unhinged König supremacy

Prologue: At the Gates of Heaven

Ch 1: angel tears

Ch 2: angel's descent

Ch 3: the key [NSFW]

Ch 4: texting in the dark

Ch. 5 : to sleep

Ch.6 hurt

Ch.7 sweet/soul

Ch.8 games

Ch. 9 cold\warm

Ch. 10: stay awake

Ch. 11: all mine [NSFW]

Ch. 12: to dream

Ch. 13: ache

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're all staring.

"Uh."

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

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

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

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

"It was spontaneous."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You made that face."

"What face?"

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

Damn him. Damn his stupid observant doctor brain.

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

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

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

"That's an hour drive."

"I'll survive."

"You're in pain."

"Brendon—"

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

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

"So hand express."

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

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

"What?"

"I could help."

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

"Help how?"

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

Oh. Oh fuck.

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

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

"That’s fine —"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

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

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

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

"Mhmm."

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

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

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

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

"Bren —"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up."

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

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

"Maybe."

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

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

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

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

"I'm—fuck—I'm close."

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

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

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

"That’s disgusting."

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

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

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

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

"I think so."

"Text me when you get home."

"Okay."

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

"You didn't eat it yet."

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

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

"Both."

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

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

Probably.

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

Bren: Everyone's asking questions

You: What did you tell them?

Bren: To mind their fucking business

You: Romantic

“You’re late.” He didn’t look at her when she entered the ortho lab, holding onto the strap of her bag as she glanced at the clock.

“I’m eight minutes early.” That got his attention. His eyes lifted slowly from the attendance sheets in front of him, expression flat and unimpressed while he took in her frame. 

“And yet somehow you still managed to disappoint me already.” Ah, so the rumors were true. Most people would’ve shrunk right there, (y/n) could practically feel the tension from the students organizing equipment behind her, waiting to see if she’d fold, instead, she smiled.

“That’s actually kind of impressive considering we just met.” One of the students choked on a laugh as Dr. Park’s stare sharpened. He looked at her as if he was trying to figure out if she was stupid or just reckless.

“What’s your name again?” His eyes found their way back to his papers as if he had truly no clue who she was. 

“You forgot my name before we met? That hurts, Dr. Park. I’m your TA, (y/n).” Once again his eyes flickered back to (y/n), just for a short second, and yet it was enough to push a weird sense of pride through her. She had managed to get under his skin within a handful of seconds, good. 

“I didn’t ask for your commentary.”

“Good thing I give it out for free.” She winked at him before silence followed, then, somehow, his mouth twitched. It was barely visible, a microscopic thing that was gone in less than a second. But she saw it, and judging by the way his expression hardened immediately after, he knew she saw it too. 

Great, now she was definitely getting fired.

…

Being Dr. Park’s teaching assistant turned out to be less of a job and more of an endurance sport. He was ruthless in the lab, he expected perfection from students who were still learning how to hold surgical instruments correctly, he pointed out mistakes with surgical precision. 

“No, that’s wrong.”

“Did you even review the anatomy?”

“If you hesitate that long in an OR, someone dies.”

The students feared him, the faculty tolerated him because his ortho program ratings had skyrocketed after he started teaching there once a week. And somehow, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, he seemed especially irritated by her.

“Your grading rubric is too generous.” He murmured the words as he looked over the test she had graded for him, not expecting him to even care about picking them up. 

“They’re first-years. Do you want me to fail half the class?” (Y/n) heard his sharp exhale, the annoyance dripping from him without needing to put it into proper words. 

“If half the class is incompetent, yes.” Finally she turned fully towards him, arms crossed in front of her chest, head tilted slightly to the side as if he was a mystery she struggled to solve. Brendon Park was an asshole, quite frankly the worst professor she had worked for so far, and yet there was something awfully intriguing about the tense, closed-off man. 

She could see it, the exhaustion under the sharpness, the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose when he thought nobody noticed, the way he stayed after class to reorganize supplies himself instead of asking for help, the way his anger never felt cruel for the sake of cruelty. He expected impossible things because somewhere along the line, impossible had become his baseline, because years back the same had been asked of him, turning him into this hard version of himself. 

So (y/n) didn’t back down, she teased him when he got too intense, brought him coffee during six-hour labs, and told him “good morning” every week even when he grunted at her like a threatened guard dog. Every single time, he looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with someone who kept choosing kindness after he’d given them every reason not to.

…

The fight happened six weeks later and it was bad, not because he yelled, no, it was worse than that. He went cold, locking away the small progress they had made over the past weeks, pushing her away from the open door before she could set even one foot inside.

The lab had already been a disaster before it started. Half the equipment they’d requested hadn’t arrived, one student nearly passed out during a demo reduction, and the projector stopped working twenty minutes into the lecture. Brendon had been in a foul mood from the second he walked in. The students felt it too as nobody spoke unless called on and nobody breathed unless medically necessary. By the third hour, (y/n) was basically running damage control.

“Okay,” she told a trembling second-year quietly while adjusting his grip on the drill, “ignore Dr. Doom over there, your hand positioning’s actually fine now.”

The student laughed nervously, but unfortunately, Brendon heard her, “If by ‘fine’ you mean unsafe, then sure.”

The room went still at his words, nobody dared to move as she looked up slowly from beside the student. For a moment she kept quiet, eyes wandering over his tired features before letting go of a sigh, “It was a joke, he’s clearly nervous, Dr. Park.”

“He should be nervous. Complacency gets people killed.” The student looked about two seconds from throwing up. He had grown even more tense beside her, almost dropping his grip on the drill while (y/n) tried her best to stop the whole ship from sinking. 

“Maybe back off a little.” She straightened carefully as Brendon’s gaze snapped back to hers. There it was, that shark-like look which was sharp enough to cut skin.

“You don’t tell me how to run my lab.”

“And you don’t get to terrorize students because you’re in a bad mood.” A few heads immediately dropped toward tables, nobody wanted to witness this blood-bath which was about to happen. Unfortunately for them, they absolutely were as Brendon stepped closer, voice low and lethal, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders shuddering with every angry exhale. 

“If they can’t handle pressure here, they won’t survive an operating room.” (Y/n) had to swallow her own anger, she told herself to stay professional, not to fuck this up further as the man in front of her had the power to decide over her medical carrer, and yet the need for honesty and protection was stronger. 

“And if you keep humiliating them every time they make a mistake, they won’t learn a damn thing either. You’re an asshole without any reason, terrorizing students in hopes of turning them into emotionless doctors won’t do them any good.” Silence followed her words. The student between them looked ready to evaporate, hoping they’d get a chance to leave. 

“Careful.” That should’ve been the moment she backed down, and honestly, she probably should have. But she was tired too, tired of watching him carve himself hollow and call it discipline, tired of him acting like cruelty and excellence were the same thing. Tired of the way he pushed and pushed and pushed everyone around him like he was waiting for them to finally leave. So she set the drill down on the tray with a loud clatter and took a step toward him instead.

“No,” she said evenly. “You be careful. You think being brutal makes people respect you? Fine, maybe it works sometimes. But this thing where you tear into people because you’re exhausted or angry or miserable? That’s not teaching.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” His jaw flexed, eyes stone cold as he kept staring down at her, almost forgetting the crowd of students watching their fight. 

“No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you walk into every room expecting everyone to fail before they even speak. You know what your problem is, Brendon?” The use of his first name hit like a slap. “You act like caring about people is some kind of weakness. Like if you keep everyone at arm’s length, nobody can piss you off or let you down, but you do care. That’s the worst part. You care so much it’s eating you alive, and instead of dealing with that, you punish everyone around you for it.”

The entire lab looked petrified, nobody had ever spoken to him like this. Ever. For a second, she thought he was going to explode, but instead, he just stared at her, completely motionless, and somehow that was worse. Because beneath the anger, beneath the offense and pride and sharp edges he looked like she’d reached inside him and hit something he spent years trying to bury.

When he finally spoke, his voice was terrifyingly quiet, “Class dismissed.”

Nobody hesitated, chairs scraped violently across the floor as students fled like frightened animals, and within seconds, the lab emptied, leaving the two of them alone. The door slammed shut behind the last student. She crossed her arms, mostly to stop herself from shaking while Brendon stood near the center table, eyes fixed on the surgical instruments laid out between them.

“Are you done now with your lecture?” His tone wasn’t angry, that was the problem. It was flat, controlled so tightly she couldn’t tell what was underneath it. “You crossed a line, (y/n).”

“You crossed it first and apparently I am the only person willing to tell you when you’re being impossible. You want everyone scared of you because it’s easier than letting them get close enough to realize you’re human.” He looked away immediately afterward, shoulders going rigid. A part of her suddenly began to understand that this was the root of all problems. It wasn’t anger or ego, no, it was exposure. Brendon hated this because she could see him and he didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence after her last words stretched so long it started to hurt, Brendon looked away first, just a brief turn of his head, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Then, without looking at her: “Get out.”

“Brendon-” she blinked, trying to take a step closer, though without any luck. 

“I said get out of my lab.” There was no yelling, no emotion dripping from his words, which somehow made it sting worse.

Something in her chest twisted, because fine, she’d pushed him. She knew she had. But she’d also meant every word, and the fact that his response was to shut her out entirely hurt more than she liked to admit. (Y/n) swallowed hard, grabbed her bag from the counter, and walked toward the door. With one last glance thrown his way, she stepped out into the now empty hallway, heart clenching in her chest as if the shark had managed to rip it from her without giving her the chance to fight for it. 

…

By the time (y/n) came back to his office that night, the corridors were mostly empty. The department lights had dimmed to evening mode, soft and gray against polished floors, somewhere down the hall, a vending machine hummed. She almost turned around twice; this was stupid. He’d probably tell her to leave again. But the alternative was letting this sit between them like an infected wound, and she was too angry to let him get away with pretending none of it mattered.

So she knocked once and pushed the office door open after a few seconds. He looked up immediately, sitting behind his desk with his laptop open, sleeves rolled up on his muscular forearms. The sight caught her off guard for a second as it was softer somehow, less armored. She shut the door behind her and for a moment neither of them spoke. The tension from earlier was still there, but quieter now, as if it was exhausted around the edges.

“If you came to keep fighting, I’m not interested, (y/n).” Brendon leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes not daring to leave her once.

“Well, that’s convenient for you.” His eyes narrowed faintly at her words while (y/n) crossed her arms to steady herself. “You kicked me out like I was some student you were disciplining.” She tried to keep her hurt at bay, not daring to offer all parts of her emotions to the cold professor yet. 

“You undermined me in front of the class.” 

“I shouldn’t have challenged you in front of everyone like that, but you do not get to throw me out because I pissed you off.” She admitted, slowly taking a step closer to his desk as if she was trying to walk the line, seeing how far she could go. 

“I was angry.” His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

“No,” he eventually gave in quietly, eyes locking onto hers now. “I was furious. You stood there and dissected me in front of thirty students, and you think that gave you the right to-”

“No,” she interrupted, voice softer now. “I think working together means we respect each other enough to tell the truth. I didn’t want to embarrass you or anything like that.”

“You said I punish people for caring, but that isn’t the case. When I was a resident, being wrong got people hurt.” Brendon looked down at the papers scattered across his desk, expression unreadable. Something in her chest pulled painfully, because there it was again, that exhaustion, that impossible weight he carried around like it was stitched into his spine.

“You can push students without destroying them.” (Y/n) stepped closer once more, almost able to reach the desk now. 

“You make that sound easy.” He gave a humorless huff, eyes momentarily fluttering close while he brushed his hands over his tired features. 

“I think you make everything harder than it has to be.” That almost earned a smile, almost, as Brendon kept studying her in that intense, unnerving way he always did.

“You don’t scare easily, do you?”

“Oh, no, you’re terrifying,” (y/n) chuckled. “Like clinically concerning. But that never stopped me before.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it and it changed his whole face. God, that was dangerous. Her breath caught slightly, and judging by the way his expression shifted afterward, he noticed. Of course he noticed. The room suddenly felt much smaller as Brendon’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes, slowly, carefully, “I shouldn’t have thrown you out. I’m not very good at this.”

“At apologizing?” She blinked, wondering what he was talking about exactly. 

“At people.” That surprised a laugh out of her as Brendon’s mouth twitched faintly in response. Suddenly the air between them shifted into something warmer, something cosying her along while he stood from his desk slowly, towering over her immediately.

“You need a ride home?” Her heart stumbled a little, unable to bite down a grin. 

“Is that your apology?”

“One of them.”

“Are you planning more?”

His eyes held hers for another second.

“Possibly.”

…

The car ride started quiet, it wasn’t uncomfortable but strange in a way. The city blurred gold outside the windows while rock played low through the speakers. Brendon drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, fingers tapping absently against the console. She kept sneaking glances at him, which was unfortunate, because he caught every single one.

“You really meant all that stuff earlier?” he asked after a while, voice almost too quiet for a man like him. “That I care.”

“Yeah,” she gave in softly. “I did.”

Brendon was quiet for a long time after that. By the time he pulled up outside her apartment building, neither of them moved to get out immediately. She was comfortable around him, probably way too comfortable looking back at the day they had just survived. 

“Thank you for the ride.” (Y/n) turned toward him slowly. Neither moved while her pulse started climbing for absolutely no good reason. His gaze dropped to her mouth again and this time, it stayed there.

“Come here.” The words were so low she felt them more than heard them. She moved before she could think better of it. The second (y/n) leaned across the console, Brendon met her halfway. The kiss was nothing like she expected, it was too careful like he was trying not to ruin it.

One hand came up slowly to cup her jaw, warm and impossibly gentle for someone who spent all day breaking through bone and barked orders like bullets. She felt his breath hitch slightly when she kissed him back harder, it seemed to break whatever restraint he’d been clinging to as the next kiss was deeper, hungrier. Months of tension compressed into one devastating moment.

“Come upstairs.” The words slipped out before she could overthink them. Brendon went completely still for a second, his eyes searching hers carefully as if he was making sure she wasn’t fucking with him. 

“You sure?” She nodded once and that was all it took. He exhaled slowly through his nose like he was already losing a fight with himself, then reached for the door handle.

The elevator ride to her apartment was unbearable in the best possible way, neither of them spoke much, there was too much awareness packed into the small space already. His shoulder brushed hers once and her entire body reacted embarrassingly fast. Heat climbed straight into her face but the elevator dinged before she could recover.

Her apartment hallway was quiet as (y/n) fumbled slightly with her keys, suddenly aware of everything, her heartbeat, his presence behind her, the fact that Brendon Park was standing close enough that she could feel heat rolling off him. The lock clicked and the second the door opened, he kissed her again. Harder this time, like he’d been holding himself back the past minutes and finally snapped like a shark should. She barely got the door shut before her back hit it with a soft thud, Brendon crowding into her space immediately, one hand braced beside her head while the other settled at her waist. 

He kissed like he argued, intense, focused, relentless, but underneath it was that same carefulness she’d felt in the car, like some part of him still couldn’t believe he was allowed this. Her fingers slid into his gelled back hair, allowing her to pick up on the soft sound clawing out of him. 

“Jesus,” he muttered against her slightly swollen lips, voice rough. “You’re trouble.”

“You should have figured that out weeks ago.” She laughed softly, breathless, and he kissed her again immediately like the sound did something dangerous to him. Everything about this felt a little unreal; the terrifying orthopedic surgeon who glared people into silence was currently kissing her like she was something precious enough to ruin him.

“You can still leave, you know, professor.” Her hands slid down his chest slowly as Brendon leaned his forehead briefly against hers, breathing unevenly.

“Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.” A low sound escaped him, half laugh, half warning, then his hands tightened at her waist suddenly. 

Before she could process it, he lifted her off the floor and (y/n) let out a startled laugh, grabbing his shoulders automatically. He carried her to the open kitchen with terrifying ease, kissing her again halfway like he couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without touching her now. By the time he set her down on the kitchen island, both of them were breathing harder.

She sat there between his arms, big palms pressed to the cold counter top while her heartbeat was absolutely out of control. Brendon looked at her like he was trying to memorize every expression crossing her face, wondering what was going on inside her mind.

The kitchen light cast soft gold across his features, catching the exhaustion still lingering around his eyes, but for once, he didn’t look closed off, he looked open, raw. Her hand lifted instinctively, fingertips brushing lightly along his defined, sharp jaw.

“You know,” she said softly, “you’re a lot nicer when you’re kissing me.”

He kissed her again, but his lips didn’t stay on her mouth for long, quickly finding their way to her throat and drawing a few trembling moans from her. All (y/n) could do was hold onto him, finding strength in the way she clung to the man kissing her throat as if he were exploring a map of unfamiliar territory. His name left her mouth softly, nothing more than a whisper, yet he kept moving lower, hands leaving the counter to tug her shirt over her head.

“You’re a fucking menace, you know that?”

She couldn’t reply. (Y/n) could only hum into the quiet kitchen as he pushed the cups of her bra down, letting her breasts spill free, hardened nipples exposed to his hungry mouth. His lips instantly found her chest, sucking one nipple into his mouth while his hand took care of the other, tugging and squeezing it as if she’d been his for months, as if he already knew exactly how to stoke the heat building between her thighs.

She arched against his touch, needing more from the man greedily exploring her body. Shaky breaths left her as her thighs closed around his legs while he remained standing between them, keeping them apart while teasing her. His name left her lips again, a quiet plea for more, one he clearly picked up on as he began kissing his way down to the seam of her panties.

“Bet you’re dripping already. Did you get off on our fighting?” His rasped words made her choke on a breath, struggling to find the right response. His sharp eyes flicked up to meet hers, brows raised as he waited for an answer she couldn’t seem to form. Slowly, he tugged her panties down her legs, letting out a rough chuckle as his fingers brushed through her slit. “Of course you did. Fuck, you’re soaked, baby.”

“Brendon,” she whined, eyes fluttering shut as he finally pressed his mouth against her pulsing clit. A moan tore from her, the sound filling her kitchen as if it had been built for this moment alone. Brendon kept his eyes fixed on her while he ate her out, sucking on her clit to push her closer and closer to the edge waiting for her.

“Gotta prepare you for me. Will you be a good girl and take my fingers?” (Y/n) hummed at the question, hoping it would be enough of an answer, but the second his hand came down sharply on her inner thigh, she knew he expected more. She struggled to reply, struggled to form even a single clear thought, managing only a breathless, “Yes, please.”

“Atta girl.” The rasped praise sent heat rushing to her cheeks. Brendon kept his focus on her face as he pushed two fingers inside her, spreading her walls around them while continuing to suck on her clit. Her moans grew louder as he curled his fingers against her sweet spot, making her shudder beneath him. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

His praise only pushed her closer to orgasm, the feeling creeping up on her too fast to overthink. Her body trembled, thighs struggling to stay open while the man between them seemed determined to devour her completely. Brendon drove her toward release eagerly, needing to watch her come apart before he fucked her properly, “Cum for me, baby. Let go.”

She whined his name again, her body instantly obeying the command. Brendon kept thrusting his fingers into her while sucking on her clit with just enough pressure to push her over the edge. (Y/n) came with a gasp, eyes squeezed shut, fingers tangling in his hair to keep him close while his tongue and fingers worked her through it.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that a man as cocky as you is good at this, should I?” Her whispered words made him chuckle against her skin. His sharp eyes forced hers back open while he slowly pulled away, sucking his fingers clean.