Katz

Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.

Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.

He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.

Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.

He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.

Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.

And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.

Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.

Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.

Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.

First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.

Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.

Unless.

Unless you acted up.

Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.

So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.

His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.

But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.

Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.

He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.

Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.

Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.

They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.

Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.

Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.

Punishment is necessary.

Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.

Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.

Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.

And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.

Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.

But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.

And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.

He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.

But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.

It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.

Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.

You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.

Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?

Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.

Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.

Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.

That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.

You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?

Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.

Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.

Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.

You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.

And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.

And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.

Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.

Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.

There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?

Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.

And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.

Interacting with the Shark has never been Whittaker’s favorite activity – always seeming to say the wrong thing or pluck the perfect nerve to earn him a biting remark that throbs till the end of the day.

So, he steeled himself when Robby brought him along to the Orthopedics department. Something about convincing the man to accept a pro bono case that both of them knew he would never take. Especially when he had just gotten back from a conference he was forced to attend.

But they had to try.

Why, Robby thought, taking Brendon Park’s least favorite resident to try to convince him is the key to their slim success, he would never understand.

It was a rare sight to see him on the phone.

He didn’t even know Park takes calls during work – always such a stickler for rules. A resident once forgot to put their phone on silent during one of their morning debriefs, and they didn’t see that poor bastard anywhere near Shark’s surgery room for about 3 weeks.

And he always got the best surgeries.

Finally, he drops the call and motions for the two of them to go in.

“Everything alright?” Robby politely asks, calmly sitting in one of the chairs while Whittaker prefers to stand behind his attending – out of politeness or for protection he doesn’t know himself.

“Yeah,” He lets out a breath, cracking his neck. “My pet hates it when I’m away for too long.”

Whittaker blinks.

The Shark keeps pets?!

His feet are already itching to run to wherever Trinity is with this juicy piece of info. Shark the motherfucking Park keeps a living being in his vicinity. The two of them – in their lowest moments when they have just been subjected to the classic Park humiliation – have theorized that he probably sleeps under a cold, dark cave with only sad crustaceans as company.

“You should take her out sometimes. Maybe you can come to mine for dinner. The missus loves her. I’ll call over Jack and Dana – make it a whole thing.”

Shark actually snorts at Robby, “She doesn’t like strangers.”

A girl dog, Trinity is gonna have a stroke from laughing too hard.

“Ouch. She loves me and you know it.”

The surgeon shrugs, leaning back on his seat as he levels them with a gaze that lets Whittaker know he already sees right through Robby's friendly chitchat.

“Well, I don’t care how much she adores you I’m not doing your pro bono.”

Well, fuck.

Fucking Fuckleberry and his inaccurate blabber.

She knew better than to trust men with gossip. It just doesn’t work.

Because Brendon Park doesn’t have a fucking dog and she’s pretty sure the accidental elevator ride she’d shared with the petrifying man had just made her rich.

He was clearly in a rush by the way he haphazardly slammed his hand on the basement floor where all attendings had reserved spots and he kept checking his ludicrously expensive watch every ten seconds. Or by the fact that despite calling her out for “fidgeting like a toddler” when the residents were called into the OR for observation, his foot tapped the metal ground in an irritating pace.

She knew better than to greet him much less breathe too hard when he was clearly on edge.

However, both of them flinched when a large ringtone blared through the closed space.

With a sigh he takes the call. “Hey, I’m about to –"

“Daddy! You’re late! You said …”

Never had Trinity wished to gain the ability to fuse into the metal walls of the elevator especially when the man threw her a sharp look – clearly a warning.

With her blood pressure spiking, she quickly pressed the nearest floor, frantically pushing on the open button as she desperately tried not to listen to the loud whining from inside Shark’s phone.

“I-I’m –” Her apology was cut short with a ‘ding’ from the elevator along with some other chatting residents in the Pediatric Department waiting for the lift.

Like a rocket blasting off into space, she jumped out of that death trap and spread her hands wide to push back on the poor souls who had no idea what they would be getting into.

“Trust me, I’m saving your life,” she hissed, staring them down to let them know she means business.

Not that they needed any more convincing when they saw who exactly was waiting for them inside those doors. The loud whining still persisted as a hush followed by the slow closing of the doors.

“Have a good weekend, Dr. Park,” Trinity smiled, bowing politely.

Because you just won me two hundred dollars.

When she was sure the man had left the floor, she ran down the stairs, thankful for her extensive hours in the gym as she reached the pitt in record time.

Raising a hand to stop whatever case Langdon was about to hand off to her, she bee-lined straight into the room where the betting pool board was conspicuously placed.

Shark’s Pet: (Residents only!!) Cane Corso – Whittaker 25$ Doberman – Langdon 30$ Crazy looking white poodle – McKay 30$ Evil Chihuahua – Samira 25$ Old chihuahua – Mel 40$

She snatched one of the post-its on the side table and quickly scribbled a new answer.

Brat Daughter – Santos 100$

“Uhh, Samira?”

Three heads turned to Langdon.

“There is a … difficult patient.”

Whittaker, Santos, and even Samira’s eyebrow raised in disbelief. ‘ER Ken’ having difficulties with a patient? He could charm the panties of a nun and fight off a drunk sumo wrestler no problem – yet, he was waving the flag on … this?

“Where the hell is my juice?!”

A frilly voice pierced through the noise of the ER but even that was no excuse. Langdon, of all people, always had an easier time with young women.

“She – uh – ate shit while on a treadmill and landed on her arm wrong.”

“I heard that!”

Langdon winced, clearly at the edge of his patience. Trinity was actually impressed.

“And?” Samira asked, clearly waiting for the other ball to drop. Why Robby’s golden boy seemed to be at the edge of his rope for a routine case in this department.

“She’s asking for Doctor Park.”

Trinity actually let out a laugh at that.

“What?” Samira managed to cough out.

That man doesn’t go down – in what he likes to call The Shithole – for less than an amputation.

“How did she even get in first if it was just a small fall?” Whittaker asked.

“Dana let her in. Think she might be a VIP. And I can’t seem to find her to confirm.”

The two of them instinctively followed their senior residents into the make-shift room where a young woman in athleisure was crossed arm, clearly uninjured aside from the probably bruise on her arm and ego.

“So?”

“We’re sorry, Miss uh,” Samira impressively maintained her professional sweet smile, lengthening her patience when you snappily gave your last name. “Right. Unfortunately, we can’t just page Dr. Park for your case. He’s an incredibly busy surgeon and appointments need to be –”

“How hard is it to just try and page him,” you rolled your eyes, frustration bubbling up.

“Incredibly hard, trust me. He will have our heads if we called him done for some … bruising,” Trinity supplied, now seeing for herself why wonder-boy lost his patience with you.

“And trust me, if he finds out I’m here and you kept it from him, you’re all dead.”

Now, that got all of their attention. Who exactly is this girl?

“Go on, page him. If I’m wrong I’ll apologize if I’m right then you’re welcome I just saved your asses from a month of triage.”

The three of them warily and almost comically stepped out, pushing the curtains back.

Langdon looked at them as if expecting an apology.

“Who’s gonna do it?”

“Uh, you R4,” Samira answered.

“Coward.”

Langdon cannot believe his fucking eyes.

His long hours must be getting to him.

“Did you call for an ortho consult or am I just having a nightmare?” Garcia steps out from behind Langdon, the two of them blinking in shock as they emerge from the last case they had sent up for surgery, only to be greeted by an anomaly.

“No,” Langdon shakes his head, not even trying to hide the fact that he is craning his head to see that Shark was in fact going in that difficult girl’s direction. The two of them parted ways, Garcia going up to the patient with a small 'good luck' to Langdon while he followed the man at a safe distance.

Trinity popped from beside him along with Whittaker. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is he doing here?”

“Is he actually – who the hell is that girl?”

Park harshly pulls back the curtain, the three of them holding their breaths when they found the bed empty.

The two idiots on either side of him quickly scrambled when Park turns to them. “Where is –”

Like a shrieking angel from above sent to save his life, you ran into Park. Roping him into a cheerful hug.

“You’re finally here!”

Samira was right behind you, glaring at him and quietly calling him over.

“Settle back down to the bed, baby.”

“But the bed’s uncomfortable, daddy. And I’m seriously fine, I just wanted to see you!”

Frank and Samira shared a look. Holy shit, does Park actually have a –

When Langdon fully expected to berate her whining he instead let out a breath, casually pulling you up and hooking his arms under your knees to tuck you back into the bed. “Stay here, I have to talk to your doctors as to why you still aren’t scheduled for an MRI.”

Samira quickly nudged him.

“Talk.”

“Patient fell on the treadmill while distracted, landed on her side, and had some bruising on her arms,” Langdon tried to be as professional as possible but when he gave you a look, you promptly took it as your cue to stick your tongue out at him.

Langdon couldn’t pull back his offended expression quick enough. Thankfully, Samira was there to cover up his lapses.

“We performed an x-ray on the most symptomatic region and imaging showed no evidence of fracture or dislocation. She refused any further treatment or tests until you were called down.”

“And why wasn’t I called down immediately, R3?”

Samira looked shaken and he truly couldn’t blame her, “We, uh, didn’t think it was – our initial examination led us to believe there was no imminent or permanent damage. We didn’t think you knew her ---”

“Oh, hey kid, what are you doing here? You alright?”

“Robby! Pretty boy over there told me I “ate shit” and had to be checked but they didn’t wanna call Brendon!”

Park threw them a glare and Langdon couldn’t help but close both eyes in surrender.

“No! That’s not –”

“Here, have some sandwich.”

“Thanks!”

“Don’t eat that, baby. You won’t like it.”

Robby chuckled, putting his arms over Park’s shoulders. “Come on, get off their case. They didn’t know.”

Park sighed, throwing you a look at the sound of the sandwich being undone from its plastic wrapping.

“Schedule her for an MRI as soon as it is available. Call my office when it is ready.”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of an expensive overkill?”

“Don’t worry about my bank account, Robinavitch,” Park’s jaw tightened, turning back to the senior residents. “And tell your residents to brush up on their bedside manners before I do it for them.”

Samira nodded profusely as Langdon mutters, “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, if we had known she was your daughter we would've paged you immediately.”

The dead stare Park gave Samira almost immediately let her know she had made a mistake. The laughter from you and Robby made her face heat up from clearly being the butt of a joke she isn’t privy to.

Park crossed his bulging arms, “She’s my fiancée.”

“What?!” A crash at the nearest nurse station caught their attention, where Trinity – clearly eavesdropping – had accidentally crashed into a cart full of syringes and tourniquets. Whittaker desperately grabs whatever is on the floor.

“Sorry, sorry!”

Robby was red in the face, trying to stop his laughter but it was no use. When the two residents looked at you, you were raising your hand that wore the rock on your ring finger.

“But she called –” This time it was Langdon’s quick thinking to pinch Samira that cut off whatever words that was about sign her death certificate in this hospital.

“We’re really sorry, Dr. Park!”

Park looked like he wanted to say something hurtful (and deserved) before Robby interjected.

“Alright, alright, don’t kill my residents. We’re understaffed,” Robby put his hands on Park’s shoulder, subtly pushing him into you. Robby jerked his head to let them know to run and stay away from Park’s sight for at least a week. "I'll call you when it's ready."

Whittaker and Santos froze in their place, trying not to be noticed, as Park and his fiancée passed by them, hand-in-hand.

“Ack, this sandwich is disgusting,” You screwed your nose up at him.

The man actually smiled, grabbing the offending snack from your hand and tossed it to Whittaker without a glance.

“I’ll get you a proper lunch in my office, pet.”

Whittaker dropped the sandwich. Santos’ head snapped in your direction, the money she had planned to splurge on a good pair of shoes disappearing in front of her very eyes.

“Well, fuck.”

"Daddy?"

Samira catches up to Robby, still not believing how casual he is being about all of this.

"Let it go, slo-Mo," Robby chuckles, not slowing his pace. Do all the attendings know?

"Wha -- are you serious?"

"It's a stressful job. We all have unconventional hobbies," he shrugs. "Jack gets shot for fun, I stand on the rooftop's ledge after every shift to unwind, and Shark is a controlling freak even in bed."

Mohan stands there dumbfounded.

His precious Cane Corso named Lily weighs a whopping 85lbs. She is the best trained dog you have ever met in your life, courtesy of Brendon himself.

She sits, retrieves, lays, and gives paw all on command. Not to mention she has never needed a leash, ever.

When he adopted Lily, he had just made attending. He loved her more than he would ever admit. She was completely loyal to him and only him, until you came along.

She had always liked you, but the second you moved in it was like she was yours. Brendon rolls his eyes at the whole ordeal.

He would get home and you would both be under a blanket on the couch sound asleep. What you referred to as: Lily and Mama’s afternoon nap. When he dared get closer, Lily would nearly growl at him, threatening to interrupt your moment.

“My baby princess Lily” you cooed down at her.

“She’s not a baby.” He would say firmly.

You would scoff, “just ignore him baby girl you’re the most perfect baby.”

He would feign annoyance, but you don’t miss the way his lips twitch at the corner.

He would walk into the kitchen to her taste testing homemade treats from recipes you would find online. She sat patiently next to you as you peeled one off the tray.

“This one has fish oil in it to help with your dry skin and joints Lily girl,” you would explain to her in an extra soft voice like she understood you.

The little wag of her butt as you spoke made Brendon smile. It also made his heart skip a beat that you cared so much about her. He hadn’t even noticed the dry skin until you pointed it out.

Suddenly, she’s in pink collars, sweaters, bows, eating homemade treats, and laying next to you by the pool while you tan.

You even bought her a cooling mat and a small umbrella so she could lounge next to you comfortably in the sun.

“Babe. She’s a dog. She doesn’t need a wardrobe.” He would say as he watched you pick out her sweater before your guests arrive.

“Bren. She’s a pretty princess. She absolutely needs a wardrobe, and she’s absolutely wearing the matching Louis Vuitton sweaters that I bought for us.” You said seriously.

“Wait wait wait. Let me get this straight. You bought mother daughter sweaters for you and the dog? From Louis Vuitton?” He said shocked.

You nodded, not phased by his tone, “it’s not rocket science babe, and technically you bought them.”

You threw a wink his way that knocked the wind out of him. And he couldn’t deny how cute you both looked in your sweaters.

Even though he huffed as you made him take pictures of you and Lily together posing.

Although he rolled his eyes at you and teased, you knew deep down he loved it, because Brendon Park didn’t endure anything he didn’t like.

How you ended up with five kids under ten at the party celebrating your upcoming first day as an emergency department attending is simple: Brendon Park is the single greatest husband and father you’ve ever seen. While your mother-in-law insists that you relax by the pool as she gets the place ready because it’s your party, Brendon watches the kids to keep them out of your hair and manages to be the sexiest man alive while he does it. It’s been unseasonably warm this summer, but you definitely aren’t complaining about soaking in a few poolside days before your job starts. Because of the heat, Brendon’s wearing one of those slutty white tank tops that clings to his sweaty muscles in the late-June heat. He’s got your two-year-old on one hip, your four-year-old holding onto his chest like a koala cub, and your six-year-old on his shoulders. All the while, he manages to play catch with your nine-year-old and help your seven-year-old practice her solo for the community theater musical she’s doing during summer break.

As the gorgeous setup takes shape around you – Brendon’s mother was an event planner before retirement, so every get-together turns into a whole shebang – you admire your husband expertly managing all of the kids. He looks so hot running around the yard with them, tan and sweaty and muscular, that you don’t even notice the mischievous glint in his eyes when he turns to you and catches your gaze. Then, a split second after he mutters something you can’t hear to the kids, the two oldest barrel toward you at top speed, yanking off their cover-ups and launching into the pool in front of you. Water splashes up onto your book and high-waisted-bikini-clad body while Brendon walks over nonchalantly.

You immediately turn to your husband and then to your laughing children. “Benji, Margot, be honest with me: Did your dad put you up to this?”

They make eye contact with each other, then their dad, and then each other again before pinching their noses shut and going under the water.

Setting your book aside, you stand up from your cozy lounger and meet Brendon at the edge of the pool, where he’s helping Nora and Theo into their life jackets since he’s a safety freak the first couple of summers between swim lessons. Once they’re in the water with their siblings, you shove Brendon on the chest and glare. “You are a menace, Bren. Such a bad influence on our poor children.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brendon takes Felix from his carrier, kisses him on the head, and hands him off to his grandmother, who’s floating by as she does final touches for the party. Then Brendon strips his shirt off and tugs you close to his body. You lean up onto your toes for a kiss and he happily gives it to you, arms wrapped protectively around your back. “Excited about your party?”

“Please, we both know this is for your mom and the kids,” you chuckle as you watch her greeting the first few guests, leading them through the house and into the backyard. It’s mostly people from the neighborhood, your kids’ friends and the other couples you hang out with. There was a strict ‘no coworkers’ rule as you and Brendon hadn’t yet decided how to navigate his wife joining his hospital. “My perfect celebration looks a lot more like when you passed your first boards.”

“Mmm.” He kisses you a bit deeper and remembers fondly, “The great Cancun fuck-fest.”

“Keep your voice down,” you giggle as one of Nora’s classmates passes by you to go for the nearby spread of fruit, “this place is crawling with children who don’t need to take the F-word to elementary school this fall.”

He nips your neck and replies, “You’re so lame for a MILF.”

Then, with his hand roving a little too low on your back for a family-friendly party, the one exception to the guest list rule taps you on the shoulder.

“Alright, pervert, it’s my turn with my new boss.”

“Trinity, you made it!” You wrap her up in a hug and squeal with delight. Trinity had been one of your closest friends during undergrad in Philadelphia. She took a gap year once you finished med school, so you had no idea her residency was at PTMC until she ran into Brendon during his first consult to the emergency department. “It’s so crazy that we’re gonna be working together after all this time. Kind of our twenty-year-old selves dream.”

“It’s gonna be fucking awesome,” she confirms with a grin as she pushes a White Claw into your right hand and clinks it with her own. “I’ll finally have someone to bitch with about all the assholes I have to deal with.”

Brendon balks before you can respond. “She gets to curse and I don’t?”

You squeeze his arm and comfort him, “Trin’s a cool aunt, not a dad.”

“An aunt to how many now, by the way?” She looks over the pool that’s now overrun with kids and tries to scan for ones that look like you and Brendon. “Last time I saw you in person, I think there were only two of them and one on the way.”

Pointing them out one by one, you tell her, “We have five now.”

It takes a while for the three of you to catch up on everything that’s happened the last few years, but it’s beautiful and fun to trade stories about the kids. Starting with the oldest, there’s Benji, who was totally unplanned when you were barely into undergrad at UPenn, having met his dad exactly nine months and two weeks before his birth at a mixer where pre-med students got to talk with MS1s about their experience. You were 19 after a gap year and he was 21 after whizzing through undergrad and MCATs at the top of his class. Even if he had sky-high dreams of being a double-board-certified surgeon by 30, Brendon wasn’t just going to abandon you or his kid, so he made an honest woman of you by the time you were showing in a tiny ceremony at the courthouse, promising to give you the wedding of your dreams once the two of you had the money. 

By the time you went into labor a few weeks after nailing your first-year finals, Brendon Park was sure of one thing: You were the woman of his dreams and marrying you was the best decision of his life. He never would’ve expected one random hookup to become the center of his universe, but it quickly became undeniable. It was your tenacity that got him. You never skipped a class because of morning sickness, never shied away from going toe-to-toe with a professor at 30-weeks large, and never questioned your own ability to stay at the top of your class with a newborn at home. You tackled the world with a hunger and enthusiasm that made his heart stammer in his chest. He’d never seen anything as sexy as you breastfeeding with one arm while the other you flipped through your organic chemistry textbook with the other, Brendon feeding you eggs and toast and fruit while quizzing you on test prep.

As soon as you were cleared and comfortable, Brendon couldn’t bear to keep his hands off you anytime you two were alone and you were beyond reciprocal; having a husband who not only loved his baby beyond belief and set an incredible example every day had your hormones going bonkers. Hell, he even stopped going to the gym in the morning to let you sleep and started doing his workouts in the living room with Benji strapped to his chest while he did bicep curls or sitting on his back giggling loudly as he did pushups. How’s a woman to resist when she wakes up to that?

Which meant Benji ended up with his first little sister, Margot, while you knocked out MCAT prerequisites and his father passed his USMLE Step 1 and prepared for his clinical work to start. With Brendon’s family being beyond supportive and Margot being a perfect angel as a baby, you jumped into med school headfirst and attended Brendon’s graduation seven months pregnant with Nora. 

And, yes, you had planned not to have any more babies until you were well established in your residency. But then you matched into UPSOM’s program, nabbing your spot at Allegheny General, and Brendon took up his orthopedic trauma surgery fellowship at PTMC, and his parents decided to relocate to be near their grandkids, too. In the middle of all the chaos of moving and settling and daycare and preschools, well, some birth control pills may have been missed sort-of-not-totally-on-accident-but-not-really-on purpose-either right around the time you were celebrating Brendon’s first board certification with expensive lingerie and champagne and a trip to Cancun on his sexy new salary. So Theo happened. 

Your track record with celebrations made the next one pretty clear, too. When Brendon finished his fellowship with another huge party, his mother, a saint of a woman, hugged you close and said, “Should we expect baby number five in about nine months?”

And that night, Brendon had you in bed once his parents had taken all the kids back to their house after the party. His thumbs brushed lovingly over your stomach’s layers of shiny stretchmarks as he asked gently, “What do you think, sweetheart?”

Knowing exactly what he meant, you raised an eyebrow and pushed, “About what?”

“We’ve got this big house with all these bedrooms now,” he purred as his fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties. “Seems like kind of a shame not to fill all of them up, doesn’t it?”

You helped him shimmy your underwear off and then turned onto your side, throwing one leg over his hip. “You know I always wanted an even number of kids, Bren. We’ve got two boys and two girls. You really want to disrupt the balance?”

“Think about it this way,” he mused as his hands roamed over your body, squeezing your ass and waist and thighs with the same greed he did when you were nineteen, “if we have five kids, then in a few years, we have a whole water polo team. We can have the Willards over and absolutely annihilate them. Establish dominance in the neighborhood.”

You press your forehead into his shoulder and laugh, “They only have four kids.”

His eyes glimmered with mischief. “Not for long. Nat’s pregnant. Jason told me this morning.”

“Well, shit, we’d better make sure their baby has a friend. Perfectly good reason to create another human being,” you replied with an eye roll, fully enjoying making him work for it even when you were already on board. You pursed your lips and pretended to think hard before suggesting, “Although, I believe ultimate frisbee needs seven, too, and that has some appeal for me.”

Brendon grinned wide then. He flipped you onto your back, pinned you between his biceps, and confirmed, “You wanna have an ultimate frisbee team with me, baby?”

As his right hand went between your legs, you sighed in pleasure, “It’s really the only sport I’ve ever taken seriously.”

And Felix Park joined the family a little less than nine months later.

This time, it wasn’t easy.

After four uncomplicated pregnancies and births, you were a pro. You showed up to L&D five centimeters dilated with your hair, nails, and makeup done, wearing your maroon velour tracksuit, Brendon shouldering your go bag and a brand new baby carrier right behind you. Only a few hours later, the baby was in his cot with Brendon standing over him like a hawk, the placenta had just been delivered, and everything should’ve continued into recovery as normal. But an overwhelming, all-consuming sense that something was wrong overcame you like a hurricane.

You reached out and grabbed Brendon’s hand, fingers bruising.

His eyes snapped to yours and he saw the terror in them immediately.

Before he could even open his mouth, your blood pressure tanked, your oxygen plummeted, and the bleeding started. Your eyelids fluttered back as you dropped out of consciousness in a matter of seconds. As the OB dropped down to check for potential causes and solutions while stopping the bleeding, Brendon’s brain lasered into doctor mode as a response to the panic that rose in his throat. Not listening in the slightest as a nurse urged him to stay calm, he violated every protocol in the book by yanking an intubation kit from the closest medical cart to expertly get you oxygen, shouting for transfusions of your blood type, and beginning CPR for blood flow. Nurses and staff fell in line rapidly, deferring to his authority because it was just so forceful and complete. Brendon Park is one of those men who’s impossible to doubt, no matter what he’s doing.

By the time an emergency specialist made it to your room three minutes later, Brendon had run the worst of the code and pretty much singlehandedly stopped you from dying right there on the L&D floor, sweat falling down his brow and onto your hospital gown as he continued compressions. It took three people to get him to step back from you. When the doctor took over on your heart, Brendon collapsed into a panic attack. He’d never felt anything like the tightness in his lungs. A separate nurse came in to give him oxygen while he went down, his eyes wide open and darting around like he was looking for something he couldn’t find. No words made it through the thick haze of his terror until he saw your vitals stabilizing again. Even then, he couldn’t function until you were conscious and tested and they confirmed that you wouldn’t have any lasting issues.

When you came to for real the next morning and they told you what happened, your mischievous eyes spent a second finding his and you teased, “Ooooh, you’re gonna be in so much trouble, pookie.”

He laughed, swatted a tear from his cheek, and kissed you on the top of the head. “Yeah, I got called up by the medical board for a review, but the hospital’s backing me up. Should be a slap on the wrist.”

You nodded, sleepy and accepting, and asked, “How’s the baby doing?”

“He’s perfect,” Brendon assured softly, almost scared to be too loud. “Ten pounds on the dot, 22 inches. Easily one of our top five cutest babies.”

“Another football player,” you laughed, sounding exhausted and delighted and maybe still a touch loopy on painkillers. Leaning your head on his arm, you smile against his skin. “We make very cute babies, even if your stupid genes make them all giants.”

He brushed your cheek with his thumb and murmured, “Your stupid genes didn’t have to keep procreating with my stupid genes.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up; you’re so annoying.”

He pouted and offered, “What if I told you that I brought you an Entenmann’s donut variety pack this morning? Powered, chocolate glaze, and crumble just how you like?”

With your weak arms, you reached up and pulled him into a hard kiss. He didn’t care about your unbrushed teeth or greasy skin. To him, you’re everything. He’d kiss you at the end of the world with two minutes left. You leveled him with loving eyes and said, “I lied about you being annoying. You’re the perfect man. Now gimme those donuts.”

All in all, by the time an attending position opened up in Brendon’s hospital right as you finished your residency with five under ten, you’re pretty damn sure you’re done having babies.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Trinity sighs as she sips her second or third drink. “I can barely keep myself and my roommate alive and here you are with five tiny humans and a husband.”

“Once they stop being attached to your boob, it gets easier,” you snicker while watching the kids screeching with laughter as they dive and splash at each other. With Brendon absently rubbing your back while keeping his eyes on the party, you add, “Honestly, at this point, it’ll be weird not being pregnant working at a hospital. I won’t have any excuses to take as many five-minute breaks as I want.”

“A fate worse than death,” Trinity agrees. Then she gestures between the two of you and asks, “Have you figured out how you’re gonna break it to the Pitt that their nice new attending is actually married to the scariest doctor in the hospital?”

You admire Brendon’s sharp side profile for a minute and then shrug. “I figure we’re not gonna keep it a secret but we’re not gonna bring it up. It’s not like Bren’s going to stop being the big bad ortho bro just because I’m there. I’m fully prepared to be on the receiving end of his mean little tirades.”

Brendon bites back a joke about how you like him being mean plenty when it’s just the two of you, instead saying, “And I’m fully prepared for you to stand on your tippy toes and scream in my face when we disagree about patient care.”

You scoff and shove him. “I did not yell at Dr. Torrence that day.”

Brendon gives Trinity a knowing look. “She made him cry over an appendicitis diagnosis.”

Throwing your hands up mock-defensively, you cut back, “Okay, well, god forbid I care if my patients live or die.”

Trinity cracks up at that and says, “The way you go back and forth with each other, you should place bets on how long it takes everyone to figure out that you’re married.”

Brendon tilts his beer toward her. “Now that could be fun.”

Before you can call them both children, your mother-in-law comes up behind you and leans in near your and Brendon’s ears. “The kids are getting antsy about the cake, my loves.”

Brendon nods, stands up, and shouts in his bellowing serious voice, “Everybody gather ‘round; I have to give my sappy speech about how proud of my wife I am now!”

From around the pool area and by the fire pitt and grill, all the partygoers circle the central table with its cake reading Congratulations, Dr. & Dr. Park! Even the kids reluctantly clamber out of the pool after a little coaxing from their grandparents.

Brendon lifts his arm for you to step into. With an eye roll, you do, head on his chest. He dramatically clears his throat and begins, “Honey, I’ve told you a million times already, but I’m never gonna get tired of saying it: I am so proud of you for finishing your residency and taking the next leap in your medical career. I know firsthand just how hard you’ve worked every step of the way to be the biggest know-it-all in the history of the world.”

“Absolutely right,” you cut in with a serious nod. Patting his well-defined pec, you nudge, “Wrap it up, you big sap, there’s a cake to eat.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles. Then he cups your cheek and says, “You are by far the most impressive person I’ve ever met. You continue to change my definition of what’s possible every day. I cannot wait to work with you so I can finally prove that someone actually likes me.” Brendon kisses you warmly as his friends laugh a little too knowingly. Then he hushes the crowd once more and says, “Of course, if you’ve come to a Park family summer house party before, you know that we always end our toasts with a particular tradition-”

With the kids already cheering and clapping from the anticipation, you try to squirrel out from under his arm with a wicked shriek of, “Brendon Alexander Park, you swore you wouldn’t do this tonight!”

“-before we can cut that cake and continue the evening’s festivities-”

You manage to get out of his grip and make a sprinting break for the yard, careful not to run by the pool area because you will never hear the end of it from Benji after several summers of yelling at him for the same. “You are so in for it, Bren!” 

“-my beautiful wife absolutely must get into the pool she insisted we put in-”

Brendon catches you easily since you aren’t really trying to evade him as all your friends and family clap. You hiss, “I will murder you after this.”

“-by any means necessary!” Brendon grabs you under your ass and hoists you above his head onto his shoulders with ease. Holding your legs tight to his chest while you balance above him, he walks to the edge of the water and you pretend to put up a fight by squirming just to annoy him. Brendon grabs his beer from the table and lifts it to the sky. “Everyone, please raise your glasses and join me in celebrating the love of my life, the mother of my five perfect spoiled children, who is way too good for me even on my best days, and now my fellow PTMC attending physician, Dr. Park!”

As everyone lifts their drinks and claps and whoops, Brendon takes one celebratory swig of his beer, sets it down, and then jumps into the deep end, plunging you both into the water. It’s the perfect temperature for swimming even without the heated feature turned on and you surface with mock offense on your face. Laughing and wiping water away, you push him on the chest and say, “I hate you. You’re by far the worst husband on the face of the planet.”

He nods in agreement as he pulls you toward him, able to touch the bottom of the pool several steps before you can. As you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, he kisses you and murmurs, “I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. I know there was never any doubt you’d finish your residency-”

“Damn straight.”

“-but the fact that you did it all while being such an attentive mom and wife and-”

“Please don’t make me cry,” you whimper gently. You hug him tight. “Thank you so much for supporting me and us all these years. We really did it.”

“We really did,” he confirms with a laugh. Then he leans in close and murmurs, “By the way, I managed to pawn all the kids off to their friends’ places for sleepovers while you were mingling, so we have the house to ourselves tonight.”

“You’re joking,” you reply, mouth open in true shock. You cup his ear and giggle, “You’re telling me we get to fuck loud and uninterrupted tonight?”

With a shit-eating grin, he nods and kisses you hard. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, angel.”

Then, having absolutely housed a corner piece of cake in a matter of milliseconds, Benji raises his pool noodle and proclaims, “No kissing in the pool! Get ‘em!”

You shriek and bury your face in Brendon’s neck as four of your kids cannonball in at once, spraying water everywhere and immediately latching onto your and Brendon’s backs.

Late that night, with the house and yard cleaned up and the kids at their friends’ or grandparents’ places, Brendon pulls you into the oversized shower and rubs your shoulders under the water. For a few minutes, he just lets you soak in the steam and the quiet as he greedily touches you, no shouting children running around or banging on the door. It’s been a while since the two of you have been able to shower together for more than practical time-saving reasons, so Brendon’s eager to hold you close even as he massages shampoo and conditioner through your hair. You can feel the pride and adoration in his every touch and in his content little groans when you return the favor, working him over with a sudsy loofah and following it with your hands.

Brendon trades off once he’s clean, cupping your soapy breasts and sighing happily into a slow kiss that you step onto your toes to give him. His fingers slip down your waist, over your thighs, through your pubic hair. He even drops down to his knees and lifts each of your feet to wash them, kissing your knees once the water’s washed away the suds. Standing up again, he murmurs gently, “Turn around, sweetheart.”

With a big yawn, you move so he can get your back, definitely not selfishly working your muscles with his hands too.

“Don’t tell me you’re too sleepy for sex,” he teases as you yawn again, leaning your weight against his chest as he rubs the loofah down your lower back.

You reach down and pinch his thigh vengefully. “Did I say that?”

“Ouch! Fuck, baby, I take it back,” he laughs, tightening his arms around you. He bites your shoulder playfully before saying, “Let’s get you out of here so you can prove it to me, hm?”

“I like the sound of that.”

You turn around slowly and give him one more kiss before reaching behind him and turning off the water. Brendon’s quick to grab your fluffy towel robe, wrapping you in it before your skin can even consider getting cold. Before he can turn away, you rest your arms around the back of his neck and tug him into another kiss. He holds your face between his large hands and lets out a soft, breathy sound close to a moan. You love the little noises he makes when he’s so perfectly content. Noises that only you have ever gotten to hear.

Murmuring into the kiss, you offer, “Take me to bed, handsome.”

But Brendon shakes his head no and picks up your moisturizer from the counter behind you, presenting it to you with a pointed look. “Do your post-shower routine first. You’ll be all cranky if your skin starts getting tight and I don’t want you thinking about anything that’ll distract you from feeling so fucking good you go brain-dead. Got it?”

You pout as you take the moisturizer and unscrew it, “To be loved is to be seen or whatever.” 

Brendon starts in on his own routine, too, opening up the medicine cabinet. “You’re almost out of the one you take in the morning – the modafinil,” he says as he collects your handful of bedtime pills the way he does every night, taking care of you in the small moments. “You have an appointment set up for that already?”

“Yes, I do, Dr. Micromanager,” you reply, all faux-huffy. With your skin care done, he hands off your pills and you take them with a few gulps of water from the sink. “I might ask to try something else, though. It’s been a month on them already and I don’t feel like they’re actually helping me feel less tired. Plus, now that I’m gonna be an attending, I’ll only be on day shift, so the whole Shift Work Sleep Disorder situation might resolve itself.”

“I hope so,” he sighs, softly rubbing your back. “I know we all go through it as doctors, but I hate watching you deal with something I can’t fix myself.”

“Mmm.” You give him a soft kiss on the cheek and smile. “My knight in shining armor.”

He kisses your temple. “And you’ll always be my princess.”

Then you toy with the tie on your robe, give him your most sultry eyes, and ask, “Now can you fuck me, Sir Brendon? Or are there any more tasks I have to complete first?”

“All you have to do for the rest of the night-” he slides your robe down your shoulders, returns it to its hook, and begins to push you backwards, into the bedroom “-is let me worship you.”

As the back of your knees hit the plush, high-thread-count comforter, you softly laugh, “I think I can do that for you.”

“That’s my girl,” he praises as he spreads you out on the bed, making sure you’re comfortably arranged among the pillows before he pushes your knees apart. When he sees your pussy, framed by those perfect dimpled thighs and your curls of hair, his cock throbs against the sheet and he groans, “Fuck, baby. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes and smile down at him. “I’ve been yours since I was 19, Bren.”

“And you’re only getting better,” he purrs as he leans down and laps at your slit. With your tartness coating his tongue, he pulls back, nods solemnly, and groans like he’s just chugged a nice cold beer after a long day of work, “Yeah, that’s the stuff right there.”

You giggle and cover your face with your arm. “Stop being silly; you know it turns me on.”

“And the worst thing I’d ever want to do when I’m here between my wife’s legs,” he muses as he slides his two middle fingers inside of you agonizingly slowly, “is turn her on.”

Your back arches while you stretch around him. Once he’s touching you, there’s no more room in your brain for teasing or comebacks. All you can think about is him. His tongue makes familiar contact with your clit and you’re done for. You let yourself sink into the pleasure of being with a man who knows every centimeter of your body as well as his own. He eats you out the way he operates: Precise, practiced, self-assured, and with ten years of training under his belt.

Loose and warm from the night drinking and the hot shower with your hot husband, you’re easily enveloped by Brendon’s obvious desire. You slip into it as naturally as you breathe. His tongue pulses against your clit and his free hand travels upward until he can take your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches and rolls until he finds that combination of pressure and skill to make you moan loud and uninhibited.

Brendon’s got you right where he wants you once he’s using both his hands and his mouth to get you off. If he could use something else at the same time to heighten it for you, he would. When he feels your walls tightening slowly around his fingers, he slows way down and makes you work for it. You whine pathetically at the change in pace and grind your hips down against his fingers to get them deeper and faster the way you need.

Finally – it feels like finally even if it’s been thirty seconds because you’re so worked up – Brendon pushes you over the edge. You clamp down tight around his fingers, thighs tensing around his head, and bliss burns down the candle of your body. Brendon surges forward as you instinctively try to squirm away, his hand going to your hip to hold you against his mouth. He always insists on you riding out every single ounce of pleasure he can give you.

Your gasps turn to little hiccuping moans in the wake of your first orgasm – because, as Brendon makes it very clear, there will be a second. And likely a third if he can get you into the right loose headspace where you’ll go along with everything he says. He pulls off slightly, gently rubs your hip with his thumb, and asks, “Doing okay, baby?”

With half-lidded eyes, you giggle, “Very good, Bren. Gonna come fuck me now?”

“After you’ve only cum on my face once?” He wrinkles up his face in offense. “No fucking way.”

You fake-pout. “Maybe I want you to cum on my face for a change.”

Brendon rolls his eyes and gets back to your clit. You laugh for a second until the contact of his tongue turns it into a moan. He makes a knowing little sound and you grind down on his tongue to get at him, which only makes him more of a menace. He gets lost in it with your juices coating his hand and your pussy still fluttering greedily around his fingers. When he slips a third thick finger into you, the corresponding groan is music to his ears. You’re used to how ridiculous fat his cock is by now, but he’s always sure to stretch you out with fingers or toys beforehand no matter what. No way is he ever going to hurt his perfect girl, not even on accident.

As you get positively stupid, making high-pitched pathetic sounds like ah ah ah, your hands find their way into Brendon’s dark curls. When you tug against his scalp, he whimpers into your pussy, madly in love with your taste, your touch, your tenderness. Everything about you turns him on, but especially the way you totally stop thinking as you lose your inhibitions. Your hips start to roll and your fingers get greedy and Brendon is the happy recipient of each unconscious writhe and wail.

Your second orgasm is slower, looser, less a train barreling through and more a ship rising with the gentle tide, unnoticed at first but unrelenting. You chase his fingers and, this time, he doesn’t mess around with any teasing or slowing down. He stays the course, certain and steady as a compass, until he feels you burst around his fingers. Your moans turn to breathy coos as he eases you through the overstimulation and back down to earth. 

When he’s satisfied with his work, Brendon crawls on top of you and kisses your parted lips. You lean up into the kiss with a happy groan, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kisses you deeply for a minute, one hand needy on your breast as he rubs your nipples, and you feel his hard cock grinding against your thigh. You reach down and palm his length, breathily begging, “C’mon, Bren, I need you.”

He kisses your neck, his tongue and teeth worshipping the skin behind your ear, over your pulse, above your collarbone. Sounding too self-righteous for his own good, he rasps against your ear, “Yeah? Need to get fucked?”

You roll your eyes and groan at him, “I didn’t get married to beg for dick when I want it.”

“Possessive, much?”

You squeeze his bicep – hard, a little mean – and whine, “Holding out for absolutely zero reason because you want it as bad as I do, much?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Brendon reaches down and pumps his cock a few times as you spread your legs wider to accommodate his thick thighs. As he lines himself up with you, feeling your warm wetness inviting him in, he murmurs, “You’re always right.”

You grin as he ever-so-slowly pushes inside of you. “God, you know how to talk dirty.”

He groans as your eyes roll back with the pleasure of him bottoming out inside of you, already looking so fuck-drunk from his time spent between your legs. This is his favorite thing in the world: Getting you off so well and so thoroughly that he can use you however the hell he wants and you’ll just be a crying, moaning mess as you happily take it. He bends so that he can hold you close, your clit bumping against his coarse happy trail. Gazing down lovingly at the way your slick, swollen pussy lips envelop his shaft, he croons, “There you go, baby. My pretty girl.”

Clutching his shoulders, you keen pathetically, “You feel so good.”

“You have no idea, baby.” He grips your ass hard, holding your body against his by the ample fat there. Grunting and trying to control himself, he breathes, “I swear you feel better every time I fuck you.”

You dig your fingernails into his shoulder blades and demand, “Then how about you stop chit-chatting and fuck me?”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he chuckles darkly, grabbing your hips to keep you locked in place, unable to do anything but take his cock. And he pounds you. He uses the full force of those sculpted thighs and ass and stomach to snap his cock forward, only pulling half of the way out before slamming back in. His blunt head punches against your cervix; it would be painful if you weren’t so perfectly molded to be his and his alone, your bodies knowing one another as well as your minds.

Once you’re whimpering and biting your lip and struggling to keep your eyes open from the unrelenting force, Brendon’s dominant hand travels away from your waist and between your legs. With a delicious roughness to his tone, he purrs, “I think you can give me one more, can’t you? A big one, too, maybe even get me nice and wet if I play my cards right.  What do you think, baby? Can you do that for me?”

When you can’t come up with a response, Brendon takes your face in one hand, pushing your cheeks in and forcing you to make eye contact. “Aw, sweetie, too fuck-drunk to speak? That’s okay; I think you can do it, so you’re gonna have to.”

Brendon’s rough thumb pad connects with your puffy, agonized clit and he rotates his hand so he can also press down on your mons, right where his cock is thrumming. Your hips buck from the sudden wave of intensity and he laughs at just how pathetic you look and sound. Immediately, you feel the head of his cock massaging your walls ten times as strongly.

The building pressure is enough to have you squirming and twitching and you cry out, barely able to speak, “I can’t, Bren, I- Fuck! It’s too much. I’m gonna- I can’t-”

“Aw, come on,” he coos, all condescending and achingly sexy, “my wife isn’t a quitter. Just get out of that big beautiful brain and let go.” He presses down more on the bulge at your lower abdomen where his cock is filling you, the pressure bordering on unbearable. His voice takes on a truly selfish darkness that brings turned-on tears to your eyes. “I can tell you’re gonna squirt, honey, and you’re doing that thing where you try not to because you’re all bashful and embarrassed.”

You whimper as your toes curl into the bed, head thrashing back and forth as, yes, you try and try to resist. “Brendon, I swear to god-”

“None of that,” he chastises. He pulls up the hood of your clit and puts more pressure on the exposed, swollen nerves below. Pressure, pressure, pressure. His voice lulls you into a softer, more open headspace as he assures. “You know there’s nothing to be embarrassed about with me. I want you to fucking soak me, baby. Let go. That’s all you have to do and you’re gonna sleep so good. Just let me take care of you. Let me take care of everything.”

Your eyes open and meet his, dominant blue, encapsulating as the open sea, holding you in the moment the way they always do. When you find his devoted, intimate expression just waiting for yours, your pussy starts to tighten. It comes with that overwhelming urge to pee that Brendon’s made you beyond familiar with over the years. Even though you know exactly what’s going on, your brain still tries to yank up a wall to stop you from bursting.

But Brendon knows exactly what you need. His guidance. His patience. His insistence. His voice is nothing short of a growl now as he talks you through it. “There you go. Just a little more, baby, and you’re gonna get there. Focus on my voice, not anything else. Let yourself relax and it’s gonna feel so fucking good for both. Gonna fill you up like you need.”

You’d be weeping if you could manage any sound above a whisper. With your nails cutting into his skin now, you squeak out, “Cum inside me?”

“That’s right, princess,” he grunts as he works hard to stave off his own orgasm. You’re just so gushing wet and perfectly tight and pulsing and everything he’s ever wanted and more. Losing track of his rhythm and falling apart in his love for you, he swears, “I need to fill your cunt. Need to feel you cum while I do it. C’mon, pretty girl, cum with me. Please. It’s all I need.”

And you have to obey. Your brain whites out as the orgasm thrashes through your entire body, back arching, toes curling, thighs clamping. Wetness floods from your body, soaking your husband’s hand and thighs. Brendon thrusts sharp and short through it, burying his forehead in your neck while your cunt milks him just right. He shudders as he spills inside of you, tasting your sweat on his lips and loving every moment of your orgasm that heightens his. While his cock softens inside of you, he plants kisses like a diamond necklace over your skin, murmuring sweetness and love until you’re completely, perfectly content.

You’re so loose and comfy that you hardly register him scooping you off the bed and carrying you to the bathroom, where he cleans you up and kisses over every place his fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks. He’s so strong he can’t help it. You come back into your body properly sitting on the countertop with Brendon in front of you, kissing your cheeks and studying your expression. 

After a moment of just gazing at you, he cups your cheek and drops his voice low and slow. “I love you, baby. You know that, right?”

You grin at the memory of his first ‘I love you,’ which came alongside your first ultrasound with Benji. Just as you said then, you tell him, “More and more every day.”

He kisses the tip of your nose and smiles, shaking his head boyishly like he did when he had a flop of lazy curls that he never put product in. “Let’s get some sleep.”

You glance at the clock on your bedside table and tease, “It’s barely ten, love. Are we that old?”

“I don’t know about you, but I just had my brains fucked out.” He once again lifts you up easily, this time bringing you into your walk-in closet and grabbing some of his favorite skimpy pajamas of yours and guiding them onto your body. “I’m gonna need a solid eight to ten to recover.”

You shimmy into your clothes and then hand him a particularly sexy pair of gray boxer briefs you like the feel of against your ass in the morning. “Does that mean I get wake-up sex?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he promises, nipping more kisses up your neck. He follows less than a step behind you back to the bed, arms around you and destabilizing you until you’re laughing. When he tugs you into his arms beneath the covers, he offers, “You know what I was thinking?”

Snuggling into his chest once he turns the lights out, you half-heartedly murmur, “Hm?”

“Once you’ve had your first day down at the Pitt,” he muses to your half-sleeping form, “we should come up with an order for who we think is gonna figure out we’re together when. Trinity can get in on it, too, so we can swear her to secrecy.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes.”

santos: Cherry and P*rk are fated mates. Not joking. So we want to find out if he’s actually human or not so they can fuck nasty during her next heat in a month. Bug him for me? Pretty please?

When that text lights up Yolanda Garcia’s phone, a smile that can only be described as Grinch-esque parted her gleeful lips. To speak frankly, she’s beyond delighted to have something to annoy Park about. Ever since she finished her fellowship, annoying Park is an absolute favorite way for her to pass the time between surgeries. Developing new ways to strengthen that hobby is as good a drug as any.

See, Garcia is observant. It’s what drew her to surgery in the first place: She can notice the slightest twitch in a patient and know it’s actually nerve compression that needs surgical treatment. She catches things that other people miss.

So when Dr. Park starts bulking like a middle school wrestler trying to add weight right after she witnesses a suspiciously long hug between him and a certain feisty little omega who is supposedly his fated mate, she clocks it for what it is right away: An alpha preparing to mate while his omega prepares for their heat. It’s cute, honestly. Even when Park’s doing it. Garcia’s never experienced it herself, but the idea of alphas needing to get all big and strong to protect their new mates is downright charming to her.

Especially since Park has told her – and everyone else in surgery – that there’s no chance he’s the kind of guy who’d have a fated mate because that’s only for bleeding hearts who don’t focus on themselves and their careers. There’s a reason it’s significantly less common in high-level professionals, he’d go on and on, ignoring decades of literature showing that those professionals are less likely to find their mates due to denial and self-neglect.

So it’s particularly delightful to be in on the secret of him being not only wrong but wrong in a way that’s going to be deliciously embarrassing when he realizes. After two days of laying in wait, she pounces on the first opportunity to bother him properly.

In the surgeons’ lounge during a rare shared break, Yolanda suspiciously eyes Park as she heats up her early-morning breakfast, asking as if she isn’t freakishly curious and nosy, “Brendon, you hitting the gym more than usual lately?”

Powering through a bowl of pasta the size of Jupiter’s larger moons – for breakfast – Brendon shakes his head and shrugs. “Not really, no. Haven’t had a ton of time lately with all the surgeries I’ve been picking up from the damn Pitt.”

Already plotting how she’s gonna gossip about this downstairs, she presses, “Why have you been going down for so many consults? Dr. Atterman on vacation or something?”

He doesn’t even take a second to think about the answer before saying obliviously, “Guess they’ve had more sports accidents than usual coming in lately.”

“Hm. Weird, I could’ve sworn you picked up a hip dislocation on an elderly woman yesterday. Moved your afternoon surgery back a few hours to do it, I heard.”

Narrowing his eyes, Park asks, “Why do you care, anyway?”

“Just thought you hated going to the Pitt is all,” she lilts, taking her leftovers and plopping down across from him. “Someone down there taking your attention? They’ve got some cute omegas.”

He glares daggers. “Are you getting at something, Garcia?”

“Not at all, Shark,” she replies with a shit-eating grin. “By the way, totally unrelated, that R4 who brought you the teen with the broken knee asked for a consult. From you specifically.”

His head snaps up. With a single spaghetti noodle still falling from the corner of his mouth, he asks with wide eyes, “She did?”

Garcia almost dies laughing then and there. She works hard to memorize the beautifully oblivious look on her meanest coworker’s face before replying with the words Trinity forwarded, “Yeah, she wants you there this afternoon at four while Frankie meets the physio team so you can give them a more in-depth overview on the new structure of his knee.”

“At four?” He takes out his phone and furrows his brow and he flips through pages. “Yeah, I can push my 4:30 surgery to five no problem. Thanks, Garcia.”

She smirks around the lip of her mug. “No problem at all, Shark.”

Park doesn’t wait for the afternoon appointment to see you, though. He can’t. It’s not quite in his consciousness, but there’s a certain edge rolling around just below his skin. A spike in his blood pressure. A goosebump prickle that insists he move and move fast toward the Pitt. As soon as he sees an ortho page from the ED, he snatches it up before Torres or Atterman can get to it, riding down the elevator with restless hands as he secretly hopes it’s from you.

Sure enough, when he pushes into the Pitt, he sees you over an obvious ortho case; Park can see the exposed tibia from across the room. The Pitt is overcrowded from a series of car accidents, so you’re handling major patient care out in the open. That alone has Brendon on edge while he closes the long distance between the elevator and you. There are too many people too close to you, too many smells swirling around that muddy the trail to your side.

As he gets closer, he spots a large alpha by your side. Frank Langdon, who just so happens to be Brendon Park’s absolute least favorite doctor in the entire hospital. Admittedly, until just now his opinion was much more neutral, but Langdon is shouting at you and that has Park’s blood boiling through his skin.

“-and that’s the whole reason we have chain of command in the first place. I’m your superior and you’re expected to defer to me here!”

“You’re only one year ahead of me, Frank, and, much more importantly, I’m right about this one! If we don’t prep for a fasciotomy now, he’s going to lose the leg.”

“And if he doesn’t need it, we risk all kinds of permanent damage that could be avoided by taking a measured approach.”

You stomp your foot and cross your arms. It would be adorable if Park weren’t seeing red at Langdon’s tone. His heart pounds in his ears, which are ringing loud, and all his hairs stand on end like he’s been struck by lightning. He hangs back for a second to see if you can handle it yourself, not wanting to truly lose it on someone right in front of you. He’d hate himself if he scared you. As he tries to calm down his rage, you square up against an alpha like you’re one yourself and insist, loud and clear, “I’m the one who heard his firsthand story when he came in before he lost consciousness, so I actually know much better than you that he-”

Then Lagndon’s scent flares.

Intentionally.

Thick and dark, it pools around the both of you, even perking up the noses of a few nearby nurses and patients. It’s a dirty move to put you in your place – he as an alpha and you an omega, no longer equals with the same training– and it works scarily well. Especially off your suppressants, you’re incredibly vulnerable to his dominance.

You shrink away from Langdon as the burning, acrid smell tightens your throat and makes tears sting at your eyes. You’re dizzy and disoriented and only vaguely register what he’s doing. You take a few steps back until you accidentally stumble into a nearby unoccupied gurney. Trying hard not to cry, you blink fast and stammer, “S-sorry, Dr. Langdon, I’ll- Um. I’ll go and- I can-”

Park surges forward, his hand coming down hard on Langdon’s shoulder. His voice is the polar opposite of Frank’s lazy attempt at dominance; he’s lethal, quiet, intense. “Are you fucking scenting on an omega colleague, Dr. Langdon?”

Frank’s eyes go wide as he realizes he’s been caught red-handed. “I was just trying to-”

“What? Force her into submission?” Park’s chest nearly touches Frank and it honestly looks like he might bite him. The confrontation catches the eyes of a handful of nearby alphas, recognizing the possibility of having to break something up. Park spits, “You’re vile. You’re sexist and you’re useless. How fucking dare you-”

“Dr. Park?” Your timid voice from behind him shakes him from his focus on Langdon. When he turns your way, Park realizes that you’re staring up at him with the softest, brightest adoration he’s ever felt and all the anger simmers out of his body. “I didn’t think you’d come down for a basic fracture and fasciotomy.”

“We’re not doing a fasciotomy,” Langdon groans. “Shark, can you please explain to-”

Park whips around and shoves him in the chest. “Shut up, Frank, seriously, because the only reason I’m not already dragging you to HR by the scruff right now is because I can see an open tibial fracture that needs my attention. I’ll deal with you later.” Then he turns back to you, expression soft and attentive, and says, “Why don’t you walk me through it, cherry? Let’s get this figured out together.”

You swipe the tears from your cheeks, annoyed that they’ve fallen at all, and swallow hard. Voice wobbly, you tell him, “Mr. Perkins was brought in by ambulance after he attempted to fell a tree in his backyard on his own. The tree landed on his leg, leading to an open crush fracture. Bleeding is controlled, vitals are stable, we just have to decide on the right course of treatment.” Your eyes search his face for any signs of judgment, but there aren’t any. So fast that anyone else might miss it, he brushes another tear from your cheek with his thumb, withdrawing it quickly and without drawing attention to it. But it imprints itself on your skin. You go on more confidently, “I think there’s compartment syndrome in the calf, which means that wasting time with any non-surgical treatment is only going to increase the likelihood that he loses the leg altogether.”

Frank cuts in with a real ‘alpha’s club’ vibe, “And I explained to her that this is an open fracture.”

“That doesn’t rule out compartment syndrome, genius,” Park scoffs, flicking him on the forehead. Like Langdon is a kindergartener, Park slowly explains, “It’s more than twice as likely with closed traumas, but this opening isn’t placed correctly to relieve pressure from swelling on the opposite side. The tibia breaks through the shin, so the calf is still under pressure. Did you actually make it through basic anatomy or did you knot your way to a passing grade?”

You glance down at your sneakers and smile to yourself as Langdon awkwardly stumbles through trying to explain himself.

Park cuts him off halfway through and returns his attention to you. “What makes you think compartment syndrome?”

“I triaged Mr. Perkins when he came in. He reported pins and needles as well as difficulty moving the-”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Both of which can be explained by the huge bone sticking out of him.”

“Interrupt her one more time and see how I treat you,” Park growls back without even sparing him a look. He urges you, “Keep going. Paresthesia and partial paralysis are strong indicators for compartment syndrome. What else?”

Feeling much more sure of yourself under his sturdy gaze, you inform him, “The fractured leg appears paler than the other on visual inspection and the pulse is thready at its best, even before we stemmed the bleeding. And, to be totally honest with you, just palpating the limb made me suspicious. I worked on a lot of crush injuries at the VA and I just…I don’t know. I think I have a feel for it.”

Park nods and takes the examination into his own hands, snapping on his gloves and carefully checking over the entire leg from above the open fracture to the ankle below the suspected compartment issues. After a second of thinking, he nods his confirmation. “We need to do an open reduction and internal fixation with fasciotomy to give him the best chance at recovery. Scrub in with me, sweetheart, you need some OR hours before you make a choice about your elective.”

Neither of you notices the nickname as anything out of the ordinary; it just passes between you as naturally as the medicine. You do this tiny little bunny hop as excitement replaces all your negative feelings and Park can’t help smiling. “That would be amazing! Thank you so much for all your help, Dr. Park.”

Langdon mutters something harsh under his breath and Park turns to him. Whips to him, more like. He leans in close so you can’t hear and says, “You’re not off the hook for scenting her, by the way. This time, I’m just gonna report you to HR. Do that shit again?” He taps Langdon on the neck, right on his sensitive mating bite, and says, “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth. And I’ll enjoy every second.”

After scrubbing out of the surgery, Park lingers with you in the hall, exchanging small talk, long enough that the assisting surgical residents exchange suspicious glances. Park looks at the nearby wall clock and says, “Feels kind of stupid to go back up to my office and do paperwork for ten minutes before I take my lunch.”

To you, that’s an invitation. You squeal, “Come sit in the Pitt lounge with me and my friends! I brought in a bunch of homemade snacks I made last night for everyone to share. You should have some. Pregame for your real lunch?”

Park can’t stop himself from grinning. “You homemade a bunch of snacks? After you worked late last night?”

Immediately leading him on the trek down to the doctors’ lounge, you tell him with a lot of pep in your step, “Nothing too crazy, just some Pinterest recipes I’ve been wanting to follow – candied pecans and these yummy gouda cheese crisps and kettle corn and some whipped ricotta dip with cinnamon pita chips and then, y’know, I brought these dark chocolate truffles to the Pitt’s holiday party last year and Abbot asked me if I’d make them again sometime, so I did that, too. I add a little chili to bring out the richness and they always go over super well.”

Once you stop rambling with an embarrassed laugh, he confirms with a laugh, “But nothing too crazy, right?”

Heat crawls into your cheeks and you bite your lower lip, giving a bashful smile. “Well, I’m kind of, ah, nesting right now, a bit.”

Park swallows thickly. It’s not inappropriate or anything to talk about nesting and even heats with other adults, just a bit more friendly than he would’ve expected you to be with him. It settles way too warmly on his shoulders – especially the knowledge that you’re going to be in heat in a matter of weeks. No wonder he could smell you from across the ED this morning. God, you can smell even more intense than this? He’s going to have to invest in some nose patches.

Breaking the silence before it gets uncomfortably charged with the new knowledge of your upcoming heat, Park bumps you with his elbow – teasing, adorable, heart-stopping – and lilts, “So you’re one of those cooking and baking omegas, huh? Nesting time comes and you hole up in the kitchen?”

“Yeah, I am.” You giggle back, all fluttery because you’re getting his undivided attention without any doctoring involved, “It’s kind of a stereotype, I know, but it’s my favorite. I have a million recipes pinned for when I’m nesting because I become kind of a crazy person. Need to have an alpha around to eat everything in the fridge.”

“And you don’t have one of those.” His eyes cut to yours and your step falters for a second. “An alpha, I mean.”

You shrug and try not to let it affect you too much that he’s essentially asking if you’re available. “Not my own, but Trinity and Garcia are always swinging by to raid my fridge. And, when it’s really bad, sometimes I’ll invite Abbot, too.”

Park rolls his shoulders and tries not to let that bother him too much. He’s always been a firm believer that there’s nothing wrong with alphas and omegas being friends. Definitely not. But he can’t let himself imagine them in your apartment without also imagining himself to soothe the sting. So he not-quite-jokingly asks, “Is that a standing offer for alpha coworkers?”

“Invite only,” you correct with a cheeky smile. “Behave yourself in front of my Pitt friends and maybe you can swing one.”

“Lot of pressure there; Santos hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you! She…” You gesture to stall while you try to think of a nicer word before conceding, “Yeah, she kind of hates you. But you could win her over. Just show her the real you – beyond all that ‘Park the Shark’ lore.”

As you reach the door of the lounge, Park gives you a tender, soft gaze. “You don’t think ‘Park the Shark’ is the real me?”

“No, I don’t.” You poke him in the bicep and tease, “I think you’re secretly a big softie. Plus, I already know you’re a great hugger, Sharkie.”

You push through the door before he can respond. Last time a resident called him that, he buried them in scut work for two weeks. But when you do it, it’s too damn sweet for him to be annoyed by. His eyes float briefly – okay, not that briefly – down to your ass as you flit over to the table where Santos, Whitaker, and Garcia are clearly waiting for you, that delectable spread of snacks laid out on the round table between them.

Trinity stands, pulls you into a hug, and groans, “Thank god, there you are! I’ve been literally dying to eat these all day.”

Park pretends not to notice the way that his gut clenches up watching Santos, then Garcia, then Whitaker hug you right in a row. He doesn’t like smelling their scents mingling with yours. Still, he puts on an awkward smile and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying hard to act normal.

Garcia notices his presence first and opens her mouth wide in feigned shock. “Cherry, you managed to get Shark to join us for a social gathering? You know he only eats meals with perfectly balanced macros, right?”

Your face falls a bit and you turn to Park. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pressure you into eating if you don’t want-”

“I want,” he says quickly. Then he tells Garcia, “I’m not that worried about macros.”

Yolanda eyes him suspiciously. “What was up with all that pasta this morning, then? Weird choice of breakfast. Seemed a lot like carbo-loading to me. Marathon coming up?”

He shrugs innocently. “I had leftovers.”

She gives a knowing look to Trinity. “Uh-huh.”

Trinity gestures to the two open chairs next to her and insists, “Well, c’mon then, let’s get this party started.”

You plop down next to her, leaving poor Whitaker next to Park, and tell them all, “Park only has a few minutes to snack with us, guys, go easy on him.”

“No, no, I can stay as long as you want me,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “I mean, as long as, ah, y’know whatever.”

Trinity just about chokes trying to contain her laughter, immediately opening her phone to text Yolanda under the table. To have something to do with his hands, Park grabs a plate for himself and makes himself a charcuterie of the snacks, his appetite spiking for reasons definitely unrelated to your rising hormones invading his senses, your bare arm rubbing against his because you had to sit close to cram the chairs around the table.

Whitaker saves the awkwardness of Santos and Park being forced to share space by making a show of eating something and praising you, “This is amazing, by the way. You’ve really got a knack for this stuff.”

“Thank you, Denny,” you beam as you curate your own selection of snacks, maybe a little heavy on the sweets because you’re got a mean craving for something that’ll give you energy with Park so close to you. “Lots of practice over the years.”

But the alphas have no mercy. While nibbling on cheese crisps and texting Trinity, Garcia muses to Park absently, “It’s good that you’re here, actually, because you can settle a debate for us.” Already knowing what she’s getting at, your eyes widen and flick between her and Trinity, who keep sharing conspiratorial glances. “Little argument we’ve all been going back and forth on this past week. There’s this new study about EMPR.”

“What’s that?” Park’s brows knit together and you get lost looking at his baby blues for a second or two. “I only really read about ortho cases.”

“Of course, makes sense,” Garcia replies, suppressing her building smirk. “Well, it’s short for Endocrine-Mediated Pairing Response. The neurochemical syndrome that the whole ‘fated mates’ myth is based on.”

“Not exactly a myth, though, is it?” Glancing at you almost expectantly, he says, “People have been experiencing it forever.”

“Sure, but that’s part of the debate,” Trinity jumps in. “What do you think: Should we be treating it like a disease? Me and Yo think it’s a hormonal abnormality, but the bleeding hearts club thinks it’s just the cutest wittle thing that’s ever happened.”

“Hey!” Whitaker reaches across the table to smack her. “Cherry isn’t a bleeding heart; she’s very practical.”

As your ears burn, Park smiles. Cherry. Your sweetness washes through him. So he says honestly, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Actually, I think it’s kind of beautiful.”

Garcia scoffs, “Beautiful? You think that? What happened to all your ‘I’d never have a fated mate; I’m way too busy and big and butch’ spiels?”

“I never said ‘butch,’ first of all,” he laughs (the first time Whitaker and Santos have ever heard him laugh. “Whether you believe in the whole ‘fate’ aspect or not-” big finger quotes on ‘fate’ “-you can’t deny the reality of the biological phenomenon.” Then, looking directly at you, he explains, “I like the idea that two people, strangers, even, can share a connection so strong that it transcends abstract concepts like feelings and instead exists in their DNA, in the cells that make up their entire body. Of all the billions and billions of people, there are pairs who compliment each other to the point where their biologies call out to one another. Drawing them together without anything ever being spoken.” He drops his eyes and shrugs like your heart is pounding out of your chest next to him. His watch beeps with an urgent page, so he sighs and finishes simply, “Who wouldn’t find that beautiful?”

Breathless and soft, you reply, “That was awfully romantic, Dr. Park.”

“I’m full of surprises.” You swear there’s pink at the apples of his cheeks as Park takes one last bite of food and slides his hand along your upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, grazing your scruff, as he walks away from the table. Giving you a quick wink, he adds, “And you should start calling me Brendon. I’ll see you in a few hours with the Murrays.”

You’re slack-jawed as Trinity rams a happy, celebratory fist into your bicep.

Park breezes down the hall to physio a few hours later, happily following the trail of your scent without realizing he’s doing it. The Murrays haven’t arrived yet, so it’s just you updating notes on your iPad with your expression pinched up in focus. Since that moment a few days ago, whatever it was, he keeps catching himself staring at you for a little too long.

You’re so locked in that he doesn’t want to scare you, so he makes sure to step in loud enough for you to notice his presence before he speaks in a voice that always comes out too harsh, no matter how much he tries to change it. He strides over to you and touches the center of your back. “Hey there, Dr. Cherry, how’s the shift treating you since lunch?”

Your heart stammers when you feel his hand and hear his voice, the tempo picking up even further when it actually settles in your fluttery stomach that he’s called you by your scent. It’s definitely not half as intimate as ‘pup,’ but it’s sweet and kind and not like the Dr. Park you’ve always seen. It’s Brendon. You give him a tentative smile. “Um, it’s been good. Set of twins came up with matching broken arms that I patched up all by myself; you’d be proud.”

“I’m sure I would,” he says urgently. Very urgently. His eyes are locked on the planes of your face  as you go between looking at him and getting your work done. Trying to sound casual, he leans against the nearest wall and says, “Almost the time of year where you can try out your twelve-week clinical elective. Robby’s got his substance use outreach elective and Abbot’s got that palliative care thing.” As you hum an absent reply, he clears his throat just so you’ll look at him and adds, “Y’know, I oversee a critical care surgical lab. You’d be a good fit for that. I think Abbot mentioned that you’re interested in surgery, right?”

When you turn to him this time, you’re glowing. He notices the slightest change in your scent, the tang of cherry and apples mellowing into something sweeter. Lickable. He wants to attach his mouth to your neck and never let go. You bounce a little bit and tell him, “Actually, when I came to PTMC, my whole goal was to find a surgical fellowship. They don’t offer any at the VA, obviously. I’m always so jealous when you come in and get to plan out procedures.”

Park steps closer, breathing in the extra sweetness of your scent until it starts to calm him down. He’d been a little edgy all day and your presence is like a weighted blanket. His voice is airy and warm down your neck as he replies, “I’d love to show you the ropes, help you figure out if you want a surgical fellowship. Stop by my office sometime and we can talk about the details.”

Nibbling your lower lip a second, you meet his eyes and suggest just to see how he’ll respond, “Shouldn’t I be talking to Garcia about emergency surgery?”

“Definitely not,” he says right away. Straightening up his posture, he puffs up his chest and explains, “I know I’m ortho on paper, but I’m also co-chair of the surgical board. Kind of next-in-line for Chief of Surgery, really. So I’m the right person to see about the next steps in your education for sure.”

Your lips part open a bit as you try to come up with a response and he works very, very hard not to stare at your mouth. Is he…preening? That’s new. And it’s adorable. It makes you want to squeal, all the extra hormones bubbling up inside you definitely not helping, but you manage to contain yourself by curling your toes in your sneakers. “I’ll schedule something with your secretary.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do all that,” he says like his heart isn’t racing and his palms aren’t sweating. He reaches into his back pocket for his prescription pad, grabs a pen from your breast pocket (which almost makes you scream), and scribbles his phone number down. Then he tucks it in the front pocket of your scrub and gives your thigh a gentle pat. You’re completely frozen from the series of easy, casual touches that feel more like claims than anything when he tells you, “Text me whenever you want. I’ll carve out the time for you.”

There’s that phrase again. For you. So you reach across the suddenly-too-large space between your bodies and give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Okay, I will.”

Before Park has the time to come up with a response, the physical therapist, Dr. Embry, joins you in the suite, wheeling in Frankie Murray with his parents behind. Park shakes each of their hands and says to Frankie, “It’s good to see you again, kid.”

Mrs. Murray chuckles, “You’re in a much better mood today, Dr. Park.”

He stage-whispers, “Your son’s doctor over there may have given me a very deserved attitude check.” He kneels down and pats Frankie’s shoulder, making serious eye contact. “I’m sorry again for how rude I was before your surgery; I guess I was having a bad day. I promise I’m gonna be right here consulting with Dr. Embry during your whole recovery process. And I’ll be in the stands when you’re back on the track in the fall.”

Frankie grins and checks, “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

You almost black out. As Park goes through the details of Frankie’s knee reconstruction with Dr. Embry, you quickly take out your phone and text the group chat with Trinity, Dennis, and Garcia. He’s being really sweet??? To me and my patient and his family.

You know Garcia’s in surgery, but Trinity’s response pings back right away: one whiff of you and the beast transforms into a prince :))

While Park helps Dr. Embry get equipment set up for the appointment, he tells the family, “Y’know, I went through your doctor’s notes a little more closely. Turns out I went to the same high school as you. Captain of the football team ‘08 and ‘09.”

“Shit, seriously?”

Mrs. Murray swats his head playfully with a pamphlet from downstairs. “Language, Frankie.”

“I did a little track, too, but I sucked,” Park tells him, tone all light and friendly. “More of a linebacker type. All bulk, no speed.”

Listening to the courteous, personal small talk, the physical therapist gives you the most incredulous look you’ve ever seen on a medical professional. You return it.

“And a surgeon’s hands; you’re really the whole package,” Mrs. Murray praises in that saccharine omega tone that turns alphas to butter, her eyes raking over him in a way that makes you want to turn into a linebacker all of a sudden. “Do you have a mate, Dr. Park?”

Park’s eyes flick to you as Frankie groans.

Your heart climbs into your throat.

Park offers a polite, professional smile. “No, I don’t, I’m waiting patiently for the one.”

You bite your lip and stare down at your shoes, heat climbing into your cheeks.

“‘The one,’” Mrs. Murray tuts in return. “That’s such a dated idea, doctor. Let me set you up with my sister and-”

Mr. Murray hisses, “Nancy, we’ve talked about this.”

“Sorry, sorry, I love to meddle,” she laughs, waving it off as you plaster a placid smile on your face to avoid glaring at her. “Let’s focus on Frankie’s appointment, hm? Dr. Embry?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” you interrupt, surprised to hear your voice coming out sharp. You’re never like that with patients’ families. But you can’t help yourself as you turn to Brendon and say, “Dr. Park, I had some questions about your approach on Frankie’s meniscus; would it be alright if we let Dr. Embry take over from here?”

Park tilts his head but nods. He turns to the rest of the room and says, “I’ll see all of you next week, okay? Give my office a call if you have any questions or concerns.”

After they thank him, Park nods toward the wing of offices and you follow him out with your cheeks absolutely on fire. He stops short of his office, though, cornering you in the hall with a teasing smile.

“So…” He crosses his arms over his chest and examines you carefully, trying to understand “...my approach to Frankie’s meniscus?”

“Um, yeah, right.” After thirty solid seconds trying to come up with a way to purposefully misunderstand a basic tendon repair, you admit quietly, unable to even meet his eyes, “Fine, I just didn’t like the way Mrs. Murray was looking at you like a piece of meat.”

Park scoffs. “So you were trying to rescue me from her?”

You cross your arms, too, and tell him with a bratty edge to your voice, “Maybe I was.”

He barks out a laugh and touches your arm sweetly. “I can handle myself, cherry, I promise.”

“Just looking out for my coworker,” you huff, stamping one foot in a way that makes Park’s heart flutter warmly. Your faux-anger is too cute for him to handle. When he starts to break out another teasing smile, you shove his chest and groan, “Drop it. I was just…being a silly omega. Or something. Leave me alone.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he goes on, taking a step closer to you. Your back hits the wall and he places one giant hand next to your head. His sent flares, warm and spiced, and you’re honestly glad for the wall holding you up. When you look at the muscles straining beneath his tan skin, your knees weaken. You’re already over-producing slick with your body coming off the suppressants and Park’s domineering stance definitely isn’t helping the situation. Voice 100% teasing and unserious, he asks you all low and gravelly, “Do you have a crush on me, doctor?”

You stand on your toes and refuse to shrink, matching his cocky tone to disguise the desire reaching through all your organs. “No, I have a crush on Mr. Murray. I wanted to hide my raging boner for him by coming up with an excuse to get out of there.”

Park raises an eyebrow in amusement. “He your type?”

“Yeah, I like ‘em bald and mated,” you reply seriously.

He leans down, close enough to kiss you, and keeps pushing with that gorgeously teasing tone, “I’ll have to see a hairdresser, then, since I was cursed with a thick head of hair.”

“I’d agree with a thick skull,” you cut back, standing up straighter and breathing in the cinnamon pouring from his neck. “And the mate part? Any cute omegas catch your eye lately?”

He thinks for a second and then offers, “Well, clearly Mrs. Murray is about to be on the market.”

You cheekily reply, “But by the time Mrs. Murray’s single, I’ll already be carrying three little half-sibling pups for Frankie, dummy.”

Then Brendon growls. The sound is low and possessive. It’s the kind of sound an alpha would only make if his mate were in danger or threatened. It rumbles up from his chest, totally subconscious. His eyes darken. His hand goes to your waist. Grabs, really. Not hard, not cruel, just…owning. Desperate, almost. He needs to feel the way your soft flesh yields to his touch. His breaths get heavy and intense. Your body reacts. Undeniably. He feels the temperature of your skin increase beneath his hand in response to him. Then he orders, quiet and stern but still perfectly tender, “Don’t joke about that. Please.”

“Why not?”

“You shouldn’t- You aren’t-” He steps back and tries to get out of the heady cloud of you even though you’re invading his every synapse. With a slow, deliberate swallow, Park says, “We’re joking about a patient’s family. Very unprofessional.”

“Right,” you reply, eyes glassy and voice breathy, “of course.” Then, not quite ready to end the conversation when you have a few minutes before you should be back downstairs, you tell him, “That thing you said to Mrs. Murray? About waiting for the one? She said it was dated, but, um, I wanted to tell you that I liked it. You sounded sweet. And I’m waiting, too.”

His lip twitches up into a smirk. “You are? I figured there was no way a girl like you was single, even if you don’t have a mate yet.”

“A girl like me?” He doesn’t elaborate, just nods like your rarity is so obvious it doesn’t need stating, so you tell him, “I don’t want to waste my time dating around when I know that a time’ll come when an alpha’s going to be certain I belong to them.”

With his heart climbing into his throat, Park asks, “And what’ll they do then? When they’re certain?”

“He’ll just,” you sigh wistfully and shrug, imagining every detail, “pick me up and take me home. He’s gonna fold into my nest with me and keep me safe. Protect me every day. Build me a big house to fill with pups with a yard for them to play in and a kitchen where I can bake everyone their favorite things and-” You stop yourself, give a bashful smile, and quickly add, “I know that’s kind of a lame 1950s idea coming from a modern doctor omega, but-”

“No, not at all,” he assures, taking your hand quickly so you don’t dash out of the conversation like you often do when you get embarrassed. “It’s not lame. It’s nice.”

He can’t bear to say anything else, his throat feeling tight all of a sudden, so he just squeezes your hand and then lets go of it. Then he runs his hand through his hair and says, “I’ve got to go get prepped for surgery. Spine deformity correction. But text me, okay? I want to hear from you about the surgical elective. Or anything else you want. Any time. Text me.”

You try to add confidence to your shaky, adoring smile. “I will. Promise.”

That night, you agonize over what to text Park. Yes, you could absolutely just send him a simple, professional ‘Can I come to your office to talk about the surgical elective Thursday between nine and noon?’ and call it a day. But you want more. You want him. At the very least, you don’t want a text that could end the conversation with a response of ‘Yes.’ Which sends you straight to the group chat.

you: okay how’s this? ‘thanks so much for helping the murrays! when can we meet and talk about my elective?’ denny: i think that’s good!! yoyo: oh my god that’s terrible trin: omegas are fucking useless trin: you should send something slutty you: no i definitely shouldnt you: what should i say instead?? trin: SEND SOMETHING SLUTTY trin: SEND A SLICK PIC you: shut up and let the grownups talk trinity trin: HES YOUR MATE YOU SHOULD WANT HIM TO WANT TO FUCK YOU you: not like literally right now!!! trin: WHY NOT you: BECAUSE yoyo: time’s ticking if you want that sharcock babe you: not you too denny: yeah you guys don’t get it denny: this is about forever not just sex you: that’s what im saying trin: you want to have sex forever tho so whats not clicking yoyo: exactly trin: exactly denny: its always 2 dumb bitches telling each other “exactlyyy” you: okay im done with you guys now byeee goodnight trin: nonono come on cherry trin: just send him anything. he’s your mate trin: the conversation will happen naturally bc hes YOURS thats the whole point you: you really think so? trin: yeah i do yoyo: agreed yoyo: don’t put too much pressure on it denny: just be your nice pretty self :)) you: you’re so cute den ily denny: ໒(＾ᴥ＾)७ you: ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ denny: ૮₍´｡ᵔ ꈊ ᵔ｡`₎ა you: ₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ ♥₍ᐢ ̥  ̞  ̥ᐢ₎ trin: stop ill literally pop a cuteness boner trin: lmo (love my omegas) you: im taken yoyo: not if you don’t send something slutty asap you: GOODNIGHT

You toss your phone across your bedroom and pad around your apartment for a while, frustrated and on edge. The first symptom of your placebo pills: Your nesting urge itches underneath your skin, so you can’t quite get comfortable, no matter which part of the apartment you curl up in. As stereotypical as it may be, one of the only things that lessens the urge (when you can’t hoard soft things or get snuggled so hard you’re basically being squished to death) is baking and cooking.

So, just like the night before, you pour yourself a nice heavy glass of wine, change into some slinky pajamas, and head to the kitchen. And you shoot off the first thing you think of to Park, ignoring the advice of your stupid friends in favor of your gut.

you: hi dr. park! i just wanted to say thank you for being so nice today and see when we can get together to talk about the elective you: ps do you like brownies or cookies better you: pps if it’s cookies then what kind is your favorite dr. park: Hi, cherry. It’s easy to be nice to you. I’ll text you my Google calendar and you can pick a time that works for you. dr. park: P.S. I love all baked goods, but I prefer brownies. dr. park: P.P.S. If I were to choose a cookie, it would be classic chocolate chip. Soft, not crispy. you: regarding brownies, fudgy or cakey? dr. park: Fudgy. Middle piece. you: me too!! dr. park: Shit. Who’s going to eat our edge pieces? you: ill bring them to pitt vultures

Nursing a soft smile alongside the wine, you take out the perfect recipe and get to work, turning up some saucy music loud enough to annoy the neighbors you can’t stand. Swaying around and letting yourself feel all the fluttery things you usually can’t on your suppressants, you beat together the eggs and sugar and flour and cocoa, chop up chunks from real gourmet chocolate bars, and butter your favorite pans to accommodate the ridiculous triple batch. You need to drown in sugar and fat to feel normal again.

With the alcohol loosening up your limbs and your hormones loosening up everything else, you snap a quick selfie and send it to Park before you can overthink it alongside ‘nesting like crazy right now and ended up making triple what i thought. ill make sure to save some for you, okay?’ And then you text it to your group chat to satisfy them.

denny: you sent that to park??????? you: do you think it’s too much? trin: OH MY GOD trin: YOU FUCKING WHORE trin: YES!!! YES!!!!! I LOOOOVE THISSSS!!!!! denny: not too much! im just surprised <33 denny: you look super cute yoyo: i’d knot on the spot if an omega sent me that yoyo: licking batter off your fingers?? tiny little silk pjs?? jesus fucking christ cherry youre gonna kill the poor man trin: careful garcia ill get jealous trin: im so proud of you slut denny: are you gonna bring some to work?? trin: NOT THE POINT HUCKLEBERRY trin: but yeah actually you: of course i will <3 love you guys!!

While the brownies are baking, you watch your phone like it’s a nail-biter sport, anxiously checking it every couple of seconds while you half-assedly clean up the kitchen. Brendon’s three dots appear and reappear again and again, making your nudge up and down the screen. You’re stuck staring at your picture, judging your own flirtatious expression and skimpy outfit. It’s the equivalent of him sending you a sweaty gym pic, you figure, not anything particularly scandalous or outright sexy. Although your nipples are definitely perkily poking against the thin slinky fabric of your camisole. As well as some sideboob. And your shorts are pretty damn short, to be fair, and the camisole rises a bit at the bottom to expose an inch of the swell of your belly. Which you think is cute, sure, but it’s certainly not professional.

Your phone vibrates just when you’re about to spiral.

dr. park: Call me. dr. park: Now.

He gave you a moment to breathe again- letting you melt back into the mattress or sag against his body if you were on top, mumbling praise into you lips while his large hands massaged the sore parts that he knew would ache later. Brendon would ask if you wanted to shower- if not then he’d get a warm rag to clean you up gently before pulling you to lay on his chest or even completely on top of him. Large hand soothing down your back- warm and heavy- grounding you back to reality.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Brendon loves his hands. Large, strong, the precision he needs to carry out delicate nerve transfers while having the strength he needs to do a double hip replacement surgery on grandma. He loves his hands- soft and delicate precision he needs to gently coax an orgasm from you with slow strokes of his thick fingers inside your pussy- lazy circles around your clit while he muffles your moans with his lips against yours. Strong when he needs to force your thighs open because you’re trying to shut him out- four orgasms deep and so sore and raw but your pussy looks so pretty he wants to give you another. Gentle when he holds your hand- large and heavy to keep you grounded when he fucks you, sliding deeper with a sloppy tongue in your mouth and slurred praise. Strong when he delivers devastating slaps to your ass or, god forbid, your puffy cunt- handing out some punishment he warned you about.

His favorite on you? God he loves your eyes. The color isn’t basic to him- there’s flecks and changes depending on the light. Even when you’re excited he swears the get brighter and bigger- looking up at him with love and a devotion he’s never felt before. He loves when you have some tears- fat drops collecting in the corners of your eyes when he bullies his cock deep into your cunt over and over again. Big eyes shiny and wet- looking up at him with a soft “please Brendon- baby, I can’t-” when he asks if you’ll give him one more orgasm. The way your eyes get half lidded with lust when you ride him- trying to keep them open to look at him but he feels so fucking good you start to cry again and- “look at me baby, lemme see those pretty eyes, yeah?”

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He actually tastes pretty good- all things considered. His diet is better than most guys- lots of protein and fiber, very little carbs and so much water. He works out- takes care of his body and in turn that means his cum isn’t as bitter or disgusting as most guys. You actually look forward to him cumming on your tongue- pulling away at the last moment to open your mouth and jerk him fast so those hot spurts drip onto your tongue and you can show him. Mouth open, tongue flat and out- smiling and nodding when he asks- “taste good baby- yeah?”

It’s so good- that Brendon likes to taste himself on you. Like to swirl his tongue around yours after he finishes on your tongue- not letting you swallow until he explores your mouth. Or after he fills your needy pussy up with his spend- immediately pulling out to crawl down your body and shove his tongue into your cunt so he can taste how sweet you are mixed with him.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He loves eating your pussy after you work out. Or after a long day? God Brendon loves burying his face between your thighs- inhaling your scent and moaning at how your natural smell floods his senses. He’ll beg if he has to- but usually he tries to coax you into joining him in the shower after going to the gym. Not knowing he has an ulterior motive because before you even get a second to wash the sweat and day from your pussy he’s on his knees in front of you- nose at your mound and tongue poking your clit with a moan as he deeply inhales you. “Wait! B-Brendon lemme- n-no wait,” stuttering but he’s too fast- hand throwing your leg over his shoulder and tongue diving in to work you open for him.

And if somehow he’s not able to taste you after the gym? He’s been known to grab your panties and wait until you’re asleep or busy so he can inhale you and fuck his fist.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Brendon is very experienced- Park the Shark fucks. That became painfully aware the first time you found yourself underneath him- expecting him to be some ortho jock asshole who uses you like a fleshlight but you were so fucking wrong. And happy to be wrong- because he wasn’t selfish like you expected.

He took his time with you, spent a good hour at least on just kissing you alone- sat in his lap while you buried your hands in his surprisingly soft hair and tangled your tongues together. Only pulling away to breathe before he drags your lips back to his with a strong grip on your jaw- moaning when you feel him grind up into you. Takes his time stripping you- like he’s peeling wrapping paper off the best gift he’s ever been given before he licks and kisses at the skin of yours that he’s exposed. Spends another half an hour with his face buried between your thighs- licking and exploring you to make sure you’re thoroughly wet and ready for him. Yeah- Brendon fucks.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Park is a big man, strong- definitely in his prime. He likes fucking you against the wall sometimes. When you’re showering together or against the giant glass windows in his expensive apartment and you’ve spent more time playing with his cock than actually bathing? Strong hands gripping your ass- legs thrown over his elbows to force you open for him while your back is flush against the icy tiles- can’t do anything but let him use his grip to force you up and down on him cock over and over again.

He’s also a fan of reverse cowgirl- but he likes to sit up while you ride him. He likes to suck on your neck and bite your shoulders- thick fingers circling your clit- groaning in your ear when you go too fast and he slips out of your leaking cunt. “You don’t want it there do you? Want my cock here?” Guiding his tip a little farther back to where you’re tighter- ass spread open for him and whimpering like a whore when he shoves the head of his cock into your ass. You’re stuffed- Brendon’s cock sinking into your hole while three thick and long fingers stretch your pussy open and sound so obscenely loud from how wet you were.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Honestly it depends- Park can mostly be a bit serious when it comes down to sex. When you first started landing in his bed it was a serious event- the concentration on his face was apparent because he wanted this to be good for you.

But after you’ve been dating? Brendon is actually a goofy idiot- only around you though. Only in the comfort of your arms can he strip that Shark personality off and be yours. Where he will laugh during sex because you both just came from a date night- he’s fucking happy and comfortable and you make eye contact with him and you both break into a fit of giggles from how unserious it was for a second. When you’re desperate to feel him and the second he gets home from work you’re on him- stripping him so fast and needy that you accidentally scratch him and he laughs because of how much you want him. When you both wake up at 3 am and decide to make out because there’s nothing to hinder you in that moment- smiling and laughing when you both roll each other all over the bed without a care in the world.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s slicked back- no jk he only slicks his hair back for surgery. It’s easier to maintain. But as for below the belt? It’s trimmed. Neat and tidy- sometimes he’s exhausted and will let it go for a bit. Soft and fluffy curls that are similar to the hair on his head.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Park is a serious man- and with all that seriousness comes a deep longing for intimacy. Even when you first started fucking- it was intimate and consuming. Your senses were on overdrive from how Brendon felt around you- needing this to be good and wanting you to feel just how much wanted this. Lights off- or definitely has some low/soft light setting in his lavish apartment to just barely illuminate your bodies. Eyes half lidded and nearly in a daze from how good he fucking feels around you- warm body covering yours and soft lips taking your breath away.

And after you’re exclusive? God there’s candles- soft scents that help relax your mind and just let you give into the pleasures of him. There’s whispered love and mumbled out confessions of earnest desire and devotion- “feel s’good baby, so- s’fucking good- love you- I love you so much,” because he’s not good with words but he can ramble and stutter out his love when he’s fucking you a lot easier.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Yeah- he does. Sometimes stress and pent up frustration gets the better of him and he can’t take it out by hammering rods into someone’s leg so he’ll go into the showers at the hospital- wrap a heavy hand around his cock and stroke himself fast. Biting his fist to stop himself from groaning too loud- hearing the little whimper he let out echo and bounce around the cold shower tiles. He doesn’t like taking his stress out on you so- yeah he jerks off.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Bondage (Giving): Tying you up- wrist restraints to keep you stuck to the bed or leg restraints to keep those pretty legs open so he can focus on licking your pussy or fucking you stupid. The feeling that you have complete trust in him- relinquishing control and giving it to Brendon so he can use your body for his own selfish desires. He likes being needed by you- hearing you cry his name feeds some sick part of his ego to know that it’s him that has you like this.

Bondage (Receiving): Don’t be fooled- Brendon will hand you the reins from time to time. When he’s had a long week with making decisions and sometimes saving a life with his own bare hands he just needs a fucking moment to let it go. He loves and trusts you- wants to relax and let you take over so- yeah, he lets you tie him up. He lets you secure his wrists so he doesn’t get the urge to grab your body and move you how he wants. He lays on the bed and lets you ride him or suck his dick the way you think he needs- mind fully going free and empty because you feel so fucking good and are praising him- “Fuck you’re so big- too big baby- feels so fucking good I’m already gonna cum.”

Biting: Okay okay- yes part of his nickname is because he likes to bite. Brendon Park the Shark likes to mark your body up- leaving indents and teeth marks all over the softness of your skin also feeds his ego. No one else makes you feel this good- no one else gets to bite your heaving chest while you ride them. No one else gets to leave a mark in your shoulder- smirking when he presses on accident the next day to feel you shudder and tense. No one else leaves mark on the inside of your thighs- pressing into them on purpose the next day and even taking a picture.

Choking: Again- it’s about trust. Loving him so much that you nod with excitement when his heavy hand slides up from its place between your legs- feeling him cup your breast and pinch at your nipples before continuing up until you feel his thumb and fingers dig into the sides of your throat with an experimental squeeze. Feeling your walls tighten around his cock when he does so- begging him for it. Your vision going a little fuzzy sometimes when he squeezes his hand around your throat while diving deeper into your cunt- pussy leaking all over him until you cum from the lightheadedness. And sometimes? He likes when you do the same to him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere as long as you’re the other party in the situation- that being said, Brendon has a particular fondness for your bed. It’s nice- it smells like you, your sheets are soft and in a light color that he would never get for himself but they immediately feel like home to him. You thought he’d prefer his bed with those black silky sheets and orthopedic comfort that helps his old sports injuries but now- he prefers your space. You bring color into his life. There’s a softness- a light about your apartment that he likes. Your bed is smaller- he’s always pressed up against you in some way and it makes him smile when he feels you cuddle closer into him. He likes the way you look in the morning when you ride him- your sheets bunched around your hips and the sunlight catching the way your face is scrunched up in pleasure while you chase your orgasm.

He’s also a sucker for some good car sex too- crammed together in his tiny sports car where there’s barely any room to move about so you’re reduced to grinding against each other for pleasure. Unable to bounce in his lap like you want because there’s no overhead space so you’re writhing in his lap like a whore- rolling your hips back and forth where his abs can rub against your clit and help you cum on him. Steering wheel digging in your lower back or you’re bent in half with your knees grazing your ears because it’s the only way you’ll fit in the back seat. And it’s so fucking good.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

After a good workout or successful surgery? All that adrenaline pumping through Park’s veins? Goes straight to his cock. Texting you to be ready when he gets home- not even caring to elaborate because even he doesn’t know what he’s about to do. Nearly stumbling through the door to try and find you- praying you’re on the couch so he doesn’t have to walk far and try and find you. Groaning in almost pain when he sees you wearing nothing but he’s shirt and legs already open for him- asking what’s gotten into him when he drags you into his lap and all but tears the shirt off your body. “Do I need an excuse for wanting to fuck my girlfriend?” Already pushing through your walls- twin moans echoing through the apartment when you feel him inside you, strong hands gripping your hips and using that leverage to help him fuck you until he flips you over and hammers you into the couch.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He won’t share- no threesomes. Sex is intimate to Brendon- something that should only be shared between you and him and the idea of someone else touching you makes him sick.

He hates the fake pornstar moaning- has broken up with girls for it because they thought he liked that and all it did was irritate him. He wants your genuine love and sounds- if you’re not into it don’t fake it. Tell him and he’ll adjust.

He’s not really into sexting or phone sex- he can visualize it just fine but he wants it tangibly and to hear you without the crackle of the shitty cell reception sometimes. He wants to hold you and feel you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Park loves when you suck him off- he loves to see you get on your knees for him the second he gets home. Needy and shoving him against the front door before reaching in his pant to pull out his half hard cock- soft lips wrapping around the head of him to tease and lick the precum he’s leaked because you texted a little sneak peek of what’s to come when he gets home. Keys forgotten- thrown to the floor so he can empty his hands and grab at your hair to ground himself before he cums down your throat in mere seconds. “Miss me baby?” choked off moan- cumming when your hand reaches up to cradle his balls and tug just a little with a smirk because you feel him immediately tense and groan when he spills down your throat.

Park loves to eat your pussy. It’s another stress reliever for him- letting himself get lost in your taste and the pretty sounds you make. Closing his eyes and just letting his senses be overtaken by you- the whimpers and moans you cry out when he presses his tongue inside your pussy. The sweet tangy taste of your juices- flooding his tongue with every orgasm you give him, or that he gives you really. Loves making you clench and cry around his tongue- licking up into you and letting his tongue rub along that soft spot that has you pulling his hair and weakly crying his name. He doesn’t even use his hands on your pussy- Brendon’s hands stay rooted on your hips or thighs to keep you open, his mouth doing all the work.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Both- and yes that’s a cop out but it truly depends on his mood and how his day had been. Is he tired after doing his third knee replacement? Then he’s slow- soft and gentle when he rocks into you earnestly, giant body thrown on top of yours- keeping you underneath him with just the weight of him and the slow strokes he fucks into you.

Is he on call? And his phone can ring at any second to drag him back to the hospital for an MVC where the kid’s spine is in multiple pieces? He’s fast- fucking you hard and rough because he’ll be damned if he’s called away from your sweet pussy before he gets to feel you cum around his aching cock. Hasn’t fucked you in days because of his schedule- you’re asleep by the time he gets home and in the morning he needs to run out the door before he’s late so he doesn’t have time for anything more than a kiss.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’ll do them- they’re just not his preferred method of making you cum. He likes to take his time breaking you apart but dammit if you don’t turn him on sometimes- wearing some tight dress at some stupid fucking event where he’s wearing a bow tie and smiling with a little “thank you,” because he won an award and- god you just look good enough to fucking eat.

Brendon’s quickies are usually about getting you off- kneeling in front of you in so tucked away corner that anyone can walk in on and see you both but you don’t fucking care. His tongue is hot and stiff and licking the entire expanse of your pussy- your hands messing up the slicked back hair that you hate because you like the soft curls he has.

Or when you’re bent over in those leggings that he swears he can see the outline of your cunt in- he gets the urge and just needs to have you now. Large hand over your mouth to keep you silent while the other works quick circles over your clit like the pace he fucks into you from behind- hands scratching at the tree in front of you for stability because you think you’re about to fall from the force of him behind you. Hiking seemed like a good idea at the time but who knew nature turned him on so much.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Even though he sees what risk can do to people on a daily basis- Park likes a little risk in his life. He’s a little more kinky than you expected and when you bring up the subject of a new toy or something to try in the bedroom he’s always game. Food? He’ll lick chocolate off your body or let you suck whip cream off his dick. Outdoors? He’ll find the safest route away from the hiking trail and check for snakes or spiders before he bends you over a good looking rock. Semi-public? Just give him a look and he’s grabbing your hand and shoving you on your knees to feed his cock into your open mouth with a smirk and a- “just couldn’t fucking wait until we get home huh?” lightly slapping your cheek before grabbing your hair to set a pace that he likes.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Brendon was built for endurance- he was built to last out opponents on the opposite team and to be strong and effective. One hit and they’re out. Of course that means he can last a long time in bed as well- three to four rounds that last about 10 to 15 minutes each is his usual. Maybe a few minutes between rounds to catch his breath or stretch out an impending cramp because he’s not in his 20’s anymore and can’t just go without taking a beating for it- but Park can go.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Brendon is a bit of a kinky asshole- you find out the hard way after you’re both decided to be exclusively together. Toys? Yeah- he has them. Uses them most of the time- his favorite is a spreader bar, keeps your legs wide open for him to fuck you after he’s had a long day. Has wrist restraints that easily lock onto his headboard to keep you still underneath him when he licks you clean. A few plugs that he likes to try out on you- making you wear it throughout the day and if you’re spending the day at home he’ll periodically ask you to show him. He likes to ties you up to his bed when you’re being a brat- knelt over you while he uses a fleshlight on himself and makes you watch and cry for him. Yeah- dude has toys.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Not at first. At first he’s not nearly as much of a shit as he could be- he doesn’t keep you stuffed with his cock while he does nothing but rub your clit slow and with barely any pressure until you’re crying frustrated tears. He doesn’t tie you to his bed while he grabs your one loose hand and uses it to jerk himself off into your tits. He doesn’t have your legs held locked in one position with the spreader bar while he uses your wet pussy lips to give him some friction- cumming on your swollen cunt with a few slaps until you’re begging him to fuck you.

Nah- not at first. At first he’s sweet and only teases with a little smile- asking if you want him. It’s not teasing- it was just foreplay. You hadn’t begun to understand the level of Brendon’s teasing yet.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The first few times you fucked he wasn’t silent- but he just wasn’t very vocal either. Soft little grunts in your ear and the occasional mumble of “fuck,” under his breath but that was about it. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy himself it’s just that he’s been known to lose himself in the feeling of someone- will groan and growl even. One partner even covered his mouth while they fucked so- he just learned to control it better.

“Do you- are you having a good time?” you finally asked him once- noticing the way he’d bite his lip and bury his face in your neck when he felt you clench around him. Pushing on his chest because you’re having an amazing time but if he wasn’t- “yeah I just- didn’t wanna ruin the mood,” by moaning? Oh- yeah that didn’t work for you. No you wanted to hear him- you needed him to groan and growl in your ear while he fucked you so you made it your mission to get those sounds out of him.

And now? Park doesn’t shut the fuck up. Heavy breathing- nasty words in your ear while he fills you up over and over again- “feel that baby? You like that? Yeah- yeah I know you do. Get s’fuckin tight when I do that- more?” Biting your jaw- licking your neck and groaning in your ear like it’s his fucking job. Laughing even- sometimes he laughs while you fuck because you can’t respond to him other than a little whimper and a soft- “Brendon, baby please.”

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Brendon didn’t get his “Park the Shark” nickname because of sports- or because of the way he circles a room and eyes everyone like they’re a threat. No he earned the nickname in college- because he was the only one who’d eat pussy even if the girl is on her period. What’s a little blood gonna do? Stop him? Nah.

And you learned quickly that when Brendon wants you- he wants you no matter what. “W-wait Brendon! No I’m-” eyes half lidded- in a daze when he looks up from his spot on the floor, knelt down where you sat on the couch with his fingers digging into your waistband to try and tug your underwear down. “What? Do you not want-” I mean if you don’t want him to then obviously he’ll stop but- “no it’s not that I’m- um, I’m on my period,” god you were embarrassed, face hot and trying to avoid eye contact but- “okay?” well- orgasms did help cramping, headaches, sore muscles- so you’ve heard anyway.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Look at him- he’s not a small man and neither is his dick. Big enough to make you gasp the first time you saw it- hand on his chest with a little “woah- wait a minute,” because there was no way it would fit. He made it fit.

8.5 inches, uncut and just a little darker than the rest of his skin- thicker in the middle. The tip gives you a false sense of hope that he’s not that big but after the first inch? Thicker- wider and stretches you just on the side of almost painful, enough to feel for the next few days at least. Heavy- too heavy to stand up when he’s hard.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Did you know that men who work out a lot have increased testosterone- and increased testosterone means their sex drive is stronger? Wilder? Yeah- you didn’t know that. Park’s sex drive is high. You honestly can’t keep up sometimes- barely able to get through the door and there’s a giant man in your space, picking you up over his shoulder to take you to his big, orthopedic bed and spread you open for him.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Honestly? Near immediately. He works long and odd hours some weeks- being on call or just back to back surgeries like when there’s multiple MVCs or when the senior citizen center has a party and the next day everyone’s hip is out. The man is tired and after he exerts his energy in you? After he gets his dose of intimacy with you that’s he’s been missing out on? And made sure that you’re hydrated, fucked properly, and cleaned up? Man is out. If he’s not on call then that phone is on DND and you’re trapped underneath him for a few hours.

➻ taglist (UPDATED! click to join!):

Parker couldn’t have been more right. Since dating Jack and now dating him, it was always ‘ours’. You two were the kind of couple to always try the others food and share food and drinks. It was normal for the two of you to share a drink or even a meal.

“She’s swallowed my sperm and I’ve ate her out, there is no problem sharing drinks.” Abbot had said, completely wasted. He was trying to explain to Robby why he didn’t mind sharing food or drinks. Robby who was criticizing him about just looked horrified.

“I think we should prank him.” Parker said with a smirk, “Peepaw deserves it. Did I tell you he took the last fucking peanut butter granola bar from our stash?”

“Of course he did.” You said, looking over to see Abbot flexing next to Shen, “Why am I not surprised?”

“Yo Abbot and Lena! We are ordering coffee, you guys want in?” Parker said, looking down at her phone.

“Coffee?” Shen asked, appearing right beside the two of you.

You and Parker let out a nervous laugh, confused on how he got over here so quickly.

“Yea coffee.” You said and Abbot came over, putting his hands on the back of your chair.

“Sure, I’ll pay for it too.” He mumbled, moving his hands down to massage your shoulders.

“Thank you.” You mouth leaning back to look up at him.

Shen and Parker made gagging noises and Abbot looked down at you with a smirk.

“Never mind, I’m only paying for hers.” Abbot said, squeezing your shoulders.

“What? No fair!” Shen said, pouting. “Come on! We’re gym bros!”

“And she’s my girlfriend.” Abbot said, “Respect your elders.”

“Yea right peepaw.” Ellis mumbled and Abbot shot her a look.

“Alright. Write down what you guys want, I’ll order it.” Abbot said and the list for coffee orders began.

———————————————————————————

About 30 minutes later, the coffee order showed up. Abbot had met the delivery guy in the ambulance bay and walked in through the ambulance bay doors, juggling the carriers.

“Alright coffee’s are here.” Abbot said, setting down carriers. “They should be named.”

The team soon grabbed their coffees and you plucked yours from the carrier. Parker gave you a look and you knew your plan was in action. You knew Abbot had gotten a new drink to try so you just waited for him to finally put his straw in.

Just like that, Abbot put his straw in and took a sip. “See, I like this. You can taste the hazelnut.” He explained, “Here baby girl, take a sip.”

He offered you his drink and you took it from him. It was go time.

“Thanks babe.” You said with a smile, grabbing a tissue. You wiped off his straw and took a sip.

The look on his face was priceless. He went from, confused to shocked and then angry.

“What the fuck?” He asked, getting in your space to drink from the cup. After he sipped, he nudged it back toward you and you wiped it off again.

“What?” You asked innocently, trying his drink again, “It’s really good.”

He glared at you, “Nah you don’t do that. Why are you suddenly having a problem with my drink?” He asked, taking another sip. He then grabbed your jaw and tried to get you to take another drink, “I don’t have fucking cooties, you can take a drink after me.”

You quickly wiped it off again and took a sip, “It’s really good.”

“I came in you raw and spit in your mouth literally an hour before our shift started and you’re pulling this shit.” Abbot snapped and grabbed your drink. He licked all over your straw and took a sip of your drink.

You set down his drink and go to wipe your straw. You hadn’t noticed he didn’t swallow.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your mouth open. He spit your iced coffee in your mouth.

“Good girl, now swallow.” He said, still holding your jaw. You locked eyes with him and swallowed. He wiped the iced coffee remnants off your mouth and walked away, sanitizing his hands. “Don’t pull that shit again.” He warned.

“Did he just?” Parker asked. Her and Shen watched the entire scene play out in front of them. Shen had already sipped down his iced coffee and was just staring in surprise.

“Yea um.. he did.” You said, shocked.

You weren’t expecting that reaction from the prank.

You wanted to argue but you were tired, and he was more tired, you knew that. He’d been pulling doubles at Pittsburgh Trauma all week and tonight he’d come home and sat on the edge of the bed for a full minute just staring at the floor before he could take his shoes off, and he’d forgotten, for the first time maybe ever, to kiss your forehead and ask how your day was.

He always did that. Every single time he came home, shoes barely off, lips to your forehead, he would ask how your day went. Yet tonight he’d just sat there and then laid down and you hadn’t said anything about it because he looked so tired it actually worried you a little.

So you let the phone thing go. Told yourself you’d wait until he was out and take it back.

That was two hours ago.

Now it’s 1:52am and Jack is asleep beside you and you’ve been lying in bed with your eyes closed trying to will yourself under and it’s just not happening. Your brain won’t stop. It keeps pulling you back to where you left off.

This girl had posted a video, sitting in her car, going through every single reason she broke up with her boyfriend, there were fourteen reasons total, completely calm about it — and you’d been deep in the comments for almost an hour before Jack took your phone. You’d only gotten through six. Reason six was that he never once asked how her day was, not in eight months, and the comment section was absolutely feral about it and you had things to say.

You sit up. Jack doesn’t move.

You lean over him slowly, watching his face. Still out. His pillow is right there, all you have to do is slide your hand under the edge, you’d be so quiet—

“Really.”

His eyes are open, barely, looking up at you while you’re frozen there with your hand outstretched.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

“Uh huh.” He reaches under the pillow and pulls your phone out, holds it above both of you. Not giving it to you. “What were you watching.”

“Okay so,” you start, because there’s no saving this. “There’s this girl on TikTok. She made a video listing every reason she broke up with her ex. Fourteen reasons. You took my phone before I could finish.”

He looks at the ceiling for a second. “How many did you get through.”

“Six.”

He puts the phone on his nightstand and pulls you back down against him, arm firm around your waist, and you’re facing away from him now and there’s genuinely nowhere to go.

“Jack I’m not even—”

“Yes you are.”

“I’m really not, my brain is just—”

“The other eight will be there in the morning,” he says, and his voice has just enough of that edge to it now, not mean, just done, that you close your mouth. He exhales slowly. His hand settles on your side. “Close your eyes.”

You close your eyes.

Your brain immediately starts trying to figure out what reason seven might be. Then it wanders back to a comment you were going to reply to, the one where someone was completely wrong about reason four and you had a whole response drafted in your head.

“Still awake,” he says, quieter now.

“I know, I just- it doesn’t switch off, I’m not doing it on purpose—”

“I know,” he says, and he says it so simply, no frustration in it, that you go still. His arm tightens around you just slightly and you feel him press his lips to the back of your head, half-asleep, barely there.

You’re quiet for a while.

Long enough that you think he’s gone again when you say, quietly, “Reason four was that he never remembered anything she told him. Like she’d say something and a week later it was like the conversation never happened.”

Jack hums.

“That’s a really bad one.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You’re quiet again. And then, because it’s almost 2am and something about the dark makes you say things you wouldn’t otherwise. “You forgot to ask how my day was when you got home tonight.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

“You always do,” you say. “You just- you were so tired, you forgot.”

He shifts behind you. Then, low and a little rough still with sleep: “How was your day.”

And God, it’s stupid, it shouldn’t do anything to you, but your chest goes warm and soft in a way you weren’t prepared for. You think about the girl in her car. Reason six. Eight months and not once.

“Good,” you say, quietly. “I went down a rabbit hole about a woman who thinks her houseplant can tell when her ex is about to call. And then I found the breakup video.”

“So productive,” he says.

“Very,” you say. “Very productive.”

You can feel him smile against your hair, and then he’s out again, breathing slow and even, and the room is dark and quiet and your phone is completely unreachable on his nightstand and you were so sure you couldn’t sleep ten minutes ago.

You’re gone before you get to reason seven.

In the morning your phone is on your nightstand at 4%, plugged into his charger, the wrong charger, the slow one. You’ve explained this to him more than once. He keeps doing it anyway.

You watch the rest of the video on the couch. The girl is doing great. She got a cat. Reason eleven was that he was mean to animals, and you immediately flip your phone around to show Jack.

He reads it. Nods once. “Good,” he says, like he’s closing a case, and goes back to his coffee.

You sit there thinking you are so embarrassingly down bad for this man, and then he looks over at you and goes “What” and you say “Nothing” and look back at your phone.

Reason seven, for the record, was that he made her feel invisible.

Jack has never once made you feel invisible.

If there was one thing the Pitt crew loved more than coffee, it was your videos of pranking Jack.

Every couple of days, you somehow found a new trend to try, and without fail, he fell for it. It had gotten to the point where med students, residents, and even attendings had started messaging you, thanking you for the laughs and for lightening the mood during brutal shifts.

1. I found Robby on Tinder.

You were sitting on the couch with Jack, your legs draped across his lap as he watched something on the television. It was one of those rare evenings where he was actually off, and all either of you wanted to do was relax.

But earlier that morning, you had seen a TikTok you couldn’t get out of your head. And now felt like the perfect time to try it.

You suddenly stiffened, a sharp gasp leaving you as you stared at your phone.

Jack’s hand paused against your leg immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You didn't answer right away, just kept staring at your phone, eyes wide like you were trying to process something unbelievable.

“Jack…” you said slowly, “I just found Robby on Tinder.”

Silence.

“...What?”

You nodded, still looking at your phone like the proof was right there, but it was actually a video of Jack's reaction and the genuine shock splashed across his face. “It was him. His name and a photo of him.”

Jack shifted beneath you, sitting up more without even realizing it, his attention fully on you now.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No way.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

“I’m serious—”

“Holy shit,” he cut in, staring at you now. “Robby is on Tinder?”

You nodded again, like you were still trying to process it yourself.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, still looking completely thrown. “I can't believe he didn't tell me.”

You turned your face slightly, hiding the smile threatening to give you away.

“Maybe he just didn't want anyone to know yet,” you added carefully.

Jack exhaled, still staring ahead. “Yeah, but still Robby? On Tinder? I’m shocked he knows what that even is.”

A pause.

His hand rested on your leg again, but his mind was clearly elsewhere now. You pressed your lips together, trying to keep the laugh in.

Another second and then–

“...Wait.”

Jack slowly turned his head toward you, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“…Why were you on Tinder?”

That was it. You broke. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and then you were fully laughing, dropping your phone and leaning into his side.

“It’s a prank,” you admitted. “It's a TikTok trend.”

Jack just stared at you. “Of course it is.”

“You were so shocked!” you laughed.

“Because that’s shocking,” he shot back, though a smile was finally breaking through. “Robby? Tinder? Come on.”

Jack shot you a mock-offended look as he pulled you closer. “I trusted you.”

That only made you laugh harder.

Jack shook his head, leaning back into the couch.

“Next time,” he muttered, “don’t make it so believable.”

You smiled.

“No promises.”

2. Current Boyfriend

For once, Jack already knew you were recording.

You were both sitting in his truck, parked outside a drive-thru, a couple of milkshakes sitting in the cupholder between you. The engine was still running, soft music playing in the background as he rested one hand on the wheel.

You adjusted your phone, propping it up in the dash.

“You ready?” You asked, and Jack nodded before leaning in and hitting the record.

“Okay,” you said, a little too cheerfully. “Today we're trying a new milkshake flavour—”

Jack huffed out a little laugh beside you. “We’re reviewing things now?”

You ignored him.

“I’m here with my current boyfriend,” you added casually. 

There was a beat of silence.

Jack slowly turned his head.

“You're what?”

You kept your eyes on the camera as if nothing had happened, reaching for your drink. “My current boyfriend.”

Jack blinked, completely thrown. “Current?”

“Yup.” You took a sip of your milkshake, then held it out for him. “You gonna try it?”

He didn't move right away, just stared at you.

“...Current,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. He took his drink, still watching you.

You hummed, still focused on the “review.” “Mm, that's really good.”

A pause.

“...What do you mean, current?” he asked.

You shrugged lightly. “As in, like… right now.”

Jack let out a short breath, shaking his head.

That was it, you cracked, nearly choking on your milkshake.

His eyes narrowed immediately. “…What are you doing?”

“It’s a prank,” you admitted, laughing. “The ‘current boyfriend’ thing—”

Jack leaned back with a sigh, but there was a smile there now.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You were so confused!”

“Because you said it like I’m temporary,” he shot back, finally taking a sip of his drink.

You grinned.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath,

“…Whatever, current girlfriend.”

3. You Could of Been Nicer to Me

It was late by the time you both finally made it to bed.

The day had worn you down in that familiar way, leaving everything slow and heavy as you settled under the covers. The lights were off, the room was dim, and the only sound that was heard was the hum of the city life outside.

Jack lay on his side of the bed, facing away, one arm tucked under his pillow.

You stared at his back for a moment, lips twitching.

“You could’ve been nicer to me today.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack shifted, flipping over to face you, brows pulling together slightly in confusion.

“Was I mean to you today?”

You kept your expression completely neutral, blinking at him innocently. “I just think… You could’ve been nicer.”

Jack frowned, clearly running through the day

“I made you your favourite coffee this morning,” he started.

You hummed, like you were considering his point.

“I let you pick what we watched when we ate.”

Another small hum.

“I brought you lunch.”

You nodded slightly, still not giving him anything.

Jack narrowed his eyes a little. “And I didn't complain when you watched your videos at full volume.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile.

 “Still.” You shrugged lightly. “Could’ve been nicer.”

Jack stared at you for a second longer, then shook his head, a quiet huff of disbelief leaving him.

“You’re something else,” he muttered.

But despite that, his arm slid around your waist, tugging you closer anyway.

You went easily, settling against his chest, warmth immediately replacing the small distance from before.

His hand rested on your back, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side.

“You really couldn’t just let me go to sleep in peace, huh?” he added under his breath.

You smiled up at him, just a little too pleased with yourself.

“Not a chance.”

Jack huffed softly, but there was no real annoyance left in it. He leaned down, pressing a slow, familiar kiss to your lips, nothing rushed, just warm and steady.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours. This time, neither of you said anything.

And not long after, wrapped up together, you both drifted off to sleep.

4. Forgotten Fake Date

For once, Jack had thought he was going to get a quiet night.

He dropped his keys into the dish by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and the faint noise somewhere in the apartment settled around him. It was getting late, and all he wanted was a shower and maybe a beer.

“Hello?” he called out, glancing around.

No answer.

His brows pulled together slightly. You definitely should’ve been home by now.

He stepped further inside, scanning the living room, but it was empty. Same when he checked the kitchen.

“Honey?”

Still no reply.

Thoughts started running through Jack's head. It wasn’t normal for you to be home after him, and by now, he knew you would always send a message to let him know.

He double-checked his phone, but nothing was there.

Were you safe? Did you become ill suddenly?

Then he heard something.

It was a movement coming from your guys' bedroom.

Jack walks down the hall a little slower now, with no real panic, pushing the door open and stopping.

There you were, standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, curling your hair.

You were all dressed up.

Not just casually ready but a full showtime ready. Hair was getting done, outfit put together.

Jack blinked.

“What are you doing?”

You glanced through the mirror, calm as ever. “Getting ready.”

“For what?”

You turned, like the answer was obvious. “Our date?”

Jack froze. “Our what?”

You frowned. “The date you planned?”

That was it.

His entire posture changed.

“Wait, what?” he said quickly, stepping fully into the room now. “Did I plan something?”

You just looked at him.

“Did I make reservations?” he muttered, already pulling his phone out. “No, I would've written it down–”

“You did it on the calendar. It says date night.” You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile as you curled another piece of your hair.

“Babe, I’m sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair, stress creeping in fast now. “I don’t know, I forgot, just give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll figure something out for us.”

That was enough.

You broke, a laugh escaping as you leaned against the counter for supper.

Jack stopped mid-ramble.

“What..?”

“It’s a prank,” you managed between laughs. “The ‘you forgot our date’ thing—”

He just stared at you.

Then dragged a hand down his face. “I can not believe you.”

“I had you so stressed,” you laughed.

“You had me thinking I screwed up at night,” he shot back, though there was a smile breaking through now.

You grinned.

Jack shook his head, stepping closer anyway, hands settling on your waist.

“I’ll go change,” he muttered. “You’re not wasting that outfit now.”

5. Oil Changed

Jack didn't think much of it when he walked into the house; it was another long shift, his shoulders still tight from the day as he dropped his keys into the bowl by the door.

But then he saw it.

A bottle of canola oil is sitting on the counter. Not unusual on its own.

Except it wasn't near the stove.

And it was open.

Usually, that meant baked goods: something sweet, something waiting.

But there was nothing: no smell, no mess, no oven on.

Jack frowned, stepping closer, picking it up and turning it slightly like it might somehow explain itself.

“Hey, babe,” he called out, brow knitting together. “What did you use the oil for ?”

From somewhere down the hall, your voice came back casually, like nothing was wrong. “Oh! I used it earlier–I must’ve forgotten to put it away.”

Jack’s frown deepened. “For what?”

You stepped into the kitchen, completely calm. “My car”

Jack blinked. Once.

Then again, slower this time, like his brain had just stalled on him.

“...You're what?”

You shrugged lightly, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “You said I needed my oil topped up, so I figured I would do it.”

There was a full second where nothing happened.

Jack just stared at you.

“You did what?”

Not loud. Not yelling.

Worse. Disbelief. Pure, utter disbelief.

His eyes flickered from you, to the bottle in his hand, then to the window as if he could see your car, and finally back to you again, like maybe he had misunderstood something along the way.

“You put what kind of oil in your car?” he asked slowly, each word careful, controlled.

You nodded towards the bottle. “That one, duh.”

Jack followed your gesture to the bottle in his hand, then looked back at you. 

Stunned.

“That’s canola oil.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah?”

Jack let out a breath, short and disbelieving, like his body didn’t even know how to react yet.

“No—no, that’s not,” he cut himself off, running a hand down his face, pacing once across the kitchen.

“Tell me you didn’t actually put cooking oil in your car.”

You frowned slightly, like he was the confusing one. “It’s baking oil… but yes, I topped it up like you said.”

Jack stopped pacing.

Slowly turned back to you.

“…You used baking oil,” he repeated, pointing at the bottle, his voice tight.

A beat, then it hit him.

“Oh my—no. No, no, no.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, already moving again, faster this time.

“How much did you put in?”

You paused. “Enough?”

Jack let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “That’s not—you can’t—”

He cut himself off, grabbing his keys off the counter.

“Okay. Okay, we’re going outside. Right now. Do not start the car, don’t touch it, just come on.”

He glanced back at you, panic written all over his face now.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive it after.”

You blinked at him, then let out a small laugh.

“I didn’t even turn it on,” you said innocently.

Jack exhaled in relief.

“Because I didn’t actually put the oil in.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then your laugh broke through fully, and you leaned against the counter, grinning.

Jack just stared at you.

“…You’re kidding.”

You were still laughing, leaning against the counter as you caught your breath.

“Sorry,” you grinned, lifting your phone slightly. “TikTok duty calls.”

Jack closed his eyes for a second, rolling them as he let out a long breath.

“I almost had a heart attack,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You owe me for that.”

You shrugged, still smiling. “I owe you what?”

“Cookies,” he said immediately, pointing at you. “You owe me cookies for that scare.”

You bit back another laugh, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Check the microwave.”

Jack didn’t even question it.

He turned and walked over, quickening his pace just a little, curiosity already taking over.

He opened the microwave—

And paused.

A plate of warm, freshly baked cookies sat inside.

Jack’s whole face lit up instantly.

“Oh, you’re amazing,” he said, already reaching in and grabbing one.

He took a big bite without hesitation, leaning back against the counter with a satisfied hum.

“Yeah… this was so worth it,” he added, completely content now.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“So I’m forgiven?”

Jack pointed at you with the cookie, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You were forgiven the minute you mentioned these.”

1. Baby Goat or Matter Baby?

You were supposed to be waiting.

Jack was pulled in for a last-minute trauma, and while he finished up, you had promised you’d sit at the ED hub and behave.

Keyword: Behave.

The clear order that had come straight from Jack’s mouth before he disappeared into the trauma room.

But then you saw Ellis laughing with a med student, Trini charting at the desk, Robby slouched in his chair like he was melting into it, and Langdon pretending he wasn’t listening while very obviously listening.

And suddenly… you got an idea.

The Pitt crew as a whole loved your videos of Jack. Every prank, every reaction, every exhausted “Your unbelievable” moment always made its way through the department.

So it was only fair that you gave them a little revenge back.

You hopped up onto the counter, swinging your legs as you weren't about to cause problems. Your phone is already out as you pretend to scroll through it.

“Quick question,” you said lightly.

Trinity looked up first.

“That tone doesn’t sound good.” 

Robby didn't even lift his head. “Don't entertain her. I’m begging you.”

Ellis, of course, leaned in. “I’m listening.”

Langdon finally looked over from the side. “If this is about another prank, I swear I’m transferring.”

You smiled sweetly. “Would you rather be a baby goat… or a matter baby?”

Silence.

Trinity slowly put her pen down. “I’m sorry, what?”

Robby sighed. “That’s not even medically relevant.”

Ellis grinned. “Baby goat. Obviously.”

Langdon frowned slightly, still trying to process it. “What’s a matter, baby?”

A beat.

You paused.

Then slowly turned your head toward him, a sharp little smirk forming.

“You'd better hope Jack doesn’t hear you say that to me.”

It took exactly three seconds.

Then Langdon’s face dropped. “Oh no”

He leaned back, already realizing exactly what he’d walked into.

“I knew this was a setup,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew it.”

Robby immediately perked up. “Yep. That’s on you.”

Ellis laughed. “You walked right into it, man.”

Trinity sighed, not even looking up. “I’m too tired for this.”

Langdon pointed at you, low and defeated. “You did that on purpose.”

You just smiled innocently.

That made him groan under his breath, head tipping back like he was personally victimized by the entire situation.

“I hate this place.”

Robby snorted. “Yeah, that’s the job description.”

Ellis grinned. “You’ll be fine.”

Trinity didn’t even look up. “Not if Jack hears this, he won’t.”

You were still perched on the counter when Jack’s voice cut through the hub.

“Why is everyone standing around?”

The group of you shifted instantly.

Robby leaned back. “Perfect timing, my friend.”

Ellis brightened. “Hey, Jack.”

Trinity immediately went back to charting.

Langdon, however, visibly stiffened the second he heard Jack’s voice.

Robby noticed immediately. “Relax, man.”

“I am relaxed,” Langdon hissed. “I am very relaxed.”

Ellis grinned. “You look like you’re about to shit your pants.”

Langdon shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

Jack’s gaze moved across the hub, taking in the lingering tension before landing on you, still perched on the counter.

“What did I miss?”

Robby pointed at you immediately. “Start with your girl.”

Ellis leaned in, way too pleased with himself. “The topic was baby goats.”

Jack blinked slowly. “…Baby goats.”

Robby added, “She was just asking us a question.”

Jack exhaled through his nose. “Of course she was.”

Then his eyes shifted. “And Langdon?”

Langdon straightened immediately. “I didn’t do anything.”

Ellis cut in. “He was flirting.”

“I was not—”

That did it.

Laughter broke through the group.

Jack just stood there.

“…Flirting?”

Ellis pointed between you and Langdon. “Relax, it was accidental.”

Langdon groaned. “That’s not helping.”

Jack finally looked at you, still confused.

“What exactly did I walk into?”

You smiled sweetly.

“Just Baby goats,” you said simply.

That made everyone laugh again.

Jack, still not fully understanding, shook his head.

“I need coffee.”

You hopped down.

“If this is all it takes to rile you up, wait until something actually goes wrong,” Dr. Park had scolded. “Now do you want me to go easy on you, or do you wanna get better, Crybaby?”

You stayed. And he made you better. But the nickname stuck.

Crybaby became a term of endearment, a symbol of how far you’d come since your interning days, and was shortened to Baby somewhere down the line. “Baby, take this patient down to CT for me, will you?” and “Cut me an ET tube, Baby, six millimeters,” and—

“Good luck getting that consult, baby,” Jack Abbot says from the opposite side of the exam room, with his strong arms crossed over his chest. The nickname sounds different spilling from his lips. It always has. “The OR’s backed up with Westbridge patients. It could be hours before we get a room booked.”

“She doesn’t have hours…” you murmur under your breath, squeezing past Whitaker and Ogilvie as you part from your unconscious patient. “Excuse me…”

“W-What are you doing?” the former boy stammers.

“Getting us a consult…” you say, half-distracted, as you reach for the red telephone on the wall. You press the cool plastic to your ear and dial the ortho extension.

Jack watches attentively from the sidelines as you make the call upstairs. 

“You already sound like you’re gonna say no, so I’m just gonna ask quickly,” you say. “I know, I know— Terrible timing. But we both know I’m your favorite, so just hear me out.”

“Favorite…?” Ogilvie murmurs. “Wait— Who is she calling?”

“Park the Shark,” Whitaker answers solemnly.

“Or as I like to call him— Doctor Dick,” Jack says with a cynical smile. “On account of him being a dick.”

Whitaker nods in concurrence. “To everyone but her.” 

You hang up the phone and return to your spot at the patient’s bedside. “Ortho consult’s on its way,” you tell them, half-distracted, as you check the ketamine levels in her IV drip.

“How’d you do that?” Ogilivie squints.

“I asked nicely,” you shrug.

Brendon Park comes into the emergency department barely five minutes later, and brings a tense air in with him that matches the unsmiling look on his narrow face. The way his dark blue eyes lock on you the second he walks in can only be described as sharklike. 

“What do we got, Baby?” he asks you, and only you, utterly ignoring the other bodies in the room as he makes a beeline to your side. He smells of sea salt and sandalwood when he towers just behind you, standing several inches taller.

Jack swallows down the anger that swells suddenly in his throat like bile.

“Ten-foot fall onto a metal fence,” you tell him. “Tib-fib amputation— Pretty clean cut.”

“Sliced right through the bone like a guillotine,” Whitaker adds.

Park turns slowly, dark eyes zeroing in on the mulleted boy. “Was I talking to you?”

The boy’s cheeks flare red. He clears his throat. “Uh— No. No, sir.” 

“Let me see the X-ray,” the attending says to you, much softer in comparison, and follows you the short distance to the bulky machine in the corner.

“See?” you hum. “Not too bad, right?”

His eyes flit from the x-ray to your hopeful gaze. The corner of his mouth flickers faintly upward as he nods once in response. “Yeah. Should be pretty fun— Where’s the leg?”

“Double bagged on ice.” You motion across the room. 

Whitaker watches the older man walk past him with an unblinking gaze. “I didn’t know he smiled…” he whispers incredulously under his breath.

“Yeah, me neither, kid,” Jack mumbles, swaying softly in place, as he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you. 

His jealousy is misplaced, but inevitable. Everyone had a certain soft spot for you, but he couldn’t quite stand it from Park — the man who didn’t seem to like anyone or anything but his work and you. Jack knows it makes a part of you feel special, you are special, but he wants to be the only one making you feel that way.

“Tell him how we prepped the limb, Ogilivie,” you tell the MS3.

“Oh, please, not me,” the curly-haired boy mumbles under his breath, looking instinctively to Whitaker for assistance. He swallows hard when Brendon’s dark eyes snap to his. “Uh— Sterile saline in the inner bag, ice water in the outer bag. No direct ice to skin contact.”

Park nods and turns away, unwrapping the severed leg on the table below. “Good…”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” the attending snaps. His eyes soften the second he turns to you. “Let me guess— You wrapped this?”

“How’d you know?” you grin.

“Because it’s neat,” Park quips drily as he pulls the bluing limb from the plastic. “And I don’t think Abbot suddenly developed fine motor skills.”

“Stop flirting with me, Shark,” Jack monotones.

“Antibiotics?” the man squints.

“Cefazolin and gent,” you answer. “And we’re already cleared her chest, abdomen, and pelvis.”

Park nods to himself, examining the severed leg with his gloved hands. “Clean wound… No rush injury… Rapid transport time…” he mumbles to himself, visibly pleased in a way that makes your stomach do a backflip. “Replantation is a go. I’ll go ahead and book an OR, get it taken care of for you.”

“Thanks…” you say, smiling a little wider than you realize. Because ever since the day he embarrassed you in front of all your coworkers, you’ve made it your personal mission to impress him.

“What’s the catch?” Jack quips from across the room. “You already got a packed OR so… What? You’re just doing us a favor out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Hell, no,” Brendon scoffs. “Baby’s gonna scrub in with me.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re not sure whether to be happy or horrified, ‘cause you haven’t done a surgery with him since you were an intern.

“Holy shit— Really?”

“Yeah. As long as you promise not to fuck up again,” Park deadpans, though there’s something distinctly soft in his eyes as he quips, “And if you can keep your guard dog on a leash for a few hours.”

Your eyes turn instinctively to Jack. You find his features slightly hardened but mostly emotionless. He shrugs despite the distant searing in his chest.

“She doesn’t need my permission.”

“Then why are you glaring like I’m about to steal your favorite toy, old man?” Brendon scoffs.

Jack’s eyes widen. His head swivels slowly over his shoulder, as if he were looking for someone standing behind him. “I know you’re not talking about me,” he quips drily.

“I would love the opportunity to scrub in, Dr. Shark— I mean, Park,” you stammer.

“Alright, then. Let’s go,” he nods, pulling off his gloves with a low pop as he storms back towards the door. “The rest of you, irrigate the hell out of this with three liters.”

“Wait— three liters?” Whitaker blurts.

Park glares. “Of saline, genius.”

“I… I knew you meant saline…”

You stop short in the doorway with Jack at your side, right before you turn to follow Park into the elevator. You flash him a wide-eyed look full of hope and distant worry, “You’re not mad at me, are you? For doing this with Shark?”

“I couldn’t be,” Jack scoffs.

“Well, then, I’ll let you know how it goes later?” you murmur sheepishly, shifting on your feet like a shy child. “Over dinner?”

“Sure,” he nods. “I’ll take you somewhere nice. You know, to celebrate.”

He gives you a soft smile that fades the second you’ve turned the corner. He feels the weight of his own insecurity sitting heavy on his chest. The notion that he’s much too old for you tends to follow him like a shadow, but it rears its mean, green, ugly head a little extra now. 

“Hey…” Robby greets, then slows his stride when he walks past the tree men leaving the exam room. “What’s the long faces for?”

Abbot flashes him an unamused gaze. “Shark attack,” he deadpans.

Robby nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it…”

The familiar chaos of the ED wraps around you like a blanket when you come down from the OR — the beeping monitors, the rolling stretchers, the hundred different conversations. It feels welcoming, in a strange sort of way; it fuels you in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. It feels less like you’re surviving your shift now, and more like you could solve every medical inquiry in this hospital if someone asked you to. 

You feel ten feet tall and lighter than air as you weave your way through the crowded emergency department. Jack can see it from where he watches you at the workstation with an eagle-eyed stare. Your scrubs are creased from your hours in the OR; your eyes are as wild as the distant smile sitting crooked on the very edges of your mouth. 

You plant yourself at the computer next to his, and Abbot pretends like he hasn’t been waiting for you this whole time.

“How’d it go?” he asks distantly, trying to be casual.

“Great,” you nod with a proud smile. “Like really great. There was a twisted artery, and I was the only one who caught it. I got to reroute it all on my own— It was crazy.”

Jack feels himself smiling despite himself, basking in the rays of your sunshine disposition.

“Really?” he hums, nodding once. “Good job, baby.”

You couldn’t possibly count how many times you hear that nickname on a daily basis, but it’s different coming from Jack. It’s warmer, more familiar — makes your stomach do backflips like it’s the first time you’re hearing the word from his mouth. You go dizzy accordingly, as your fingers flit across the keyboard below.

“I’m just glad I didn’t make a total fool of myself like I did the first time,” you scoff.

“Yeah, me too,” a familiar voice quips from behind you.

You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dr. Park as he appears suddenly behind you, dropping a file on the desk next to you mid-stride. His sea salt cologne pervades your senses instantly, clashing with Jack’s softer, muskier scent.

“I thought I heard the Jaws theme playing…” the older man quips in a dry monotone.

“You should be proud, Abbot— Your resident was a star in surgery today,” Park says with a knowing smirk hinting at the very corners of his mouth, so subtle it’s barely there. “Can’t wait for her to be my protégé in the OR someday.”

Jack’s frown deepens when the man claps him hard on the shoulder as he walks back for the elevator, though not without tossing a “let me know when you need a letter of rec for that fellowship, Baby,” over his shoulder as he goes. 

He watches the younger attending until he turns the corner, and looks back at you with his jaw clenched a little tighter than before. His chest sears at the distant smile on your face, as the flames of his jealousy burn white-hot behind his ribcage 

“Well,” Jack hums drily after a beat of silence. “You guys are getting awfully close, aren’t you?”

You scoff like it’s funny to you, because the thought of Park the Shark liking anyone is funny to you.

“What? No,” you laugh, then shrug at the unconvinced look Jack gives you in response. “He’s just nice to me. That’s all.”

Jack lets out a sharp exhale through his nose in place of a laugh. He turns back to his computer and deadpans, “Yeah. Because he likes you.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Jack beats you to the punch. 

“And I don’t blame him, either. I think it’d make me a hypocrite if I did.”

Your face flares as a red-hot heat crawls up your neck. Your adrenaline-induced confidence fades into something softer as you struggle suddenly to meet the older man’s gaze. You glance down at the chart Park left, unable to hide the small smile on your mouth when you peer at Jack again from beneath your lashes.

“Where are we going for dinner after this again?” you wonder, half-sheepish.

The expression on his scruffy face shifts slightly, less tense but mischievous still. “We aren’t,” he says and logs out of the computer.

Your eyes narrow into a suspicious squint as you watch the man round the front desk. “What happened to ‘I’ll take you somewhere nice?’”

“Yeah…” Jack nods slowly, huffing sympathetically, as his hands curl around either end of his stethoscope. “I think we’re gonna miss that reservation, baby.”

Your stomach does a backflip.

By the time you make it to Jack’s place, the adrenaline has worn off just enough to leave you pleasantly exhausted. 

He can feel it in your kiss, as you straddle him on his sunken couch in the middle of his dim living room — so quiet compared to the ER that it feels like stepping into a completely different world. You prop yourself over his lap with your palms cradling his silver scruff and lick into his parted mouth in slow, languid motions. 

You’ve been at it for a while now. So long that Jack can feel your spit down to his chin. You could kiss him for hours and hours and never get bored — a testament to your youth, perhaps, because Jack doesn’t think he’s made out with someone this long since he was in college.

But, for you, he keeps his head tipped back against the sofa and his mouth obediently parted, letting you kiss him however you want — for however long you want. His wide hands fidget with anticipation on either side of your bare thighs, from where your shirt rides up to your hips. 

You’d changed immediately into one of his old tees when you arrived, after a shower your body had been craving all day. You smell like his body wash and lotion as you sit on his lap, running your hands down his clothed chest like soft drops of summer rain. 

Your fingers brush the tie in his dark navy sweatpants, and he tenses on instinct. You don’t seem to notice, though, as you leave a trail of wet kisses down his scruffy neck.

“Are you gonna fuck me tonight?” you mumble into his pulse. “’S why we didn’t go out for dinner tonight, isn’t it? ‘Cause I’ve been thinking about it all day…”

Jack goes dizzy at your words — at the otherwise innocent mouth they spill from. His stomach warms, and he jerks back from you before he means to; his mouth wet and rosy from the intensity of your kisses.

“Yeah, fuck— Yeah, I just…” he trails off, though it’s more of a dismissal than a true affirmative. “I just gotta go to the bathroom real quick, yeah?”

“Okay,” you smile politely, unaware of his subdued panic that he’s learned to keep well-hidden. You slide off his lap and onto the other side of the couch. “Sure.”

Jack rises from the sunken sofa with a low grunt in the back of his throat. There’s a slight limp in his step from where the long day has taken a toll on his prosthetic. “Feel free to make yourself at home while I’m gone,” he tosses mindlessly over his shoulder, before he disappears down the dim hallway, making an immediate beeline for his lamplit bedroom.

There’s a bottle of sildenafil in his nightstand drawer, with only one pill taken out of it — which he thinks is somehow even more embarrassing. He’d only taken it to masturbate once, after his SSRIs plummeted his libido and he was itching for a release after a long day. 

The small orange bottle feels strangely heavy in his hands now, as he tips his head back to shake one of the tiny blue pills into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows it dry. The pills rattle faintly when he sets the bottle down beside him again. 

He drops onto the edge of his bed, mattress squeaking under his weight. He rests his elbows on his knees and hunches over to dig his palms into his eyes. He tries to will himself hard for you, even though he knows that isn’t exactly how that works.

He thinks of you — all young and pretty and waiting for him out there — wasting your youth on an old man who can’t get hard to save his life. It leads to a cycle of self-hatred that prevents him from getting turned on at all. And it’s maddening.  

The ajar door creaks quietly as you push it open without knocking.

You slink inside the dim bedroom and freeze at the sight of the man on the bed, like you weren’t expecting to find him there. Jack’s head whips to your form across the room and spins when he finds your underwear peeking out from the bottom of his shirt — a soft orange color patterned with dark black bats, several months out of season.

“What are you doing?” he squints teasingly, blanketed half by shadow and half by golden lamplight.

“What are you doing?” you retort. “I’ve been waiting out there forever.”

“It’s only been five minutes,” Jack scoffs.

“Yeah, tell me about it…”

You’re all but skipping to his side then, bare feet padding along the thin carpet as you go. The thin fabric of his shirt swishes around your thighs when you walk to stand between his. When you wrap your arms loosely around his neck and duck down to kiss him, Jack tips his chin back and opens his mouth to welcome you — until the open drawer beside you catches your attention, as well as the orange pill bottle sitting on the corner of the nightstand, as if he’d just pulled it out of there.

“What’s that—?”

“Nothing,” Jack answers, a little too quickly, and reaches less than casually around you to chuck the bottle into the drawer again. The pills rattle loudly in the quiet bedroom when he shoves it shut a second later.

He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the label. Your gaze is soft with sympathy and glittering with something wild that he can’t quite place.

Jack says nothing for several long moments, and instead waits for your response.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed…” you murmur when you catch his scruffy cheeks flaring a soft pink.

“I’m not embarrassed,” he blurts, less than convincingly, eyes shifting away and back again. “I’m just… selectively unthrilled with this timing…”

Your nose scrunches at the shy smile you give him. His warm hands settle again on your waist while your fingers twist in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. Your eyes soften with something tender when you wonder shyly, “Is that why… Is that why you haven’t wanted to… you know?”

“No,” Jack answers instantly, then tilts his head to think for a moment. “Well, I mean— a little, I guess, but… I only take ‘em ‘cause of my SSRIs, you know? It’s not… It’s not because of you or anything.”

“Okay…” you nod and struggle to meet his gaze when you ask, “Do you know, like, how long it takes to kick in… or whatever?”

“Last time I tried, it took about twenty minutes—”

“Last time?” you echo with raised brows.

“I was just trying it out!” Jack defends with a crooked smile, slightly egged on by your misplaced jealousy after stewing in his own all day. “I was by myself when I took it, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does make me feel better, actually…”

Jack’s light eyes narrow. “What’s that look for, huh?”

“Nothin’…” you lilt quietly, with a poorly hidden smile. “I just… I think it’s kinda hot… That’s all…”

His expression flickers in an instant — surprise first, suspicion second, then something darker third. A white-hot desire threads through the distant embarrassment still swimming in his stomach.

“Yeah?” he presses lowly, with a voice like honey.

“Yeah…” you nod once, unable to take your eyes off his prying stare. 

He studies you for another beat, before huffing a quiet laugh of disbelief. 

“You’re somethin’ else, baby, you know that?” he mumbles with a shake of his head, smoothing his calloused palms slowly up your bare thighs until they disappear under his shirt.

“I know…” you mutter on bated breath, trying and failing to be casual when you ask, “What do you wanna do then, huh? You know, for the next twenty minutes, anyway?”

You fight back a shiver when his thumb brushes over the center of the delicate mound peeking beneath the hem of your t-shirt, concealed by the thin cotton panties you wear. 

Jack hears your breath catch in his throat. His darkened gaze flits from your Halloween-patterned underwear to your heavy eyes, now glazed over with a layer of honeyed desire. 

A sly smile curls at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I have a few ideas…”