Stupid Cupid 🧸

The ER is chaos. It always is but you forgot how much chaos because you haven't been here since before— well. Before your body decided to become a dairy factory. There's someone screaming about their foot, a kid crying, and the white lights are giving you a headache already.

You're about to ask someone where orthopedics might be hanging around when you hear his voice.

"— completely unacceptable. I need those scans now, I have —"

That's your husband. Sharp, cold, probably making some poor resident want to quit medicine entirely. You'd recognize that tone anywhere, the one that means Brendon is two seconds from snapping someone's head off.

He's standing near the nurses station, all six feet of beautiful irritation in his white coat — you didn’t even know he owned one of those, what with always coming home in his scrubs —, dark hair falling across his forehead, he keeps running his hands through it when he's pissed. Which is always.

You walk over before you can think better of it. "Brendon."

As soon as your voice reaches him, his face changes. A complete shift from shark to softness, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with how fucking full your breasts are right now. "Hey." His voice is different too. Quieter. "What are you doing here?"

"Brought you lunch." You hold up the tupperware like an offering. Brendon stares at it, then at you. There's this moment where you're suddenly very aware of how you look. Milk-stained shirt hidden under a cardigan, hair in a messy bun that's more mess than bun, the exhaustion that comes from a six-month-old who thinks sleep is optional.

You hear a crash, when you glance over there's a nurse staring at you. Then another one. A resident you don't recognize has stopped mid-step.

They're all staring.

"Uh."

Brendon's jaw tightens. He's noticed them staring too and he looks about ready to start firing people.

"Come on." His hand finds the small of your back and guides you away from the audience. You catch whispers as you walk past —did Park just —who is that—he has a wife?

Oh. Right. Brendon doesn't exactly share details about his personal life. You knew that, obviously you knew that, but somehow it didn't register that these people have probably never seen any evidence that he has a life outside of yelling at them about bone fractures.

There's a supply closet. Brendon pulls you inside and closes the door, which seems dramatic until you remember your husband thrives on drama as long as he's the one creating it. "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"It was spontaneous."

"Spontaneous." He repeats it like you’re dumb for even saying it. Then he takes the tupperware from your hands and sets it on a shelf next to boxes of gauze. "How's she doing?"

"Asleep when I left. Your sister's watching her."

Brendon nods, hands on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles through your cardigan. It's such a casual thing, something he does without thinking, but it makes your whole body relax anyway.

A hiss leaves your moth as your breast twinges. It's been doing that for the past hour. Little reminders that you're about twenty minutes past when you should have pumped. The baby's been sleeping longer stretches which is amazing for sleep, terrible for your milk supply regulation. Your body keeps producing like she's still feeding every two hours and now you're engorged and starting to leak, standing in a supply closet with your husband who definitely doesn't need to know about this.

"You okay?" Brendon asks. The man notices everything, it's infuriating.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You made that face."

"What face?"

"The face you make when something hurts but you're pretending it doesn't."

Damn him. Damn his stupid observant doctor brain.

"It's nothing. I just need to —" You stop because how do you finish that sentence? I need to go home and hook myself up to a breast pump like a cow? "I'm fine."

Brendon's eyes drop. Zero subtlety, just straight down to your chest where your breasts are probably visibly larger than they were this morning. The nursing pads you shoved in your bra are doing their best but there's only so much they can absorb. "You need to pump." 

You feel your face heat up. This is mortifying. Bad enough that your body has become a milk machine, worse that your husband who spends his days putting people back together has to witness it. "I'll do it when I get home."

"That's an hour drive."

"I'll survive."

"You're in pain."

"Brendon—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. It's brief, barely a press of lips, but it shuts your brain up for a second. When he pulls back his expression is set, he's made a decision and you arguing is irrelevant. "There's a room. On-call room, it has a door that locks."

Your brain is trying to catch up. "I don't have my pump."

"So hand express."

"Into what, my hands? The sink?" The image is horrifying. You're already leaking through your bra, the idea of standing in a hospital bathroom squeezing milk into a drain seems like rock bottom.

Brendon's quiet, looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, dark and focused.  

"What?"

"I could help."

The words hang there. You're pretty sure you misheard because there's no way your husband just suggested —

"Help how?"

Brendon's mouth twitches, almost a smile but meaner. "You know how."

Oh. Oh fuck.

Did he just? Did your doctor husband just suggest he put his mouth on your breast and drink from you like —

"We're in your hospital." You say like every other part of the sentence was completely normal. 

"That’s fine —"

How is that fine? "Someone could —people will —" You can't finish sentences apparently. Your chest is aching, your pussy suddenly very interested in this conversation. Brendon looking at you like he wants to devour you doesn’t help your cause. 

"The room locks," he says again, his voice making your thighs clench. "And I told you, I can help."

This is a bad idea. Terrible idea. The worst idea either of you have ever had and that's including the time Brendon thought he could fix the garbage disposal himself. But your breasts hurt. And the thought of Brendan's mouth on you, his tongue, the heat and pressure and relief —

"Okay." You say it before you can take it back. Brendon's eyes flash, something predatory and hungry. Without missing a beat, his hand goes to your lower back guiding you out of the supply closet.

It’s completely normal for a doctor to take his spouse to an on-call room. They might have to talk, they could just eat. But your brain treats the walk like a death march, hyperaware of every person you pass, convinced they all somehow know what's about to happen. A nurse tracks you, looking above her reading glasses. But your husband doesn’t seem to care. 

When he closes the door behind you and locks, he speaks, "sit."

There's a bed, a tiny desk, a chair that's seen better days. You take the bed, legs feeling shaky like they might give out any second. 

Brendon moves in front of you, and starts unbuttoning his white coat.

"What are you doing?"

"It's in the way." When the coat comes off, you catch sight of the familiar scrubs.  You hate how good he looks. How unfair it is that he can spend twelve hours putting bones back together and still look like that.

Your cardigan is next. Brendon's fingers are gentle when they push it off your shoulders, careful like you might break. The nursing tank underneath is stretched tight across your swollen breasts, wet spots clearly visible where you've been leaking.

"Fuck." Your husband rarely swears, mostly because he can get his point across without having to raise his voice. More so lately after your daughter was born, he’s been all soft words and small smiles. But now he swears. It’s quiet, almost to himself, hand coming up to cup your breast through the fabric and you gasp. The pressure feels good and painful at the same time, relief and torture. "Sensitive?"

"Mhmm."

Brendon's thumb brushes over your nipple and milk leaks out, soaking through the already damp fabric. You can see the wet spreading circle. Your cheeks burn hotter with each second, arousal gathering within you,  making you want to hide and also spread your legs.

"I'm gonna —" You reach for the tank but Brendan stops you.

"Let me." He pulls the fabric down himself. Like they’ve been in confines all day, your breast spills out, heavy and swollen, nipple already beading with milk. The air feels cold against your overheated skin.

Brendon stares. You've been together for years, he's seen your breasts more times than you can count, but this feels different. More exposed. Your body is doing something it's supposed to do, natural and maternal, and he's looking at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen.

"Bren —"

His mouth closes around your nipple and your words fail. The first pull of suction is intense. Relief floods through you, almost immediately, overwhelming, better than any pump you've used. Milk flows freely and your husband swallows, tongue working against your sensitive flesh, and holy fuck this feels good. 

This shouldn't feel good. It's functional, practical, your husband helping you with a medical issue. But you can’t think of practical when his fingers are indented in the flesh of your hips, hard enough to leave marks, mouth spilling groans he can’t quite control.

One of your hands find his hair. The soft dark strands slip through your fingers when you pull, maybe too hard, but Brendon just sucks harder in response. "Oh god—"

You can feel the pressure in your breast easing, a gradual relief, but it's being replaced by a different kind of pressure between your legs. You're wet. Soaking wet, probably leaving a mark on your underwear.

Brendon pulls off with a wet sound, lips shiny with milk, pupils blown wide, looking fucked up in the best way. "Other side."

He doesn't wait for you to respond, pulling the other side of your tank down and takes your breast into his mouth. The relief is immediate again, almost dizzying. Brendon drinks it down like he's been thinking about this for months, not wasting a single drop. 

You've caught him staring sometimes when you're feeding the baby, look on his face that you couldn't quite identify. Hunger maybe. Want. You know, the want that makes people do stupid things like suggest sucking their wife's tits in an on-call room.

His free hand slides up your thigh, and under your skirt. In retrospect, you’re happy you chose the skirt instead of those overworn sweats, even though you weren't exactly planning for this. His fingers find the edge of your underwear. Your legs soread themselves immediately , on their own accord.  

"You're turned on." Brendon says it against your breast, muffled and matter-of-fact. Like he's diagnosing a condition. As if his fingers aren’t currently making their way to your pussy. 

"Shut up."

His fingers slip under the fabric and yeah, okay, there's no denying it. You're drenched, which kind of feels humiliating even though you’ve already known. His fingers slide through your folds easily, collecting wetness. You bite your lip to keep from moaning.

"This turning you on that much?" Brendon's voice is dark, teasing. "Me drinking from you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" He bites down gently on your nipple and you gasp. "Liar."

Two fingers push inside you. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, and the stretch is perfect, an immediate fullness that makes your walls clench. Brendon's fingers curl, finding that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

His mouth doesn’t part from your nipple, mil still flowing and coating his tongue, the dual sensation of it is too much, wet sounds filling the small room. "Brendon —"

He doesn’t look up to speak, not willing to part and lose the flow. "What?"

"I'm—fuck—I'm close."

He hums against your breast. The vibration shoots straight to your clit. His thumb finds the swollen bundle of nerves and circles it. "Come for me, honey." Your husband, who spends his days giving orders in operating rooms, is telling you to come and your body obeys.

Your pussy clenches around his fingers, walls fluttering. You have to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. Brendon works you through it, fingers pumping steadily, mouth still on your breast like he can't get enough.

Even though you’re shaking, your chest finally feels lighter, the ache replaced by a pleasant soreness. Brendon's fingers slip out of you and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean.

"That’s disgusting."

He doesn’t seem to mind it. You watch his tongue slide between his fingers, cleaning off your wetness, and your spent pussy gives a valiant twitch of interest.

Brendon fixes your tank top, gentle hands pulling the fabric back into place. Your breasts are still visible through the wet fabric but at least they're covered. The cardigan goes back on next. "Better?"

"Yeah." You are better. Lighter. Less like you're about to burst. Of course now you're sitting in an on-call room having just had an orgasm while your husband drank your breast milk, so better is relative.

"I have to get back." Brendon's putting his white coat back on, smoothing down the front. He looks completely composed. Meanwhile you probably look like you've been thoroughly fucked. "You good to drive?"

"I think so."

"Text me when you get home."

"Okay."

He kisses you before you leave. It's soft, careful, and you can taste yourself on his lips. Sweet and tangy, weird but intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. "Thanks for lunch."

"You didn't eat it yet."

"Yeah, just drank it." His hand squeezes your hip. "Tonight when I get home we're doing that again."

Your face burns at his words. "The lactation thing or the orgasm thing?"

"Both."

You leave first. Brendon waits a minute before following, some attempt at discretion that's probably pointless. When you walk past the nurses station every head turns. You can feel their eyes on you, questions forming, gossip already spreading.

Park the Shark has a wife. She's soft and tired and apparently visits him at work. She also looks thoroughly debauched but they probably don't know that part.

Probably.

Your phone buzzes before you even make it to your car.

Bren: Everyone's asking questions

You: What did you tell them?

Bren: To mind their fucking business

You: Romantic

Bren: I'll show you romantic when I get home