m

He is the safest doctor in the hospital for fat patients. He is one of the only surgeons that won't turn down a surgery because of a patient's weight, and he has zero tolerance for medical fatphobia.

(God have mercy on the doctor that gave his mom a "calories in calories out" lecture when she was in for a bacterial infection he didn't bother treating. He will never recover.)

With every new batch of residents/med students, his colleagues have a bet on how long it'll take for one of them to say something stupid and get their head bitten off. It's one of the many reasons he's called Shark.

Garcia was the sacrificial guppie of her class, but now she knows better and has won the bet three times in a row.

You do your best, but every lungful drags you further down his length, your body desperate for the heavy fill it’s already trembling to accommodate. A needy whimper slips out, fists knotting the sheets, and he soothes you with a gentle kiss against your smile line. 

“That’s it,” he praises, hips rocking in a rich, molasses-slow circle that lets you savor every thick inch. “Such a good girl, taking it all — see how beautifully you fit me?”

Tiny wildfires flower through you everywhere at once, heating your cheeks, spilling down your throat, settling low in your belly where desire winds itself tight and shining.

Embarrassment flickers its wings right alongside it, because he’s cooing at you the same way he coaxes patients through vaccinations: gentle, forbearing, inexorable.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, like there exists a universe where you would ask him to stop.

His hand glides the length of your back, fingers pausing in the dip where your spine meets sacrum. 

Too much is exactly how you’d describe the feeling of his cock dragging across that spot that makes your vision strobe starbusting colors, but the tenderness in his voice knots something unsteady in your body. 

You manage a breathy, “please, don’t stop.” 

A contented rumble answers you, and he plants a feather-light kiss on your forehead, right where he’d lay cool fingers to check your temperature.

He resumes that same rhythm. Slow drive in, lingering grind, languid pull out that leaves you aching for the return. The headboard knocks a soft counterpoint, each tap punctuated by his gentle commentary.

“Doing so well,” he croons when your elbows buckle, gathering you up with one flush tug to his chest. “Hold on to me, there you go, honey.”

Jack angles your leg higher, opening you wider for him, and the change steals air from your lungs in one shattered sound. 

“Shh,” he hushes, half-smile curving, proud and adoring all at once. “I know. Feels big, doesn’t it? Let me make it better.”

His fingers dip to your clit, and your gasp dissolves into his name. “Jack — s’good.”

The room narrows to the glide of his thumb and the steady ballast of his body. 

He kisses the salt at your hairline, murmuring, “Same here, baby. My perfect girl. Let me handle the rest, yeah?”

MARIA NOTE if being babied this hard during sex is wrong, i refuse to be right <3

You bought a toy, a not too big but average to smaller sized dildo, online as going in store was too much to handle. And one night when your college roommates were out, you tried using it but it hurt just the same, you even tired just using your fingers but that wasn’t much better. From then on for years, you avoided sex as much as you could. All subsequent boyfriends who managed to persuade you into it just told you it'd be “Much better with me trust me baby” and it never really was. 

When you bring it up to one of your friends again, they point something out that you had been trying to avoid thinking of. “Hey, isn't one of your dads friends a doctor or something? Why haven’t you asked him about it?” oh that guy. Yeah the one you are kinda a little too attracted to who’s not just your fathers friend but his best friend, who makes your brain short circuit each time he calls you sweetheart? That one. Yeah you’d rather not talk about how sex is painful to the older man, who is the closest person to your father. You just might have to though if you ever wanna actually enjoy sex in your life. 

When you see Jack a few days later for your dads weekly dinner night he hosts, you manage to pull him away telling your dad it’s private girly medical related questions, he shuts up shortly after that. 

“What's up kid you okay?” Jack asks, concern evident in his voice. You rarely asked him anything medical and he was a bit worried you’re about to ask him how long is it normal for a woman to go without getting her period. “How…” you squeak out. Oh god here it comes. Before you start again you clear your throat. “How um common is, you know pain during sex…” the word sex leaves your lips in a meek and quiet tone, Jack tries his best not to chuckle as to not embarrass you further, but he’s happy it's not the question he was expecting. “Pretty common kid, at least the first time” he explains calmly, his casual demeanor easing your anxiety only a bit. “And how about every time?”

The idea of you having sex multiple times shouldn't be making Jack's chest ache the way it is, you’re a young beautiful girl after all, he tries telling himself it’s only cause it’s apparently painful and he cares for you. This time he straightens up a bit, “if the guys aren’t being rough, it's less common, it shouldn’t be every time” he watches as your eyes go a little wide and shake your head no in response to the first half of his statement. “Have you had an exam lately kid?” This is a purely professional question so it shouldn’t feel as dirty as it does coming out of his mouth.

“I um normally cancel them” Jack can only sigh out in a bit of frustration. “You should really get them regularly sweetheart” he misses the way your thighs lightly squeeze together at the use of the nickname. “I’m scared s’ all, anything going um inside hurts and doctors offices only make me more nervous” you explain. He smooths a hand over your hair, sympathy lacing his voice. “it’s okay i don’t mean to make you feel bad about it kid i swear” “How-” he stops himself, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was debating something in his head. “What?” you prompt, trying your hardest to not buckle at the knees from the way he’s practically petting your head. Physical touch is a quite rare thing between you too minus a few hugs on birthdays or pats on the back. “How about I give you one?’ oh sweet jesus that sounds wrong. He clears his throat, his face a little flush now at his own words but he doesn’t backtrack. “I’m a doctor, that you know, so it’s less scary” “No appointment needed if that makes you more comfortable” as you are processing his words he continues on. “I could do it at your apartment, where ever you feel most comfortable”

Your throat shouldn't feel as dry as it does, but the idea of Jack examining your pussy makes your head spin and slick settle between your legs a little. Maybe you should just see a regular random doctor, not one you have a wildly inappropriate crush on. You leave him with a small “Thank you, I'll think about it” and run off with the excuse of using the bathroom. You leave before Jack that night without much of any goodbye to him, he tries not to dwell on it, he really hopes he didn’t upset you.

You however dwell for days on Jack’s suggestion. Without the underlying nerves you feel because of being attracted to him, it is a good idea. You’d feel far more comfortable, maybe too comfortable being examined by him rather than a doctor you hardly know. You don’t bring it up to anyone as you’re too embarrassed but you think about it for days. When you get a reminder for the last gyno appointment you were brave enough to make, you cancel it without another thought and text Jack. 

All he does is thumbs up your message but for the next few hours you are anxious as all hell while waiting for him to knock on your door. You had given yourself the time both to calm down but also clean your apartment. Even though he was literally coming over to give you a vaginal exam and wouldn't care what your place looked like, you wanted it to be neat. Even if this was going to be probably the weirdest event in your life to date.

You are startled out of your train of thought by a knock at the door, you glance at the clock — 3pm exactly. Damn older men and their punctuality or was it a doctor thing? Shaking your head you nervously make your way to open the door, greeting Jack with a little awkward wave. He chuckles softly, the sound calming you as you step back from the open door to invite him in. “It’ll be alright, i’ll be gentle kid” his voice runs over your skin leaving behind goosebumps. You don’t know what you’re more nervous over, the expected pain of the actual examination or, the idea of Jack's hands on you, his fingers in you. 

Without wasting much time Jack settled into a semi professional but still comforting balance as he puts down the small bag of stuff he needs on the floor of your living room. You appreciate his effectiveness, as he tells you to sit on your couch facing him. You listen and watch as he sits on top of your coffee table. “This will be a little awkward because we are here and not a hospital, so I don't have a few things sweetheart” he starts to explain. “The no gown won’t be too hard, you have a skirt on so if you could just take off your underwear i can have access without-” he paused a moment as if thinking “leaving you too indisposed” the way he snaps a pair of blue latex gloves on shouldn’t be making as wet as it is, fuck. 

“Can-” you stutter out, your face hot but he seems to pick up on what you’re asking, nodding softly he turns his head away to give you some semblance of privacy. Bunching up your skirt you hook your fingers into the waistband of your slightly soaked panties and pull them down your legs. You kick them under the coffee table so they’re out of sight and tap Jack on the shoulder, he shakes his head softly at your shyness before turning to face you again. 

“Put your feet up either side of me on the table, won’t be the same as stirrups but close enough” tugging at the end of your skirt to cover yourself a bit more you do as he says and place your feet up flat on the low table. He adjusts them slightly, grabbing your foot one at a time and slides them a bit so they are more half off not so far back. “Scooh more to the edge of the couch kid, lean back ‘n tilt your hips up a lil more f’ me” the way you listen so well to Jack has him smiling softly at you and muttering out a small “Atta girl” 

He pressed lightly around on your abdomen through your shirt and skirt, eyes glued to your face gauging your reactions. “No pain or tenderness when I do this, right?” when you shake your head no he stops. “My hand is gonna go under your skirt for a second okay?” your face grows hotter and you nod, your voice has yet to find you again but so far nods are an effective enough communication with him. He reaches down between your legs but only presses around again, this time he is much closer to your pussy but he remains on the outside, pressing over the mound of it and on your pubic bone. “No pain?” Once again your head shakes side to side. His hand pulls away, your eyes follow his movements as he reaches down to grab a small bottle out of his bag.

He holds it but doesn’t do anything with it yet, his eyes find yours again “This next part i have to put my fingers inside, that okay sweetheart?” you gulp softly, nodding yes slowly as your nervousness grows again. “That’s the part that us- usually hurts” you explain in a small voice. It’s Jack's turn to nod now, "Penetration?” you let out a ‘mhm’ in agreeance as he squeezes the clear substance onto his pointer finger. “This is lube to make it easier and I’ll go slow, only one finger” his other hand reaches around your leg to touch the back of your calf, rubbing soothing lines up and down the muscle. “If you’re relaxed it might not be as painful” he explains, waiting on your go ahead before reaching down under your skirt once again. 

Pushing his lube coated index finger through your folds the tip of it finds your entrance, he gauges your face, when you nod again he proceeds by pushing it inside. 

Your sharp intake of air makes him stop once only the first bend of his finger is inside. “Come on, relax f’ me sweetheart” his low honey dipped voice makes your body go a bit lax, he inches his finger forward again and when you show no sign of pain he goes all the way til it's completely inside. “How’s that kid?” he sounds as breathless as you feel but you try to ignore it. “A little pain” you squeak out. “Give it a second, relax and it might go away”

“Don’t know how to relax more” you whine out, the sound going straight down Jack’s spine and up again, he shivers a bit and wills it away before it travels further south. “I’m gonna try something…do you trust me sweetheart?” you’re already nodding again in response before he fully finishes his question. 

Bringing his thumb up he parts the lips of your pussy til it finds your clit. You gasp out and slightly scare him, “That hurt?” “No no m’ sorry surprised me is all” you mumble out, biting your lip to hold in any more noises from getting free, like an accidental moan. Jesus christ why did you think this was a good idea again? If you had to bet you’d say you were soaking his gloved finger, even with the sting you felt from it inside, it felt good at the same time. You never even reached this type of feeling with your own fingers.

His thumb on your clit presses down lightly and starts rubbing in circles, you let out a small little sigh that makes Jack smirk a bit. “There you go honey, come on” “Un-tense your shoulders” your body listens almost instantaneously “Good girl” you can’t help the whimper that comes out at his words, he doesn’t say anything in response. “Feel any better?” he prompts, his eyes remain on your face, no matter how bad he wants to peek under your skirt to watch the way your little bud twitches under his touch. “Mhmm a bit” you answer softly, trying to push away the odd feeling bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. 

“Can I put in another finger, we’ll see how that feels?” he whispers, he definitely has enough information that he thinks he knows what’s wrong already but you don’t need to know that. “Yeah” you pant out, shaking your head a little too eagerly, if Jack notices he doesn’t say a word. With ease his middle slips in alongside his pointer, his thumb still circling your clit. “No pain honey?” the motion of your head once again answers his question. “Wanna try something else…can I move my fingers sweetheart?” 

“Please” you plead, head to fuzzy to care how desperate you sound. Slowly pulling his fingers back he watches your face as he pistons them back in, repeating the motion. “That feel good?” “Mhm no pain, fuck! feels really good” you whine out, your hips now bucking up against his fingers. He speeds up, still waiting to see if it hurts or if you stop him. “Jack” you moan out, his cock throbs in response. 

“Yeah kid?” “Need- Mm” you cut yourself off, pinching your lips in a line and tilting your head back. “Nuh-uh come on honey, tell me what ya’ need” he prompts, curling his fingers up to hit a different spot inside you that has you letting out a pornographic noise you didn’t know you were even capable of. “Need-” you huff out, before he stops you “Look at me when you say it, come on kid” “Use your words”

Lifting your head you look into Jack’s eyes, his breath hitches at the sight of your glazed over lust filled eyes, batting your eyelashes you start again. “Need more” you sob. His stomach just about hurts now from how hard he is in his jeans that feels all too tight. “Yeah? What more honey? Another finger or something else?” he asks, consciences be damned he’s not gonna leave you hanging even if your old man would fucking kill him if he ever found out about this. “Somethin’ else please” you whine, not even knowing what more you want. Jack however seems to when he takes his free hand off your calf and lifts your skirt, his head ducking under it. His fingers don’t stop positioning in and out of your slick cunt even if you squeal a bit at his motion. The noise morphs into a moan, your body melting into the couch when his warm tongue pokes out and makes contact with your pussy, licking at your pussy. “Still feel good kid?” he mumbles out, before his thumb leaves your bundle of nerves only to be replaced by his mouth as he sucks at it. 

“Yeah- Yeah feels s’ good” you breathe out, letting go of your skirt, he grabs at your one leg, lifting your foot off the table placing it over his shoulder, prompting you to do the same with your other before his fingers slip out of your pussy. 

You whine at the loss, “Jackkk” making him chuckle softly against you. “Hang on sweetheart” he coos as he uses both hands to grab at your hips, pulling you up and half way off the couch to get you closer to his mouth, lapping at you hard splitting your folds with his pointed tongue before sucking at your clit. “Ah- Ahhh ooh fuck” you wail out, your hands frantic to steady yourself. One finding purchase on his shoulder before sliding down his back under his shirt where your nails scratch at his skin. The other holding on for dear life to the edge of your couch cushion, your legs tighten a bit around his head. 

“Holy shit” you whisper out in breathless disbelief, the odd feeling from before coming back to quickly build in the pit of your stomach. Jack's large hands cupping your waist squeeze at your flesh, as he shakes his head side to side a little, flattening his tongue against you. Your thighs burn a bit at the friction of his stubbly face rubbing against them. He moves back to harshly sucking at your clit, your pussy and his mouth coated in his spit as he practically slurps at your juices.

“Huu- shit” “Wait wait! Jack- mhm feels like m’ gonna pee” you try pushing at his head to stop him, even if you desperately didn’t want his mouth off you. That feeling in your stomach was teetering on the edge. “Ya’ don’t have to pee sweetheart, that’s a orgasm you feel” he grumbles out, the explain making your hand ease up from pushing instead it rakes through his curls “S’ okay cum for me kid” 

“Promse s’ okay” you whine out, staring down at his head between your legs. “Yeah, you can do it” “cum f’ me it’s okay honey” "Promise it’ll feel good, no pain” his reassure is all you need to let your high wash over you, legs shaking on his shoulders, “There we go, fuck” he moans out. Your back arching as you cum on his tongue with a loud wanton moan filling your apartment coupled with his praise, “Atta girl, sweetheart” “Such a good girl f’ me” he laps at your cum. “Taste so fucking sweet, like i knew ya’ would” he mumbles out, that one you think was meant more for himself.  

Managing to reluctantly pull his head from between your soft thighs, Jack used his hold on your hips to place your body back onto the couch. You stare at him wide eyed when you notice his face all wet, covered in you. “Got somethin’ on my face kid?” you nod meekly. He chuckles and pinches at the collar of his shirt to bring it up and wipe at his mouth. “No pain after?” he asks. “No, never done that before” you whisper out, flicking your head down to where your skirt now covered your puffy but satisfied pussy. 

“Just needed an older man huh sweetheart, help ya’ relax a little and the pain melts away” he states, reaching down to rub at your knee. “Fucking little boys” he tsks but your eyes are glued to the large bulge in between his thick thighs. You’d have to be extra relaxed to take that monster on…

Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.

He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you. 

Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.

You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.

Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.

Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.

The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.

The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.

You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself. 

You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?

You walked directly into his chest. 

When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him." 

But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly. 

What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.

He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"

You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said. 

He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face. 

Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up." 

You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER. 

So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times. 

That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity. 

You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.

You : Colles. You free?

You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.

You didn't look at the screen.

You should have looked at the screen.

Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"

You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"

"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs." 

You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."

Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture." 

"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it. 

Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him. 

You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back. 

He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day. 

Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"

"Did you get my text?"

"What — what text?"

The floor dropped out from under you. 

"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —

Dr. Park Ortho.

No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity. 

Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.

Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.

Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.

Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.

The third though. 

You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display. 

It's you. 

The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it. 

Until now. 

Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.

Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.

You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here. 

Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.

A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness. 

"Present the case, doctor." 

"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.

"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice. 

Without any other choice, you followed him. 

When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once. 

Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face. 

"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."

Transferring was the only option left for you now. 

"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it." 

Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'. 

That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you. 

You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious. 

Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.

Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"

Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal. 

You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly. 

Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.

"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you. 

"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure. 

He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."

Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator. 

Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet. 

Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.

"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.

"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" 

If only he knew. 

The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing. 

By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.

Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.

Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time. 

Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.

"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."

With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in. 

Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.

"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"

"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."

That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"

"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."

"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.

Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show. 

"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."

"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."

Park the shark? Coming down to see you? 

You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one. 

You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then. 

His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side. 

There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.

A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.

He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place. 

"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."

You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest. 

The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back. 

But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely. 

Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.

You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.

You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.

Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.

When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.

"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.

"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at. 

"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him. 

He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.

You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had. 

A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.

He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"

Smug fucking bastard. 

"Shut up."

He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."

"People sigh."

"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."

"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago." 

"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."

Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you. 

The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.

Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.

Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."

When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."

You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"

Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"

Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.

You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.

The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."

Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.

He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"

"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.

He looked up. "What was that?"

"N-nothing."

"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?" 

You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"

"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"

"What?"

"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."

"I do not."

"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee.  "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."

"W-what?" 

A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating. 

"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand… 

"Don't say adorable."

"Why not?"

"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"

"Mhmm."

"— medical professional."

"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument. 

The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel. 

"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"

Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.

Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"

It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?

Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.

"W-what?"

"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"

You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically. 

Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.

Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."

"That's not what I asked, was it?"

"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."

You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.

"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl." 

Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.

Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him. 

As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants. 

There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now. 

Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it. 

It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison. 

His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.

One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl. 

Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan. 

Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."

The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers. 

Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.

"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.

His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about. 

Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.

When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste. 

Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud. 

"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that. 

One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips. 

The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him. 

His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.

"Brendon —"

He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.

He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."

Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought. 

With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips. 

The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment. 

When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop. 

He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.

A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.

"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"

"Stop it."

"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.

"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.

His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.

"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.

His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.

"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after. 

The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.

This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.

By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice. 

When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.

"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.

"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.

"You're ticklish."

"I'm not ticklish."

"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."

"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"

Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.

He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"

That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"

"At the hospital. People look at you."

"They do not."

"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."

Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things." 

You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention. 

He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."

"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.

"Sure you don't."

"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome. 

"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest. 

Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open. 

He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.

"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower. 

"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.

You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it. 

Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.

He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?" 

A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.

He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."

"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly. 

Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.

"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."

"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."

"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"

It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for. 

The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him. 

Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.

"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.

"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.

"Words, baby."

"Move, Brendon."

The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.

Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.

It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.

His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip. 

"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"

"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you. 

The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.

He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.

On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.

A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.

"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.

"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else. 

"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart? 

You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words. 

His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.

Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —

Oh. 

Oh. 

The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."

Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."

Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that. 

Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.

You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.

If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."

Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."

You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.

He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him. 

The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.

"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.

You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.

Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone. 

Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.

So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced. 

This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep. 

"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."

"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."

"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.

Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.

He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip. 

You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.

Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.

"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.

"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."

"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were. 

"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.

You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."

His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"

"Well. He is my attending."

"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant. 

"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."

"I'm not."

"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."

His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."

A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.

"Watch it."

You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it. 

Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding." 

"I'm not hiding anything."

"You're smiling. I can feel it."

"Shut up, Brendon."

you had always been on the bigger side, always had some meat in your bones, rolls on your stomach and fat on your ass. your body made you proud, it carried you through all your highs and lows, it was a testament of you living your dream life, of how you loved and how you were loved. it was you and you weren’t going to let a couple of random whos change that. so for the sake of your mental health, you found a place that catered to your needs.

the staff was incredible. lilly, the receptionist was a sweet girl that always complimented you, either on the set that you were wearing, your tattoos or how you did your hair, one night she even said “oh my god, i need your ass.”

john, the trainer that oversees the floor, was a cool guy too. around his forties, defined muscles and too much of a sweet talker for his own good. he flirted with you and every other living and breathing being with a pair of tits. he was funny and actually paid attention to how the people training were executing their sets.

and then there was brendon. tall, broad, big, huge, brendon.

brendon has a presence that makes everyone gravitate towards and away from him at the same time. he is quiet, the most he does is give a nod as a good evening and another one as good night when he arrives and leaves the building. he moves with purpose, almost like everyone and everything was his prey.

it is almost unsettling. even more so the way he is always staring, but only at you. you have thought about confronting him, about asking if he had a problem with you or if something was wrong, but one steel blue eyed glance and all your bark is gone.

you can count on your interactions with him on one hand.

the first happened a month after you first saw him. it was past nine thirty when you were sitting in the coffee shop after just finishing your sets for the night. with your elbows on the counter, you chatted away with marie, the night cashier.

marie and you were thirsting over the new yoga professor when the sound of a throat being cleared caught your attention and, when you looked back, you caught brendon staring at you. goosebumps covered your skin and you straightened your back, busying yourself with your red berries smoothie while he ordered some protein filled monstrosity.

brendon was awfully close to you, right arm rubbing your left one in silence. it was deafening, marie kept glancing between you and him and you were sure he was staring at you the whole time.

your face burned, the five minutes that took to get his drink ready felt like five hours and some change.

“unsweetened dark chocolate protein shake for brendon!” alice the barista-turned-smooth specialist shouted.

brendon reached for his drink silently, nodded and muttered a “thank you” towards alice and marie before leaving. he stopped by your side once again, tipped his head towards your ear and barely above a whisper said “have a good night.”

you gulped, nodded your head probably way too fast while wishing him the same.

marie was in awe, jaw almost hitting the floor. alice had a mischievous look on her face, her plush lips barely containing her pearly teeth.

“girl…” marie said.

“girl!” it was alice’s turn.

“what?” you asked them.

“he’s totally into you!” marie basically shouted. you and alice shushed her.

“tone, dude.” alice intervened.

shaking your head, you said “i highly doubt that.” and took another sip of your smoothie.

“marie is right.” alice agreed with her friend. “he never, NEVER, speaks or looks at anyone unless he has to.”

marie nodded her head with such force that you were sure she was going to get whiplash. “seriously, all the hot velocity class girlies tried their luck with him and nothing! all they got was a ‘no, thanks.’ or a ‘not interested.’ he. wants. you.”

you stared at them and shook your head. “what’s his deal, anyway? he’s so… i don’t know, tense? up tight? about to bite somebody’s head off?”

“he’s a doctor. orthopedic surgeon or whatever at the PTMC. i have a friend that is a nurse in his department and apparently his nickname there is ‘park the shark’. everyone is terrified of him.”

“huh,” you thought about it. the gelled hair, the intense stare, how he moved with precision. “it fits.”

the stares kept happening and the goodbyes only made its appearances on what you figured were his good days, the ones he looked well rested and not a single drop of gel touched his hair.

they weren’t many.

the second time happened a couple of months after the first one. you felt eyes following you across the room as you loaded the weights for a deadlift, seventy pounds on each side. not much, but you were progressing well.

you positioned in front of the bar, spread your legs apart to centre yourself, left hand in and right hand out. you pulled a deep breath in and when you were about to lift, a strong tug on your shirt pulled you back up. when you looked back, you found brendon staring at you. he circled you, grey-blue eyes never leaving your form. his movements were smooth, soundless, almost calculated.

brendon truly lives up to his nickname.

then he stopped in front of you and the awe turned into a scoff when he took your headphones off.

“can i help you?” you asked, annoyed.

“your form is wrong.” he replied with that houlier than thou tone he always carried and pointed to your legs. “spread wider. your feet are facing forward, open their stance a bit.”

you looked at him again, raising an eyebrow. that only got you another eyebrow raise back and a tut of his head. you exhaled a bit too strongly and did what he asked. the changes weren’t big, but the new stance helped with the exercising, making it easier to lift.

brendon watched you in silence, nodding as you completed your set. he only spoke again after you finished it. “that’s it. good girl.”

the random pet name caught you off guard. heat pooled on your stomach and made its way up to your face. you wanted to say something, anything, but all that left your lips was a small “thank you.”

brendon gave you one of his curt nods, murmured a “nice shirt” pointing to the simple nine inch nails logo shirt you were wearing and went back to whatever exercise he was doing.

you were pretty sure that sweat wasn’t the only thing wetting your body.

the third you interacted with him happened not long after the second, and it was the biggest one to date.

that day had been the worst day ever at your job. think about the only thing that couldn’t go wrong? it did. and it wasn’t even your fault.

the company’s thirtieth anniversary was arriving and a big nationwide campaign was about to hit the market in five days. as a marketing coordinator, your job was to coordinate and instruct the analyst team as they followed your manager’s strategic planning. everything had been done to perfection and had even been turned in before the deadline. the only thing your manager had to do was send out an email, one that you had asked him to countless times before, to the advertising agency authorising the release of the commercial.

for some ungodly reason, your CEO was made aware by the agency that they had less than a week to send the commercial to the networks and most of them asked at least seven days to add it to their programming. she asked your manager about it. he didn’t know what to answer, you said that the commercial has been ready for at least ten days, only pending the release’s approval by said manager. one thing led to another and you had to sit for an extra hour and a half in your daily zoom call to hear a lecture about time management that you weren’t the demographic for.

so you arrived at the gym earlier than usual, worked your ass off, angrily doing your exercises.

brendon watched you all the time, silently following you. your thirty minute treadmill run turned to an hour run that was abruptly cut when a big, strong hand pressed the emergency button.

“what the fuck is your problem?” you shouted at brendon, who slowed his pace on the treadmill on your right.

“get out.” he grabbed your hand, and with a tenderness you didn’t imagine he would have, walked you out of the room, into the coffee shop.

“are you just going to drag me around like a caveman? what the fuck, brendon?”

he stopped midway and stared at you. his intense stare made you cower a bit. brendon dropped your hand. “you were going to hurt yourself if you kept going. now come, let’s sit down for a bit.”

he kept leading you, this time with his hand on the small of your back. when you arrived at the coffee shop, brendon asked marie for your usual and, surprising you, marie and alice, he ordered a red berries smoothie for him too.

“what happened?” he asked as he sat down, handing you your drink.

you sighed and told him about your day, about all the hard work you and your team did and how it almost went to shit. brendon never interrupted you and nodded along to your rant.

“i understand that you are angry, and rightfully so, but you need to learn other ways to let it out. you were one misstep away of me having you on an operating table and i really wouldn’t like that.”

you looked at him through your lashes in a spoiled child way. “why not?”

“i don’t like operating my friends.” he said, short.

“friends, huh?”

all brendon did was give you a tight lipped smile and a look that conveyed “maybe something else”.

or you wished it did.

“so what do you do when work gets to you?” you asked him after a while.

“i work out, like a normal person.” he gave you a pointed look. “watch my favourite movie, meditate. I got into crochet after a surgeon friend of mine took me to a workshop.”

you giggled. “you crochet?”

“yeah, why?” brendon asked, sounding a bit defensive.

“nothing. it must be a sight to see though.”

he smiled at you. a rare sight, that much you knew. it was a beautiful one, there was no denying that, but after he told you “i’ll show you someday.” in a tone that made your insides all fuzzy, you remembered his nickname, and added another thing to the list that made him live up to it. you felt like a prey and you loved the thrill.

brendon became more talkative after that day, and his talkative ways consisted in saying “hello” and “goodbye”, asking how your day went and correcting your posture when john was busy with someone else.

today was a good day. you received a promotion, finally taking over as marketing manager after your previous boss was fired after that whole shenanigan, you and your friends had finished your italy trip itinerary and it was sunny outside.

as usual, since you lived only twenty minutes away from the gym, you walked.

what you didn’t expect was the storm that started pouring as you were about to leave.

“need a ride to your car?” brendon asks as he stops by your side.

“i walked here.” you answer him, pouting while you watch the rain.

“why?”

“i live near.” you shrug.

“come.” he pats the small of your back and points to the black porsche cayenne parked in one of the covered spots.

brendon gives you his phone, telling you to type your address and, surprisingly, the less than ten minute ride isn’t a silent one. he asked what you liked to listen besides nine inch nails, told you to put some music on, to which you surprised him when sabrina carpenter started playing (he had no idea who she was, obviously). brendon asked about your day, and when you told him about your promotion, he congratulated you. you returned the question, and the horrified look on your face when he told you about the reimplantation of an amputated leg made him laugh.

the last few minutes of the ride are done in silence and with a tension that you could cut with a knife.

you noticed brendon staring at you, going from your face, to your cleavage and the fat on your thighs that the shorts you were wearing did a poor job of hiding.

you weren’t a saint either. you ogled his arms, the way his bicep was almost bursting through his shirt, the way his middle and ring fingers tightened around the wheel, making you creative mind wonder, imagining how they would feel inside of you. you had to lick your lips and swallow to suppress a moan.

the storm had finally passed when you entered your street. brendon slowly parked in front of your house and, for a few seconds, nothing but sabrina’s voice singing “never getting laid” filled the space between you.

“do you wanna come inside?” you ask.

“yeah.” he said, giving you a look that made you feel like a fish that bit the bait.

you bite your lip and nod, more to yourself than anything else, as if the realisation of what might happen finally downs on you.

brendon’s hand is on your waist the moment the two of you get out of the car, and he places a kiss on the junction of your neck and shoulder as you work your keys on your door.

it happens so fast you are not even sure your door was closed before he pressed you against it.

brendon is a big guy, so big that it feels like he is all over you. his kiss is needy and incredibly soft, a complete contrast of what you were expecting. he pulls your sports bra off and a groan leaves his lips when your tits spill out of the fabric. his hands squeeze them and he wastes no time in pulling a pierced nipple to his mouth, licking and sucking it like his life depended on it. brendon lets go with a pop, thumbs both nipples before pinching them, making you whine.

“you have no idea how long i’ve been waiting to do this.” brendon says before he takes the other nipple in.

you are a mess, lost in how his touch feels against your skin. you run your nails over your scalp and brendon moans around your tit.

his hands travel around your curves, latching themselves to the elastic band of your tight shorts. brendon yanks them down, bringing your panties with them. he kneels, traces a path of wet kisses and love bites from your sternum to your mound, where he stops to inhale your scent before he dives into your cunt.

brendon eats you like a man starved, like all the water in the world has vanished and the only thing that can quench his thirst is your essence. he licks a couple of stripes before attaching his lips to your clit, bringing one thick middle finger to tease your hole. brendon circles it, eases his way in bit by bit.

“fuck.” you moan, not believing you are feeling this full with only one finger. you can’t even imagine how it would feel with his cock.

he stops the assault on your poor clit, looks up at you with adoration. “you are fucking divine, you know that?”

it makes you moan, and the second finger breaching into your pussy doesn’t help much.

“answer me.” brendon orders.

you nod frantically, letting out a broken “i know.”

his lips are back around your clit and the feeling of his wet tongue and thick digits throw you off the edge in record time. your thighs tightened around his head so hard that he had to pry himself out of you.

brendon kisses you, shows you how good you taste on his tongue.

“where’s your bedroom?” he asks, lips still on yours.

you grab his hand and pull him with you.

you sit on your bed, fold your arms and pour in a fake complaint. “you’re overdressed.”

brendon smiles, the first sweet one you had ever seen on his lips.

he takes off his shirt first and it is exactly what you had expected, a perfectly defined six pack. his shorts and underwear come next and the air runs out of your lungs. he is big, the rare combination of length and girth that you had only seen on girthmaster. he walks towards you, that smooth walk that resembles a white shark praying on a poor seal.

that is exactly how you feel and it excites you.

brendon runs his hands on your hair and cups your face. he brings you up for a lingering kiss that makes you light headed.

“on your stomach, baby. c’mon.” he orders and you don’t think twice. you lay in the middle of the bed, just like he asked, head turned to your right to look at him.

he grabs one of the pillows and lifts your waist to set it under you.

“spit.” he says as he positions one hand near your mouth. lifting your head, you do as told.

you feel brendon position himself behind you and hears him playing with his shaft. he kneads your ass, gives it a couple of playful smacks as he mutters something about it being better than he imagined. he is gentle, plays with the blunt head of his cock around your hole to make it wetter and inch by inch, he slowly spears it into you.

it fills you to the hilt and you are pretty sure you could come without even moving.

brendon starts thrusting, increasing his speed the wetter you got. the feeling is maddening, no other partner has stuffed you this way. it only gets worse, actually, better, when he finally drops his weight on top of you.

his big body engulfs you, the heavy of it presses all of your spots and you can feel your second orgasm creeping in on you.

brendon circles one arm around your waist and the other one around your neck, putting you in a headlock.

that does it to you, the dam breaks and that overwhelming tingly sensation washes you ashore. your pussy flutters and constricts around brendon’s dick as he keeps fucking you through your orgasm. his thrusts are becoming more and more erratic and, without a warning, he cums.

brendon pulls out and the empty feeling almost makes you want to cry. he lays by your side, pulls you closer while whispering a sweet “come here.”

you don’t know how long you stay like this, in silence, cherishing each other’s hold.

brendon brings you even closer, kisses you like he doesn’t want to ever let you go. when you pull back, you ask “wanna order some take out and go again?”