharks inside of it, and occasionally you when you nudge him before he tells you to leave him alone.
You’re not nearly as fascinated by the fish as he is, but it doesn’t matter. He’s happy despite his best efforts not to be, and you’re happy just watching him. You watch the way the tension in his shoulders gradually drains away, the way the corner of his mouth keeps threatening to tilt up. It makes your heart do something mushy.
He’s always focused, always serious. He’s freakishly disciplined, and you don’t think you’ve ever once seen him skip a workout or meal prepping or anything else you consider highly optional. Getting to see him slow down and just enjoy himself feels almost sacred.
Later, much later, when the two of you are walking back to the car, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss there.
“So did you like it?” you ask.
You already know the answer, you just want to make him say it. He, predictably, does not.
“No.”
You laugh and pretend you don’t see him looking at aquarium memberships on his phone in the car.
When the two of you get back to his place, he goes upstairs to take a shower, and you make an excuse about needing to clean the kitchen. He glances over at the spotless kitchen, looks back at your thrilled smile, and mutters fucking unbelievable under his breath before disappearing up the stairs.
You wait until you hear the shower turn on before you scramble into the den. It takes some effort to retrieve the bag you’d stashed under the couch earlier in the week, but you manage it. Inside is his present and the wrapping paper you swore you’d take care of yesterday. You absolutely had not. So now you’re racing to wrap the small package before he finishes his military-speed shower, and you’ve barely finished when you hear the water shut off.
Triumphant, you race up the stairs and catch him just as he steps into the bedroom. His hair is wet, and there’s a towel wrapped around his waist, and you admittedly get sidetracked for a minute. It’s not your fault though. There’s a water droplet making its way down his chest and abs. Anyone would be distracted.
“Imp,” he prompts, amused.
“Right, sorry. Happy birthday!”
You pull the present from behind your back and hold it out with a flourish.
“I said no gifts,” he says slowly.
“Yup!”
Interest, annoyance, and resignation pass across his face in rapid succession. You beam. You watch as he makes his way to the bed and perches on the end of it like he’s ready to bolt at any given second, then place the parcel in his lap.
A moment passes where he just looks at it, and you see something vulnerable flit across his expression. Your heart squeezes. You know his mom died when he was young, and his dad was an objectively terrible parent. He’s dated here and there, but nothing ever serious, and all of his friends from med school and residency live in other states. You wonder how long it’s been since someone gave him a birthday present.
“I can hear you thinking sappy thoughts from here,” he grumbles when you lower lip does something traitorous.
“Am not,” you counter with absolutely no conviction.
You don’t know why, but you’re suddenly nervous for him to open your gift. It’s small, simple. Maybe he won’t like it, or he’ll think it’s stupid. Actually, he’s probably guaranteed to think it’s stupid, but maybe he’ll think it’s unacceptable levels of stupid. What if this is the first birthday present he’s had in years and it’s not-
He picks it up and starts unwrapping it.
He does it slowly, methodically. In fact, he takes the time to peel off the tape instead of tearing the paper, and you smile despite your nerves. Ridiculous man. Eventually though, he gets to the actual box, and you hold your breath while he opens the lid.
Inside is a scrub cap. It’s plain — solid navy like the scrubs all surgical staff are required to wear. But when he picks it up, the inside becomes visible, and he pauses. Sharks. The inside of the cap is lined with sharks. There’s also a tiny block of embroidery that says To Shark, From Imp, and he just stares at it. Silence fills the room, and your pathological need to fill it kicks in full force.
“I know you secretly like being Park the Shark, but I know you would rather die than tell anyone else, so I thought maybe the inside of the cap would be okay since no one but you would know it’s there well except for me I guess but if you think it’s dumb I can-“
He kisses you.
He drops the box and the cap on the ground and yanks you into his lap. Your gasp of surprise gets lost against his mouth when it slots over yours, and then he’s kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re oxygen. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t. There’s no warning, no gentle ease-in — just heat and intensity and the immediate feeling of being consumed.
His arms lock around you like steel bands, and he bites punishingly at your lower lip. Arousal flares, sharp and sudden. You shift until you’re straddling him, delving your fingers into his still-damp hair and pressing yourself as close as humanly possible. The towel around his waist comes undone somewhere in the shuffle, and you gasp. You’re wearing a floaty sundress, and suddenly the only thing between you and his rapidly-hardening cock is the thin material of your panties.
“D-do you like it?” you stutter. “I-“
He rolls his hips up into you, and you break off on a moan.
“It’s fucking ridiculous,” he snarls back.
Then he’s standing with you in his arms and turning to deposit you on the bed. You hit the mattress with a faint oof, but you don’t have time to complain before he’s shoving your dress up and dropping to his knees.
“Fucking shark cap,” he spits as he yanks your panties down.
Then his mouth is on you, and you forget what words are, let alone complete sentences. He doesn’t waste time teasing. He just latches onto your clit and sucks until your back bows off the bed. Your legs attempt to snap closed at the sudden overload of sensation, but he just growls an approximation of behave against your pussy and keeps going. You whimper.
Brendon Park gives head the same way he performs high-risk surgery — with laser focus and devastating precision. He tracks every minute twitch of your muscles, every hitch in your breathing and change in your expression. He’s almost clinical about it. Like you’re a computer program, and he’s trying to figure out the right inputs to make the model work.
His tongue traces a particular pattern against your clit, then does it again when your leg tenses. He pauses to suck a bruise onto your inner thigh, then repeats the gesture when you flex into the pain. He presses one finger inside of you and crooks it with perfect memory, and he makes a pleased noise when you moan.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and your cunt clenches violently.
He takes this as his sign to add another finger. Then he’s licking and sucking your clit again, and you grab the sheets so hard you’re surprised they don’t tear.
You come embarrassingly fast.
He fucks you with his fingers bent at the perfect angle and scrapes his teeth across your clit, and your orgasm tears through you like a freight train. You choke out his name as pleasure arcs like lightning through your body. Your hips grind down against his face of their own volition, and he hums in approval. He also doesn’t stop, and he works you through this orgasm and well on your way to another.
“Bren,” you gasp. “N-no more.”
He doesn’t even pretend to listen. You both know that if you actually wanted him to stop, you would use your safe word. But you don’t, and neither does he. He keeps fucking his fingers directly against your g-spot with ruthless accuracy, while his tongue alternates between lapping at your folds and sucking on your clit. Your blood turns to lava in your veins.
You feel a second orgasm fast approaching, and you try to squirm away from him.
“I said behave,” he grunts. “Y-“
“Want you inside.”
That finally makes him pause. He looks up at you, and you flush at the sight of your release on his lips and chin. His pupils are blown, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises, and there’s something feral in his gaze. The fingers in your cunt deliver a slow, almost thoughtful stroke.
“I don’t think you should be making demands when it’s my birthday.”
His thumb moves to your clit, and your legs spasm.
“Br-“
“I suppose I could accommodate you though if you beg.”
You whine, high and helpless. It’s not the first, the second, or even the tenth time he’s said something like that to you, but it hits you like lightning nonetheless. Your cheeks go nuclear, and your brain goes liquid. You also obey without thinking.
“Please,” you gasp.
He cocks his head.
“Please what?”
“Brendon.”
“Hmm, you’re going to have to be specific, sweetheart.”
His voice is condescending and just a touch cruel, and for a second you’re worried you’re going to come again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers. He smiles viciously, well aware of the effect he has on you, and waits. You whimper. You just came on his face, but you’re somehow still embarrassed as you say-
“Please, can I have your cock.”
Satisfaction, swift and possessive, lights his face, and then he’s pulling his hand away from you and crawling over body.
“So pretty when you beg. I should make you do it more.”
This time your pussy clenches around nothing, and he actually laughs at you.
“Desperate little thing.”
Any protests die in your throat when he yanks one of your knees up around his hip and drives into you with one, harsh thrust.
You’ve already come once, and you’re so wet you’re nearly dripping, but the intrusion still steals your breath. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve had him. His cock is long and thick enough that every time feels like the first, and you moan at the feeling of being stretched until it’s nearly pain. Then he grinds his hips against yours, forcing himself impossibly deeper, and the ache sharpens until it’s just this side of unbearable.
The orgasm hits you out of nowhere.
He’s not touching your clit, isn’t even thrusting. You’re just sensitive enough from having his mouth on you and lost enough in the feel of him that the final bite of pain pushes you over. You clamp down on his cock so hard that he chokes and sob as your release tears through you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders, your hips jerking uncontrollably like they’re unsure of whether to push closer or pull away.
“Are you-“
His jaw goes slack with shock for a second, and he freezes.
“You’re-, fuck.”
Something dark and violent and possessive crosses his face, and then he’s fucking you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You think you might if he does. Because you’re still coming, delirious with it, and the feel of him suddenly thrusting his cock into you nearly makes you cry.
“Bren,” you sob, shoving against his chest.
He just fucks you harder. Grabs both your hands in one of his and slams them to the mattress above your head like your overstimulation is just a mild inconvenience to him.
“Greedy little thing,” he snarls. “Pretty pussy is so desperate for my cock, you can’t even wait for me to fuck you properly.”
You make a noise that’s half agreement, half whine. You think you’ve finally stop coming, but you don’t really know. Everything is hot and wet and too much, and he’s so deep you can feel him in your throat. He grinds deep every time he bottoms out, the movement scraping his pelvis against your clit and punching an embarrassing ah, ah, ah out of you each time. You’re too gone to care. The pleasure is a razor sharp blade tearing its way through, and your entire body feels like a raw, exposed nerve.
You can feel every ridge and vein on his cock as he bullies his way into you, and his tip hits something devastating at the top of each thrust. The intensity of it threatens to make your eyes close, but you force them to stay open. He’s beautiful like this. Cheeks flushed and brow damp with sweat, mouth open on a wordless groan when he shifts your leg to open you wider.
It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s everything. The feel of him above you, in you, his taste on your tongue and his voice whispering filth in your ear. Vaguely, you’re aware of your hands falling limp at your sides, your eyes drifting closed. Words leave you, and your brain goes fuzzy.
“Fuck, sweetheart, stay with me.”
His voice somehow reaches you and doesn’t at the same time. You try to answer and can’t.
“I know, baby, it feels so good. Just- shit, stay with me.”
You try, you really do. But you’re floating somewhere above your body, and you can’t find your way back down. Every thrust shreds a little bit more of your sanity. You’re so wet you can hear it every time he pulls out. Your body is a live wire, your brain is full of static, and nothing feels real anymore.
“Y/n.”
His voice is sharper this time, more demanding. A pathetic whine escapes your throat. You want to be good for him — you always want to be good for him. Desperate, you fumble around until you find his hand and place it on your chest. Maybe if he holds you down, you won’t float away.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
His hand slides up to collar your throat, and you keen. You crash back into your body like a falling star, and awareness returns to you all at once. The sound of his hips striking the backs of your thighs with every thrust. The smell of sweat and sex and soap on his skin. The taste of him when he leans down to kiss you. He’s everywhere, he’s everything.
“There you are,” he grunts when your eyes fly open. “Good girl.”
“P-please,” you whine back.
You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just that you need it more than you need your next breath. But he knows, he always knows, and he bends to kiss you again. You sigh into his mouth.
“Doing so well for me,” he coos.
You preen, arching your back to get even closer.
“That’s it. Such a pretty baby.”
“I love you,” you gasp.
His expression goes feral.
“You’re mine,” he hisses. “Say it.”
“Y-yours.”
“Now my pretty girl is going to come on my cock.”
You whimper and shake your head. You don’t know how you can possibly come again. You’ve already come twice, and it feels like the second orgasm never ended. Your pussy is clamped down around him like a fist, and every thrust shoots lightning up your spine. Any more sensation and you’re going to pass out.
“I can’t.”
He makes a disappointed noise and fakes a pout at you. Your heart stops.
“I thought you were my good girl, what happened, baby?”
You whine, devastated, and he shushes you.
“You just need to come, you can do that for me, can’t you?”
You nod your head frantically. You can do it, you can be good. You’re always good for him. You reach a shaking hand down between your bodies to your clit, then flinch at the first brush of your fingers. The pleasure is so sharp it’s like a knife. Your pussy tightens until it hurts, and you can’t-
“Fuck, that’s it.”
He shudders, head dropping into the crook of your neck. The groan he lets out is filthy, and the sound of his pleasure is enough to make you keep going. You force your fingers to resume their movements even if it feels like fire traveling through your veins.
“T-there you go, feels so good. Fuck, that’s my girl.”
He shifts his hips, and his cock shreds up against something electric in you.
“This perfect goddamned pussy. Just want to stay inside you for the-“
He makes a sound like he’s in pain, and your vision whites out.
“God fucking damn, the r-rest of my fucking life.”
You sob out an approximation of his name, legs clamping around his waist like you want to push him away and keep him close at the same time. Everything where you’re joined is a wet mess. Your fingers are barely keeping up their stiff movements, and you think you might be hyperventilating. But you can also feel the beginnings of another orgasm pulling at your exhausted body, and you fairly cry in relief.
“G-gonna come,” you whisper.
Savage satisfaction lights his face.
“That’s it. Come for me, sweetheart, I want to feel it.”
His hand tightens around your neck, just enough to make you work for the next breath, and you shatter.
Your whole body spasms, and your cunt locks down like a vice. It tears through you, stealing sight, sound, and thought as it goes — nothing is real except the pleasure. It hurts this third time around, and that combined with his grip on your neck is enough to send you spiraling.
“Good girl, shit, so damn gorgeous c-coming on my cock.”
And then he’s coming, too. He groans brokenly, face twisted in a snarl as he empties inside of you. He doesn’t stop, either. He keeps rutting his hips against yours, riding out the orgasm and fucking his come into you like he’s trying to brand you. The thought prolongs your own high, and you’re actually crying from overstimulation when he finally, finally stops.
“Bren,” you whimper.
“I’m here, baby. Shh, you’re okay.”
Your senses return to you one by one, your eyes opening last. You blink slowly at the sight of him still above you, wild and wrecked and so, so beautiful. His expression gentles. He bends down to give you a slow, lingering kiss, one that’s comfort as much as it is affection.
“I’m going to pull out, okay?” he murmurs.
You shake your head immediately and cling to him.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It takes a second, but you eventually nod and loosen your grip. A distressed whine leaves your throat when he withdraws from your body, but true to his word, he doesn’t go anywhere. There’s come dripping out of you, and you’re both sweaty and disheveled, but he just curls around you and tucks you against his chest. The two of you lay there like that for a long time. Neither of you speak, content to just trade soft touches and breath.
His hand runs soothing patterns over your back, and his lips keep brushing kisses over your temple. That along with the sound of his heart beating underneath your ear is enough to relax your whole body, and you’re nearly asleep when he finally speaks.
“Imp.”
“Hmm?”
You crack open one eye to see him staring at you with devotion so intense it’s violence.
“I like the cap.”
Jesus, I just ...... 🥵🤤🤯
