there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.

It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.

Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.

“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”

You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.

While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”

There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.

Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”

Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”

Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”

“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”

She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”

“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”

“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”

“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”

Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”

When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.

A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.

You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”

“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”

His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”

As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”

Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”

You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”

As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”

Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”

“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”

That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.

Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.

Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”

“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”

Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”

He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”

Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”

“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”

“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”

They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”

Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?

“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”

You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”

“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”

From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”

Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”

At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”

“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”

Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”

“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”

She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”

Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”

Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”

Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”

Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”

It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.

All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.

When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”

But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”

Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”

“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”

Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”

He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”

“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”

“What’d you say?”

Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”

“Very tactful.”

You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”

Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”

Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”

“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”

You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”

“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”

The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.

When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”

You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”

His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”

Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”

“Yeah, but you’re cool.”

He chuckles, “I’m cool?”

“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”

“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”

“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”

Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”

You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”

“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”

Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”

“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”

You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”

“I can see that.”

You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”

“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.

“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”

He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”

You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”

He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”

Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”

Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”

You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.

After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”

“Am I?”

“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”

“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”

“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”

Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”

The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”

The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.

With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”

His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.

Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”

It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”

“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”

And, god, is that sexy.

You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.

Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.

After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”

You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.

You eat lunch together.

You talk.

You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.

It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.

Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.

He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”

Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.

Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest.  With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”

His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”

Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”

“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”

You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”

His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”

That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”

“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”

You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”

“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”

“Sorry again for-”

“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”

“Then thanks.”

“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”

“I can tell.”

As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.

That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.

It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.

The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”

Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”

“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining” 

Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”

Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”

Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”

Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”

When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”

The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…

When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.

You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.

After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”

He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”

“So what was all the yelling for?”

Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”

A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”

Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”

All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”

With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”

“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”

Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”

“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”

“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”

“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m begging you.”

You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”

For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”

That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”

A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not necessarily.”

“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”

“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”

“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”

Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”

Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”

You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”

“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”

It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”

“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”

“I have the whole weekend.”

Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”

“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”

“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”

“Ten.”

“Pick me up at 9:30.”

“I could take you to breakfast first.”

“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”

“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”

“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”

Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.

He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”

You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.

Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”

Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”

“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”

“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”

He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”

“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”

“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”

“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”

“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Absolutely.”

The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.

Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.

When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.

“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”

“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”

Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.

When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”

With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”

His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”

You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.

By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”

Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”

He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”

He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.

“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”

You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”

He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”

Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”

“Yup, absolutely.”

You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”

He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”

You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”

“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”

You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”

Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”

It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”

You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”

“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”

Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.

Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1 

Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”

Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”

“Okay, but what if I-”

Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”

You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.

Then it finally starts to get good.

Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.

It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.

Possessive.

The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him. 

When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.

Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”

“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”

He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”

You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”

“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”

You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”

“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”

“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”

He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”

“Now that makes me feel sexy.”

“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”

As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”

“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”

And he does.

All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.

With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.

“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”

You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”

And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.

Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”

“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”

sakusa has a breeding kink because of the ownership, the mess, the sheer fucking risk. you had a pregnancy scare once and it bricked him up instantly. now every time he's fucking you, he's promising to knock you up, smiling to himself when you clench and groan around him. he stuffs you full of cum and then fingers it back into you, fingertips expertly rubbing along the walls he's just coated white with his seed. you're a mess of his making, painted in his cum and soon to be swollen with his child.

daichi isn't stupid—he sees the way you look at him, virgin eyes all sweet and trusting when you tell him that you want him to be your first, that you trust him. he wishes he could ignore the possessive desire to take your virginity, to corrupt you so completely that no other man can ever lay claim to you in the way that he has. but he can't, not when you're whimpering in his lap, legs draped on other side of his thigh, swollen pussy beating in time with his heartbeat as he bounces you up and down. "i know, i know," he soothes. "feels real good, doesn't it, angel?"

oikawa is the sloppiest pussydrunk simp to ever exist. the second he's inside of you, he's moaning and whimpering, barely able to stop himself from praising you. "oh fuck baby -- my pretty baby, you feel so good. you're mine, right honey? all fucking mine?" he can barely control himself; the velvety suck of your walls along his cock feels unreal. "wish you knew how good you feel -- it's impossible not to fuck you full, sweet girl." he buries his face in your neck, hips erratic in rhythm, thighs flexing with every thrust. "please let me cum inside you, baby, please." his fingers dig into your skin when he feels you tighten around him. "oh fuck, right there? is that where you need me?"

kageyama lets you use him like a dildo - legs tied apart and your panties stuffed in his mouth. he's uncharacteristically noisy in his pleasure, grunting and groaning every time you shift your hips. "you like being used like this, don't you?" you smirk down at him. "mr. big strong volleyball player just wants his pretty dick wet." but all he's thinking about is the sheer athleticism of your thighs, how beautiful you look with sweat dripping down your face and in between your tits, and how desperately, violently, he needs you to let him cum.

tsukishima loves to fight and fuck. nothing gets this man harder than someone who goes toe to toe with him. what he didn't expect was how much he wants you to smack him across the mouth when he finally slides inside of you, how much he wants you to tell him he's not fucking you well enough. "slap me," he says. you flash the nastiest smirk before your palm rings across the side of his face. his cock twitches. "yeah. do that shit again, baby."

kuroo loves how smart you are; one of his favorite things to do is lay between your thighs and listen to you read to him, his face squished into your tummy and his arms wrapped around your hips. he loves it so much that your reading sessions often turn into him lazily licking between your folds for hours. a command for you to keep reading rumbles from his throat whenever your focus wavers, when the swirl of his tongue through your wet heat bucks your hips off the bed. "who said you could stop?" he pulls away from your clit. "i'm really interested in learning more about mycology, baby."

best friend!suna takes your "getting your tits sucked on can't feel that good" personally. he tells you it's a shame that no one's ever made you feel good like that, that you should make sure you don't like it before you entirely discard the practice. "plenty of people have sucked on my tits," you tell him. "none of them were me," he replies, all serious calm mixed with arrogant intent. you know you're fucked when he squeezes the heft of a breast in his palm, teeth scraping over your nipple. you arch into his touch. "see? the little princess just needed special treatment."

kenma is amazing at guided masturbation. he doesn't have the best game in person, but behind a keyboard, he's a master. his instructions for you are always slow and methodical, a careful exploration of the erogenous zones he knows drive you wild. you're so obedient, too, sending him voice clips when he tells you to, your pretty voice on display as you finger yourself slowly. his final message reads: please show me how pretty you look rn, along with a picture of his flushed face, leaking cock in his hand.

2025 © all works belong to @sugarwarachan. do not repost, translate, or steal any of my works pls <3

"going to sleep?" he asks. you hum an affirmative sound, eyes already closed. he echoes it back.

he doesn't get off his phone, and the soft blue light emanating from the device keeps you in the limbo between consciousness and sleep for just a while longer.

long enough to feel him shuffle—minimal movement but it's easy to tell when you're all pressed up like this—angling his face toward you, then the softness of his lips when they kiss your forehead.

but suna is soft and he is warm, his hand is back to stroking your skin, and you're too far gone to know if it was real or a figment of the fondness you nurture for him.

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 3:29pm on the crowded train home, but you've found two empty seats to yourselves at the very end. you're by the window, dizzy with your eyes closed and your head on his shoulder because the lady across the aisle has enough perfume to suffocate the entire carriage.

the train ride is mostly quiet but the sun is loud and has no regard for your peace. it blares down on you even through the thin curtain that separates you and the glass window, like miya atsumu when he's been deprived of attention for a while.

your eyelids twitch, then a shadow befall your face. when you peek an eye open, suna's got his big hand over your head like it's all just so casual. you tilt your head to look at him, but he only coaxes you back on his shoulder. you're not sure if he notices the heat of color on your cheeks, but he doesn't comment either way.

"go to sleep," he says, completely unfazed by the solar assault on his own eyes. "i’ll wake you when we get there."

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 8:18pm in the third set of a match that has dragged on for way longer than anyone expected. he moves like a blur on the court, and you're the always the first person to jump from your seat whenever he blocks a spike or lands a clean hit.

"sunarin!" you would yell, holding up a sign with his name in bold glittery letters, loud enough to drown out some of the miya fangirls.

suna would find you no matter where you are in the stands. he looks to you first every time, because catching that bright grin of yours is always better than raucous cheers from his teammates.

it's easy to categorize the neutral expression on his face as indifference, but you know him better than most. know that the slight quirk of his lips communicates something only you two can understand.

it's warm, so fuzzy that you don't notice the way the rest of the team follows suna's line of sight, nor the teasing and knowing smiles when their gazes land on you.

"i'm your first supporter, rin," you had said once upon a time, back when you were just children, your hands bandaging his scraped up knees after volleyball with the other neighborhood kids. "i'm your biggest supporter!"

years later and you're still watching him from the bleachers, still wearing that smile so bright it could rival the sun.

the match resumes, he goes back into position but his eyes remain on you for a second longer.

you like suna rintarou a little too much at 12:22am on a midnight snack run with the miyas, even though half your attention is divided on atsumu who keeps throwing pointed chuckles at suna because the convenience store cashier is not subtle at all.

maybe she doesn't need to care about subtlety when she's that pretty. every brush of her fingers against suna's as he hands her your shared items seems deliberate. you're standing right here—probably looking like chopped liver to a woman on a mission—and you don't know if suna notices her flirty smiles or if he just doesn't care, but that spark of irritation flares up inside you anyhow.

when he pulls out his wallet, you're still huffing internally, already picturing how this next minute could play out. she'd bat her eyelashes, put on a devastatingly beautiful smile and suna would cave because he's still just a man after all.

someone gasps—atsumu, likely—and you snap out of it just fast enough to catch the cashier slump slightly. she glances at you, and you're looking over suna's shoulders to find him fishing out some bills, but he's holding the wallet open for longer than you think is necessary. in the transparent photo slot is something you thought you lost a while back, a polaroid of you making a silly face at the camera. he's there too, barely visible peeking out from behind, but he was looking at you.

suna thanks the cashier politely and grabs the plastic bag from the counter. when he leads you out the door by your hand, you don't even need to look back to know it's atsumu who's squealing into his palm.

you even like suna rintarou at 7:12am on a cloudy sunday morning, maybe a little less than usual when he's pounding on your door like he's about to kick it down any second now.

"what the fuck?" you snarl when you catch him on the other side of the threshold. "i was sleeping!"

he's out of breath, his hair's all wind blown, that lanky figure of his leaning against your doorframe as if he’s about to pass out. even half-asleep, you know that he's not supposed to be here. no, he's supposed to be on a stuffy bus with the rest of his teammates on the way to a tournament in another city.

three hours away for three weeks. you already said your goodbyes last night, already sent him off with a handmade bracelet for good luck.

"i just…" he starts, but it comes out ragged because there's still not enough air in his lungs. he steps forward regardless, uncaring of your disheveled appearance—messy bedhead and your sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder—and pulls you all up into his personal space.

there's a sheen of perspiration on his forehead that you spot from this close. you hear the incessant buzzing of his phone in his pocket, but suna doesn't seem bothered so you don't ask. one of his hands finds the nape of your neck, not unfamiliar, but still quite foreign in this context that you haven't yet deciphered.

"i need to do something," he says, his voice much more even now. and you would ask question what on earth could he possibly need to do at the ass crack of a sunday morning, but his other hand finds the small of your back and you feel the butterflies again, rampant and insane.

"rin…"

then he's leaning in until there's no space between you at all. his lips on yours, tasting faintly of mint and the mango gummies you gave him in case he got carsick. the sky is still cloudy, but you're kissing him back and suddenly you don't mind at all that he almost broke down your door and disrupted your much needed day off.

you're dumbstruck when he pulls back with cheeks rosy and lips shiny, and his gaze is fixed on your mouth. sharp eyes now softened, pupils all dilated. you don't reckon you look any better.

what the fuck.

maybe the thought actually comes out in a dazed mumble because your best friend is laughing lightly, his hands still holding you close. "you're not coming with us this time," he says. "i'm gonna miss you."

and it's on a gloomy sunday morning in the threshold of your home that you realize, belatedly, despite all the signs and blurry lines and knowing grins from the miyas, that suna rintarou likes you too.

maybe a little too much.

It was the frost that concerned Cregan Stark. 

Dragons were warm blooded. The bedtime stories spoke to the truth of the Targaryens’ beast companions, the creatures that made them kings. Good Queen Alysanne had taken time in the North with her dragon, Silverwing. 

It was not a good queen who would descend upon the North in this hour. 

His guest was to be a princess. 

It was not to be the sheened scales of silver to grace the North once again. 

The dragon was said to be the color of pale morning mist amongst the clouds. A silent feature in the sky to descend swiftly upon his enemies should he ever see battle. Cregan did not want the dragon to see war. He did not want the princess to be in the barracks of it, yet he was certain it was to come. 

His men sat on their horses beside him on his own steed as he waited to greet the only daughter of the Black Queen. 

His queen, should he agree with what her envoy had for him. 

Cregan Stark remained uncertain about his position. There were oaths that had been sworn to the former king, Rhaenyra’s father, King Viserys. Oaths were meant not to be broken. However the North was far enough away from conflict that it was possible to remain neutral, to exist in blissful ignorance. As the pale wings of death stretched across the sky with an echoing call, Cregan knew it was time to decide what sort of Lord of the North he was meant to be. 

The beast was not as large as he imagined, but his might and power were noted in the stretch of his wings. He was mightier than any creature he had laid his eyes on. It was a breathtaking sight to see the dragon descend nearly invisible among the blanket of summer snow. 

He remembered to let out a fogged breath when it padded its claws against the soft snow. The creature stretched his wings once more with a whisking flap before extending his neck. He could see the figure that rode the one known as Grey Ghost now. Her arm, coated in a thick brown leather, stretched to pat the side of her mount’s neck. 

He heard a muffle of an unknown language in the wind, words carried away with the force of it before he could understand the syllables. The horses steaded back as the dragon let out a disarming cackle. He could see her in the distance dismount, landing with two feet in the thick snow. 

The princess approached. He could see that she was tall. Not slender like he imagined ladies of court to be. She was determined in the way she walked with a confident nature he did not see of many women in the North and otherwise. Her hair was dark, unlike Targaryens who had been met at Winterfell before. 

“My lord Stark.” She greeted him upon approach. She bowed her head. He returned the favor. 

“Princess.” He greeted. 

Cregan found himself dismounting to greet her face to face. He landed firmly in the snow trudding forward. As a noble lord he could see in her garment she was meant to look presentable, the very picture of a high born lady in cold climate in her dress and hair style. As a man, he noted how beautiful her dark eyes were and how becoming her figure was. Especially her wide hips. He would melt for well defined hips. 

“Your journey was well met?” He questioned. The dragon sniffed and tasted the snow in the distance. 

“It was . . . cold.” She rubbed her thick gloved hands together. “My dragon is not accustomed to such conditions. A learning curve that can be tamed with time and patience.” There was a gentle way she spoke of her beast that reminded Cregan of how little ones cared for their pets. Or mothers with their beloved children. “There is much to discuss. Shall we return to your keep?” 

Her smile was one of warmth and welcome. 

He breathed out in agreement with a soft nod. The lord motioned for his men to bring her the horse he had for her. She was a delicate mare he thought suitable for what he believed was a gentle lady. Upon looking at the princess he knew this was far from the truth. 

***

She ate like a Northern. 

Every bite was quick. Every tear with her teeth into the meat was heard. Cregan could not help, but be fascinated by her. He had insisted upon a meal before discussing anything else. He knew her journey had been long. She had asked over her dragon who was as starved as her. The lord had already set aside sheep for the dragon to dine on after his long journey. 

The princess had been very pleased by the kind and generous offer. 

“Thank you for the meal, Lord Stark.” She gently patted the edges of her lips upon devouring every last bite on her plate. 

“It is my pleasure, princess. I am happy you enjoyed the delicacies of my house.” He had asked his servants to prepare a meal traditional to their house to show the princess how they fed their guests. He had hearty venison braised in plum sauce with turnips and potatoes. She had smiled happily at the venison before being delighted by the sweet taste. 

He called his servants to bring forth dessert. 

The princess did not oppose the oatcakes served with blackberry jam. 

“I shall not waste your time or food any longer, my lord.” She pushed her plate aside for the moment. He nodded sternly, agreeing to hear the message. “The queen has granted me permission to extend to you a marriage pact in exchange for your men in this war.” That peaked his interest. Marriage pacts were lifelines when it came to war. It formed alliances and grew legacies. A good marriage pact would mean great things for his ancestors in the years to come. 

“An interesting prospect.” His voice was deep at the notion. “I would like to hear the proposal as it were. Now this comes from your own lips and idea it seems, but the queen agrees?” It was the way she spoke so proudly of the proposal that sparked Cregan’s interest. His suspicions were deemed correct with a firm nod of the princess’ head. 

“It was mine own idea. It is myself that I offer, Lord Stark.” She tipped her fork into the oatcake spreading the beads of melted fruit about. “I am second in line should my brother fall. A second child to a queen, a Targaryen, a Velaryon, a princess. These are titles I would bring to your house, your ancestry. Ours would be a strong pact, a strong marriage. An alignment and promise between our houses that would stretch across time.” He stared at her hearing what she had to say, to promise. 

Her eyes held a severity. Cregan knew in his heart every word she spoke was meant. The princess was one who held her honor in high regard. She would let herself separate from her family in difficult times for the cost of his men, strong as they were. They would cost her her freedom, a fair price in a sense. 

The price of time away from the sun? 

“And you do not mind it? The cold?” It was far different from Dragonstone. “Nor does your dragon?” 

“Targaryens are adaptable creatures, much like our dragons. We will survive.” She dug her fork deeply into the cake. It was a large morsel to take, much like the duty she put onto herself. 

Cregan Stark smiled. 

“Very well.” He stood letting the metal crafted chair beneath him creak against the stone. He watched her eyes follow as he stepped toward her to truly make their alliance solidified.To pledge to a lady, one must kneel before her. In a sense he was bending a knee to his future, be she a queen, his wife, or both someday soon. “I pledge myself to you, princess. A pact of our houses, of ice and fire.You will have all two thousand of my men in this war.” His hand was unlike hers, free of gloves. His fingers met the warmth of her guarded hand. 

She licked jam from her lips. It brought a flash of desire suddenly into the Lord of the North’s chest. The tease of her tongue, pink and wet, had him attempting to hide his eyes that grew fixated on her mouth. She took his hand in hers clasping her other atop his. She was warm, safe, guarded for only a moment until he saw her raised walls fade softly. 

“It would be an honor, my lord.” 

***

It was her eldest brother Jacaerys who escorted her to the heart tree. 

With her dark hair in small intricate braids, Cregan thought that she belonged here among the snow. It was as if she had been destined for Winterfell. Her cloak bearing the sigil of House Velaryon dragged against the fresh snow. Flakes fell gently in the breeze catching in her hair. The young man seemed to hold onto his sister tightly aiding the weight of her cloak. She did not seem to mind the heaviness. 

She bore the weight very well. 

The lord was meant to stand poised for the woman who was to become his wife in a matter of a few simple phrases. Outward the witness could see a proper man, stone faced and steady. Inside there was a boiling excitement within him. The princess was very beautiful in his eyes. She was not fragile like many women he came upon nor was she the hardened sort of ogre type who would fit well among his men. There was a strange mixture within her that reminded him of a particular type of woman. 

Maternal. 

He found the word when she adjusted her brother’s cloak and kissed his forehead. The word brought a tingle to Cregan’s face radiating across his body. He barely remembered that he should speak the words to start. Her gentle smile reassured him as the ceremony commenced. It was a delight to practice the tradition of a wedding ceremony for the Old Gods. He was not certain a lady of her stature would agree to a ceremony under the heart tree amongst the frosted air. 

Yet here she was, a princess with fire burning in her blood ready to take on the colors of his house and the respect of his Gods. He could not meet the eyes of her brother as they shared the words. The young man remained silent, slightly stern in the ceremony. Should the Gods have blessed him with a sister he would remain untrusting to the man who was to take her for a bride. 

When it came time to cloth her in the thick grey of his house he felt a sudden unease in his heart. The way she knelt in front of him made his blood burn with an unsteady desire. Temptation had never been a pull the Stark lord had felt. He was rational in many of his decisions including this one. She was a connection to a legacy that his house could proudly cling to for many future generations. The strictness and certainty in her tone assured him she would be a fine mistress of his house, able to run it with a confident and sturdy hand. 

Yet he could see she had heart. She had a love for her family. 

That was what drew Cregan Stark to her. 

That was what made the lord of Winterfell desire her to mother his children. 

It was not customary to end the ceremony with a kiss, though looking into her dark eyes made him wish for it. 

The kiss did not occur. Instead she stood in the cloak of his house, a direwolf draped at her back. Jacaerys held the cloak she once wore draped in teal with a silver seahorse. Cregan took his new wife’s hand to escort her back through the snow to their keep. Her brother followed head dropped silently until she began to make polite conversation with him. 

It was about her mother, her brothers, their cousins. Were they well? How they fared? She talked of war, her fears, and other thoughts freely as if trying to assure her new husband that he was apart of these plans as well. Jace admitted that the war was only just beginning. It would be hard to face it without Lucerys. The grief was clear in the young man. 

He had brought the awful news upon his arrival. The wail from the princess’ lips was heartwrenching, but she had not wished to postpone the wedding. 

“Bonding our families is more important now.” She had said as she began to steady herself. 

At the mention of her younger brother she recalled a memory, one of a time when he was scared to fly on his dragon. She had taught him not to be scared, not to show fear in the face of uncertainty. Perhaps her look toward him was a way to say she was not afraid to face the trials of their marriage. 

When they were at the keep, she kissed her brother on each cheek before saying she would be alright. 

“I am in my lord husband’s gentle hands.” She held her elder brother’s hands for a moment longer before letting them go. 

Cregan replaced those hands with gentleness. 

“It is time for consummation.” It was the first time he heard her voice falter, a small little squeak at the end of her words. 

Her face remained as if pressed in a state of serenity. He wanted to ease her worries, whatever they may be. He took her hand kissing the knuckles. Cregan thought a princess’ hands would be soft, tender, underworked. Instead he found them calloused, hardened, strong. She was not a soft girl. She was a strong, capable woman. 

His eyes met hers. 

Love was a quality that could be fostered here. He could see that clearly in her eyes. He could see a future within the dragon princess. 

***

There was a quiet in his chambers. The only sound was the harsh clack and drag of his bride’s boots as she crossed the floor. He observed her in the space. There was a sense of calmness as she toured the area, peering at each adornment with a reverence he found curious. Her fingers teased at the furs on the bed. 

A soft howl hissed into the room through a draft. Cregan went to close the shutters. 

“Is everything alright, my lady?” He saw how heavy the cloak appeared on her frame. 

Her shoulders sagged as she bent to observe the fire. She fed it small logs. He heard it crackle louder, igniting the new wood with fury. She brushed her hands to her gown, thick and grey. 

“It is.” She searched about as if trying to find something wrong within her line of sight. The princess was actively avoiding his gaze. 

“You should hold no secrets from me, my dear.” He crossed the floor to her. Once again he took her hand. She faced him, looked at him for the first time in their chambers. “If the consummation worries you then we shall not act tonight. We have time. We can get to know one another. Learn how to love and care for each other before such a step. I understand the task may be daunting, especially for maidens.” He hesitated, unable to help himself in reveling in her beauty especially in the light of the flames. 

“How shall I explain myself?” She wondered softly, adverting his gaze. He was surprised when she stalked past him for the bed. “I am no fool.  I know war is to come. I also know the part women play. I am meant to bear your heirs and mine.” Her eyes struck him. The words festered inside his mind blooming with a desire. 

Bear his heirs. 

He had always wanted that. 

Children. Many children to run about Winterfell. He had lost his own brother at a young age. He had always wanted to fill the halls again with the sounds of many Stark children. It was that which excited him most about the prospect of marriage. 

“Before we engage further,” She spoke as a princess, strong words with a stubborn resolve. “I would like to make my intentions clear.” His heart caught in his chest. What if she did not yearn for children as he? Could he quell his appetite for the sake of his wife? 

Upon looking at her he thought perhaps he could. 

She let out a soft breath. 

“I wish for you to let me bear as many of your babes as the Gods will allow. It is not a matter of duty, but of desire. I want for a large family. It is my intention to foster that dream with you, however I will not be a mother to stand by and rest. When war comes I will ride Grey Ghost on the battlefield. I will protect my babes even if they are only in my belly. These are the words of a mother. I know it was what I was born for.” Her stance was fierce. He could not fault that desire, nor her determination. 

The relief that escaped him was an overwhelming sort of feeling. 

“Our intentions should be laid bare before one another.” She said quickly with a harsh gaze. 

“Yes. I agree.” He stepped closer. His hand, large and strong, caught the side of her face tipping her chin upward. “It is my intention to breed you.” Words that he had felt for so long in secret now left his lips. Words that seemed to cause her to sigh as a girl might. “It is my intention for you to bear my children, but I will never risk your life, my sweet princess.” He had heard rumors of Queen Aemma, of her death and the death of her babes. Even of her own mother’s grief with her small sister had struck his mind. More news, more grief she had faced. “I will be a cautious and careful husband with you, but know this,” He leaned into her ear as if offering to share a secret between only them, not even the wind nor the fire could hear of his unwavering desire. “I intend to fuck a babe into you every chance from now until our last breaths.” 

Cregan moved back eager to catch his other hand to her cheek. There was an overpowering blackness in her eyes. Yet she waited, searched her new husband’s eyes. He could feel the slow ease of her breath on his lips. He parted them, feeling wanting of her, feeling wanting to fulfill a promise he had longed to make. 

“A deal is set then.” She said it so very calmly even though her eyes sparked with unquenching lust. “I hope you are ready to fulfill your promise.” He thought she may kiss him then, give into her nature, yet instead he felt her leave his grasp. 

Her heels clicked toward the bed. The cloak fell heavy to the ground revealing her thick gown, sent in with her brother for the ceremony. It was long and quilted with a high collar. There were embroidered diamond patterns at her chest laced with blood red thread. Her fingers tickled her throat to undo a sole button before fixating on him. 

It was a dare. 

A dare to act his part. 

Cregan was sure each night would be the same. 

Who was to give in first? Who was to be the tease of the evening? 

“You intend to drive me mad then?” The slickness of her smile spoke more than any word. 

“I know not what you mean, dear husband.” Another button loosened, then another. Her fingers trembled, nearly girlish. 

“You truly mean it?” He stepped forward wanting to know if she felt as he did. “You truly mean to birth as many -” 

“I want it.” She said softly now. It was as though it was a secret held too close to her chest, never to be spoken aloud. “I have harbored these thoughts for as long as I can remember that I wish, no was born, for motherhood. To know that is something my husband desires as well, not just the act of it, but to be a father, to nurture and aid our children, it gives me great hope. Passion.” 

The buttons loosened with her loose words. He watched her peel the layers of her thick gown from her body, then continue on to her small clothes until she was bare before him. He felt young suddenly, untrained to know how to handle the body of the woman. He was not in fact untrained. He had bedded many a woman in his time as lord. 

He had never bedded a woman as fierce and fiery as his Targaryen bride. 

Cregan stepped forward. His hands anchored to her hips as if pulled there through instinct. She did not shiver at the cool touch of him. He did not shy away from the heat of her skin. Should either of their temperatures be cooler or warmer the impact would have smoked. Instead they gazed into each other's eyes before the promise formed with a gentle kiss. 

He had expected burning desire from her, but instead found a loving kiss. 

A kiss a wife may give a husband before he headed off on a hunt. 

A promise to return soon. 

This kiss was no farewell, but instead a greeting, a welcome. 

She found his belt easily. With little effort she freed him of it as though it was what she had desired all day, perhaps from the moment they spoke their vows. Her kisses were quickened with eagerness upon the feeling of his flesh. Her hand had snaked under his clothes to his hard muscles. Fingernails scratched along the edges of his toned stomach. 

“You are strong.” Her forehead and his were met in a promise, breathless and feverous. 

“For you. For our life together I will be.” He did not mean physically. Cregan was no fool. He knew hardships would arise when war was bloodiest. He knew her grief was nearly at the surface. He hated that she had to bury that grief now. 

She should be able to mourn her brother and unborn sister, the life she knew before she knew death. 

“You are strong.” He kissed her, assuring her though felt a slight pull away. “I have seen how resilient you have been in your days here. These are qualities that I hope you pass down to our children.” She would be a good mother. 

“Enough talk.” Her breath smelled of honey wine. “I am curious of the act.” 

Curiosity. 

Resilience. 

Kindness. 

He cupped her face remembering each of these qualities that he knew would be important to a mother of a pack of wolves. She removed all but his trousers from him. With each peel back of his layers he felt an easiness creep across him. It was as though she were revealing parts of himself he had long kept hidden. 

“Lay back.” His eagerness fortified in a demanding tone. 

He was glad for her smile. Her falter worried him for not more than a moment. It was a tease of disobedience before compliance. Cregan knew of her fire from her mere presence, but to see it in action against him was something stranger, delightful. 

She laid onto the furs looking as a pale form lined with veins and heated. Her thighs parted softly on the bed presenting her mound to him as if an offering. She waited for him to continue staring as if intrigued by the idea of giving him control. 

Cregan knew right then that this would be more than a marriage. 

This would be a partnership. 

The Lord of the North knew no greater joy than staring into the dark eyes of his dragon wife while unlacing his britches. Her gaze did not falter from his eyes even as he gripped then began to stroke his cock. He would not begin until she was ready for him. He wondered what made her quiver, wet, wanting. 

Perhaps she had already told him. 

“You will look wondrous filled with my babes.” He leaned atop her. His hand eased cup her hip before tracing the curves along her thigh and belly. Her breath warmed him, a little ease of a gasp. “Is that what you want? You want me to fill you up, my lady?” 

There was no answer. Her words were lost in touching him, his face, his chest, every part of him except that one forbidden piece. He was selfish. Cregan wanted her to touch him there. He would have pleaded with her if he were a weaker man. Instead he leaned forward and kissed her pulse at her neck. She extended it, nearly cooing. 

The sound was similar to her dragon’s call. 

“I am to touch you there.” It was a soft warning. Her whimpers were softer as his hand journeyed to knead her slit. His low voice hummed, nearly purred. 

“Your hands are . . . cold.” The way she spoke did not tell him that she did not enjoy his touch. Cregan chose to kiss her. It was a selfish act he supposed, but he desperately wanted to feel his weight atop her. 

She seemed to as well. Her moans that escaped her lips and the wetness on his fingers spoke very clearly. His princess was being so good for him, but the greatest test was yet to come. 

He gave no warning when he entered her. Her fingernails pressed into his back as he slowly moved, pumping inside her. 

“Can you feel me, princess?” She was tight, clenching. He knew he would not last long. “Can you feel me inside you?” 

She huffed what sounded like an affirmative followed by his name. 

“Cregan.” He felt his stones tighten, a further sign he was close. “I want . . . you . . . I want your pups.” He found his mouth between her breasts ready to worship her there. “Need your seed . . . please.” He should last longer. A lord of the North should be able to satisfy his wife, last a good long while. 

However this was his wedding night and she was a Targaryen princess. 

No one would ever know he did not last longer than a few moments. Nobody would ever expect him to if they saw her, if they knew what she had asked of him. He had never spilled inside a woman before. He had saved his seed for her. 

Cregan Stark filled his Targaryen princess with his warm seed with grunting whine. 

He had never expected her cunt to flutter, to follow. 

His weight collapsed atop her. He should no longer feel surprised by her warmth, but she was nearly aflame. Her arms wound around him playing lightly with his hair. She hummed something soft and lovely. Would she sing like this with their babes? 

“How many?” 

He didn’t need to know what she meant. 

“Seven.” It was a thought, a vision he had. “I’d like seven children.” 

“I’ve had dreams of little wolf cubs with silver fur and violet eyes.” It was a difference from her own appearance, dark and fiery. “Seven bright little cubs with dragon’s blood.” She traced her fingers down his spine. “But there will be war. There will be sorrow. Blood. Fighting. Horror. They will be the light. They will be in the safety of their fierce mother. This I promise you, husband.”