all of my work is my own; do not translate, post it somewhere else or feed it to AI. all of my work, even if not explicit, should not be consumed by minors. if you're a minor, please do not interact with any of it.
i primarily write for female/afab reader, given it's how i identify most when reading. on occasion, i'll write for gender neutral reader.
i am also open to recieving requests for fanfics/blurbs/imagines/drabbles through my inbox; please, don't hold back (especially on the filthy thoughts!!!)
-> this is an 18+ only blog. minors do not interact.
-> i write mostly for jack abbot (the pitt), brendon 'the park' shark (the pitt) & andrew 'pope' cody (animal kingdom).
–> my inbox for requests/asks is always open!
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#abbotsbunnygf's rambles! 💭 - my works & other thoughts.
i'm attracted to fictional shawn hatosy characters, and some are psychopathic killers, and the fact that i could be referring to at least three characters is crazy
five times andrew tells you something he wants, and the one time you tell him what you want. or, andrew goes to therapy and gets better at communicating his emotions. 5.3k
f!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, friends to lovers, normal lives au, depiction of panic attack, reference to implied abuse, brief reference to suicidality. fuck ai. rip andrew cody you would have loved dbt and modern family.
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You feel him before you see him. That’s usually how it goes with Andrew.
He has a bad habit of haunting corners and relegating himself to the edges of a room. You don’t mind but the patrons at the restaurant you waitress for might have different opinions. You’ve told him to stop scaring the hostess, the poor girl is only sixteen. You’ve also told him that he’s allowed to sit himself somewhere, anywhere, while you finish taking your last few orders or clearing your last few tables. You think he needs to hear your permission to occupy part of the same space as you. You keep trying to tell him your permission is active and ongoing.
You look over your shoulder from where you’re stacking dirty plates just as your hostess taps your elbow.
“Um, he’s here for you.” She half-whispers, looking back towards the entrance. His frame sets the precedent for him, tall and broad shouldered. If your hostess could see the way he looks folded under a throw blanket with a mug in his hand, she would find him infinitely less scary.
You smile at her and tell her to sit him at the bar. You finish not long after, saying bye to your manager as you grab your bag from the back. Andrew faces the screens behind the bar but you know he’s not really watching the game, not when his eyes find you the moment you step out of the kitchen doors. A sweating glass of water sits untouched in front of him.
“Take me home?” You ask, as if that’s not what he does after every shift.
He shepherds you out the door with a hand hovered near you, wearing a smile you know is only yours. You don’t think he’s aware of how transparently fond he is of you.
The sky is beautiful, dark and starry, the sun having set a few hours before you finished work. You fuss with the air controls as the truck pulls out of the parking lot before sinking into your seat. You pass under streetlights, intermittent beams cutting across the dashboard.
“I had my appointment today.” Andrew speaks without looking away from the road. You told him once, how as a teenager you used to start difficult conversations with your mother in the car. Talking about things like birth control was easier if you didn’t have to look at each other.
You wait for him, like you always do. It’s overwhelming sometimes, the space you give him to think and feel. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to you. He does, desperately. He knows there’s not an objectively correct way to conduct emotional intimacy but he wants to get it right so badly. He’s been trying this more, the talking in the car thing. This way he can feel you beside him, and you won’t be able to watch him make the wrong expression or catch something in his eyes if he’s not quick enough to hide it.
“How was it?”
“Fine.” You know this means it went well. “She gave me homework.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I’m supposed to practice my ‘I want’ statements.”
Andrew likes to think he’s been doing well in therapy. There are a lot of things he knows he’s a long way off from even beginning to unpack, but he’s trying to be good. To be some kind of normal. Emotions and thought patterns are difficult to name and even harder to deal with, so it’s nice to feel like there are goals; skills he can get good at, habits he can start building.
“Give me one.” You challenge. “What’s something you want tonight?”
He thinks. “I want to get you home and make sure you eat.”
“Nice try, Andrew. That’s about me, not about you.”
“I said something I wanted, didn't I?”
“It was a cop out, you owe me a good one before the end of the day.”
He gives you a look he intends to be withering but he knows he’s missed the mark when your smile only widens.
Andrew likes your apartment. It’s airy and it’s open and it smells like you. He likes how lived in it feels, how much he’s learned about you from looking at your photos and framed prints, at the books and trinkets littering your shelves.
“Do you want to shower?” You ask, tossing your bag on the couch before toeing off your shoes.
“You go first. You smell like fryer oil.”
You head down the hall because he’s right.
Andrew starts moving around your apartment as soon as he hears the water running. He tucks your shoes by his near the door, he hangs your bag in the place you like it, he wipes down your counter because it’s covered in crumbs. He makes the call to the pizza place you both like and folds the throw blanket back over your couch. When you come out, clean and in your comfies, he fills your favourite cup with water before he takes his turn.
The doorbell rings not long after Andrew steps out of the shower. Hair still wet, he pulls on the sweats and shirt you washed for him and heads towards your door.
“Sit down.” He says from behind you, just as you’re getting up from the couch.
“It’s my turn to get it.” You follow him, slipping your feet in some slippers before he can get his shoes on.
“It’s never your turn.” He says. He moves you away from the door, grasping your arms with both hands and nudging you firmly but kindly back towards the couch.
“That’s the point.” You grumble as you sit back down.
Andrew looks almost smug when he comes back in, moving through your kitchen. You make a note to slip a couple twenties into his wallet when he’s not looking.
“Are we watching something?” He asks, pulling plates down from their places.
“I don’t know, are we?”
He looks at you sideways, the way he always does when you start things.
“Pick something.”
You’re flicking through a streaming service as he sets your plate and a can of something cold on the coffee table in front of you. Always yours first. He makes a second trip with his, settling beside you, tugging the throw blanket down over your lap so it covers both of you.
You sigh exaggeratedly and Andrew braces for whatever nonsense is about to come out of your mouth.
“Andrew, I really just don’t know. I feel so undecided. If only there were someone who could make a statement about what they wanted.” You’re being melodramatic.
“You’re insufferable.” His voice is flat but his eyes betray him.
“I guess we’ll just sit here,” You tilt your head, faux morose. “Until someone decides they want something.”
“You know what I like.”
“Sure,” you drawl. “But I don’t know what you want.”
He looks at you for another minute, expects you to back down but you don’t.
“Fine.” He’s wary, half expecting a trick or a joke. “I want to watch Modern Family.”
“Excellent idea.” You affirm, nodding your head sagely.
Something about the moment, the ease of it, feels almost strange to him. He knows you asked, but it still feels too simple.
“What, you’re not gonna make fun of me for picking a sitcom?”
“Of course not. It’s what you wanted.” You find the show quickly, trading the remote for your plate.
Andrew doesn’t move right away. He’s happy here. He’s always happy to sit beside you and watch television until you fall asleep against him. He’d watch anything with you and still be happy, but he admits to himself that something warms in his chest seeing you just as happy watching something he picked.
He wants things. Of course he wants things, everyone does. But getting to have them is a completely different issue. Getting to have you is something else entirely.
-
Deran calls Andrew while you’re in the truck, asking him to stop by the bar. Andrew looks to you before he answers and you nod, not bothered in the slightest.
“This’ll be quick, I promise.” Andrew tells you while turning around on the road.
You had been on the way to get lunch at a spot you saw online, it was some semi-celebrity chef’s new endeavour. Not that you cared very deeply. It just looked like a place Andrew might like. Understated comfort food, unpretentious local beers.
“It’s only noon, we have the whole day ahead of us.” You smile and something flutters in Andrew’s stomach.
He hasn’t asked you to meet his brothers yet. He doesn’t know if that’s something you’d like. It’s still unclear to Andrew exactly how you want him. The line between friendship and something else with you is blurred in his head, boundaries bending constantly. But he doesn’t mind it so much. As long as you keep calling him, keep asking him to spend time with you.
He tells you you don’t have to come inside with him but you don’t mind. Privately, you have to admit that you’re curious. You’ve known Andrew long enough to know a few things about his family. That his mother was cruel and that his brothers are a lifeline. You get the sense Andrew is still navigating things, that his current family dynamic is somewhat new.
It’s nice to meet Deran and Craig. The three men look like brothers in the way they stand, the way they carry their shoulders. It’s a little thing but they all speak similarly too, softening the same consonants, sharpening the same vowels.
They don’t offer to shake hands but that suits you fine. They each ask a question or two about you, wondering what you do and if you surf. You mention the place you’re going for lunch and Deran says you’ve made a good choice, tells Andrew that he hopes your taste will rub off on him. You chat a little more before the conversation turns. They start talking about business and finances so you wander away, giving them space. You find the bar’s chipping murals and broken surfboards charming. You can imagine how nice the ambience must be in here when it’s dark out and the string lights are on.
It’s not long before Deran heads back into his office space to grab whatever it is that he has for Andrew and Craig declares he’s heading out. You return to Andrew’s side and he welcomes it, letting you press your arm against his as you stand together. You say goodbye to Craig and he salutes you both with a smile.
“You and your brothers seem really close.” You say when the air has settled in the newly empty room.
“We are.”
It makes you glad to hear that. Andrew feels glad to say it.
“You all seem to like your space, though.”
“What do you mean?” He looks at you, curious.
“You all stood a solid six feet away from each other the whole time. Usually siblings hug and stuff.” You shrug a shoulder.
Andrew considers this. His relationships with his family members haven’t always been positive, much less healthy. What he has now with Deran, with Craig, is better than anything that came before. They’re all damaged, each by a specific brand of traumatization, but he doesn’t want to tell you that. He probably wouldn’t need to, you’re a smart girl. He’s fine with the way he interacts with his brothers now, and they are too as far as he can tell.
“I know I can be touchy, is all.” You say before he finishes parsing his thoughts. “If you want me to back off you can let me know, I won’t take it personally or anything.”
Andrew shifts to stand in front of you. You tried really hard not to say the wrong thing but you worry you have. Andrew stays quiet, eyes locked on yours in a way that would make you squirm if it were anyone else. Then, his hand reaches out to smooth the pad of his thumb over the apple of your cheek. The touch is shy, overly careful.
“I like it when you touch me. I want you to keep doing it.”
You nod and he brings his hand to cup your face completely.
He leans forward like he might press a kiss to your brow but he hesitates. His nose brushes your hairline instead, holding you very close for just a moment. When he pulls away, you look as though he’d done much worse. Your pupils are wide and your skin feels warm under his hand.
He lets go, gives you the choice of stepping away. You do, just a small step back, eyes downcast and shy. Your fingers lace together, squeezing tight, and Andrew thinks about how much he’s looking forward to holding your hand on the drive ahead of you.
-
Andrew was fine a few minutes ago. Happy, even. You’re with him in his apartment, watching something you’d been telling him about all week. You’re tucked into his side and he would hate to disrupt you, to interrupt the feeling your shoulders completely relaxed against him. He tries to keep quiet, blinking hard to dispel the watering of his eyes. He doesn’t do a very good job, unfortunately.
This isn’t the first time Andrew has ever cried in front of you, but he hates it every time. His therapist told him this was normal for people with C-PTSD. He knows the mechanics of a flashback, of a panic attack, but it never helps him while he’s in the middle of one. He doesn’t think anything even happened this time. His chest just got tighter and the back of his neck got colder and his ears stopped hearing anything in the span of five minutes.
“Andrew? What’s wrong?” Your voice is so soft when you notice and he can't stop the hiccup rising in his chest.
You turn against his side, shifting to wrap your arms around him carefully. You watch to make sure your touch doesn’t make anything worse. It’s hard to watch him make himself small, shrinking into himself while he rests his head on your shoulder like he’s trying to take up less room.
“It’s okay.” You soothe. “You’re safe.”
His hands gather the fabric of your loose shirt in a gentle fist against your back. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to remember how to breathe.
“I used to feel like this after.” He says, his voice uneven.
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.” You don’t know what he means exactly, what ‘after’ he’s talking about, but you can make a few guesses.
You feel him tense in your arms and you pull back enough to look at him. Your brow pinches as you try to figure out if you said the wrong thing. He’s frowning, red eyes downcast like he’s trying to figure something out.
“Why do you do that?” He sounds small.
“Do what?”
“Call me that.”
“Oh, call you baby?” You press your lips together. “I’m sorry if it’s been making you feel weird, I just… I really care about you and I don’t always notice when I say something too soft. I can stop.”
“Don’t.” He answers quickly. “Please don’t. I want you to keep saying it.”
Too soft, you said. No such thing, he thinks. Not coming from you. You handle him with a kind of softness he didn’t know he was missing, a gentle touch he’s never been lucky enough to receive.
“I’m not used to it. Not the way you say it.” He tells you.
“What do you mean?”
He still won’t look at you. He lays his head back on your shoulder, encouraging your arms to tighten around him again.
“You don’t only say it when you want something.”
Your heart breaks.
“Andrew…” Your sentence barely starts before it tapers off. Everything you feel like you want to say feels too big.
“Please.” He says, one more time. “Please keep doing it.”
You hold him for the rest of the night, slowing your breathing when you notice he’s trying to match his inhales to yours.
-
Andrew finds hipster bars fucking insufferable. And you do too, for the most part. It’s just that your definition of hipster and his definition of hipster are a little different.
There’s a bar not far from your work that you’ve taken a liking to. They have good beer and seasonal mixed drinks, and the bartender you like always gives you an extra maraschino. It’s not a microbrewery or anything, and the menu is simple and unpretentious. To you, it passes the vibe check. Andrew would beg to differ.
The crowd is what makes up most of the vibe he thinks, and this place is always full of men too old to be shoving themselves into jeans that skinny and to be wearing glasses with frames way too big to suit their faces. He’ll admit that the bartenders are nice and a lot of the people in the neighbourhood are normal enough. But there’s only so much he can take.
The bathroom is decently clean although the music is far too loud. As he washes his hands he considers asking if you want to go home soon. You have a day off tomorrow so you might want to be out for a bit, but you told him your shoulders had been bothering you this week so maybe you want to rest. He’ll ask you.
Coming back into the main room, he notices that the crowd is a little thicker now. He scans the room quickly out of habit before looking over to where he left you. You’re still there at the bar, as he expected, but some Portland-looking motherfucker is sitting in his seat. You’re doing that thing you do to him sometimes, resting your chin in your hand and looking up through your lashes.
No. Not happening, absolutely not. The guy is wearing Sperrys for god’s sake. Sperrys!
Andrew makes his way back to you, rolling back his shoulders as he comes to stand behind you. He won’t get violent, there’s absolutely no need. He knows his size is enough to do the scaring. He thinks about reaching out, just enough to hold your waist. He puts his hands in his pockets instead.
The guy you’re talking to is telling you some story about recording his first LP and Andrew’s eyes roll. You both turn to look at him, becoming aware of his presence at the same time. Your easy smile never leaves your face but the guy’s smile drops as he runs probabilities in his head. Odds that Andrew is your boyfriend, odds that he’s about to get beaten up. He stands quickly, excuses himself, forgets his beer.
Andrew watches him go but you watch Andrew’s face.
“I was talking with him, you know.” You could do a better job pretending to sound annoyed.
“He was talking to you weird.” He slides back onto the seat beside you as soon as the guy is far enough away for his liking.
“What does that even mean, Andrew.”
“He was too preppy.”
“Maybe I like preppy.” You drag your glass closer to you and take a drink.
“No you don’t.”
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth when you give him a look over the rim. His body leans towards yours, he can’t help it. His elbow touches yours on the bartop, his head turned completely your way.
“You don’t see me interrupting when you get flirted with.” You say, turning the glass in your hands.
“I do not get flirted with.”
“Are you kidding me?”
You stare at him. Andrew’s chest warms gently and he holds down a laugh. He knows when he’s being flirted with, he’s not unaware. It just doesn’t matter. Nobody could, not compared to you. He knows exactly how often he gets approached, he just wants to press your buttons.
“Why would I joke about that?”
“You can’t be serious. Do you know what it’s like going out with you? Women are all over you, all the time.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not!” You insist. “It’s always ‘Oh Andy, buy me a drink’, ‘Oh, Andy, I dropped my purse’, ‘Oh Andy, come upstairs to pet my dog’.”
You don’t mean to sound jealous but maybe you are.
“They do not invite me to pet their dogs.” He is so very, very amused.
“Exactly, they’re inviting you upstairs for sex. Obviously."
“Well I would never go upstairs. Not for dogs or for sex.”
You huff, playfulness giving way to something a little more honest.
“I’m serious. You’re the only one I want in my apartment, okay? And I only want to be in yours.” He lowers his head to find your eyes.
You look at him, softening under his gaze. You nod and take another drink before you do something stupid like try to kiss him.
“Kenny probably had a dog.” You mutter, deflecting back to Sperry guy.
“That guy’s name was Kenny? You’re lucky I was here to save you.”
-
It’s weird to see you at Smurf’s house. No, not Smurf’s house– it’s Andrew’s house now. It’s easier to think of it as his or as a family home, anything to distance it from her name. Deran and Craig still crash here on a regular basis. He stops by sometimes to have a beer or when he suspects they’re letting the trash fester.
There’s a small get together tonight, just his brothers and a few friends. Not quite a rager like they used to throw. This is nicer, he thinks. There is still laughter and loud music and shots, there are still cannonballs and backflips and roof jumps. It’s different though. A kind of contained joy, a comfort that comes from being part of a small circle that truly knows you. Andrew is still getting used to the feeling.
But watching you take up space in the backyard in your little swimsuit and duster? That gives him a familiar feeling. A kind of warmth in his chest and heat in his belly. He doesn’t need to touch you, he just likes knowing you’re here. He counts himself lucky for having the privilege of seeing you with wet skin, of having you share his lounger, your bare legs cool against his when they touch.
There are a stupid amount of rooms in the house so you got your pick of the bunch for the night. Andrew let you have first dibs when you arrived and closed off the door to the one you wanted. He didn’t ask you to share his room although he thinks there’s a chance you would’ve said yes. He’s trying not to push his luck.
Andrew thinks of you all the time but he thinks of you extra after you wish him sweet dreams, squeezing his hand before he turns back down the hallway for the night. He’s jumpy with a kind of awareness, knowing you’re so close and so far all at once. He pictures you getting out of the shower, dressing only in a tshirt and your boyshorts, hanging your swimsuit to dry before tossing the decorative pillows off of your bed. He goes to sleep imagining you’re in the space beside him.
Andrew gasps himself awake a few hours later, his sheets too tight where they’ve become wrapped around his middle. Sleeping in this house, in this room, is hard sometimes. Things are so different now, but that doesn’t change the way things used to be.
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he scrubs hand down his face. He makes his way to the backyard, to the edge of the pool. He tries not to think of his dream. He tries not to think of his niece, of his mother, of that long stretch of time where all he did for years was try not to kill himself. It’s hard to stop himself from chasing thoughts once they’ve made themselves known to him
He tries breathing, begins to pace. Steam comes off the pool in small curls. He tries to remember what his therapist told him. Name five things he can see, four things he can touch. He doesn’t stop pacing long enough to put his hands to anything. He can feel his fingers fidgeting at his sides, his shoulders coming up towards his ears. And then he sees you. He stops. His palms smooth against his thighs. His posture straightens, opens. His heart still beats too fast.
The collar of your sleep shirt is tugged closer to one shoulder than the other and your feet are bare where they stand just over the threshold into the house. A hand comes up to rub your eye. You take a step out onto the concrete towards him and Andrew is moving without thinking, shepherding you right back into the dark kitchen so that you won’t step on anything, not a sharp pebble or any glass that hasn’t been swept up.
You blink at him and wait. You know that if he wants to tell you anything he will.
“I had a nightmare.” He feels kind of stupid.
“What can I do for you?” You ask, voice soft as anything.
He almost smiles. You take him seriously, everything he says.
He doesn’t answer for a moment, soaking in your nearness. There are faint lines on your arm where it must have been pressed into your covers. Your face still looks a little dewy with the moisturizer you’ve told him you only use at night.
“Will you stay with me?” He faces you head on when he asks, trying to be brave.
“Is that what you want?” You’re already stepping away from the island, like you already know the answer.
“It is.” He affirms, because you want to hear it. Because he wants to say it. He needs you to know he wants you with him, near him always, even if he can’t say it all as one sentence.
So he follows after your sleepy figure, steps soft on the vinyl flooring down the hall. You collapse into his bed without waiting for him, rightly expecting him to be right behind you. He pushes the door to his room shut and stays standing for a moment to watch you settle into his sheets, onto his pillows. You look almost put out when you catch him, your eyebrows creasing in the cute way they do when you get grumpy.
He practices self-restraint by not crawling directly on top of you and covering nearly your entire body with his. He gets in on his side of the bed, leaving space between you. Your brow smooths and your eyes fall closed. Your hand reaches towards him, nearly touching but not quite. You don’t make it easy for him, if he wants to touch you he’ll have to be the one to move. So he does. His fingers trace a very careful path from your wrist to your shoulder and you make a small noise like a sigh. He watches you for another moment in the dark before reaching over to drag you against him. You turn in his arms to settle your back to his chest, pressing the line of your body to fit against his. He feels his cock start to stir, he can’t help it. But all he wants is to hold you, press his nose to the side of your head, feel the way your shoulders loosen into sleep.
In the morning you wake together slowly, spending time in the space between dreams and wakefulness. Eyes still mostly closed, Andrew presses his mouth to your skin, pretending there’s a difference between what he’s doing and the purposeful act of kissing your neck. Half dressed in the kitchen waiting for coffee, you don’t pretend it’s anything else when you tuck yourself into his side and press an all too tender kiss underneath his jaw.
-
“A guy asked me out today.”
You’re scrolling through your phone on the couch while Andrew works on dinner. He likes that he can see you from the stove in your apartment, even if the burners aren’t as hot as his. His hands move between a cutting board and a sauce pan, balancing onions and garlic and aromatics.
“What?” Andrew freezes.
He was under the impression that you were exclusive. He knows he’s not your boyfriend, and he knows you’re not even officially dating, but the two of you are a package. He thought you knew that, and he was pretty sure you felt that way too.
“Yeah, that guy from work who I told you was flirting with me. I honestly thought it was a joke until now, but he asked if I wanted to go with him to the film festival by the marina.”
“Are you going to go?” Andrew’s hands are very still over the cutting board, paused with knife and parsley in hand.
“No.” You smile at him like he’s being silly. “Why the fuck would I?”
He exhales. He’s right then, about your mutual understanding of the situation. He’s still thinking when you start talking again.
“Andrew,” you say, drawing his attention back. “I want you to take me. To the festival.”
“You what?” He puts down his knife. Rinses and towels off his hands. His brain and his ears are not processing at the same speed.
“I want you to take me out.” It’s not really a question. You don’t doubt that he will. “I want you to pick me up and bring me flowers and kiss me goodnight at the end.”
He can see it already, the night you’re asking for appears to him in flashes. He’ll have to get a new shirt. He’ll get you a bouquet of those ranunculus you point out every time you pass your neighbour’s garden gate. You’ll wear something pretty and delicate and put on a little more of your perfume than usual. You’re going to look beautiful and he’s going to spoil you and you’re already asking him for a goodnight kiss, as if he wouldn’t get on his knees now if you told him to.
“Anything.” He says, a little shy. “You can have anything you want.”
Your smile is destabilizing.
“Anything?” You echo.
“Anything.”
“Do you think I could get a kiss now, then?”
Andrew comes out from the kitchen, makes his way to stand over where you’re sitting on the couch. You lift your chin for him and it’s like an arrow through his heart. He takes your face softly in both hands. He presses his mouth to yours, once, twice, again. The kiss is sticky-sweet and makes his insides feel molten.
You follow after him when he heads back to the kitchen. You stick too close and start talking about the rest of your day. Andrew just listens. He nudges you to the side when his sauce starts to pop, offers you a small taste from the back of his spoon. He stirs, you hover. He’s glowing.
JAxExGF!reader. 💔 another day another mini fic brain dump. Tw accusation of suicidal intention
Today I’m thinking about a woman strapped into a gurney, pushed through the doors into The pitt. This woman is Jack Abbot’s ex girlfriend, you. “Female, found in river, hypothermic, bradycardia heart rate 41, BP 90/50. Where do you want us Abbot?”
“Not him! No!” You shake your head the moment you clock eyes with the one person you never wanted to see again, Jack Abbot. “Not him, please”
“Trauma 2.” Jack murmurs, in no rush to start working on you because he wants to find out why you were in the river first. “Cut the wet clothes off.”
“No! Don’t cut it I can take it off please please please!”
“Cut. It. Off.” Jack orders.
“Please!!! No! Not my jumper!” You start to yell in panic, pushing everyone away from you, practically kicking them away.
“At least the blood pressure and heart rate are coming up.” Jack murmurs again, pinning your legs in place, while others hold you so the wet clothes can be taken off.
“Let me go! I don’t want anyone to touch me!!!!” Everyone ignores the cries and pleas coming out of you, as they cut your clothes wide open. Someone says something about body temperature, Abbot cuts in about warming you up, others start to work on you, but you don’t look at anyone except your ex boyfriend who’s staring at you with such hate in his eyes. You no longer protest what they’re doing to you, because your wishes are clearly not respected in this place. Your wishes are to not be treated. Your wishes to be let go.
“That was the last piece I had from home, Jack. And you cut it in half.” Everyone continues to work on you, but curious to see where this conversation is going.
“What were you doing in the river.” Not a question, but rather a statement; in another away, telling you that he suspects that history is repeating itself.
“I already told them, I saw a dog in the river and jumped in to take it out.”
“And where’s that dog?”
“Ran away.”
“Huh.” He’s well aware of this low tone of voice you’re using — shaky, weak and full of lies. “Ellis please call psych.”
“What for?” The doctor asks.
“Suicide attempt.” Jack mutters, not taking his eyes off you for one moment. The girl he had loved so incredibly much, is still broken, still refusing help, and out of everyone in the world, you’re the one he hates the most yet cannot ever let go.
You waited until you were moved into a small room, after being deemed ‘stable’, to gather your belongings which consist of your phone which no longer works, and your purse, to sneak out of the Pitt, leaving behind your torn clothes and your ex boyfriend whom you hate so much. You find a taxi, who does a double glance at your bare feet and the hospital gown you’re wearing, “ignore the outfit, bad night” you say and ask him to take you to a hotel. Not your apartment, because if there’s one thing about Jack Abbot is that he doesn’t give up. You check in at reception, yet again have to explain the reasoning behind the outfit, assuring the woman that you’ll be ordering some clothes for tomorrow. “We have a lost and found box if you need to borrow something…” absolute angel on earth and you could have kissed her. You find a men’s oversized tshirt, some shirts and socks. You thank her many, many times and head up to your room. The exhaustion from today’s events pulls you into a deep sleep, until a few hours later when a loud knock on the door wakes you up. After ignoring it for a few minutes, you give up and march over to the door. There stood one angry looking Jack Abbot alongside multiple police officers.
“There she is.” He had this evil smirk on his face, like he was telling you that he’ll always find you wherever you are.
“You can’t force me to leave, I didn’t do anything wrong.” You close the door in his face but he puts his foot forward to stop it.
“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” He pushes the door open, stepping in, gesturing for your wrists.” Wrists up.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“Yup.” He snaps on the handcuffs, “the beauty of having friends at the department that could easily track you down. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“You’re evil.”
“I care, that’s the difference. You could’ve died in your sleep. You should have seen your pathology report.”
You step toward him, closing the distance between the two of you, and with one quick motion, you kick him in the balls. “Fuck you.”
He bends down and groans in pain, but not enough pain for your liking, so you wrap your arms sound his neck, pressing the metal of the handcuffs against his neck as you hold him into a headlock. “You taught me this, remember?”
Guns are now pointed at you, but that doesn’t bother you. Jack squirms under your touch, face going red and tears filling his eyes at the slow suffocation. You eventually let go. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He takes a deep panicked breath, ignoring you, “take her.”
This time as you walk through the Pitt, you’re in handcuffs, with two officers on either side, head held high, because your next escape plan includes one where you can’t be tracked down.
You’re back in the same room, this time handcuffs pinning you down on either side of the bed. You don’t protest, or move, but you still maintain that same angry gaze with Jack. “Am I at least allowed a phone call?”
“Sure, but tell me first what happened.”
You ignore him. “You owe me for the hotel room that I paid for yet wasn’t allowed to sleep in it.”
“You escaped, I had to find you.”
“I don’t remember you being a control freak.”
“You liked it in bed, remember?”
“You’re an asshole. Now am I allowed a phone call or not?”
“Sure, who to?”
“My boyfriend.”
“You have a boyfriend?” Jack chuckles bitterly.
“Fuck you.”
He walks over to you, sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand, “What’s his name?”
How it feels to genuinely enjoy the Pitt and not get caught up on every little bad thing a character has done because they’re all complex human beings and none of them are truly evil like everyone in this fandom seems to think
Pairing - softdark!Clark Kent x fem!Reader, a tiny bit of dark!Ultraman x fem!Reader
Warnings - 18+, minors dni, dark content, stalking, obsessive and possessive behaviours, panty sniffing, panty stealing, pervy!Superman, power imbalance, heat like behaviours, almost a/b/o dynamics but not quite, there will be one more part
Summary - Clark can’t stop thinking about you, even when he knows he should.
Word Count - 3.4k
Clark tapped his ring finger against his glass of water, feigning interest in the way the water lapped at the sides of the cup. He’d been at his home in Metropolis for almost two hours but his mind was far from it.
His first stop upon arriving back in the city had been to tell the Justice Gang what he had found. Even now, the lie felt sour on his tongue. Nothing, he’d said. There had been nothing out there other than a few houses. No trap, no secret compound, nothing.
Technically it was the truth? There was nothing there than would be of interest to the Justice Gang or concerned citizens. It was difficult to call you nothing, though. You were certainly something.
Clark had been replaying the three minutes of interaction you had had all day and it was well into the evening. You had been nervous – why? That was not the usual emotion he evoked in people. Usually, people were relieved or happy. They certainly weren’t scared of him.
Something bad had probably happened to you, he decided. Concern prickled in his stomach as he thought about all the different things that could have happened to make you so fearful. Clark felt regret at leaving you alone, even though you’d seemingly lived there for a long time and – and it was silly. You were a grown woman.
There was no doubt that you did not know about Ultraman. If your reaction was like that to him, then he could not imagine you having some sort of relationship with Ultraman who was well known for his violence.
So, what had his clone been doing out there? Ultraman went there all the time, always alone, and for at least an hour. Clark had been able to scent him all over the property like some dog marking his territory. It didn’t seem as though he got too close to your home, which was interesting.
The answer danced on Clark’s tongue, threatened to slip down his throat and choke him into acknowledging it. Your face flashed across his eyes as if you were standing in front of him. The way your hands had trembled as you addressed him, the fact that you had told him to ‘fly safely’ despite your obvious trepidation.
Clark had watched you there for almost a full minute, hovering in the air above your yard before you had noticed him. He still didn’t know why he hadn’t announced himself immediately. Watching you dig about in your pristine yard, muttering to yourself and getting progressively dirtier had made his heart stutter in his chest.
You were a sweet thing, he decided, lifting his water to his lips. He could understand Ultraman wanting something sweet in his bitter life.
Unsatisfied, Clark set the glass down with a thud. His clone had been watching you for a while. What did Ultraman know about you that Clark Kent didn’t? A lot, probably.
Even with Ultraman locked up, Clark did not feel settled with you out there by yourself. He knew it was a silly concern and yet – he also knew he would feel a lot better if he got to check up on you. At least once or twice more.
Before you could even finish typing his name, dozens of search suggestions related to Superman popped up. You scanned through them, looking for something that even vaguely sent alarm bells ringing.
“Superman real name,” you read aloud, “Superman visits hospital. Superman saves man from building.”
As expected, there was nothing disturbing. Not from legit sources, anyway. There was, of course, his snark subreddit and a whole bunch of nasty tweets. Most of them went on about the fact he was an illegal alien and that one person shouldn’t have so much power.
You idly ran your fingers over the keyboard, eyes glazing over as you began to think. It was scary that one person had some much power, so much strength, but he had only ever used it for good. If you suddenly developed powers, would you immediately fly out and begin to help people. Probably not.
And no legit dirt had ever turned up on him. Even now, all you could find was articles on his latest heroic feat and pictures of him handing out flowers in grey, sterile hospitals. His blue and red outfit lit up each picture, along with the toothy grin he wore. He genuinely looked like he wanted to be there. The longer you looked at the pictures and skimmed through the articles, the more relaxed you felt.
A man named Clark Kent had some of the most interesting articles. Superman seemed to be pretty open with him, and there was a lot of detail into why he did the things he did. Superman seemed to have a pretty strong sense of right and wrong, to the point where he seemed almost. . .naive?
You zoomed in on a picture of him, mouse hovering over the pearly white of his teeth. He was handsome, of course. There was something boyishly charming in his eyes. It was amusing how open he seemed, given that his true identity was a secret he hadn’t revealed. Probably would never reveal.
You minimized the picture and plucked your laptop from your lap and set it onto the coffee table. Your thighs were toasty from its heat and your cheeks began to warm for a different reason. Superman had been in your front yard only days ago. Truth be told, he had been just as handsome in person. You remembered the way his curls had began to break free from whatever he used to style them, making it look as though he’d been running his fingers through them.
Strangely, he had seemed almost as nervous as you. You had always envisioned him as quietly confident. Though he’d been almost the entire yard’s length away from you, he still seemed to tower over you and your flowers.
Since then, your laptop had been a constant companion. When you weren’t anxiety-googling Superman, you were combing the local news for any sign of what could have drawn him to your home in the first place. At first you started big; escaped criminals, explosions. There had been nothing. Eventually you were looking at robberies, home invasions, things that the local PD usually handled.
You just felt like you would feel better if you knew why he had been here. That way you would know what the chances were of him coming back. Unlikely, you knew, since he had said something about a mistake. But your anxiety would not let the matter lie.
You let out a sign, opening and closing your hands quickly as though you were letting go of your nerves and irrational thoughts. You shut the laptop closed with a ‘click’, tucking it into its place under the coffee table.
Instead of sitting here, progressively putting your mind in more of a twist, you would be productive. From the other room, you heard your washing machine ding, the cycle finished. Perfect. It was a lovely day and you could busy yourself with hanging it out.
You shoved it into a basket and grabbed the bowl of pegs, heading out to the line with a bounce in your step. Fresh laundry always made you feel better, and since you were so isolated, you didn’t have to worry about the neighbors seeing your bra flailing about on the line.
You shook out each item of clothing before attaching it to the wire. There was a slight breeze carrying the scent of fresh laundry through your yard and you inhaled deeply, loosing yourself to the mindless task.
The sun was still high overhead and there was no rain due until next week. You would come out to check the laundry in a couple hours and focus instead on a couple hours of work before you had to get started on dinner.
You paused on the threshold of your home, turning back to observe the garden. It looked picturesque, like the sort of thing you would see in a magazine. Your aunt would be happy, you thought, with the way you had done things.
You became aware of your own satisfaction blooming in your chest, a sense of pride at the home you had created. You were happy too. You pressed your palm to your chest as though forcing the feeling deeper, trying to push it right to your center where it would stay. You were determined to hold on to it.
The sun was hot overhead when Clark decided he couldn’t wait any longer. Some part of him told him to wait, at least until it was darker, but he shoved the thought down. Ultraman was the one who operated under cover of darkness, not Superman.
When his feet touched down in your yard, he let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Your front door was slightly ajar and he peered through your walls with an ease that would have made you shiver.
You were at your desk, diligently typing away. There was a cold cup of tea next to you, neglected in favor of your work. He got that way too, sometimes. There would be a particular story that would wrap him up and refuse to let him go until he got all his thoughts out, jumbled and nonsensical before editing but proof of his hard work.
He flinched a little when you reached for the cup. He swallowed the shame that threatened to bubble up. There was no real plan for what he would do if you saw him, he hadn’t thought of any way to explain his presence away this time.
It was Ultraman’s fault, Clark absently thought. He couldn’t bring himself to be mad at his clone, even though he should be. If Ultraman hadn’t been sniffing around enough to catch the attention of the Justice Gang, then Clark never would have been drawn out here, to you.
“That would be a shame,” he murmured tilting his head to inspect you further. The words slipped out without thought and he turned an interesting shade of red at the implication of his own words.
You were obviously fine. He should go.
“I should go,” he said sternly to himself, but there was no real will behind it.
Instead, he found himself inspecting your garden, fingers brushing over the carefully planted flowers. His Ma would have appreciated your work, he thought to himself. Eventually his gaze landed on your washing line and he staggered to a stop at the sight of all your clothes carefully pinned up.
He recognized the outfit you had been wearing on the day he first saw you. His fingers curled at his side as the memory replayed. It had only been a few minutes, which made it easier to remember everything. The shock and fear on your face, the way your heart had been pumping as you shot to your feet.
You were just so vulnerable. All humans were. Sometimes Clark hated it, hated how easy it was to extinguish the life of a human, hated how difficult it made his job. Clark was eerily aware of how easy it was to stand there and watch you. He again thought about Ultraman and the way his clone had seemed to attach himself to you, all without your knowledge.
Clark wanted to reach out and cup you in his hands, keep you safe from people like Ultraman. He sucked in a sharp breath at the thought of you tucked against his chest, looking up at him but not in fear, like before, but with trust. With – with affection, even.
His fingers gingerly brushed the shirt you had been wearing beneath your overalls on that day. His heart was thundering in his chest. This was wrong, he knew, but he could not make himself let go of the worn fabric. Despite being washed he could still smell you on it, he could smell the scent of your skin and the flowers you had tended to that day and the perfume you had worn.
Clark turned his head a little, breath catching at the other items of clothing on the line. He wasn’t sure if Kryptonians could have heart-attacks but it sure felt like it. He listened carefully for any sign of movement from inside the house, ready to flee at the turn of your head. If you were to come out now, catch him here with his hands on your clothing, he would have no explanation. His mind had turned into mush and was about to start oozing from his ears.
There was nothing inherently sexy about your under garments but Clark had never felt so lightheaded in his life. Your bras were obviously well loved, the fabric pilling and the wires threatening to poke out. Clark let his finger trace over the hint of metal beneath the fabric, imagined your breasts warming it.
This was bad. This was really, really bad, and the worse part was that he could not bring himself to stop, to think about it and just go. At least, not without something.
Clark snatched a pair of panties from the line without examining them. He would probably die if he did. He thought for a moment and tugged off a shirt as well, the same one from earlier. He tucked the panties into the shirt, as though that would make it any better, and shot off into the sky.
He could not take his bounty to his home in the city. Tucking the clothes to his chest, he set off in the direction of his fortress, the only place where he was guaranteed privacy.
Once he arrived, he shot past the robots and into his room. It hadn’t seen much use, not in a few years, and it was pristine. He let the ice door fall shut before finally exhaling. Thinking too much about what he had done made him dizzy and so he let his hands do the work, laying out your top on his bed before smoothing out the creases, patting it down.
His hands shook around your panties. Like your other clothing, they were well loved. There was even a slight hole around the waist band. Clark poked it with his finger, imagining all the times you had slid them up your hips. Eyes clenched shut, he brought them to his nose and almost moaned out loud. It was faint but, like the other clothes, there was the barest hint of you.
“Bad,” he mouthed the word into the fabric, “I shouldn’t.”
But he already had. His tongue pressed into the fabric, chasing whatever hint of you he might get. He didn’t stop until they were thoroughly wet and his length was throbbing in time to his heartbeat.
Finally, Clark pulled them from his face and placed them carefully beside the top. The wet spot made him throb anew as he thought about what they would look like if you were the one who had gotten them so soaked.
Clark waited for the shame to hit him, anticipating guilt and disgust at his own actions. Instead, his mind went to Ultraman and the way he had undoubtedly been drawn to you, too. Maybe that was it.
“Maybe she’s in my blood,” Clark whispered.
Clark had never intentionally done anything bad in his life. Yet within a week of meeting you, he had watched you without your knowledge and stole clothes – stole panties – from your washing line. Like some creep. But it didn’t feel wrong. Instead, he felt a purring satisfaction in his chest. He felt the need to add to his collection, even.
It was insane. It felt so good.
“I want more,” he admitted to himself.
Things like this were delicate, though. Clark had had girlfriends before but this was different. Never had he been driven to such obscene actions, never had he been driven purely by desperation and desire. He had to be gentle.
Normally you didn’t stay in Metropolis after dark but you had been enjoying the company of your friends and been caught up in memories and jokes. It was a blissfully quiet night and you stopped outside your friend’s apartment, searching for her window and raising a hand once you caught sight of her.
She had sent you on your way with a bag full of food and the promise to text her once you got to your car, and then again when you got home. You had parked a couple blocks away (parking could be a bitch in the city) but you felt at ease under the brightly lit streets.
Your friend lived in a quieter part of the city. Before you had found out about your great aunt you had considered moving to this area yourself. The streets were dotted with others like yourself, heading home at the start of an early night. You slid your phone into your pocket and began the walk to your car.
You kept your earphones in your pocket, too. Yes, the city was tranquil, but it was still Metropolis. Things could change on a dime.
As you got further from your friend’s apartment, the lights seemed to get dimmer. Some of them needed to be replaced. It wasn’t enough to make you nervous but you quickened your step, eager to get to your car.
You could smell pizza and something spicy. There was the gentle chatter emanating from restaurants you passed, the weather still warm enough for out door seating. As you walked on, the talking died down until all you could hear was the soft clip of your shoes on the concrete.
There was a light swooshing sound, like wind passing over something. You glanced over your shoulder and saw nothing.
“Ma’am?”
You bit out a yelp, bag dropping to the floor as your hands fisted in front of your chest. Just like before, it was him. Superman, right there in front of you.
You searched his gaze for any sign of recognition and saw nothing, only open concern. You stood still as he stepped forward and bent down to pick your dropped bag. He smelt familiar, like a cologne your high-school boyfriend had worn. The nostalgic scent made you relax a little. You lowered your hands and coughed, offering him a sheepish smile.
When you reached out to take your bag, Superman pulled back his arm. Your lips parted slightly and you blinked up at him, questioning.
“You’re headed somewhere? I’ll walk you.”
“Oh,” you shook your head, “it’s okay, I – “
Superman didn’t let you finish. He stepped in beside you, shoulder nudging your own, and tilted his head. You almost laughed. With a tight smile, you began to walk in the direction of your car.
It was strange to see him walk. Most of the footage you had seen was of him flying. You eyed him from the corner of your vision, searching yourself for any of the anxiety you had felt before. You had been caught off guard before, in your yard, but this was Metropolis. His natural habitat.
There was no need for talk. It should have been awkward but it wasn’t. He ducked his head and caught your eye as you came to a stop beside your car. You patted your pockets for your keys and stared as he held them up, clicking the button and opening your car door for you.
“Oh,” you said, “I – I must have dropped them.”
“You did,” he smiled, “but it’s okay. I got you.”
You mumbled a quick thank you before ducking under his arm and sliding into the driver’s seat. Now it was getting awkward. He watched closely as you buckled yourself in and then held out the keys. There was a slight bit of resistance as you tugged the keys from his fingers. For a moment you were almost certain he wasn’t going to let them go.
“Ah,” he suddenly remembered, holding up the bag of food you had dropped.
Your jaw dropped as he leaned in across you, depositing the bag in the passenger seat. He looked comical in the small interior of your car. You bit your cheek when his arm brushed across your chest as he pulled back, offering you a smile.
“Drive safely,” he said, pausing expectantly.
“I – I will,” you assured him, fastening your hands onto the wheel. You gripped tightly, suddenly nervous. Did he remember you?
He closed the car door softly and then stepped back. You avoided his gaze as you pulled out of the space and got onto the road. When you dared to peek into the rearview mirror, he was already gone.
A/N - please please leave comments/reblogs if you enjoyed!! Also asks give me life so if you have a question/thought, don’t be afraid to send it!!
I’m planning for there to be three parts total so just one more to go :)
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built not like an Abercrombie model but more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up a sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking under him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over your mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flesh.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
summary: Brendon Park has spent the last two years learning the difference between his girlfriend's annoyed silence, exhausted silence, and "don't talk to me before coffee" silence. This isn't any of them. Over the course of a fifteen-hour shift, she avoids him at every turn, ignores every text, and leaves him wondering what happened between yesterday and today. 10.1k
HOUR ONE
7:00 AM - 8:00 AM
The shift change at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was always a chaotic symphony of slamming locker doors, the low drone of dictated charts, and the smell of stale hospital coffee. At 7:00 in the morning, the orthopedic floor belonged to the weary and the arriving, a sharp line drawn between those who had survived the night and those about to face the day.
Dr. Brendon Park moved through the double doors of the surgical wing like a force of nature. He was tall, his broad shoulders easily filling out his tailored scrubs, carrying himself with the absolute, unshakeable certainty of an attending who had earned every bit of his formidable reputation. "Park the Shark" wasn't a nickname born of malice; it was born of a clinical, uncompromising standard. He didn't tolerate mediocrity, he didn't coddle fragile egos, and he assessed a fractured femur with the same cold, calculating precision he applied to every human interaction.
Except one.
Normally, the first hour of your shared shift followed a predictable, covert rhythm. A subtle brush of shoulders by the central dictation station. A sarcastic text message about the chief’s morning memo sent from ten feet away. Your regular routine involved stepping into his path, boldly plucking his freshly brewed black coffee right out of his hand, and offering a sharp-witted critique of his surgical schedule before he could even open his mouth. It was a private game played in a very public space—the quiet anchor of a secret, established relationship between a brilliant second-year resident and an elite attending surgeon.
Today, there was only silence.
Brendon spotted you standing by the nurse’s station, reviewing the post-op films from a late-night tibia nailing. Your hair was pulled back a little tighter than usual. Your shoulders were rigid, locked in a tense, defensive line.
He adjusted his trajectory, stepping up to the desk beside you. He didn't look directly at you—not with two trauma nurses and an intern within arm's reach—but his presence was commanding, a heavy, familiar warmth.
"The alignment on the distal third looks clean," Brendon said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the ambient hum of the floor. He set his coffee cup down on the counter, a fraction of an inch closer to your hand than necessary. A deliberate invitation. "Good thing the night team didn't mess it up before we got here. Good morning."
You didn't look up from the screen. Your eyes stayed fixed on the digital radiograph, tracking the white line of the intramedullary nail.
"Morning, Dr. Park," you said.
The tone was wrong. It wasn't angry, and it wasn't cold; it was completely flat. Extinguished.
You didn't reach for his cup. You didn't drop a teasing comment about his ego. You simply tapped the keyboard, closing out the patient's file with a sharp click.
"I've updated the rounding list for Team A," you continued, your voice tight, eyes scanning the desktop, the floor, the charting rack—anywhere but his face. "Everything is prepped for the 7:30 case. If you'll excuse me, I need to check on the pre-op holds."
Before he could even draw a breath to respond, you gathered your tablet and stepped around him, your sleeve barely brushing his arm as you walked away.
Brendon stood frozen for a beat, his hand still hovering near his untouched coffee. His sharp, dark eyes narrowed as he watched your retreating back disappear down the crowded corridor. He knew every line of your posture, knew the exact cadence of your voice when you were stressed, tired, or playful.
This was none of those. You hadn't just walked away; you had actively evaded him.
And for the first time since he had met you, Brendon felt a sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease settle deep beneath his skin.
HOUR TWO
8:00 AM - 9:00 AM
By 8:00 in the morning, the surgical floor was in full motion, and Brendon’s irritation had begun to simmer into a quiet, focused hyper-awareness. He told himself it was a fluke. A bad night's sleep. A heavy patient load. But logic didn't quiet the clinical precision of his mind, which was currently cataloging every second of your unusual distance.
You were both scheduled to review a complex pelvic fracture in Consultation Room 3—a patient coming straight from the ICU who required an extensive anterior fixation. It was a case you had discussed briefly the night before via text, or rather, a case he had texted you about, receiving only a brief, professional acknowledgment that he had dismissed at the time as fatigue.
Brendon pushed open the door to Room 3, the heavy wood clicking shut behind him. The room was empty. The PACS monitor was awake, displaying a shattered acetabulum in a brilliant three-dimensional reconstruction, the digital slices slowly rotating on a loop.
He frowned, pulling out his phone to check the time. 8:12 AM.
The door clicked open again, but it wasn't you. It was continuous-care nurse Emily, holding a stack of physical charts.
"Oh, Dr. Park," Emily said, pausing in the doorway. "Are you looking for your resident?"
"Where is she?" Brendon asked, his voice clipped, automatically reverting to his sharp, no-nonsense attending persona. "We were supposed to review these scans before the 8:30 incision."
"She was just here," Emily replied, pointing a thumb back toward the hallway. "Literally just stepped out a minute ago. She said she forgot to grab the patient’s prior bone density scans from the basement archive and went down to fetch them manually."
Brendon’s brow furrowed. "The archives are fully digitized. There’s no reason to go to the basement."
"That’s what I told her," Emily shrugged, shifting the charts in her arms. "But she said the system was glitching on her tablet and she wanted the hard files just in case. She looked pretty determined to go."
"Right." Brendon's chest tightened.
He walked out of the consultation room and took the stairs down toward the basement level, his long strides clearing two steps at a time. It was a ridiculous notion—that you were avoiding him—but the math wasn't adding up. You knew the digital network inside and out. You had helped the department fix a server error three weeks ago.
When he reached the dim, fluorescent-lit corridor of the basement archives, he saw you. You were standing at the very end of the hall, your back to him, staring blankly at a row of heavy metal filing cabinets. You weren't searching for a file. Your head was bowed, your hands flat against the cold steel, your entire body trembling slightly as you took deep, ragged breaths.
"Hey," Brendon called out, his voice softening, the "Park the Shark" armor dropping the moment the two of you were out of public view. "What are you doing down here?"
The moment his voice echoed in the quiet hall, your entire body stiffened. You didn't turn around immediately. You pulled your shoulders back, wiped your face with a swift, aggressive motion of your sleeve, and took a sharp breath before turning to face him.
You kept your gaze firmly anchored to his collarbone, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Dr. Park," you said, your voice tight and entirely too formal. "The digital charts came through on my phone just as I got down here. A false alarm. I was just about to head back up to the OR."
"Look at me," he commanded gently, stepping closer, his eyes searching your pale face, noting the slight shadow beneath your eyes. "What’s going on? You've been dodging me since seven o'clock."
"I'm not dodging you," you said quickly, taking a step backward to maintain the distance he had just closed. "I'm a second-year resident with a massive patient load and a complex trauma case in ten minutes. I don't have time to dodge anyone. I need to go scrub."
You darted past him, your movements hurried, almost frantic. As you passed, the scent of your familiar perfume mixed with the sterile, damp air of the basement, leaving him standing alone in the quiet hallway.
It wasn't a coincidence. It was a deliberate escape.
HOUR THREE
9:00 AM - 10:00 AM
The hospital grew louder, more demanding, but the silence from your side of the relationship was deafening. By 9:15 AM, Brendon had finished his first minor hardware removal of the day and was standing in the attending lounge, a space that usually offered a few minutes of absolute privacy.
He pulled out his phone. His lock screen was entirely devoid of your name. No funny memes about the general surgery residents, no complaints about the cafeteria’s breakfast options, no checking in.
He unlocked the device, opening your private chat. The last message from him was from an hour ago, asking if you wanted to grab lunch later in his office so he could order from that place you liked.
Beneath it, the small, damning indicator sat in sharp contrast to his screen: Read at 9:22 AM.
For anyone else in the hospital, leaving an attending on read was a risky move, often born of a chaotic trauma resuscitation or an emergency bedside procedure. But for you, even in the middle of a frantic shift, a quick text to say you were slammed or a simple thumbs-up emoji was standard. You never left him hanging. Not because of protocol, but because you both fiercely protected the small, invisible threads that kept your relationship alive within the crushing machinery of the residency program.
He typed another message, his fingers striking the screen with more force than necessary, asking you to tell him if you were swamped and checking if you were okay.
He watched the screen. The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly.
Brendon held his breath, his thumb hovering, waiting for the explanation, the apology, the familiar shift in tone that would tell him he was just overthinking a stressful morning.
The typing indicator flickered for nearly a full minute. Then, it vanished.
No message arrived. The screen went dark.
Brendon slammed the phone face down on the small coffee table, the plastic clicking loudly against the wood. His jaw tightened, a hard, rigid line cutting across his face. The confusion was rapidly transforming into a sharp, defensive anger, the protective shell he usually reserved for difficult hospital administrators and incompetent consultants.
If you wanted to play a game of professional isolation, he could handle it. He was an attending; he had an entire department to run. But as he looked out the window toward the clinic wing where he knew you were currently working, the anger dissolved back into that same cold, terrifying knot of worry. You weren't a game player. You never had been.
Something was profoundly wrong, and the fact that you wouldn't let him near it was starting to make him feel like the floor was shifting beneath his feet.
HOUR FOUR
10:00 AM - 11:00 AM
The red wall-phone at the main emergency department desk rang three times in rapid succession at 10:45 AM. A Category 1 trauma was incoming with multiple orthopedic deformities.
When Brendon arrived in Trauma Bay 2, the room was already a storm of blue gowns, shouting voices, and the rhythmic, high-pitched alarm of a cardiac monitor. The patient was a twenty-four-year-old construction worker who had fallen three stories from a scaffolding unit.
Dr. Robby, the Chief of the Emergency Department, was leading the resuscitation, his commanding presence holding the room steady. "Open book pelvic fracture, obvious bilateral femur deformities, and a left open humerus fracture!" Dr. Robby shouted over the din, holding pressure on a heavily bleeding groin wound. "Ortho, we need temporary stabilization now! He's drifting hemodynamically!"
"I've got the pelvis," Brendon announced, his voice instantly taking command of the ortho team, snapping everyone into alignment. "Need a pelvic binder immediately. Where is my resident?"
"Right here, Dr. Park," your voice came from the opposite side of the gurney.
You were already gowned and gloved, your eyes hidden behind protective plastic shields, your mouth covered by a blue surgical mask. You didn't look at him. Your hands were already busy, applying steady, manual traction to the patient’s badly deformed right thigh, your weight thrown into the effort to realign the bone and stop the internal hemorrhage.
"Good," Brendon said, his eyes tracking your movements over the top of his mask. "We need to log-roll on my count to check the posterior wounds. Hold that traction steady. Don't let it slip."
"Traction is locked, Dr. Park," you said. Your voice was entirely professional, cold, and clipped. It lacked the slight, confident lilt it usually carried when you were working a complex case alongside him.
"On three," Dr. Robby ordered from the head of the bed. "One, two, three."
The team rolled the heavy patient with practiced efficiency. You moved in perfect synchronization with Brendon, your hands shifting to support the injured limbs without a single millisecond of delay. Clinically, you were flawless. Your knowledge of the trauma protocol was precise, your movements elegant and highly capable.
But the emotional distance was staggering.
"The humerus has an open three-centimeter wound with gross contamination," Brendon noted, his fingers quickly assessing the soft tissue. "We need an irrigation kit and a temporary splint. Cover it with saline-soaked gauze. What’s the next step, R2?"
"Ancef two grams IV, tetanus toxoid, and immediate scheduling for an emergent formal debridement and external fixation once general surgery clears the abdomen," you rattled off the protocol instantly, your voice devoid of any hesitation.
"Correct," Brendon said, his eyes drilling into yours across the narrow expanse of the gurney. "And the pelvic binder? How tight are we pulling it?"
"Until the symphysis pubis is reduced, checking the femoral pulses immediately after," you replied, still looking only at the patient's hip, your hands working quickly to secure the heavy velcro straps.
"Look at me when I'm instructing you," Brendon snapped, the irritation finally breaking through his professional veneer. The other staff in the bay briefly paused, sensing the sudden, sharp spike in the attending’s notorious temper. "Communication in a trauma bay requires direct engagement, doctor."
You paused for a fraction of a second. Then, you lifted your head. Your eyes met his through the clear plastic shields. They were wide, incredibly bright, and completely hollowed out by a profound, exhaustion-driven sadness. There was no anger in them. Only a desperate, pleading desire for him to look away.
"Binder is secure, Dr. Park," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly before you instantly caught it, hardening it back into steel. "Femoral pulses are palpable bilaterally. The patient is stable for CT scan. If you don't need me to accompany him to radiology, I'll go prepare the surgical consent files."
Before he could answer, you pulled your hands back, stepped away from the trauma bed, and vanished out the double doors of the ER bay, leaving the general surgery resident to handle the transport.
Brendon stood by the bed, his gloved hands clenching into fists. You had answered every question perfectly. You had anticipated every move. But you had looked at him like he was a stranger holding a knife—someone to be managed, feared, and avoided at all costs.
HOUR FIVE
11:00 AM - 12:00 PM
At 11:30 AM, the hospital seemed to contract, the heat of the midday rush making the air in the interior corridors feel heavy and thin. Brendon was heading back toward the central elevators, his mind entirely consumed by the memory of your eyes in the trauma bay, when he heard a quiet, muffled sound coming from the small alcove near the staff lockers.
It was a wet, choked sob.
He stopped, his boots silent on the linoleum floor. He rounded the corner slowly, his breath catching in his throat.
You were sitting on a low plastic chair in the corner of the small break area, your face buried in your hands, your shoulders shaking violently as you tried to swallow down a flood of tears.
Standing in front of you was Dennis Whitaker. Dennis was an ED R1 whom you had met during medical school and clinical rotations in orthopedic surgery. He was an earnest, awkward, and relentlessly hardworking intern, known across the floor for his inherent kindness, deep humility, and a constant, burning willingness to learn. Right now, he was holding a paper towel, looking entirely out of his depth but desperately trying to be supportive.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dennis was saying, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air, his tone gentle and laced with typical earnest panic. "Is it... is it the surgical schedule? Did the chief yelled at you? Come on, you're the best resident on the ortho service, everyone knows it. Don't let them get to you."
"I don't... I don't know what to do, Dennis," you choked out, your voice thick with a raw, agonizing panic that Brendon had never heard from you in his entire life. Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. "I just... I don't know what to do."
"Do you want me to call someone? Do you need to go to employee health? What's wrong?" Dennis asked, his forehead furrowed with genuine, clumsy worry.
"Nothing, just—" You gasped, pulling your hands away from your face to grab another paper towel. "Just give me a second. I can't... I can't let anyone see me like this."
Brendon’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct he possessed as a partner, as a man who loved you completely, screamed at him to push your old med school peer out of the way, pull you into his arms, and lock the world out until he fixed whatever had broken you.
He took a sharp step forward, his boots finally clicking against the floor.
The sound broke the privacy of the alcove. You looked up instantly, your tear-streaked face flushing a deep, brilliant crimson the moment your eyes collided with Brendon’s.
Panic—pure, unadulterated panic—flashed across your features. You scrambled to your feet so quickly the plastic chair scraped loudly against the wall.
"Dr. Park," Dennis said, immediately straightening up and instantly shifting into a rigid, respectful professional stance. "We were just—"
"Leave us," Brendon said, his voice low, dangerously quiet, his sharp eyes fixed entirely on your trembling form.
"Actually, no," you interrupted, your voice high and erratic as you frantically wiped at your cheeks, your eyes darting toward the exit door behind Brendon. "Dr. Whitaker was just helping me review... a personal matter regarding a family insurance form. I'm completely fine. The trauma case documentation is complete, Dr. Park. I'm heading to the surgical floor now."
"We need to talk. Right now," Brendon said, stepping into your path, his broad frame blocking the narrow hallway.
"I have a patient in pre-op, sir," you said, using the formal title like a weapon, your voice dropping into a desperate whisper as you refused to look higher than his chest. "Please. Do not do this here."
The raw vulnerability in your whisper stopped him cold. He could force the issue, he could command you as an attending, but he could see how close you were to completely shattering right there in the middle of the hallway.
Before he could find a way to compromise, you took advantage of his hesitation, slipping through the side door that led to the clean utility room, leaving him standing in the hallway with Dennis, who was staring at the floor in uncomfortable, wide-eyed silence.
Brendon didn't look at Dennis. He turned and walked away, his mind spinning into a dark, terrifying spiral. This wasn't anger. This wasn't a lover’s tiff over a forgotten anniversary or a misunderstood comment.
You were hurting, deeply and profoundly, and you were treating his presence like it was the very thing that would destroy you.
HOUR SIX
12:00 PM - 1:00 PM
By 12:05 PM, the administrative side of the hospital demanded Brendon’s presence for a mandatory morbidity and mortality review, but his focus was entirely fractured. He spent thirty minutes staring at a PowerPoint presentation on surgical site infections, seeing nothing but your red, tear-stained eyes.
The moment the meeting adjourned at 12:35 PM, he bypassed his own office and went straight to the small premium coffee cart in the main lobby—the one that served the specific, slightly over-sweetened caramel macchiato with oat milk that you always insisted was the only thing that kept your brain functioning during a long shift.
He bought one. He didn't care about the looks from the counter staff or the other residents who saw the notorious "Park the Shark" carrying a drink that was distinctly not his usual black coffee.
He walked up to the second-floor orthopedic resident station. It was currently empty, the desks littered with reference books, empty stethoscope cases, and half-finished paperwork. He knew this was your assigned desk for the afternoon block.
He set the warm paper cup down right in the center of your workspace, directly on top of your printed rounding schedule. He didn't leave a note. He didn't need to. The specific order was a signature, a silent message that said he saw you, he was there, and he wanted to take care of you.
He walked away, feeling a tiny, fragile spark of hope that this small, familiar gesture would break through whatever wall you had built between you.
At 12:55 PM, nearly twenty minutes later, Brendon returned to the second-floor station under the guise of checking the admission logs.
The station was busy now. Two interns were typing furiously at their computers, and a physician's assistant was on the phone with a rehab facility.
You were there, too. You were sitting at your desk, your fingers flying across the keyboard as you entered discharge summaries.
Brendon’s eyes dropped to the corner of your desk.
The coffee cup was still there. The plastic lid was covered in a thin layer of condensation that had long since cooled. The paper sleeve was dry. The cup hadn't been moved an inch. It sat precisely where he had left it, completely full, entirely untouched.
You never left coffee untouched. Even if it was cold, even if it was hours old, you would gulp it down for the caffeine hit, routinely joking that throwing away coffee was a sin against the medical profession.
You knew exactly who had put it there. And you had chosen to let it die on your desk rather than accept it from him.
Brendon felt the cold air of the room hit his chest like a physical blow. The small spark of hope extinguished instantly, leaving behind a bitter, metallic taste of rejection. You weren't just avoiding a conversation; you were systematically rejecting every single bridge he tried to build.
HOUR SEVEN
1:00 PM - 2:00 PM
The afternoon wore on, a relentless grind of minor consultations and post-op checks that felt like a slow, agonizing water torture for Brendon’s frayed nerves. At 1:15 PM, he was walking past the quiet, less-frequented visitor restrooms near the older wing of the hospital—a corridor that was usually deserted during the shift change overlap.
The heavy wooden door of the women's restroom swung open slowly.
Brendon stopped.
You stepped out into the quiet hallway. The change in your physical appearance since the morning was stark, terrifyingly noticeable to someone who knew every detail of your body. Your skin possessed a deathly, translucent paleness. Your eyes were wide, rimmed with a fresh layer of bright red, the lashes damp.
But it was your posture that caught his attention. Your shoulders were slumped, and you were leaning heavily against the tile wall, one hand resting flat against your forehead as if fighting off a blinding, disorienting wave of vertigo or a migraine. You looked faint, completely drained, your breath shallow.
You took one step, your boots dragging slightly on the tile, before you noticed him standing five feet away.
The transformation was instantaneous.
Your hand snapped down from your forehead. You straightened your spine with a visible, painful effort, your shoulders locking back into that rigid, defensive line. You forced your expression into a blank, unreadable mask, burying the sudden wave of physical weakness beneath raw willpower.
"Are you sick?" Brendon asked, his voice cracking slightly, the absolute terror he was feeling finally bleeding through his controlled facade. He took a step toward you, his hands rising instinctively as if to catch you if you collapsed. "Tell me what's wrong. Are you in pain? Do I need to admit you to the ER right now?"
"I'm perfectly fine, Dr. Park," you said. The words came out in a dry, rattled whisper, your voice lacking any of the substance it usually possessed. You kept your eyes locked strictly on the silver nametag pinned to his left chest. "Just a typical twenty-four hour bug compounded by a lack of sleep. It's nothing that interferes with my clinical duties."
"Don't lie to me!" he said, his voice rising, a sharp, ragged edge of pure desperation cutting through the quiet hallway. "You’ve been crying all day, you look like you're about to pass out from exhaustion, and you won't even look me in the eye! What the hell is happening to you?"
"I am not lying to you," you said, your voice shaking as you finally lifted your chin, though your eyes still refused to meet his, focusing instead on the bridge of his nose. "I am a resident completing my shift. I have an elective knee arthroscopy to scrub into with you in fifteen minutes. I will be in OR 4, fully prepared. If you'll excuse me, I need to go prep."
You didn't wait for his permission. You turned and walked rapidly down the corridor toward the surgical wing, leaving him standing alone in the cold, silent hallway.
Brendon stood there, his hand extended toward the empty air, his chest heaving as he fought down a wave of pure panic. His mind, trained to analyze complex clinical data and identify patterns, was completely failing him. You were slipping away from him, hour by hour, case by case, and he was entirely powerless to stop it.
HOUR EIGHT
2:00 PM - 3:00 PM
By 2:30 PM, Brendon was sitting in his private office, the lights turned off, the only illumination coming from the grey afternoon sky bleeding through the window blinds. He was supposed to be reviewing his surgical notes for the upcoming case, but the papers lay scattered and forgotten on his desk.
His mind had entered a dark, uncontrollable spiral, a vicious cycle of worst-case scenarios that no medical textbook could cure.
He stared at his hands, the hands that could repair a shattered limb with micro-millimeter precision, feeling them tremble slightly against the cool wood of his desk.
Is she sick? The thought hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. An illness? A diagnosis she hasn't told me about? An oncology scan? A chronic condition that's worsening? The memory of you leaning weakly against the restroom wall flashed behind his eyes, a terrible, localized clue that his mind twisted into a dozen lethal possibilities.
Did someone hurt her? The thought made a dark, violent surge of adrenaline rip through his blood. An encounter with a patient? A staff member? Did something happen last night when I wasn't there to protect her? He cataloged every interaction he had seen you have today, his protective instincts morphing into a raw, territorial aggression that he had to fight to suppress.
Is she leaving the program? Did you accept a transfer to another hospital? Were you preparing to pack your bags, move across the country, and erase the life you had spent the last year building with him in secret?
Or did I do something? He replayed the last week of your relationship in a microscopic loop. Had he been too harsh during rounds? Had he dropped his public persona too heavily in private, or conversely, had he been too cold in front of the other staff, making you feel hidden, unvalued, or like an embarrassment? Had the secrecy of the relationship finally broken you?
The uncertainty was a living, breathing horror. As an orthopedic surgeon, Brendon dealt in certainties—a bone was fractured or it was whole; a screw was locked or it was loose. He knew how to fix a physical break. But this silent, shifting void you had opened between you was something he couldn't grasp, couldn't measure, and couldn't repair.
He looked at the clock on his wall. 2:45 PM. It was time for the three-hour total hip replacement. Three hours where you would be trapped in the same sterile room, standing three feet away from him under the bright, unforgiving lights of the operating theater.
He stood up, pulling his loupes from his desk, his jaw setting into a hard, desperate line. He was going into that OR, and he was going to find the truth, even if the silence tore him apart piece by piece.
HOUR NINE
3:00 PM - 4:00 PM
The surgical scrub sinks of OR 4 were filled with the loud, rhythmic hiss of rushing water and the heavy, medicinal scent of chlorhexidine. Brendon walked up to the stainless-steel station, his movements automatic, his mind entirely locked on the silhouette visible through the glass viewing window of the operating room.
You were already inside.
You hadn't waited for him to scrub together—another broken tradition. Normally, the five minutes at the scrub sink were your favorite part of a surgical day; a quiet, stolen window where you could stand shoulder-to-shoulder, look at each other through the glass, and exchange quiet, soft smiles before the professional masks went on.
Today, you were already completely enveloped in the sterile armor. You were gowned, gloved, your surgical cap pulled low over your brow, your face entirely hidden behind a heavy blue mask and protective loupes. You were standing by the instrument trays, systematically organizing the specialized orthopedic retractors and femoral broaches with a hyper-focused, mechanical speed.
Brendon stepped on the foot pedal, the hot water splashing against his arms as he began the rigorous scrub protocol. He watched you through the glass, his eyes tracking the slight, pale line of your bare neck where your hair met the surgical cap.
Normally, you would have glanced up the moment the water started running. You would have given him that tiny, sharp crinkle of your eyes that meant you were smiling beneath your mask, perhaps making a silent, sarcastic comment through the glass about his technique or asking if he had remembered to eat lunch.
Today: nothing. You didn't lift your head once. Your eyes remained fixed on the stainless-steel trays, your hands moving with an intense, defensive urgency.
"Patient’s prepped and draped, Dr. Park," your voice came muffled but clear through the intercom speaker above the sink. "Anesthesia has cleared the line. We are ready for initial incision whenever you are."
Professional. Cold. Absolute.
Brendon immediately hated it. The formal title felt like a wall of ice erected between his chest and yours, a deliberate reminder that in this room, you were nothing but a second-year resident and he was nothing but an attending surgeon who held your career in his hands.
He rinsed his arms, dried them with a sterile towel, and pushed through the OR doors with his elbows, his chest tight with a dark, suffocating anger.
"Scalpel," Brendon said, holding his palm out over the patient’s lateral hip area.
The scrub nurse slapped the handle into his gloved fingers. Brendon made the initial deep incision, the electrocautery tool humming as he cleared the subcutaneous fat and exposed the heavy fascial layers of the hip.
"Charnley retractor," he commanded.
Before the last syllable had even left his mouth, the heavy metal retractor was placed precisely into his palm. You moved in perfect, fluid synchronization with him, your hands diving into the surgical field to assist with the exposure without a single moment of hesitation.
It was a beautiful display of surgical efficiency. Every instrument arrived before he could ask for it. Every step of the complex approach was anticipated with absolute precision. You held the heavy bone retractors with steady, unyielding strength, your positioning flawless.
And it was making him lose his mind.
You weren't treating him like the man who held you in the dark of his apartment forty-eight hours ago, whispering about the future while his fingers traced the line of your spine. You were treating him like a textbook template of an attending surgeon. You were anticipating his moves because you had studied his preferences, not because you loved him.
"Watch your angle on that superior retractor, resident," Brendon said, his voice dropping into that low, growling tone that usually sent interns into a cold sweat. He wanted a reaction. He wanted any sign of life from behind that blue mask. "If you slip, you'll lacerate the gluteal artery. Keep your weight back."
"Understood, Dr. Park," you said instantly, your voice completely level, your fingers tightening around the metal handle without a single tremor. "Adjusting angle five degrees posteriorly. Exposure is clear."
"Good," he muttered, his teeth grinding together behind his mask. He hated how perfect you were being. If you had made a mistake, if you had gotten sloppy, he could have corrected you, could have engaged with you, could have used the teaching moment to break through the wall. But your absolute competence was an unassailable fortress. You were hiding behind your talent, using your skill as a shield to keep him from touching a single piece of your mind.
HOUR TEN
4:00 PM - 5:00 PM
The surgery progressed to the preparation of the acetabulum, the loud, rhythmic rasping of the bone reamer filling the theater with a harsh, mechanical vibration. The radiation-shielding lead apron buckled over your scrubs felt twice as heavy as usual, trapping the heat of your body beneath layers of thick canvas.
"Reamer, size 52," Brendon said, his eyes drilling into yours over the top of the surgical field.
You handed him the instrument, your fingers avoiding his gloves with a practiced, millimeter-perfect clearance.
"What's the optimal angle for the acetabular cup insertion, doctor?" Brendon asked, launching into a formal pimping session. He was aggressively trying to force you into a dialogue, trying to make you talk to him, even if it was about bone geometry.
"Forty degrees of abduction, fifteen to twenty degrees of anteversion, sir," you responded immediately, your eyes fixed firmly on the exposed bone structure, refusing to drift upward to meet his intense gaze.
"And if the patient has significant lumbar-pelvic stiffness?" he pressed, his voice sharp, demanding more. "How do you adjust your anteversion to avoid posterior dislocation?"
"You increase the anteversion slightly to compensate for the lack of pelvic tilt when the patient sits," you answered, your voice clipping slightly as a sudden, sharp throbbing bloomed directly behind your eyes. "Usually aiming for the upper limit of the safe zone at twenty-two degrees."
"You're rushing the rationale," Brendon barked, his own frustration at the emotional distance leaking into his critique. "Explain the biomechanical impact on the posterior wall during flexion. I want the exact mechanics, resident."
You opened your mouth to answer, but the intense heat radiating from the overhead surgical lamps suddenly felt blinding. The harsh, brilliant light seemed to bounce violently off the stainless steel trays, triggering a massive, disorienting wave of vertigo. The room tilted sharply to the left.
A subtle, sharp intake of breath caught in your throat, audible only because Brendon was tracking every single sound you made. Your hands on the pelvic retractor trembled, a sudden, cold sweat breaking out across your forehead beneath your surgical cap.
"Dr. Park," you whispered, your voice dropping into a tight, strained register as you fought a losing battle against a vasovagal drop in your blood pressure. "I need... Nurse Bennett, please step to my side."
"What's wrong with her?" Brendon demanded, his clinical focus immediately breaking as he saw your posture slacken, your knuckles turning white as you tried to use the retractor to keep yourself upright.
"Just a sudden aura... a blind spot," you choked out, the overwhelming dizziness making it impossible to focus on the surgical field. The pressure of your lead apron felt like it was crushing the air right out of your lungs. "I'm going to pass out if I don't sit down. I need to step away from the table."
Before you could pass out entirely onto the sterile field, you handed the heavy femoral retractor to the scrub nurse with a frantic, controlled motion. You turned on your heel, your steps unsteady and clumsy as you moved with desperate speed toward the sub-sterile corridor door. Pushing it open with your shoulder, you vanished into the side room before anyone could speak.
Brendon’s heart stopped. He made a move to follow, his boots shifting toward the edge of the table, before the scrub nurse yelled out, "Dr. Park! The cement is ready and the stem needs to be impacted now or the construct will fail!"
He was trapped. Bound by the absolute duty of the patient on the table, forced to stay within the sterile field while the woman he loved was collapsing from sheer physical and emotional exhaustion thirty feet away behind a closed door.
"Damn it," he hissed, his voice raw with a terrifying mixture of fury and panic. He grabbed the femoral component, his hands striking the metal impactor with a violent, precise force, his mind screaming at the walls of the OR. He assumed the stress of the secret relationship, the brutal fifteen-hour shift, and his own aggressive hounding had finally broken your physical limit.
Exactly two minutes later, the sub-sterile door clicked open.
You walked back into the room. You had used a cold towel to wipe the sweat from your face, and Nurse Bennet had helped you sip a small cup of water. Your face was still deathly pale, your eyes watery and strained from the blinding headache, but your posture was once again locked into that rigid, unyielding line of professional compliance.
You approached the sink inside the room, performed a rapid sterile re-gloving protocol, and stepped right back up to the operating table, stepping into your slot opposite him as if you hadn't just been on the verge of fainting.
"Femoral stem is fully seated, Dr. Park," you said, your voice flat, completely empty of the vulnerability that had just driven you from the room. "The cement line looks clean. Let's proceed with head selection."
Brendon stared at you through his surgical loupes, his chest heaving under his heavy lead apron. He didn't see a resident anymore. He saw a stranger—a brilliant, terrifyingly resilient stranger who was willing to push her body to the absolute brink of physical collapse just to keep him at arm's length.
HOUR ELEVEN
5:00 PM - 6:00 PM
By the final hour of the surgery, as the team began the layered closure of the deep fascial tissue, the anger in Brendon’s chest had completely evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow terror that felt like ice water in his veins.
Because he had realized something fundamental.
You weren't angry with him.
If you were angry, you would have fought him. He knew your fire—he knew that when you disagreed with a clinical decision or felt slighted, your eyes would spark with a fierce, beautiful defiance. You would argue your point using evidence-based medicine, your chin lifted, your voice sharp and fully engaged. Angry people still connected; they still threw their energy against the other person.
You weren't throwing anything. You were withdrawing.
You were retreating deep into a dark, silent cave where he couldn't follow, systematically disconnecting every single wire that tied your life to his. You were treating him with the absolute, detached politeness one reserves for an employer they are about to leave forever.
She's breaking up with me, his mind whispered, the thought so loud it felt like it was echoing through the OR speakers. She’s preparing to quit. She’s leaving the residency. She’s erasing us.
The thought of his life without you—without your sarcastic texts, your brilliant mind in his OR, your warmth in his bed—felt like looking down the shaft of an elevator with the cables snapped. It was an absolute, crushing void.
"Final skin staples are complete," you announced, your voice cutting through his terrifying reverie. You dropped the disposable stapler into the plastic bin. "I'll manage the sterile dressing application and write the post-op orders, Dr. Park. The case went well."
"Excellent work, everyone," Brendon managed to say, his voice sounding distant and hollow to his own ears. He turned toward the back table, finally thinking that the staff would busy themselves with the patient transfer and he could grab your arm, pull you into the dictation alcove, and force you to talk to him.
He reached back, allowing the circulating nurse to untie his gown. He pulled his gloves off with a sharp snap, tossing them into the waste bin, and turned around to look for you.
The space opposite the table was empty.
You were already gone. You hadn't waited for the dressing to be completely taped down; you had handed the scissors to the intern, slipped your gown off, and exited through the main corridor doors before the gurney had even been unlocked by anesthesia.
It was an active, ruthless avoidance. You hadn't just left; you had run.
HOUR TWELVE
6:00 PM - 7:00 PM
At 6:15 PM, the hospital was bathed in the long, casting shadows of the setting sun, the golden light through the corridor windows doing nothing to warm the cold, sterile air of the second-floor clinic wing.
Brendon was standing near the central scheduling board, his eyes scanning the floor, when he saw you coming down the hall from the post-op recovery unit.
The physical toll of the fifteen-hour shift was finally breaking your formidable resolve. Your skin had lost all its vital color, appearing almost translucent beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Your shoulders were no longer rigid; they were slumped, curved forward in deep, heavy exhaustion. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy and slow, as you stared down at a patient chart in your hands.
You stopped by a rolling medication cart to check an order. Your fingers were clumsy, trembling slightly as you tried to flip through the paper pages of the old-style chart divider.
You reached for a small vial of saline, your grip slipping. The small glass bottle fell from your fingers, striking the edge of the metal cart and shattering on the linoleum floor, the clear liquid splashing across your boots.
It was a tiny, inconsequential mistake. A standard product of an eighteen-hour day that any resident would scoff at, sweep up, and forget.
But you didn't scoff.
You stood there, staring down at the broken glass, your entire body going completely rigid. Your chest began to heave, your breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps as you gripped the handle of the medication cart so tightly your knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white. You looked like a structural beam that had just reached its maximum weight capacity, the metal groaning before the total collapse.
Brendon stepped forward, his boots moving swiftly across the floor, his professional caution entirely thrown to the wind.
"I've got it," he said, his deep voice slicing through your panic as he stepped between you and the broken glass, his large body shielding you from the view of the central nurses' desk. He didn't touch you—he knew you would bolt if he did—but he stood so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "Don't move. You'll cut your boots."
You didn't look at him. You didn't argue. You just stood there, your head bowed so low your chin was almost touching your collarbone, your breath still coming in those tiny, ragged gasps.
"Go sit down," he commanded, his voice a low, fierce whisper that was entirely private. "Go to the break room. I'll have the orderly clean this up. You're exhausted."
"I have two more discharges to sign, Dr. Park," you whispered back, your voice so faint, so completely drained of substance, it broke his heart into pieces. "I can finish my work."
"You can barely stand," he said, his jaw tightening as he fought down the desperate urge to lift you off your feet and carry you out of this miserable building. "Go. That's an order from your attending."
You paused for a long, agonizing beat. Then, without a single word of acknowledgment, without looking at his face, you turned your back on him and walked slowly down the hall toward the resident locker room, your steps heavy, fragile, and utterly broken.
HOUR THIRTEEN
7:00 PM - 8:00 PM
By 7:30 PM, the night shift had begun to arrive, their fresh faces and loud voices creating a strange, jarring contrast to the absolute exhaustion of the day team. The main orthopedic station was a chaotic mess of hand-off reports and final chart signings.
Brendon stood at the edge of the desk, pretending to review a set of spine films on the monitor, but his attention was entirely locked on your cubicle at the back of the station.
You were gathering your belongings. You weren't chatting with the other residents, you weren't complaining about the grueling cases, and you weren't lingering by the sign-out sheet to exchange pleasantries with the incoming night team.
Your movements were silent, mechanical, and frantic. You shoved your stethoscope into your bag, pulled your dark jacket over your scrubs, and zipped it up to your chin, your face completely hidden behind the high collar.
"Hey," Sarah, the floor nurse, said as she walked past your desk. She stopped, looking at you with a concerned frown. "Are you okay? You look like a ghost. Did something happen today?"
"Just tired, Sarah," you said, your voice a flat line. "Long shift. See you tomorrow."
"You sure? You didn't even say goodbye to the chief or Dr. Park," Sarah noted, nodding toward where Brendon was standing ten feet away. "They were looking for your final trauma summaries."
"They're in the system," you said, your voice dropping into a cold, urgent tone. "I need to go. My ride is waiting."
You didn't look toward the monitor where Brendon was standing. You didn't glance at the staff. You gripped the strap of your bag, kept your head bowed low, and walked straight out the main glass doors of the orthopedic wing, your departure so swift and silent it felt like a ghost leaving a haunted house.
Brendon watched the glass doors swing shut behind you, the reflection of the hallway lights dancing on the empty glass.
The other staff members turned back to their computers, resuming their chatter, completely unaware that his entire universe had just walked out of the building. His hand slowly dropped from the computer mouse, his jaw locking so tightly the muscles in his cheek bunched into hard, visible knots.
HOUR FOURTEEN
8:00 PM - 9:00 PM
The fifteen minutes after you left were a blur of cold, calculating fury for Brendon. He signed his final charts with an aggressive, jagged script, threw his white coat onto the hook in his office, and stormed down to the parking garage.
He pulled out his phone as he reached his car and typed a message to let you know he was leaving the hospital and coming straight to your apartment so you could sort things out tonight.
He hit send. He watched the screen.
It was delivered, and five minutes later, as he checked the screen at a red light outside the hospital gates, he saw it had been read at 8:12 PM.
No response.
Brendon slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the horn blowing a sharp, violent blast into the evening traffic. The silence from your phone was the final, unassailable proof that you were shutting him out completely. You were giving him no explanation, no trial, no opportunity to defend himself or fix whatever had shattered between you.
He accelerated down the avenue, his dark SUV cutting through the rainy evening streets with a dangerous, single-minded speed. His mind was no longer spinning with medical diagnoses or administrative worries; it was locked into a state of raw, primal survival. He was an attending surgeon, a man who commanded entire operating rooms, a man known as "The Shark" because he never let a situation slip out of his control.
But as he looked at the dark dashboard of his car, completely devoid of your voice, he had never felt more small, more helpless, or more profoundly terrified in his entire life. He was losing you, and he was driving toward your apartment with nothing but the desperate hope that he could catch you before you vanished completely from his world.
HOUR FIFTEEN
9:00 PM - 10:00 PM
The drive to your apartment complex took twelve agonizing minutes. Brendon didn't bother waiting for the slow, mechanical elevator; he slammed through the heavy fire door and took the stairs to the third floor three at a time.
When he reached your door, Room 312, he struck the wood with three sharp, heavy blows of his fist.
"Open the door," he demanded, his voice low, rough, and vibrating with an intense, uncontainable strain. "Open it, or I'm using the emergency key you gave me."
A long, heavy beat of silence passed. Then, the heavy brass lock clicked open. The door swung back.
The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the amber glow of the streetlamps through the living room window. You were standing in the narrow entryway, still wearing your blue scrubs. You looked devastating. Your face was completely drained of life, your eyes swollen and red, your lips trembling as you leaned heavily against the doorframe for support.
"What are you doing here, Brendon?" you whispered, using his actual name for the first time in fifteen hours. "Please. Just go home. I can't... I can't do this tonight."
"Go home?" Brendon stepped into the apartment, his massive frame instantly filling the narrow hallway, his boots slamming the door shut behind him with a loud, final click. He threw his car keys onto the counter, his dark eyes blazing. "You think I'm going home after the day you just put me through?"
"I didn't put you through anything!" you shouted back, your voice rising into a sharp, erratic pitch as you took a step away from him. "I did my job! I completed every case! I followed every protocol!"
"You treated me like a fucking stranger!" Brendon growled, the absolute wall of his attending composure completely fracturing. He took a sharp step closer, his hands clenching fists at his sides. "For fifteen hours, you wouldn't look me in the eye. You left the room every time I walked in. You left my messages on read. You let the cup of coffee die on your desk, and you ran out of my OR before I could even take my gloves off. Do you have any idea what today was like? I thought you were leaving. I thought I lost you."
"I had to!" you screamed back, the tears finally bursting from your eyes in a fresh, hot flood, your face flushing a violent crimson as you shook from head to toe. "Every time I looked at you, I wanted to tell you. And every time I wanted to tell you, I panicked!"
"Tell me what?" he demanded, his chest heaving, his voice breaking with a raw, bleeding desperation. "Tell me what the hell is going on!"
"I'm pregnant!" you screamed at the top of your lungs.
The two words slammed into the dark apartment like a physical explosion. The sound seemed to echo off the bare walls, the kitchen tiles, the windows, before dying out into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Brendon froze. His entire body locked up, his breath caught halfway in his throat, his mouth remaining slightly open as his mind completely stalled. The angry, defensive posture he had held for the last fifteen hours vanished instantly, leaving him standing there looking entirely hollowed out, like a statue that had just had its foundation kicked away.
"What?" he whispered, his voice dropping into a flat, rattled register.
"I'm pregnant," you repeated, your voice breaking into a soft, whimpering sob as you collapsed backward against the kitchen counter, your hands rising to cover your face as your shoulders shook violently. "I found out this morning. I took three tests before my shift started at six o'clock. I... I haven't even processed it myself."
Brendon stood completely still, his eyes wide, his brain frantically trying to catalog the data.
The sudden, inexplicable trip down to the basement archives just to hide and breathe. The intense, blinding dizziness that made you faint and force your way out of the OR. The pale, translucent look of your skin outside the visitor restroom. The raw, terrifying panic that had consumed your entire day.
"You're pregnant?" he asked, his voice shaking.
"Yes!" you sobbed, pulling your hands away from your face, looking up at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. "I'm twenty-six years old, Brendon! I am a second-year resident in one of the most brutal surgical programs in the country! If the chief finds out, my surgical rotation is compromised. If the hospital finds out, our secret relationship is completely exposed and your career as an attending is dragged into an ethics committee! I spent the whole day standing next to you in that OR, holding those heavy retractors, feeling so violently sick I wanted to die, and all I could think about was how this would ruin everything. How it would destroy my career before it even started. I didn't know how to look at you without screaming. I didn't know how to tell you."
Brendon didn't speak. He stared at you, his eyes wide and unblinking as the pieces finally locked into place. The cold, analytical brain of an attending surgeon completely ground to a halt, replaced by a heavy, profound silence.
"Brendon?" you whispered, your voice cracking.
"Okay," he said softly, his voice gravelly, almost completely devoid of its usual clinical authority. He took a slow, tentative step forward, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. "Okay."
He closed the remaining distance between you in a single, massive stride. He didn't care about the residency program or the board. He reached out and pulled you into his chest with a fierce, crushing strength, his large arms wrapping completely around your waist and shoulders, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He held you so tightly your feet almost left the floor, his body trembling violently against yours.
"You don't have to carry this by yourself," he whispered fiercely into your neck, his voice rough and thick with a breaking emotion he couldn't hide. "That's not how this works. If something scares you, you tell me. We're in this together."
He pulled back just enough to look down at your face, his dark eyes wide and incredibly bright, his hands moving to cup your flushed, tear-stained cheeks with an intense, reverent gentleness.
"We're gonna figure this out," he said, his voice dropping into a low, absolute certainty. "All of it. I will take the heat from the committee. I can fix any clinical problem they throw at us. But don't you ever shut me out like that again. Don't you dare carry something that heavy alone while I'm standing right next to you."
You looked into his eyes—the dark, fierce eyes of "Park the Shark" that were currently filled with nothing but an absolute, unconditional devotion to you. The heavy, suffocating knot of terror that had sat in your chest for fifteen hours finally, completely dissolved, leaving behind a warm, exhausted peace.
"I understand," you whispered, your fingers tightening around his wrists. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he murmured, his mouth sliding down to press a deep, lingering, shaking kiss against your forehead, his arms winding back around your waist to hold you steady against the dark. "Just let me take care of you now. Let me handle the rest."
You stayed like that for a long minute, the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heartbeat beneath your cheek acting as the ultimate anchor. The suffocating weight that had crushed your lungs for fifteen hours was finally gone.
Brendon kept his arms wrapped tightly around you, letting his chin rest against the top of your head as your breathing gradually slowed from frantic gasps into long, exhausted sighs. He didn't rush you. He just held you against the kitchen counter, his large hands rubbing steady, grounding circles into the small of your back until the trembling in your shoulders finally stopped.
Slowly, he pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes scanning your pale face. The intense, terrifying fury from earlier was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, hyper-focused gaze. "When was the last time you actually ate something?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "Did you even have lunch?"
You let out a weak, sheepish breath, looking down at his chest. "I couldn't. Just looking at the cafeteria food made my stomach turn."
"And you spent the whole afternoon holding retractors in a hot OR," he muttered, a soft, self-reproaching sigh escaping his lips as he realized how entirely he had misread your cues all day. When he opened his eyes, a faint, incredibly gentle warmth softened the hard lines of his face. "Okay. No more fasting. We're getting you off your feet, and then I'm finding whatever crackers or toast you have left in this kitchen."
A tiny, familiar spark of mischief finally flickered back into your eyes through the dampness of your lashes. The heavy atmosphere lifted just enough for you to tilt your head up, a small, tentative smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.
"Turns out somebody was feeling a little too enthusiastic about turning forty," you whispered, your voice still a little thick.
Brendon blinked, his brain completely stalling for a split second before his dark brows drew together in that familiar, authoritative glare—though it was completely ruined by the wet track of a tear still drying on his cheekbone.
"I'm just saying," you added softly, a light shrug of your shoulders pushing against his chest. "Most people get a cake."
Brendon let out a sharp, breathless sound—halfway between a choked laugh and an incredulous scoff. "Are you seriously teasing me about my birthday sex right now, resident?" he muttered, his deep voice vibrating with a gravelly, deeply relieved warmth.
"Just reminding you of the facts, Brendon," you teased softly, reaching up to gently brush a stray tear from the edge of his jaw with your thumb. "But for the record... the hyper-protective, crying-in-the-kitchen look? Surprisingly hot on an attending. I think it might be my favorite version of you."
"Shut up," he murmured, a genuine, profound smile finally breaking across his face, lighting up his dark eyes. He leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that was no longer frantic or panicked, but deep, fiercely possessive, and full of a quiet, unshakeable promise. He pulled back just a fraction, his large hands sliding down to lock securely around your waist, anchoring you safely against the kitchen counter.
"Come on," he murmured, sliding an arm around your waist to support you. You huffed out a tired laugh as he guided you away from the cold kitchen tiles and toward the couch. Settling into the cushions, you looked up at him as he sat beside you. "And tomorrow?" you asked quietly.
"Tomorrow, we'll figure it out," he promised softly. His large hand settled over yours, his fingers squeezing gently as his gaze intensified. "But you're not shutting me out again."
You looked up into his eyes, seeing the fierce, unyielding protectiveness there. "Deal?"
Brendon's jaw tightened for a moment, processing the sheer weight of the day, before he finally nodded. "Deal."
A heavy, quiet beat passed between you in the dim living room. Then, he pulled you just a little bit closer, his voice dropping into a rough, vulnerable whisper: "I can't do another day like today."
here’s an appetizer to the upcoming fic i’m writing. also thanks to everyone from tiktok im sitting at 500 on here now. send me reqs for celebratory smut. but here’s this to chew on.
free use with jack abbot means he’s sliding into your cunt at 3 am, when he can’t sleep and is so hard he could cry, pressing deep deep deep while you whine and drool into your tempur pedic pillow. it means making breakfast and getting hauled onto the kitchen counter so jack can eat your cunt at a comfortable height, fingers jabbing toward the back of your throat as you gurgle and cry. it means getting shoved to your knees as jack watches a pirates game, ignoring you as he holds your head down on his cock, letting your throat work him as you gag. it means getting pulled onto his lap in the shower, bouncing your hips up and down on him while he lounges in his shower chair, barking an occasional order to “keep going” or “faster” when you start to get tired. it means tying your legs over your head, fastening them to the headboard and watching you get wetter and wetter as his cock barely grazes your folds. you cry when he comes all over your needy cunt. you cry harder when you realize you’re not coming that night.
theory crafting - billionaire!jack x fake wife!reader
word count: 9.2k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, extremely dubious consent, somnophilia, fem!reader, fake relationship trope, he calls you “baby girl” and you call him “sir”, age gap (25/50), reader is a genius quant with a huge ego (but secretly shy), boss/employee relationship, you fall first but he falls harder, surveillance (jack looks at your internet history!), possessive!jack, sadistic!jack, forced proximity, there's only one bed!, mutual pining, loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, unprotected sex, breeding kink, forced orgasms, mild cnc/rape roleplay, squirting, fingerfucking, edging, biting, he makes you beg, some angst, another “slow” burn
summary: being married to a billionaire is easy when it's not real. but when you slowly grow feelings for your husband, you start making mistakes that are losing him millions.
but he'd be willing to lose his entire fortune if it meant he could actually have your heart…
a/n: I've been rewatching one of my favorite shows, billions, and gah I just could not get my mind off of jack being a billionaire, so here it is!
hope it's a sick read ♡
You watch the interview again in your free time. The one after your boss Jack Abbot announces that he'd be marrying you, “his favorite quantitative analyst".
“She's my most valuable asset.” Jack says to the interviewer with a smile that could sway millions to invest in anything he tells them to. “Falling for her was the easiest thing in the whole world. I fell in love with that brilliant mind of hers and then, just like that, I wanted to marry her. I am very lucky that she said yes.”
You like to rewatch this interview mainly to ponder that last sentence. You know the rest is a lie. He isn't actually in love with you.
But does he truly feel grateful that you said yes to marrying him for the sake of his image?
People love a good love story. And you were the one who convinced Jack it would sell.
You did the math.
The math is never wrong.
It sold more than either of you could imagine.
It saved his firm from getting thwarted by a merger that nearly halved Jack's net worth. Not that anyone would've ever found out, given how good you are at your job. You singlehandedly clawed the numbers back up.
But you could only achieve it by playing dirty.
That's how this whole thing started.
With a dirty little secret…
It was an emergency meeting. There was no reason for you to be there but you were dragged into it.
You are, by far, the best quant in the firm. Maybe even the world, but you don't stroke your own ego that much.
Everything is a numbers game at the end of the day. You picking to work for Abbot Financial was not because he paid the most. He certainly does not have the best base yearly salary. But, he had the highest percentage ratio for bonuses, meaning you could make more money by making him more money.
And there was no way in hell you weren't going to make him money.
So, you picked his firm based solely on there being no cap there.
And you've made him millions.
Subsequently meaning you've made yourself millions.
Money you don't really care for.
You do this for the love of the craft itself. To see the numbers spike in ways that give you the kind of high that no drug could ever replicate.
It makes you good at your job.
Maybe a little too good.
Because when Jack asks everyone at the meeting what to do about the failing merger, you're the only one who doesn't spew out an idea that sounds like it was typed into an AI chatbot and regurgitated out to seem appealing.
None of these ideas would work. You knew this.
Jack could tell you were bored. He could tell you were thinking the same thing he was.
Who the hell are these people trying to fool?
He was in a room of idiots, of yes men, of people who wanted to keep their jobs but refused to risk it for the chance to climb the ladder of his interest.
You were none of those things. You don't even know why you're here.
Not until Jack singles you out and asks, “are you not going to share any thoughts?”
Your blank stare back at him slices through him in ways no one has dared to do in years. You look like you couldn't give less of a shit about answering him. Because you know what he knows.
Jack can't fire you.
You're his greatest asset.
Which is why you have the gall to say back, “none of the thoughts I have are shareable with a crowd.”
You won't speak the things on your mind with an audience.
Jack scoffs at that, an amused half chuckle leaking from his lips as he says back, “are you afraid of being judged?”
“I’m not the one who should be afraid.” Your blank stare converts back to a bored expression, accompanied by a yawn. You're tired of all this sitting around. “Are we done here?”
“We aren't.” He points to you and him, then the rest of the crowd. “You're all dismissed. Make me my fucking money back.”
They scatter immediately, leaving you and Jack alone in the conference room.
“Say your piece.” He gestures that you have the floor to speak.
But you shake your head. “It's lunchtime.”
“Excuse me?” He has no clue what to make of you.
You're mentioning food, now of all times? When his company's value could halve at any second if there's even a single bad trade?
“Can you drive?” You pull out your phone, making a reservation. “There's a restaurant I like. Always has an open table for me. I'll tell you my idea after lunch. But only after lunch. You're paying by the way, sir. ”
At first, Jack had thought this was quite a strange request. He never eats with employees, which is why all eyes are on the two of you when you're both spotted at the restaurant together for lunch.
Jack watches as you pull a bottle of some kind out of your bag. You apply it to your hands, so it must be some kind of cream. It's colorful but becomes clear once you've pressed it into your palms and warmed it up. He stares for longer than he should at your odd behavior. You seem engrossed in the action of rubbing your hands together.
“It's not polite to stare, sir.” You look up at him, again with that rather bored expression you always have on.
“What is that?” The question leaves his lips before he can stop himself from asking.
“It's a hand cream from a Korean boutique I visited a few months ago.” The same trip you went on with the firm for that failing merger. The one you knew Jack should've never convinced himself to do but you weren't going to stop him.
It's not on you to tell your boss how to run his company.
Your job is to make him money and that's all you’re focused on.
“Do you always apply it before eating?” Jack asks mainly because he finds it counterintuitive since you'll be handling utensils.
“If you think I'm putting this shit on for the sake of softening my hands, then there's no wonder your firm is failing.” You say your words with such a blunt harshness that Jack is taken back.
“Excuse me—” Jack is quickly cut off by the server joining the two of you.
You switch up your behavior so quickly that your boss gets whiplash when you politely order your food and thank the server with a smile.
He's never seen you smile before…
Why does he seem intrigued by the sight of it?
Jack orders his lunch and then looks back at you. There's no longer that smile on your face. You're sifting through your bag again before pulling out a small colorful container full of pills. You pour out one of the small tablets onto your palm then drop it into your water glass. With a few simple swirls of the glass, the water turns a lovely shade of lavender. You take a sip of it, looking content at the now flavored water.
Neither you nor Jack ordered any drinks. You definitely don't drink at all, since you believe it clouds your mind, but you certainly wouldn't during work hours. Jack feels like he can use one since you're acting so weird…
When the two of you are back in his car after lunch, Jack finally asks, “are you going to tell me now?”
To which you reply, “not yet.”
Your eyes are glued to your phone. He wants to make a comment about how people your age are so obsessed with their phones but he refrains.
Why? He doesn't really know.
He doesn't really understand you at all.
He had always known you were different from other people. That's what makes you so good at your job.
But he never realized how different you were until he sees you scrolling through data on your phone all the way from the restaurant to his office.
You tell him you have to do something on your computer before you can meet with him privately and you're gone before he can tell you no.
So, for the first time in the many years Jack has been a billionaire, he waits for someone. Usually he is the one that people wait on.
However, in this case, his curiosity has the better of him. He just needs to know what is keeping his firm stagnant.
And when you return to his office, you answer his question, “it's you, sir.”
“Excuse me?” He feels like a broken record saying that again but your words are constantly baffling him. He can't quite wrap his head around what you could mean.
Not until you detail it out for him, “you are the reason your firm is failing. It's because you're single. People don't want to commit to an investing firm where the head of it can't commit himself to one person.”
You exude a type of arrogance that Jack normally never entertains. He should just fire you on the spot for insubordination. But no one has ever had the courage to speak to him like this, not even back in his medical school days or his time in the military. He had always been wealthy so most people wanted to stay on his good side.
You could care less. You have plenty of money. You do this because it's entertaining for you and you're good at it.
Really good at it.
Because you show him the money you just made his firm and Jack's jaw nearly hit the floor.
“How did you—”
“The hand cream I used had certain ingredients that very few companies produce, including in the eco-friendly packaging. I bought in before lunch. I sold after lunch. Same thing with the flavor tablet.” You knew that if you were going to be spotted with a billionaire known for being a bachelor, you had to play your cards well.
The house never wins when it comes to you. That's why you're banned from several different casinos. It isn't your fault that you count cards. It's a reflex at this point, to see the numbers and where they could go.
All the possibilities align exactly as you intend them to.
Including your proposition to your boss. “If you want to rebuild your image into something truly profitable, then we should start dating.”
“You want to date me?” He almost laughs at the thought of dating someone just for optics.
But then you convince him by saying, “I want to make money. Don't you?”
Of course. It's all he wants, ever.
Because making money is simple. It isn't like sewing someone back up in an emergency room or out in the field. He likes to keep things simple now that he has lost his leg.
Can dating you truly solve all his problems? Could it really be that simple?
You show him an article on your phone. A tabloid has already published a whole piece on you and Jack. They've done most of the heavy lifting for you two, implying that your outing was a “soft launch” of your relationship with him.
Which is how you figured it would go.
Again, you're rarely ever wrong in your predictions.
Jack starts to see that now more than ever. The brilliance that is your mind.
Everything you predict comes true. The world eats up the relationship the two of you have. They like that you're distant and purposefully avoidant of the spotlight because it heavily contrasts with Jack, who is constantly being shoved in front of a camera.
Opposites attract, after all.
You and Jack go out on dates that you plan strategically to manipulate your portfolio. In the few public dates the two of you have been on, you have made Jack enough money that the merger flop was miniscule in the grand scheme of things.
You're thinking bigger.
That's why when you're interviewed for the first time about your relationship and they ask you what you love about Jack, you tell them in that nonchalant way of yours, on live television, “that he didn't make me sign a pre-nup and he let me pick my engagement ring.”
An agreement the two of you never made but you simply cornered him into.
Jack can't possibly marry you without a plan in place. Definitely not without a pre-nup to protect his money.
So, he snaps at you when you get to his penthouse apartment, where you've been living for the last few weeks, from that interview. “We never agreed to get engaged. And if we were to, you will be signing a pre-nup.”
“No, I won't.” You shrug off your jacket, hanging it at the coat rack by the door, completely ignoring the irritation building on your boss's face.
Jack never had a coat rack before. You brought yours here. You brought a lot of your things here.
You actually live here now, which is something Jack is not used to at all…
He has always been alone. A bachelor at heart. He had thought once of maybe settling down, having children, etc, but then life got in the way.
Jack made his first billion investing in the medical field and his second billion after he lost his leg overseas.
He's about to make his third billion by marrying you.
Somehow you've accumulated that much value, at least in social currency. People love how straightforward you are. No bullshit, despite it all being bullshit.
Jack won't win this fight. He'll slowly learn that he can never win when he comes to you.
You will always be several steps ahead.
You convince him against a pre-nup. You convince him to elope with you. You convince him to go on a honeymoon to a place specifically where a luxury chain you have a stake in owns every hotel on the island.
Your money is now Jack's money. Much to his surprise, it ends up being a lot of money. Still not as much as he has but enough that anyone would find you well within the 1%.
You don't need to make any more money. You could live the rest of your life comfortably.
But what's the fun in that?
Jack learns your habits over the year the two of you have been in a fake relationship.
You wake up early. You read the trends. You scope out options that you might want to look into. And you always, always make him money.
He definitely doesn't need any more money but your abilities have allowed him to create a more relaxed workplace with plenty of safety nets. He is able to convince several private health companies to invest their employee pensions with Abbot Financial, a trend that continues to grow as your decisions create a healthy cushion for any possible mishaps.
His firm is juggling megatons of money now, more money than most firms will ever see in countless lifetimes.
Jack has everything he has ever wanted.
That is, until he wakes up in the morning and sees you sitting on his couch, in his home.
And he realizes he doesn't have you.
Not truly.
He looks down at the wedding ring on his finger then turns his attention back to you. He can see the matching band on your finger, along with the engagement ring you picked out and billed to him, not that it cost anything all that substantial to a billionaire like him.
The two of you are married but…it's not real.
Your eyes shift to him, furrowing your brow at the sight of him staring at you. “You do that a lot, sir.”
“Do what?” He feigns ignorance.
“Stare at me.” You don't like that he stares so much.
Makes you feel things you shouldn't towards your boss.
Things that a wife would feel towards her husband, if he were actually her husband.
Like the desire to ask for a kiss in the morning.
You shake that thought away, going back to looking at your laptop, staring at the numbers for the day.
Numbers are safe.
The thoughts that just swarmed your mind were not safe…
Because he fuels those delusional thoughts when he responds like he always does, “am I not allowed to stare at my wife?”
“I'm not your wife.” You answer the same way you always do to this joke of his.
“You'll have to be my wife for the charity gala tonight.” It's Abbot Financial's annual charity gala.
The first one since you and Jack got officially married, which means you will indeed have to be by his side then.
“I know.” You've been dreading it.
There is too much to account for. While your distant act worked well when you and Jack were “dating”, you can't do the same act now that you're married to him.
You have to act like you're in love with him and that disturbs you because…you won't need to act.
You are in love with him.
You've never felt anything for anyone before but over these last few months, you've grown to care about Jack more than you've ever cared for a person.
And it has you making mistakes you shouldn't be making.
Like when someone asks you what you'd like to drink at the gala.
But you don't drink, so why did you tell them to get you Jack's favorite drink, the one he always has when he's at home, his favorite brand of double barrel whiskey…
You figured since you were asked, you might as well get him something.
Big fucking mistake.
You have no stake in that brand and neither does Jack. You should've ordered something you had a stake in because now, your trends will be off. People will invest in that whiskey brand knowing a billionaire enjoys drinking it, which means they'll be investing in the materials that make up the bottle and the wax label. None of which you had accounted for in your projections…
The weight of that glass of whiskey felt heavier than it was in your hand once you received it.
It feels even worse when you give Jack the glass and he exclaims rather happily, “my favorite! Thanks, baby girl.”
And he kisses you on the temple, causing your stomach to do flips…
You don't like that he chose that nickname for you. It's playful because of your age difference. The media eats it up whenever he calls you “his baby girl” when he talks about you. People love how “affectionate” he is when it comes to talking about you.
You hate it. You hate knowing that it's all a lie and that all the pretty words he says about you are just to keep this ploy going.
So why did you care enough to get him his favorite drink?
That's when you catch the truth.
The calculated truth.
That your subconscious mind knew he'd give you a kiss for it because that's what a husband would do if his wife thought of him dearly enough to bring him his favorite drink.
You feel sick realizing this…
“Is my baby girl feeling alright?” Jack sets his glass down on a nearby table so he can cup your face in his warm palms, which only has your heart beating faster than it already is.
He can feel your rapid pulse. He wonders what's wrong—
“I feel a little nauseous.” You say in a fake attempt to whisper. You speak loud enough for the crowd around the two of you to hear you say, “it must be because…you know…”
Jack doesn't know what you could be implying. Not until he reads the news the next day after the gala and people are speculating that you're pregnant.
But he knew your nausea was not pregnancy related. He's never touched you.
No one has ever touched you…not that Jack knows that.
Jack does know, however, that you were actually feeling unwell.
So, he asks you when he sees you in the living room on your laptop, like you always are in the mornings, “should I get you some medicine?”
“I’m fine.” You aren't fine.
Your trends are off.
They're never off.
But they're off today…
They're off for a whole week before you can level them back out properly.
Jack wouldn't be able to notice the things you do, so he has no clue why you've been glued to your laptop for days on end. He just worries that you're working yourself sick.
“You need to rest.” He tells you when, for the eighth day in a row, you've been barely sleeping.
“I'm fine.” Again, you lie.
“You are not fine. There's obviously something wrong. Just talk to me.” Jack goes to sit next to you on the couch and he flinches when he sees you stare at him with a startled expression.
He has never ever sat down next to you at home. He has never been this close to you in private before.
It causes you to snap your laptop shut and stand up quickly. Too quickly.
You clutch your head, the blood rushing out from it, making you dizzy enough to stumble.
And your heart stops in your chest when you feel Jack's hands on your arms, steadying you.
He's close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body, reminding you that he just woke up and he's wearing what he usually does to bed. A high end brand of athletic shorts and a shirt that clings a little too nicely to his upper body, showing off that he trains in his free time with a specialized workout instructor for people with prosthetics.
Your eyes shift down for a second because you feel something brush against your thigh.
Is that his…oh fuck!
You scramble out of his hold and without saying a word, you run off into your room.
You don't come out for an entire day.
Jack knocks several times to make sure you aren't dead in there. He, again, has no clue why you're acting so strange. He hadn't realized he was sporting a hard on from waking up and it had casually poked at you through the fabric of his shorts.
You have to tell yourself that it's just something that happens with men in the morning. It had nothing to do with you. Nothing at all.
You shouldn't want it to have anything to do with you! Why would you want your boss to get hard for you!
This is…beyond horrific.
You can't look him in the eye, which is fine because usually you can't anyways.
But you forgot about the children's dinner.
It's an event for children with disabilities that Abbot Financial hosts. It's a community cooking event and you're supposed to cook alongside your husband Jack.
The entire time, you act the role of the shy wife beautifully because whenever Jack touches you casually or gives you a kiss, you react with such shock that everyone around finds you adorable. Including Jack.
He's never seen you act so cute before. Every time he kisses you, you look at him with the most surprised expression that he can't help messing with you for the rest of the event. Especially when the two of you bake some cookies and he tries one and they're so delicious that he picks you up and twirls you around in front of everyone, telling them all how talented his wife is.
“My baby girl is brilliant in more ways than one.” He says to the crowd before pressing a kiss against your lips. You can taste the flavor of the cookie on his lips.
And to his shock, you lean in and kiss him.
Just so you can memorize the feel of his lips against yours.
You shouldn't have done that. You really shouldn't have done that. You didn't think it through.
You always think things through.
You always play out all the possibilities.
But in that moment, you didn't.
And now everything is uncertain…
Like how you don't have a plan for when Jack is driving the two of you home from the event and he asks, “what was the reason behind that kiss?”
“Hmmm?” You pretend not to understand what he's asking.
“You always have a reason behind everything you do. I'm just curious what the reason was there.” Jack can't wrap his mind around why you decided to kiss him back. You've never shown him affection before, which is what you're known for.
So, why did you kiss him?
You shrug, not answering verbally, leaning your head against the tinted window.
His eyes shift over to you, to your lips, to the memory of you kissing him for the first time.
And he hopes you'll do it again.
A hope he shouldn't have because he has no clue that you have feelings for him.
He isn't sure you could have feelings for anyone and if you did, it would have to be well within your calculations.
You would never just fall for anyone.
Whoever you fell in love with, it would have to be someone who fits into your numbers.
Someone who definitely isn't him…
But, little does he know, you only have eyes for the man who is playing the role of your husband in the public eye. The man you consider your boss even though you've been his wife now longer than you've ever been his employee.
Three years have gone by and…your feelings for your fake husband have only grown by the day.
You find yourself looking forward to the events where you have to be seen with Jack because during those events, you can enjoy being loved by him. It's not real and it makes your heart ache when it's over and you're reminded that it's all an act, but you try to enjoy it in the moment.
Try as you might, it doesn't aid in the lump that forms in your throat every time Jack asks you why you do certain things, like hold his hand the whole night or give him a kiss. You simply shrug and so far, that's enough. He doesn't push for an answer past that.
He believes you must have your reasons. In his mind, he can't fathom that reason being that you just want to hold his hand or kiss him. It has to be a piece in a puzzle that only you can see somehow.
But then, one night, you slip up.
And you hold onto his hand even in the elevator up to the shared hotel room, where there are no eyes to see the two of you.
No reason for you to still be holding his hand.
Jack stares down at the way your fingers are interlocked with his. At the way your thumb is casually brushing against his skin. At how relaxed you seem. At how content you are to be holding his hand.
Until you realize what you're doing and you quickly slip your hand out of his, hoping he hadn't noticed.
It's the first time Jack sees you clearly.
He sees that you're just a shy girl who seems to like him, though you'd never say anything about it.
Not even when the two of you are legally married and there's no reason for Jack not to grab you and kiss you right now.
You are his wife, after all.
No one would bat an eyelash if he pinned you to the wall of this elevator and grinded his body up against yours until a moan slipped from your lips.
What's stopping him now that he knows you feel something for him? How long have you been hiding this from him?
Is that why you're never in bed when he wakes up on the rare occasions you and him have to share a bed, like tonight?
Are you nervous about what would happen if he slid a little closer to you in your sleep and touched you?
Would you…let him?
Thoughts race through his mind that are sinful and perverted. His lovely wife is interested in him. Maybe even the whole time the two of you have been married…
Jack starts feeding into the delusion that perhaps this has all been a ploy to make him fall in love with you. A clever girl like you would think that far ahead, after all.
While that isn't true at all, it doesn't matter.
It's what Jack believes now.
And you hardly prove him wrong when the two of you share a bed that night and you don't push him away when he spoons you.
Why don't you shrug him off? Why don't you move?
You can't figure out why you're letting him hold you…
Maybe it's because you actually enjoy how his body feels pressed up against your back. How good he smells when he's this close to you and his scent wafts in your direction.
You and Jack are currently attending a five day long retreat, run by an eccentric billionaire who thought it was a good idea to rent out an entire ski resort just for a handful of people.
Jack usually declines by booking something to overlap with the retreat dates but this time, he hadn't. Because he told you about it and you said that it would be a good idea to go. To show people he's in a happy relationship, as many billionaires are not.
He would be in an even happier relationship if he could sink his hard cock into you and hear you beg for him to cum inside.
Your heart starts pounding in your chest when you feel how hard he has gotten in his sleep. His cock is resting between your thighs…and you have to stuff your face in your pillow to stop yourself from making a sound when he rolls his hips against your ass.
You don't know what to do. He's surely asleep. He probably doesn't even realize he's doing this.
You should scoot over. You shouldn't keep letting him dry hump you like this in his sleep.
But he is asleep…right?
So, can't you pretend that he has no clue this is happening so you can cum from the feeling of the tip of his cock brushing against your clit over and over again?
Jack swears he hears you moan. It's so faint but it had to have slipped from your lips.
And now he has to hear it again.
He keeps fucking your thighs, humping you like an animal in heat, and you bury your face further into your pillow, digging your nails into the sheets to hold yourself steady so that his cock can rub up against you where you need him to make you cum.
The orgasm that shoots through you feels better than when you've touched yourself. You've never been this wet before. There's an ache between your legs. You wish he'd just slip his cock inside of you and start fucking you.
Wait, what? No, you shouldn't be thinking that. He's asleep. He's probably having a weird dream.
You need to just go to sleep and—
Another moan slips from your lips when you feel him draw a line down the length of your slit with the tip of his finger before dipping inside of you. He curls his finger just right as his palm applies pressure on your clit and suddenly, stars flood your vision. You can barely keep in your voice anymore.
And nothing can stop him when his name leaves your lips all breathy and nervous, “Jack?”
No “sir”. Just Jack.
You never call him Jack.
Now, he needs to hear you moan his name again. And again.
In that soft, shy, scared voice of yours, so lost in the pleasure he can give you.
You don't know how long he bullies your pussy with his fingers. You've cum so much that you feel hollow when his fingers finally free you from their grasp and your pussy is left wanting more.
Then, before you ask him anything, Jack feigns a little snore before flipping over, his back now to your own. He mainly did that so he can lick the taste of you off his fingers without you catching him. But it also helps him hide the fact that he had done that all consciously and you let him.
You don't mention a word about it in the morning.
Like usual, you aren't there in bed when he wakes up. But his hand slides over to where he had fingered you last night and there's a dampness there that tells him that it really did happen and he didn't just dream it.
He can still taste you on his tongue.
Jack wants to bury his face between your legs and hear you moan his name from his mouth ravaging your pussy.
But, first, he needs you to admit that you want him.
Something that proves almost impossible.
Over the rest of the retreat, you're much more cautious around Jack, especially in private. You do the bare minimum of affection. You don't push the bounds like you had before with holding his hand or kissing him. You try your best to maintain a proper sense of decorum.
Until the two of you lay down in bed together.
Then, everything gets thrown out the windows.
Because you don't stop Jack from touching you in his sleep.
You let him grope you under your sleep shirt and pinch your nipples while his cock grinds up against your ass. You let him finger you into multiple orgasms that have you reeling by the end of them, your body tense and aching for him to go further. He never goes further.
You won't get his cock until you beg for it. That's what he has decided. Jack will play your game of pretend for now but he knows one day, you have to cave.
Either you will, or he will.
And for once when it comes to you, Jack likes his odds.
Because now, in the corner of your eye when you look at him, there's a heat that wasn't there before.
Even if it isn't love, Jack will accept your lust. He can turn that into love. He can make you truly his.
He wants you to be his wife, his actual wife.
So, he starts asking you to go on more “business” trips with him. Excuses to force you into the same bed as him disguised as necessary ventures for capital.
Excuses you allow because your body has grown a bit too attached to the pleasure he spoils you with in his sleep.
You miss his touch when you sleep alone in your bed at his penthouse. You wish he'd slide into bed with you and make you cum and just fuck you already.
You know that this can't be some strange type of sleepwalking. Jack is actively touching you and he knows you're letting him.
But neither of you will admit to the other the truth.
That you want each other, in a way that is deeper than just momentary pleasure.
Despite all your genius, you can't reason the “correct” approach to confessing this to him.
It feels like it's too late, or too impossible to do now.
Your feelings for him are growing to be too overwhelming. You find it hard to focus when you're slick between your legs at the thought of him.
You've never been like this before so you never had a reason to fathom the possibilities. Your logical brain assumed that something like this could never happen because why would you ever let someone touch you the way Jack has been touching you?
Why are you letting him…
Why does it have to feel so good?
This is fucked up.
You're not his wife. You're not even in a relationship with him. You're practically a stranger he shares a bed with on occasion.
You're a toy he likes to play with. That's the conclusion you've come to because you can't reason that he loves you too. Such a thought is more than unlikely, even though it's the truth.
You've never been so wrong before.
But your judgment is clouded heavily by the idea that he only agreed to be with you for money.
The moment you're no longer useful to him, you'll get thrown out. It's inevitable.
That's why you start looking for back up plans. You should've done this earlier and built your own safety net.
But you couldn't have known you'd fall in love with your boss of all people…
You would've never suggested this if you thought for a second you'd feel something for him.
Feelings make everything more complicated than they should be.
Like the jealous rage Jack gets when he checks what you've been searching for on his internet. He had been keeping tabs on your internet history. He owns the provider so it wasn't difficult for him to get the information he needed.
You're looking for ways out.
He finds it adorable that you think you can get away from him of all people.
Don't you know what he did for the military?
Jack was a combat medic but he was special ops first, specializing in surveillance.
There's not a corner of this Earth you could go where he couldn't find you.
You can never leave him. Hadn't you calculated that in your head?
Why would he ever let you go?
You're his.
Whether you want to be or not…
He just needs to make sure you're aware of it.
So, Jack buys a new apartment. He buys an entire building, actually, where the penthouse suite is rather large but only has one bedroom. On purpose. He built it that way.
And he makes a grand showing of how he curated the building for you, his lovely wife.
You had no clue about any of this, which is why you had no idea that he built you a cage.
A cage you walked right into with a smile for the world to see…
“Why is there only one bedroom?” That's the first question you ask when you walk into the new penthouse for the first time.
And for once, Jack is the calculated one. “Because the design plans are available to the public and we don't have a need for a guest room so it looks better for our relationship to only have one bedroom.”
The logic is sound. You can't argue with that.
Jack figured you wouldn't. He assumed that maybe you'd even look forward to having to sleep next to him every night.
You do look forward to it, for all the wrong reasons…
You can't keep letting him touch you. You try to just fall asleep, to ignore how easily Jack can make you cum but to no avail. He knows your body better than you do at this point and that's only with his hands.
Imagine what he could do to you with his mouth or his cock. If only you'd just tell him how you truly feel about him.
But the fear of losing him completely prevents you from ever mentioning it.
It prevents you from giving him more than a polite nod in the morning even though the night before he made you cum so hard on his fingers that you squirted all over the new bed while crying out his name.
You're beginning to test the limits of his patience. He can't keep cumming in his hand and wasting it when he could be buried deep inside of his pretty wife.
You're his baby girl, who has no need for protection because you never thought you'd ever have sex so why would you be on birth control?
He could put a baby inside of you.
That would ensure you're his forever.
Maybe he should just take you. Rip the choice from your hands. It's not like you'd stop him. He knows you want it too.
If you won't admit it to him, then he'll just have to make you…
Jack hasn't touched you since he made that decision. You're confused by it.
You're uncomfortable with the fact that you miss those late night aggressive touches from him. You haven't cum in what feels like weeks. Your own fingers can't get you to the same pleasure Jack can so you don't even try.
You've been left desperately wanting to ask him why he stopped.
Is he…tired of you? Has he lost interest in you?
You knew the time would come eventually so you prepare yourself to leave him first. You won't be here for the heartbreak.
You'll end this on your own terms.
Or, well, you try to.
Only for Jack to laugh in your face. “You can't be serious.”
“Our marriage has run its course.” You tell him with that bluntness of yours, trying to maintain that cold, calm expression you usually have on. “We'll divorce amicably. I already have other firms lined up to hire me so there won't be any mess—”
Your back is against the wall in an instant and you can't hardly register the feel of Jack's lips on your own until he forces his tongue into your mouth. You squirm, shoving him off of you but failing miserably when he grabs your wrists and pins them to the wall, holding you steady there with his body pressed firmly against your own.
Jack has never kissed you like this before, where he's purposefully stealing every breath you take, making you feel lightheaded. It's so aggressive that your knees start to buckle from how much you want him to keep going.
But you can't let him do this.
What is he doing?
“Sir, I—!” You let out a yelp when Jack bites your neck all of a sudden. “What are you doing!”
“Marking my wife.” His words have heat rushing to your core.
“Your…” You stare at him in disbelief. “I’m not your wife.”
Again, he lets out a laugh that is so sinister, goosebumps form on your skin. Though, that might be from the words that decide to leave his lips with such menace, “I wonder how many times I'll have to rape you until you finally admit that you want to be my wife.”
“W-What?” You must've gone crazy.
Did Jack really just say that—
He grabs you and drags you to the bedroom, locking the door. Then, he tosses you onto the bed before kneeling down and ripping your bottoms off completely.
You hold in a shriek of surprise when Jack buries his face between your legs and starts eating you out like he has been dreaming of doing since the moment he first got a taste of you. And you cum way too quickly…
Drawing yet another sadistic laugh from his lips. “You really like it when I make you cum.”
Heat shoots through your whole body when you realize he's trying to get you to acknowledge all the times he has touched you up until now.
“Oh, don't be shy, baby girl.” He says as he drags his tongue along your slit, causing your legs to tremble in his strong hold. “You're allowed to like the pleasure your husband can give you.”
“You're not my—” You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from letting out a scream when Jack seals his lips around your clit and starts sucking the life out of you until you squirt all over his face from the intensity of his actions.
Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest at the sight of him licking his lips and smiling up at you. “I am your husband. We're legally married. It's finally time to consummate our marriage.”
Jack stands up then, slowly unbuckling his belt. You're too stunned to move. Your eyes are glued to the bulge in his pants, to him pulling his cock out for you to finally see.
You hadn't realized how big he was.
There's no way that's going to fit inside of you.
You're scrambling to get away from him the moment you realize he's actually going to try to put that monster inside of you. But he snatches you by your hips and drags you back towards him, lining his cock up with your entrance from behind.
That's when you scream, “I'm a virgin!”
In your mind, that was supposed to get him to stop. But again, your predictions have not been accurate.
Because Jack simply pushes forward, sinking the tip of his cock inside of you before saying, “you won't be for much longer, baby girl.”
“Please, sir, stop this!” You try to claw yourself away from him but he's too strong, his hands digging into your hips, holding you steady as he thrusts more of his cock inside of you.
And again, you had no clue how easily your body would swallow him up…
You can't believe it when Jack hilts inside of you, his hips meeting your ass, his cock fully seated inside of you.
Jack can't believe it either. How did he last so long without knowing how warm and wet your pussy would feel wrapped so tightly around his cock?
He needs more. He has to hear you begging for his cum.
So, he slips out of you. Then back into you. Then out again. He repeats this devilish movement over and over until you're trembling beneath him, your body desperate for an orgasm that refuses to build from the lack of stimulation.
“Please, sir.” You can't take it anymore…
“Say your husband's name properly.” He won't let you call him “sir” anymore.
“Please, Jack.” The moment his name leaves your lips, he pushes his cock back inside of you and you let out a whimper and plead, “please don't pull out again.”
“Why not?” Such a surge of pleasure rips through him when he slides out of you and you bury your face in the sheets, muffling your cries of disappointment.
“I want to cum.” Your words are suppressed by fabric but Jack still hears you clearly.
“You don't need my cock to cum.” He dips two fingers inside of you and you tense up immediately. “You've cum plenty on my fingers. Don't you remember?”
Of course you remember. Your body remembers all too well because it only takes a few thrusts and him curling his fingers just right to have you making a mess on his sheets like always.
Jack pops his fingers out of you before lining his cock back up, the tip of it teasing your slit back and forth, making you so needy for him to be inside of you that you've lost all rationality.
He's fucking you stupid, which is unbelievable, given that you're a genius. You can't be so swayed by the pleasure he can give you.
But you don't know how to do the math for this.
What will get Jack to fuck you other than you completely giving into his every whim?
He's in control here. You're smart enough to know this for a fact.
That's why your hand slips between your legs and you spread your pussy wide for him and tell your husband, “please fuck your wife, Jack.”
And you can't see the smile on his face but you can hear it in his response, “so you're finally my wife now?”
You nod. “I've been your wife. I've been all yours.”
“Since when?” He demands answers and you'll give them to him because he will reward you if you do.
“Since that first time I kissed you.” All those years ago…
Jack flips you over so he can look at you. So you can look at him as he strips completely, letting you see his bare body for the first time.
“Take it off.” His voice is so commanding that you listen without hesitation, pulling your top off until you're naked too. “My wife is so beautiful.”
Jack climbs on top of you, grabbing a hold of your face, kissing you the way he has needed to for years. Happiness floods his system when you moan his name on his lips from his hard cock grinding against your pussy.
“Please.” Your hand slides down, positioning his cock back at your entrance. “Please fuck me, Jack.”
That draws a laugh deep from his belly that you feel so prominently on your lips. “I can see the gears churning in your head, baby girl. Is that what you thought would get me to give you my cock? Try again.”
You bite your lip. He's right. You did think that would be enough.
And it could've been if Jack wasn't a more patient man. If he was more desperate for you. But he has you now.
He needs you fully committed to him.
He has waited a very long time to hear you say the words that finally leave your lips, “please put a baby in your baby girl, Jack.”
Your eyes roll back when his cock thrusts back inside of you, filling you up so deep that you can feel the tip of it grinding against your womb. Jack presses his hand down on your lower belly, massaging where his cock is resting inside of you, making the feeling of him more vivid than ever.
“Eyes on me, baby girl.” Jack won't let you get too dazed. He wants you present for when he pumps a baby into you.
“I'm here.” You reach up, cupping his face, brushing your fingers along the stubble that has grown on his jaw. “Can I kiss my husband?”
“Of course.” He never thought he'd be so happy hearing you say that but when you lean up and kiss him on the cheek, he realizes just how much he loves you.
Only you could give him such a light peck and it would be enough for him to want to give you the entire world.
You are his whole world. Everything he has ever wanted and dreamed of.
He'll have to spoil you rotten if he wants to keep you looking at him with so much affection like this.
So, Jack spoils you with the one thing you weren't certain about, by telling you, “I love you.”
And he fucks the shock right off your face, your expression going from startled to pleasurable in a second.
“Wait, Jack—” You need a second to think.
He can't just drop that on you and then start fucking you!
But he does. Because he likes how panicked you look, all flustered and adorable, unable to comprehend his words combined with the pressure coiling in your core.
You feel like you could cum at any second.
He won't let you cum, though. Not until you say it back.
“Come on, baby girl. Tell me what I already know.” He slows his strokes when he can feel you tightening up, your body wanting to cum but he stops moving right when you're close.
You cover your face with your hands, feeling so shy, completely unprepared to confess your love for Jack.
So, he slips out of you and you reflexively yell, “no!”
And then you scream into your hands, embarrassment filling your body when he lets out such a sadistic chuckle in response.
“If you want to cum on my cock, tell me you love me.” He pushes your thighs together, fucking them like he would when he was pretending to be asleep, your pussy aching to be filled.
It takes every ounce of courage in you to say, “I love you, Jack.”
Only for him to go, “say it to my face, baby girl.”
You move your hands away, anxiety consuming you when you see the smirk on his face. He is way too happy about this development.
You're in danger. There's nothing safe about what's about to transpire.
If you were smart, you'd find a way out of this. You know better than to give yourself up to a billionaire crazy enough to marry you for money and then make you into his actual wife.
The math is there. It proves you're going to be stuck with him for life. There will be no escape.
You're going to be his.
But you knew that, didn't you?
From the very first moment you laid eyes on Jack, you knew that he was capable of this and you still chose to go through with it.
You can pretend all you like that you didn't see this coming but the truth is, you had known this outcome could happen from the very beginning.
And you still chose him.
Because you really are as crazy as he is.
“I really love you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer to you, grinding your hips up to meet his. “So please make me yours, Jack.”
That's what you've wanted this whole time.
Your true goal in all of this.
It was never about the money.
It was about getting this man so whipped for you that he’ll eagerly give you anything you'll ever want, including the kind of sex you never thought would be possible for you to have.
You had to find someone who matched you in every way and make sure he had no idea that you've lured him into quite a snare.
Jack may be fucking you stupid, but you're fucking him right back.
You give him what he wants, to hear you beg for him to make you cum. And the orgasms he draws out of you are so incredible that you know you've made the right choice.
You whisper words of adoration and affection that have him so elated that he's kissing you all over and eagerly fucking you now. You giggle at how cute he can be for an older man who is very much in love with his baby girl.
“I'm not going to last much longer.” Jack may have great stamina but seeing you so consumed with pleasure has him wanting to fill you up right now.
“We have all the time in the world.” You pull him in closer, giving him a kiss before telling him, “we don't need to waste time making money anymore. We should spend our time making babies from now on.”
And just like you predicted, Jack groans and starts fucking you faster, full of need and desire to do exactly as you said.
He seals his lips over yours when he cums inside of you, capturing your moans from the feeling of how warm it is coating your insides.
You could get used to this...
“I can't wait for you to get pregnant, baby girl.” He slips out of you and shifts downwards, laying his head on your belly, peppering your skin with kisses.
You rest your hand in his curls, loving the look of the grays scattered in between his reddish brown locks. You love the look in his hazel eyes when he looks up at you.
Jack loves you so dearly.
Just as you predicted he would.
a/n: I have a thing for a reader who secretly has a few screws loose (maybe bc I have a few screws loose LMAO!) and also just love writing jack batshit crazy ~
this one was a super fun one to write. it's been a while since I wrote something a little longer! I've been experimenting a lot lately writing wise so this one had a bit more…idk how to describe it, like more internal monologue? I always have such a blast trying new things out in my writing hehe!
