Please…

No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On on particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagine it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow slip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he'd never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

You're stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what does it hurt if he just opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush that's spilled magenta pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your sheets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberated through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket of your jeans, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An…understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him the following weekend.

do u wanna like…go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is one single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better than you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he'd loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.

You get to find that you actually kinda like Brendon Park outside of the hospital when he's shed the shark persona, and one date turns into two, two into three, and three into a trip to HR to update your relationship status to make sure all your bases are covered.

The first time you get your period at his house not only is he 

1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved) 

2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.” 

Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—

“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart” 

And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.

Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)

Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.

I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.

“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”

If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.

However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.

It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.

He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.

When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done. 

He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.

We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”,  and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs. 

It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.

If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.

He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.

Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.

He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him. 

Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.

Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.

Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.

God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.

Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!

He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.

Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.

The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—

He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.

God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.

He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.

It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good— 

You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.

Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.

His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.

The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.

Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)

Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.

"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—

"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"

He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.

"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."

park the shark who willingly took you to his place that night, something that he doesn’t do very often. and even if he did, he would usually go back to her place, not that he’d ever tell you. 

“i hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs. 

“i can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, “up,” he commanded, and you obeyed. 

lifting you up, you felt your back hit his door and before you could complain, park placed his mouth over yours. wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer.

“so needy,” he smirked against your mouth, at his mouth you grasped his hair and pulled. park responded by pushing you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach. “feel that, princess? hope you can take it.” 

park the shark who matched your freak. wasn’t judgemental with what you wanted to do in the bedroom. 

“you wanna bite me?” he grinned, flashing his canines. “i thought i was the shark.” 

you made a face, “why would you say that to me? i’m like, dry now.” 

scoffing, his hands drifted down to your damp panties. “sure, princess,” grinding his thumb against your clit, park watched intently at the way you threw your head back, your breathing becoming laboured. “look at that.” 

“brendon,” you gasped, feeling his teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder, dragging your nails down his back, you could hear his grunt against you, the jerk of his hips. 

removing himself away from you, brendon licked the bite languidly, a contrast to the erraticness of his hips. “look at you,” he purred, as he took in the multiple marks he’s left across your skin. “beautiful.” 

you looked up at him and the meat between his neck and shoulder was practically tantalising. sensing where your attention was, park grinned to himself and lowered his shoulder. “come on, baby.”

“i’m not going to fucking break, bite me,” still a bit hesitant, you moved your mouth back to his traps, sinking your teeth slowly, you could feel brendon squeezing your hips. “that’s a girl,” encouraged.  

park the shark who started to treat you slightly better at work. he wasn’t goading you like before, but he was more or less ignoring your entire existence. 

“you get in my pants and then you practically ghost me when we’re at work?” you slammed his locker, refusing to back down when he glared at you. 

“i didn’t realise i had to converse with you every time i saw you,” he sneered. “did you want flowers as well?” 

“no,” you sputtered. “of course not. but i want you talk to me like i’m actually there.”

park sighed, “we didn’t talk before.” 

“because i thought you hated me,” when he opened his mouth, you quickly interrupted, “i know that you don’t hate me.” 

“i don’t understand why i have to talk to you outside of when i go downstairs.”  

“it’s courtesy,” your tone was bordering on whinging you and you quickly reeled yourself back. 

“what’s courtesy, princess, is me leaving hickeys where people can’t see it,” his eyes quickly flashed to your breasts, and you frowned, crossing your arms. 

“don’t be gross.” 

“i usually don’t talk to people i fuck,” sighing, he turned back to his locker. 

“fine,” you pouted, too tired to argue, and not that you’d ever admit it, a bit hurt at his statement. “i’ll see you when we both fuck next i guess,” turning to leave, you heard make a noise before grabbing your arm. 

“don’t be dramatic,” he bit out, annoyed at the whole situation. “i don’t know what to talk to you about when we’re at work.” 

“the weather? the shitty but overpriced cafeteria food? the gossip?” you listed off. “it just makes me feel used, park. like i’m good enough for you to fuck but not good enough for you to talk to.” 

park frowned at your statement. “i didn’t mean it like that. i thought that you would prefer for me to not talk to you.” 

you couldn’t help but laugh at the miscommunication. “i like talking to you.” 

park shifted, as if your words impacted him in a way he couldn’t decipher, “i like talking to you too.” 

“don’t ignore me again, i swear to god, otherwise i’ll ban you from sex,” you pointed your finger at him. 

he rolled his eyes and then looked around, “this is like your shitty grey’s anatomy.”

you rolled your eyes, “you like my shitty grey’s anatomy.” 

“if you ever,” he threatened, a playfully mean look on his face. holding up your hands in surrender, he opened back up his locker. “what are we having tonight?” 

you sat down on the bench and watched him, “i want pho,” you watched in appreciation as brendon began changing into his normal clothes. he was always so big but his movements weren’t clunky or awkward, it was always so sure. 

tossing his hoodie wordlessly behind him, you barely caught it. “you’re going to get cold,” he stated and you mumbled under your breath. 

“do you want to eat in? cause if so, we have to head home and shower,” he mumbled into his locker, grabbing the last of his things. he closed it and turned to you, a small smile gracing his face before it quickly dropped. 

“take away?” you suggested. “i’m kinda beat,” you shrugged then stood up. 

“you good?” 

“tired,” before you could lift your bag to your shoulder, park grabbed it and held it for you. murmuring a ‘thanks’, you moved closer to him. “i just really want to eat pho and watch shitty grey’s anatomy.” 

“you’re lucky i have netflix.” 

“i have all the dvds, that won’t stop me.” 

brendon park who slowly became your friend in public since that talk. he’s actually nice. he’s considerate (in and out of the bedroom), stubborn but loyal, remembers the smallest things you talk to him about and he’s sweet. 

brendon park who knows how to deal with you when you’re being particularly bratty. 

you weren’t seething out of jealousy, no of course not. you were just being logical. because if park was fucking other people, you needed to know because of health reasons, obviously. 

you didn’t know her, she was stationed upstairs with him. but she was really pretty. soft, blonde hair, a smile that unfortunately made you fall in love. she was a stunner and you’re not an idiot, brendon probably thought she was pretty too. 

his demeanor was calmer than usual. it seemed like he actually wanted to listen to what she was saying, that he wanted to be in her company. 

looking up, park nodded at you in acknowledgement (which you promptly ignored) before finishing his conversation and heading over to you. 

“you ready?” 

giving him a terse nod, you kept eye contact with the woman from before. “who is she?” you jerked your head towards her. 

“one of the or nurses,” he replied. 

you hummed and tore your eyes away from her, instead looking at park. you eyed him up and down, disdain clearly on your face. 

“what’s wrong with you?” 

“nothing,” you said. “i’m heading home.” 

“i’m going to ask you again. what’s wrong with you?” 

“nothing,” you said slower this time. “i’m going home.” 

“i thought we had plans,” he said, starting to get irritated at your avoidance. 

before you could reply, the nurse from before came back. her blonde her swishing as she walked, her hips swaying a little bit too much, and a sultry smile on her face as she came up to the two of you. “night doctor park,” she grinned at him, not bothering to pay attention to you. 

scoffing you mocked her under your breath, something that park didn’t miss. “you jealous, pup?” 

“if you’re fucking her, i need to know, i’m not risking an std because you want to the fuck the entire hospital,” you snarked, tamping down the green eyed monster. you had no right to feel jealous. you were just fucking. 

“i’m not robinavitch,” he spat out, as if he was offended at the thought of being with other people. at robby’s mention you frowned and you felt like he hit you in the heart. “i don’t treat the hospital like my own dating show.” 

“doesn’t seem like it,” you snapped. 

“fucking christ,” park exhaled deeply, and you could practically see him counting to five slowly in his head. “we’re going to my place tonight.” 

-

“how the fuck do you think i have time between work and you to find time to chase some other woman,” you groaned as he punctuated his statement with a particularly mean thrust. 

“brendon,” you could feel your drool pool beneath you, no doubt seeping into his mattress. clasping the fabric beneath you tightly, you were too fucked out to do anything else. 

“come on, pup,” twisting his hand into your hair, brendon yanked your head next to his face. “you were so talkative before.” 

gasping his name again, he slowly moved his hand to your throat, the other sneaking around  to your stomach. “if you ever think that i’d go around your back,” he tightened his grip around your neck, hips snapping. “you think i want some fucking nobody, huh?” 

“say who’s fucking me right now,” he growled into your ear, and when you didn’t respond quickly enough for his liking, he gave another rough jerk of his hips. 

“me,” you sputtered out, your hands grasping his forearms, nails digging into the flesh. 

“fuck, that’s right,” peppering kisses down your sweaty neck, the hand on your stomach moved further down, fingers latching onto your clit. “you think i fuck just anyone raw? that i just cum inside of any woman, huh?” 

you shook your head, one arm going behind his neck, pulling him down to your mouth. needing him closer than you already were. you let him take control, taking whatever he wanted, you just needed him. 

“come on, pup,” he goaded you, his hips no longer having a rhythm, as his fingers pressed harder, the circles against your clit becoming tighter. “cum on my cock.” 

white hot orgasm rushed through your body, you would have fallen if not for brendon holding you. gasping into his mouth, you chanted his name against his lips. 

spilling inside of you, he panted on your back, holding your body tight to his. softly moving you down, you melted into the bed. you never wanted to move, or think about anything ever again. you were content. 

brendon hissed as he slipped out of you, his cum slowly dripping onto his sheet. moving to his bathroom, he came out with a warm and damp towel. slowly and gently cleaning you, he tossed the rag to his hamper and began slowly kissing up your neck. 

“come on,” you could feel brendon lift you up and you whined in protest. “i’m not having you get a uti, you of all people should know how important this is.” 

lifting you on the toilet, you didn’t want to acknowledge just how intimate this was. so, instead, you looked at him impatiently. 

“what?” 

“get out,” you whinged as you watched him stand next to his sink. “i’m not gonna fake pee!” you exclaimed. 

brendon eyed you before nodding and leaving to go back to his bed. 

walking out of his bathroom slowly, you were practically ambushed, “jesus, brendon.” without another word he lifted you up and carried you to bed. “i have legs, you know.” 

“i know, but i also know that you can’t walk right now,” he grinned devilishly at you, and you couldn’t help but gather the little strength you had left, and smacked his chest. 

brendon park who brought you a coffee (one from an actual cafe) and a pastry to the pitt because you said you missed breakfast and you were hungry. who gave every single person a glare as they looked at him in shock as he hunted you down and gave you the food. 

“park?” you furrowed your brow, wondering if came down for a consult, but you can’t recall anyone calling for ortho in the pitt. 

“pup,” he greeted, then practically shoved the contents in your hand. “eat,” he could practically see the question mark forming on the top of your head and rolled his eyes. “you haven’t eaten since you left my house. eat.” 

“brendon,” you said softly, looking around the er. “I’m okay.” 

“do i have to feed this to you?” when you didn’t reply, he wordlessly took the pastry back and opened it up, holding it to your face. 

“park!” you chided, but nonetheless taking a small bite, very aware of the stares being thrown your way. 

javadi looked around, wide-eyed, trying to see if anyone else was watching the scene unfold in front of her. finally seeing whittaker and santos across the room. gesturing with her head to where the two of you stood, she made a face. 

“what the?” whittaker wondered out loud. “when did park and her become friends?” 

-

“shark bait,” santos practically purred as she rounded the corner. “i always thought it’d be robby that you’d be fucking.” 

rolling your eyes, you decided you were far too tired to entertain her antics at the moment. walking away, trinity followed you eagerly, her hands on her stethoscope, “so, is he mean in bed?” not answering her, you continued down the hallway. 

“garcia tells me that he talks about you sometimes,” that caused you to pause your steps. smiling, trinity skipped to you, “talks about your plans together. he mentioned that you love those coconut buns from the bakery near the hospital.” 

“trin,” you hissed. “stop.” 

“tell me if you’re fucking him, so i can change my bet. i don’t really wanna lose fifty bucks,” she whined, rocking on the heels of her feet. 

“brendon and i-,” 

“brendon?” she repeated, a sly grin on her face. 

“is none of your business,” and with that you began walking again, trinity trying to catch up to you. 

“what’s going on?” robby held out his hands, a playful smile on his face as he saw the two of you. 

“park brought her coffee and pastry because she complained she’s hungry.” eyes wide, you turned to trinity.  

“oh?” robby tilted his head towards you, and trinity almost gagged as he gave you the look only reserved for you. “we could have grabbed something, if you were hungry.” 

before you could answer, trinity answered for you, “when? between all the patients and nurses needing you, when?” 

you both turned to her, you incredulously and robby confused. “santos,” robby snipped, “i think garcia needs a set of hands in room six.” 

“shark? when did he start bringing you food?” it was an innocent question, if you didn’t know robby that well. unfortunately, for you, you knew him very well. 

“he’s actually nice,” you defended. “when he likes you.” 

“when has park ever liked you?” robby made a face and shook his head, “uh, sorry, not meant that way.” 

you laughed at his charming awkwardness, “we became friends recently. i like him.” 

“you like him?” robby arched a brow, his head tilting. 

you could feel a flush approaching your cheeks, and you really didn’t want to do this right now. especially with robby. with a hurried excuse, you scampered away from him. 

robby who didn’t realise why park suddenly started appearing a lot happier when he was down for a consult. 

robby who could see that the two of you obviously had inside jokes together, inside stories that only the two of you were privy too - something that he once had with you. 

robby who didn’t know where the nickname ‘pup’ came from, all he knew was he hated how you lit up at the name, practically preened whenever park said it to you. 

robby who always had feelings for you but never wanted to do anything because you’re good. you’re kind, and you’re you. and he was too old and too weathered for someone so good. 

brendon who stood by the nurses station in his normal clothes, waiting for you to finish. he ignored the looks that were thrown his way, or the appreciation in some.

he watched as you began your final chart, his eyes roaming all over you. you didn’t seem that tired compared to other days, you actually seemed to be in a pretty good mood. chatting away to him as you kept filling out forms. 

“did you see that photo that i sent you during your break?” you briefly looked up to brendon, the back to the computer. “the sushi place on station square.” 

“i already made reservations,” brendon simply replied. eyes scanning you and then the report briefly, tsking under his breath and pointed to the mistake. 

“i was getting to that,” you snapped playfully. “and thank you.” 

he looked back out to the space and saw hastings and robinavitch stopping at the station where the two of you were. 

“so i was thinking of coming over tonight?” park practically rolled his eyes at the blatant flirting happening in front of him. he glanced at hastings, leaning over the counter to talk to robby and watched as the other man briefly look over to you. 

“i don’t think that’s a good idea,” robby smiled tightly, still glancing between you now and then. not that you realised, too busy frowning at the computer as your screen decided to freeze. 

“i swear, you motherfucker,” you cursed under your breath. 

listening to the conversation happening right beside you, park closely kept an eye on your mood. anticipating your face scrunching up in distaste at the flirting going on in front of you

“done!” you celebrated as you stood up and slammed your folder shut. “fucking finally,” turning to brendon. “you ready to go, shark?” 

brendon hopped off the desk he was leaning on, “let’s go, pup.” 

“night,” you nodded to the other two before leading brendon to your locker. 

brendon barely glanced at the two as he passed, but he did note gleefully the look on robby’s face. 

brendon who isn’t afraid of dropping everything to make sure you’re okay…as friends

you watched mel instructing the breathing patterns and you tried your best to follow her, trying to will down the fast pace of your heart. 

“that’s it,” mel encouraged, a smile on her face. “just a couple more.” 

you breathed through your nose again, eyes looking around the room. a bit embarrassed at the situation that you were unfortunately placed in. you could see langdon and santos giving you a reassuring look, and robby who looked like he was about to blow a fuse. 

before anyone could say anything, you could hear dana bellowing a ‘room three’ to someone and then a harsh opening of the doors. “what the fuck happened?” brendon barked at the room. his attention solely focused on you. 

“i’m fine,” you called out. “just a bit of a scare.” 

not removing his eyes off you, he addressed the room again. 

“a patient got aggressive, said some mean shit, yanked her arm and threw her against some machines,” santos answered quickly, her eyes shifting between the two of you. 

the air was charged and mel moved out of the way, eyeing park like he was a predator going to snap at any minute. 

“you okay?” he asked softly, eyes running over your face and body, scowling when he saw the red print on your arm. when he saw you nod, he looked away, and then commanded, “out.” 

without another word, you watched as your colleagues scurry away. robby hesitating at the door, looking at you softly, fighting every cell in his body that wanted to stay with you. 

“i’m okay,” you murmured softly once everyone left. you weren’t, not really, but he didn’t have to know that. 

“no, you’re not.” 

“bones aren’t even broken,” you joked, trying to smile at him. 

“i’m not talking about your bones,” he tsked, stepping forward. 

“bren,” you said softly. your muscles relaxing as soon as you could feel his body heat radiate off him. 

“we’re staying at mine tonight,” he muttered, tucking a strand of her behind your ear, then dragging down his fingers until he landed on your injured arm. tapping your fingertips with his a couple of times, he looked back up at you. “what were you doing with king before?” 

“breathing exercises, helps me,” you watched as he slowly drifted both hands to your wrist and held them gently. 

“show me,” he whispered. “i can hear your heartbeat all the way from here.” 

brendon who felt his heart racing in his chest, who hasn’t felt this way since he was in high school asking out his first girlfriend. 

“we’re dating,” he declared. 

“excuse me?” you turned to him, baffled at his sudden announcement. you stopped chopping the carrot and leaned over to pause your music. 

“we only have sex with each other, i know what you like, you know what i like, you’re practically over here every day, we make a point to have dinner together at least once a week,” brendon listed off reasons. “do you want me to go on?” 

“since when was this us dating?” 

brendon stared blankly at you, “if i had it my way, ever since i kissed you in my house. knew you were the woman for me after you yanked my hair.”

feeling yourself beginning to get flustered, you breathed out loudly. “and you kept this from me because?” 

brendon shrugged, “you would have never said yes.” 

“maybe you just liked me yanking your hair.” 

rolling his eyes, “you want to date me.” 

“you’re presumptuous,” you replied, a bit amused at his obvious nervousness. 

“i’m falling in love with you,” he stated simply and that took your breath away. you looked at his face, scanning every nook and cranny that you familiarised yourself with the last six months, trying to see if he was misleading you. 

but you saw none. 

“unless you’re still fucking in love with robinavitch, i’m willing to wait until you love me back,” he affirmed, like those were the only two options that you could choose. 

“most men ask,” you reminded. “and they usually have flowers or some gifts when they ask.” 

“i’m not most men, and i bought you those flowers when we went to the market a couple of days ago,” he pointed to the beautiful flowers on your kitchen table. 

“hr’s gonna have a fit,” was all you said. you watched in amusement as brendon took a while to understand your words, and when he did, a bright grin took over his face. ignoring your exclaim of his name, he wrapped you up in his arms. 

Formidable: inspiring fear, respect, or dread due to someone or something's size, strength, or excellence. The definition of formidable can be found in all of its glory in a single man at the PTMC. That man was Brendon “The Shark” Park. Known for his brutish mannerisms and cutting wit, there were not many men who could step toe to toe with the Shark of Ortho. His cadence was that of a prowling shark, his name deriving from the way he circled a patient to get the whole picture, and his razor-sharp tongue. When he was near, the ED held its breath.

Nobody knew if his home life, where most co workers talked about the trappings of their domestic lives, Park seemed to live off orthopedic surgery, gym routines, and the tears of R4s. This mystery only added to the effect; the Shark’s reputation still being held up by the hospital’s complete ignorance of what went on in his life went on behind closed doors.

Then there was the incident. A trauma had been called, and an Ortho consult had been ordered. Park was just coming out of a multi-hour Posterior spinal fusion, where he had to correct the mistakes of an incompetent baby surgeon who wouldn’t know what a good bone graft looked like if it were spitting in his eye. Needless to say, the man was already on edge, but when he was called for the consult, he went, only stopping to put all of his jewelry back on from where he had removed it for the surgery in question, leaving one big detail of his personal life dangling from his neck.

Robby was stood stick straight and silent as he entered the room, waiting carefully to see what questions Park would request, and which of his poor residents he would offer up to the slaughter today. Mohan, Javadi, Whitaker, and Santos all mirrored his postures, waiting and watching as the Shark circled the patient with those eyes that knew how to cut a man to his quick. Then their eyes caught. A flash of silver, dangling from a chain usually neatly tucked under a scrub top. They were all so stunned by the presence of the wedding band that when Park barked out an order for someone to present, they all flinched as they directed their attention to Robby, who ultimately nodded for Santos to present.

From that day forward, while many murmured theories followed him wherever he went, the biggest and baddest of them all was the question of who could possibly be on the other end of that wedding ring.

About three months after the wedding ring incident, a woman entered the ED. She was surrounded by dark-haired babies with blue eyes, and was handling the fevers, sniffles, and coughs with grace. She wandered in with her herd around 6:30, stating issues with a lethargic infant with a fever of 100.4 and a three-year-old with a fever of 102. The three-year-old wasn’t necessarily a medical emergency, but the infant was. Paired with fewer wet diapers and the lethargy, she had come to the right spot and was quickly ushered in by Lupe and Dana on the relatively slow evening.

Dana observed the calm woman and the drive of sick children with a maternal sense of wonder. Here you were with a set of twins no more than a month old, a toddler, and a five-year-old, all with a terrible cough and fever, and yet? You remained calm and unwavering, two babies strapped to your chest, and both hands occupied by little girls with shockingly familiar blue eyes. She watched as you dried tears, wiped snotty noses, handed out water bottles, and even caught vomit, without flinching, and without pausing in your efforts to fill out insurance information. She was impressed.

Robby had come and gone from the room while observing Whitaker. Santos had made a fly-by, Langdon Mel, and Mohan each gave interest to the small family, and Javadi even went so far as to approach with stickers and graham crackers, and each doctor had asked Dana whether or not the children looked familiar to her. Each time she nodded and shrugged her shoulders, completely at a loss as to who the little mystery family could be. Well, until she was handed the chart, and it all clicked. Then she knew she had to make a page, with haste.

You were sat up in the hospital bed, railings all pulled to their highest extent. Your hair was messy and frizzy from sleep, and little strands had fallen from your messy hairstyle where the first of the small children you cradled had tugged on it while eating. You fed the first of the twins, Marina, on your right breast, the baby lazily sucking, eyes half-hooded in satisfaction from what you presumed was a great meal. Then there was Pearl, your three-year-old, tucked into the side not occupied by her sister, playing with the fabric of your shirt, little arm hooked into an IV. She was gently dosing in and out of sleep, her little head drooping and snapping back up like she was struck by lightning. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was beginning to stick to her face with sweat, and the poor thing was rattling out breaths in a way that worried the tenured nurse. The other twin, Harbor, lay across your lap hooked up to IV fluids, and watched the ceiling with the great interest only babies can give to lighting fixtures, patiently waiting for her turn on the boob. This child’s cheeks were also pink, and that same startling cough rattled from her little chest, your free hand splays across her and your brows crease with worry, but you’re confident that she will get the best care here. The final child, Isla, age five, was sprawled across the end of the bed, slowly swinging her legs back and forth, arms folded across her chest as she coughed and hacked in tune with her sisters.

Robby and Abbot were quietly chatting in the corner when he stormed down the stairs. Park, looking for all the world like a shark who had just caught a whiff of blood. The whole floor was at a standstill as he stormed through the ED with purpose, an amused and bewildered Dana behind him. Abbot and Robby shrugged and followed after their old friend who was rapidly waving them towards the room with the mystery family, hot on the shark’s fins.

Park ripped back the curtain to the Pedes unit, and to his astonishment, there they all were. Just as Dana had said.

“Daddy!” Cried Isla, throwing herself at him immediately. The sweet girl showing more enthusiasm for him than she had shown all day from where she lounged sadly watching Nemo from the comfort of your couch.

“DADA! DAD! DAD! DAD!” Chanted little Pearl, eyes twinkling out of her rosy face as she struggled to toddle from your side to her dad’s. Brendon scooped her up as well, careful of the IV in her little arm, eyes roving over each of his girls to check for any sign of major injury. He was relieved to find none. His eyes immediately flicked to you, checking you over as well, before finally squatting down to check over his twins. When he was finally satisfied that all was relatively well, he took to comforting his girls.

“Hello little baby sharks, what are you doing swimming in my waters, hm?” His face to the vast majority seems like it hadn’t changed from its normal stoicism, but to his family, they could see the softness in his eyes, and they took comfort in his steady, unwavering nature.

“Here! They poke me Dada!” Pearl gave an indignant little cry and brandished her IV to her father, and he nodded sagely, kissing her forehead and lingering to gauge temperature, and to comfort the little miss who was definitely over this little hospital stint. Thankfully, whatever fever had brought her here had broken.

“Oh no! My princess!” Park huffed out a laugh, hugging her tightly without tugging on any tubing.

“I cried Dada.” Pearl said, looking at him with the world’s saddest puppy dog eyes, letting them well up again at the memory of this most egregious misfortune that had befallen her. “And I frowed up in the hall, but Mama got me a trash can.”

“That’s okay, we are allowed to cry when we’re scared, that doesn’t make us any less brave.” Park nodded wisely, letting the little girl tuck herself back under his chin. “And I’m glad your mommy was there, she did a good job.”

“What about you, Isla girl? You okay?” He asked, turning to his other daughter, who finally seemed to be giving into her exhaustion from all the excitement from being here in the hospital.

“I’m fine, Mommy said that Harbor and Pearl were sick, so we had to come and visit you at work.” She yawned and pulled herself closer to the smell of her dad’s expensive cologne and steady breathing. “Mommy called you and you didn’t answer.”

Brendon looks up at you at that with a guilty frown. “I know, Daddy’s phone isn’t allowed in the room where he works, so Mrs. Dana came and got me.” You nod in understanding, knowing that he wouldn’t have purposefully ignored your call while his children were so sick. “Now then, why don’t you two go sit with Mommy so I can check on the twins, yeah?” The girls nod and Park gently lowers them back to their original spots.

You’re finished feeding Marina, and hand her off to Brendon, and immediately he lifts the child to his face, cooing softly at the baby and watches as the barely awake child pulls both hands to her face and nuzzles in in that way newborns do. He has one hand supporting her head and the other supporting her butt as he lifts her to his line of sight and watches the little soft spot on her head thrum with her heartbeat. Thankfully, it’s not sunken in any way, so she’s hydrated enough, he pulls her close again and nuzzles at her stomach with his nose, satisfied that she’s okay.

“What happened?” He asks softly, eyes flicking to you as he takes a seat next to Isla, who immediately rests her head on his knee. He holds Marina close and starts to stroke little Harbor’s cheek as she begins to feed.

“Miss Harbor spiked a nasty fever, one I couldn’t ignore. She was lethargic, and I noticed fewer wet diapers. Then I took a look at her soft spot, and it looked a little off. So I brought them in. Pearl was at 102. I didn’t like that either, and she was puking. But that was more of a choking on her coughs kind of thing? But it happened enough that I was afraid of dehydration, so they gave her some fluids as well.” You sigh, readjusting the baby again and wrapping your free arm around a now definitely sleeping Pearl. Brendon hums his approval.

“You did the right thing. Now it seems like everyone is a little better.” He nods solemnly, pulling his family as close as he could in the hospital bed. “How about we go home? I’ll wrap everything up with doctor Robby, and we can get these little shark pups back to bed.” Everyone who was currently awake and verbal agreed to that sentiment, and Brendon stood to go find their doctor, but when he turned around, he found the ED already staring back at him.

Dana, Robby, and Abbot were a respectable foot away from the entrance to Pedes, but they were still there, gawking. They watched as Brendon rolled his eyes and stalked toward them, still cradling an infant.

“Do you all have nothing better to do?” He groused, watching as Dana and Abbot and the rest of the ED scampered away to go back to whatever they were supposed to be doing before they witnessed this little meeting of the Sharks. That left him with just the senior attending. “If you are done gawking, I’d like to take my family home now.”

“Oh yeah! Sure! I’ll just gather the uh— you know!” And Robby scampered off to discharge the patients and obviously gossip about the gaggle of nautical children he just met.

It shouldn't have been a shock to you, not really. You'd just never thought that Robby would do this to you. He knew that kicking you out when you had nowhere to go was cruel but he did it anyway. As a resident, you were making crumbs while under a crushing amount of medical school debt. That’s why you were sniffling in the stairwell; overwhelmed, upset, and scared. Maybe you could pull a Whitaker and live in the hospital…. what the fuck had your life come to?

Overcome with more emotion, a new wave of tears rolled down your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to sob silently but to no avail. You wished more than anything you could cry at home but you didn't even have one of those anymore. Suddenly, a door above you opened and heavy footsteps were headed your way. You quickly wiped away your tears and prayed to every deity possible to make it look like you hadn’t just been crying. All too soon, you were peering up at Dr. Brendon Park, who had stopped moving the moment he saw you. Great. The least sympathetic person in the entire hospital walks in on this pitiful scene. He'd probably lose any respect he might have had for you just given the state you were in.

He stared down at you and slowly continued to approach. “What happened?”

You really didn't want to share the sordid details of your breakup with the Shark. Naturally, a fib fell from your lips. “Nothing.... I just, um, I have really intense allergies.”

He stared at you, silent, not even entertaining your obvious lie. Anyone could tell you’d been crying your eyes out because your eyes were watery, red, and your whole face was puffy.

Much to your surprise, he lowered himself on the stairs to take a seat next to you. This time when he spoke, he used a softer voice and asked, “are you ok?” You really weren’t expecting that. Which is how you found yourself sobbing again, but this time, into Park’s chest, wetting his scrubs with tears and snot. Park absentmindedly rubbed your back while you were calming down. It was grounding and soothing -- it felt nice.

You both sat in silence for a little longer before you finally spoke up. You figured he deserved a little explanation since his scrubs were ruined for maybe the rest of his shift. Plus, he didn't have to comfort you. He could have just as easily ignored you and went on his merry way. You wouldn't have even held it against him.

You cleared your throat and with shaky breath, you explained, “Robby, uh, robby just broke up with me and told me to get my stuff out of his place by tomorrow night. It would be fine if I had a place to crash but I’ll figure it out. I’m just… really fucking sad and mad at myself for letting this happen. I knew it was going to end soon, I just didn't think.... I'd hoped he wouldn't do something like this.”

You didn’t see it, still buried in the warmth of Brendon’s chest but his jaw clenched at your admission. What stupid asshole breaks up with their girlfriend at work and kicks her out?

“If you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at Robinavitch. That’s beyond fucked up.”

You weren’t sure why but that made you laugh. Maybe it was mania setting in or the ridiculousness of the situation but it was suddenly very funny to you. Your laughter bubbled up out of you, uncontrollable and bright. You still couldn't see his face, but he was smiling a bit to himself at the sound, grateful you had a momentary reprieve in sadness to laugh.

Brendon started to stroke your hair as you laughed and asked, “what’s so funny?”

Turning your head to look up at him, you said, “I just never thought the Shark would be the one to comfort me.”

He gave the slightest smile and said, “hey, I’m full of surprises.” Finally extricating yourself from him, you replied, "yeah, I guess so. Thanks by the way." Before you could start to get up, his warm hand gently wrapped around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

"You can crash at mine if you'd like. I have a guest room."

You were sure your eyes were as wide as saucers. The Shark was offering his home to you? Were you dreaming?

"Yeah, that would be--," unable to help yourself, you asked him the obvious question, "why? Why would you offer your place, you don't know me very well and you're comforting me as I'm a wreck and I ruined your shirt--"

Brendon swiftly cut you off as he heard emotion rising in your voice again, threatening to bubble over. He looked you square in the eyes and said, "because that's what you need."

You were speechless. Who knew Park the Shark could be so kind? You rushed forward and slammed into his chest, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug.

"Thank you so much!" Before he could respond or even hug you back, your pager went off and you ran out of the stairwell and back to work.

After your shift from hell, Trinity, Javadi, and Whitaker all provided moral and physical support by helping you gather your things from Robby's. Luckily (or depressingly), all you had were clothes, toiletries, books, your laptop, a few trinkets, and a couple random kitchen items, which all fit in the back of Javadi's car with room to spare. At least Robby hadn't come home while you emptied his place of the evidence you ever existed in it. Needless to say, you were choking back tears all over again.

Once the car was packed, you stared at the outside of his house for maybe the last time. Reality sunk in again and your mind swirled with aching thoughts. It was an end of an era, of a relationship, of a life with someone you loved. How could it be taken away so quickly and without remorse or concern for you? Your friends must have noticed you were on the verge of tears because you were quickly wrapped in a bear hug from all three of them. It wasn't like you guys to not bicker and tease -- you must have been in a really bad spot to garner harmony and support from the group. Once more, you allowed yourself to let go, lose yourself in your sadness, and cried into the hug, shaking and exhausted.

With a teary smile, you pulled away and said, "let's go see the Shark's lair."

Javadi laughed and said, "yeah, I still can't believe he offered to let you stay with him."

"Me either. But beggars can't be choosers."

Trinity sent a smirk your way. "Oh please, I think if you had another option you'd still chose to stay with Park, what with the fuck-me-eyes you give him during consults."

Your mouth dropped open. "I do NOT give him fuck-me-eyes!" Trinity simply kept her smirk plastered to her face and muttered under her breath, "whatever you say."

Truthfully, you did find the surgeon attractive. Come on, you clearly had a thing for older men. But he was.... something else with his imposing stature, mean stare, and big fucking muscles. But until now, you hadn't really thought about it all too much. He was eye-candy, off-limits while you were in a relationship. But now, you found yourself very much not single.

Huffing, you pushed the absurd idea out of your mind. The man was offering a place to stay -- it was against so many morals to be sexualizing the poor guy. You'd respect him and his home and absolutely wouldn't think about him that way.

Yeah fucking right.

The first hours at Brendon's was... awkward to say the least. Neither of you were sure how to interact with the other or move in the now shared space. Currently, you were sitting on the guest bed, attempting to scrounge up some courage to go back downstairs. You couldn't stay in your bedroom forever, no matter how tempting hiding away was.

Before you could stop yourself, you got to your feet and made your way downstairs. The closer you got to the kitchen, the stronger a wonderful aroma of garlic and olive oil became. Brendon was preparing something, you weren't sure what, but it smelled fucking delicious. Your stomach grumbled, effectively announcing your presence to him.

Brendon turned, and much to your mortification, said, "I'd ask if you were hungry but I think I know the answer to that." You dropped his gaze in shyness, unable to figure out how to respond. You should be grateful, and of course you were, that he was allowing you to stay and offering you dinner after what was arguably one of the worst shifts of your life. You couldn't help but feel burdensome and once that was added to your already full plate of emotions, you weren't sure what to do with yourself.

Noticing your internal distress, Brendon's brows knitted together in concern. Setting the spatula down, he completely turned to face you. "Hey, I didn't mean anything by that --"

Before he could get further into an absolutely unnecessary apology, you interrupted him, saying, "no, no, please don't apologize. I just, I feel like such a burden right now and I don't know when I'll be able to get out of your hair and I just feel bad that you're letting me stay and now you're making dinner. I feel useless and burdensome I guess." Wow. You weren't expecting this radical honesty to pour out of you, but clearly, you couldn't help it. It had been a long day and it was simply too tiring to try to jump through the hoops of deciding what to share and what not to share.

"You're not a burden. I offered to let you stay and I'm offering food because I want to -- I don't do things I don't want to do. I'm a surgeon, I'm not hurting for cash." Blunt, but true. He owned a gorgeous brownstone that would have Architecture Digest salivating at the opportunity to film. Natural light poured into the kitchen and because the sun was setting, it bathed everything in a beautiful orange hue.

Feeling a bit more comfortable, you truly took in his place. It was impeccably clean (of course) and thoughtfully decorated. Brendon watched you take in your surroundings, oblivious to his assessing gaze and clear desire to know what you thought of it etched on his face.

You smiled as you spotted some family pictures on his wall. It was sort of odd to see him smiling in the picture since it was so different to his intense no-bullshit vibe at work. "Woah, you have a huge family." You turned to look at him and he had his back to you once more, back to stirring whatever was in the saucepan.

"Yeah. I'm grateful for them, especially my sisters."

You hummed in response, continuing to browse but very much filing that piece of information away. A man with sisters tended to be such a green flag. God, you were like a dog with a damn bone. Your relationship with Robby hadn't even been truly over for more than 10 hours and here you were, noticing Brendon. But if you were honest, your relationship with Robby had been dead for a long time. He'd stopped giving affection long ago and foolishly, you stayed, clinging to the tattered remnants of what used to make you happy. There was a part of you that couldn't help it: you were a lover girl through and through, even at times to your detriment. You knew that the relationship was on life support, you'd basically been his emotional punching bag, but still. you hoped for better. Like a fucking fool.

As you mentally chastised yourself and got lost in your relationship rumination, Park's voice cut through the air again. "The two of them actually designed my place."

"No kidding. Gosh, they're talented. You'll have to tell them my compliments to the chef."

He chuckled and said, "they know it too. They actually co-own an interior design business. I'm lucky they put this place together for me." Fondness and affection seeped through his voice, obvious and unhidden. In one fell swoop, Park had completely undone the idea you had of him in your head. You'd unfairly characterized him as an unfeeling ortho bro, which he clearly was not. Maybe it was better or easier for him to be intense at work. After all, a great deal of responsibility and expectations fell to him.

Wanting to broach the subject of your stay again, you said, "so about my staying here...." Park turned around and gave you his attention, which felt heavy and set your nerves on fire.

"Yes?" Oh. He really wasn't going to make this easy. Upon seeing you floundering, he expanded on his short response, "I need you to use words and ask what you want."

His command, the sureness of his tone, made your thighs clench together. Jesus fucking CHRIST get a hold of yourself. You hoped with every cell in your body he didn't clock that reaction.

"I just mean, I'm not sure how long it will take for me to find a place I can afford that is safe and close enough to the hospital. Of course if you need me out of here by a certain time, I'll go. I just wanted to know if you had a timeline."

"No. It takes how long it takes. And you don't need to rush. You should be in a nice, safe, convenient, and affordable apartment. Don't worry about how long it takes." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. You felt relieved and reassured, which is honestly better than you felt even this morning, pre-breakup.

"Ok, soup's on. I made my grandma's minestrone." Brandon handed you a bowl full of steaming food and you knew it was going to hit so different just based on the smell and the family recipe of it all.

"I -- thank you." You were filled with emotion again and god, you wanted to stop crying in front of him and stop crying period, but he was just being so nice and caring. You knew you wanted to repay him somehow, eventually, but you didn't know what that would look like. No one had ever been so selfless and kind to you, especially someone who barely knew you.

You both tucked into your dinner and as expected, the minestrone was amazing. It was truly a comfort dish for you in this moment. Wanting to lighten the mood, mainly your mood, you said, "a surgeon, a cook, and a shoulder to cry on? What can't you do?"

He gave you a smile and replied, "like I said, I'm full of surprises." Now you knew that you would keep stumbling on these surprises, uncovering who he really was, transforming the way you saw Brendon Park.

After three weeks, you'd entered into a sort of routine with him, where you'd trade off chores. At first, Brendon vehemently protested, saying you were his guest and shouldn’t have to help, which you met with your own claims against being a freeloader. Reluctantly, he started to let you help prepare meals and clean. But grocery shopping... well that was a dual task. It was sickeningly domestic and even more disgustingly, you'd come to enjoy it. It was a sacred time with Brendon, where he was relaxed and sometimes teasing, which you ate up and relished. You enjoyed it so much you didn't even think about how you'd never done this with Robby until you were in the cereal aisle and Brendon put in your honey-nut Cheerios without needing to confirm you wanted them. It dawned on you how strange it felt to be... noticed. That really sucked to realize because of all the people who should pay attention and remember things about you, you'd expect it to have been your boyfriend.

After that, you couldn't help but continue to compare living with Brendon vs Robby. With Robby, everyday tasks were never shared. You'd actually preferred it that way because it felt natural with him and it seemed efficient at the very least. But with Brendon, even if it wasn't your night to cook, you were in the kitchen, keeping him company. Sometimes you two didn't talk; you simply fell into a comfortable silence and rhythm. Of course, you weren't in a relationship with Brendon but it felt so much simpler and lighter than mundane tasks with Robby. You didn't feel like you were constantly trying to please him or gauge how he was reacting to something. No. Brendon was blunt, honest, and didn’t like to play guessing games. It was incredibly refreshing.

At times, you felt guilty for how much you enjoyed staying with Brendon and seeing this unguarded, intimate version of him. The constant comparison between him and Robby didn't help either because no matter what it was, Brendon was always coming out on top. Fuck. This couldn't be healthy. You shouldn't want him, hell, you shouldn't even be thinking of him this way. Shame curled in your chest, sharp and demanding. You needed to get out of his house and fast.

As soon as you could, you opened your laptop to look at apartment listings while Brendon put away the groceries. You were spread out on the couch, pinching the bridge of your nose as you scrolled Zillow. So far, anything remotely in your price range was either in a questionable part of the city or too far from the hospital to be considered a reasonable commute. Park walked into the living room and sat next to your head, peering over you to look at the listings.

"Can't live there, that's where half the GSW victims come from."

Huffing, you complained, "I know, its hopeless to try to find a place on resident salary. I need to look into housing assistance or something."

Brendon hummed in response and you continued your efforts, in vain, to try to find an apartment. Absentmindedly, he started to play with your hair and it felt.... really fucking nice. You weren't sure when the two of you crossed the threshold to such comfortability but his casual touches and attention were more than welcome.

"I can ask my sisters if they know anything about that, they have a lot of connections with relators and landlords because of their business. And not slumlords, local landlords who are the most ideal form of landlord you can get."

You leaned your head back to look at him and said, "that would be really great, thank you so much."

Halfheartedly, you resumed your scrolling and he continued to play with your hair, which was making your heart beat out of your chest. Clearing his throat, he said, "you don't need to keep thanking me for everything."

Sitting up, you turned to face him on the couch. "I'll stop thanking you when you stop giving me reasons to be grateful."

Smirking he shot back, "is that a challenge for me to be an asshole?"

"Well, don't challenge my manners."

The air was charged with tension and now your heart was truly thumping in your chest so hard, you were convinced he could hear it. His beautiful blue eyes were sharp and alert but also two shades darker than normal. He licked his lips and your eyes hungrily tracked the movement. When you locked eyes again, you knew, god, you knew that he caught you.

"Wouldn't dream of it sweetheart."

When did you two get so close? You could practically feel his body heat radiating off of him. Your knees were touching and even that burned. You felt like a teenage girl again, like she was with her crush, alone for the first time. What's worse is that he seemed annoyingly, unfairly calm. He was relaxed into the couch, breathing completely normally. The only indication that he was affected were his eyes, which were now low and lidded.

You brought your hand to cup his jaw, feeling the stubble and savoring its friction against your skin. Your eyes traced his face, taking him in. To your delight, he had the faintest blush on his cheeks and you felt like the cat that got the cream. You felt like you were in a trance, a fog of desire that dictated what you did.

"I never thought I'd see the Shark blush."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes at your teasing. You felt pretty pleased with yourself, rendering him into a blushing mess. Little did you know, you'd only have the upper hand for about two more seconds. Brendon nuzzled his face into your hand and kissed your wrist, pulling a gasp from you. Then he leaned ever so close to your face, lips brushing along your jaw, so, so, so close yet so achingly far from where you wanted them.

"Yeah? Well lucky you." He had the self-assured tone you'd heard from him so many times but now, it was making your thighs push together. Impatiently, you moved your head to finally capture his lips in a kiss. It started off gentle and exploratory, but soon enough, he had weaved a hand into the nape of your neck, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss with better access. You couldn't help it, you fucking moaned. He devoured the sound; devoured you. He was kissing the life out of you and you fucking loved it.

When you pulled away for some air, he chased your lips. Before he could reach you, you decided to climb into his lap. He groaned as your hips met his and placed his hands on your waist, squeezing you there oh so nicely. Your hands were everywhere, on his shoulders, then his chest, messing up his hair, and then gripping his biceps.

Neither of you knew how much time passed. You were lost in the moment, lost in him -- how he felt, smelled, and touched. You were no stranger to kissing, clearly, but... it was safe to say no one had kissed you like this before. You weren't sure if you could remember your name. The only thing you were sure of was that Brendon Park was taking you apart at the seams and you were only too happy to let him do so.

"Please, please, please..." You could hardly recognize your whiny voice and you weren't even sure what you were begging for.

"What, baby, what?" God, he was so sweet.

"I need you."

"You have me."

"No I need more of you."

At that, he cupped your jaw holding you away from him to look you in the eyes. "Are you sure?"

And because he always gifted you his honesty and bluntness, you knew you needed to return the favor. "I've never been more sure of anything. Yes."