Warnings: non really proofread lol, pure smut, gynaephilia? needy asf reader who needs multiple orgasms, totally not referring to myself i hope im not alone
Brendon had already forced two orgasms out of you on his cock, and munched on 3 before that on the sofa. Panting and cock still twitching inside of you after painting those gummy walls white, his hands planted on your hips as the ringing in his ears cleared up. Before he knew it, you were rocking your hips again, needy and whiny, eyes still closed as you arched and grounded down on his softening cock.
“W—Woah, woah, baby,” He gulped, his voice cracking briefly, “You need a break—” Really, he needs a fucking break.
All he got in response was a bratty whine, “I need another..”
“Sweetness, I can’t— I need a minute,” He pants, eyes wide and genuinely shocked. This must’ve been your fifth orgasm, you have more to give him? He’s not gonna say no, but his cock felt like it was on fire.
“Bren, please!” You wailed, hands planted on his pecs, scratching lightly across the dark hairs. “I need more, Bren…”
He continues to catch his breath, managing to get you off his cock and below him, slotting between you trembling thighs and parting those puffy lips. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for you, he couldn’t let his sweet girl go unsatisfied just because he needs 5 minutes to get hard again. Big hands drag up and down your thighs, callouses rough against your soft skin, planting sensual kisses down your inner thighs until he meets your messy pussy. “S’okay, sweetness, i’ll take care of you, hm?”
He’d gently kiss down your puffy lips, unfazed by his own seed drooling from your overwhelmed hole, kissing your clit before taking a big stripe of his fat tongue. Finally, relief…
You felt like velvet on his tongue, tasted even better. He could live and die against your cunt. So warm and beautiful, something so incredible and sensitive that could give life, and he was giving you pleasure. Fuck, he didn’t think he could fall more in love with you. Or your pussy. He licked up greedily, stroking under your button repeatedly and watching your face contort in pleasure, devastating moans leaving your throat — because he knew your body better than yourself, which felt dangerous cause you could never make yourself cum as good as he made you — and gently sucking on your nub as he pushed two thick fingers inside you, stuffing you full and keeping his seed inside. Just in case. He just earned himself a surprised, choked gasp and a desperate moan as he massaged at that precious spongy spot where only his fingers could reach. That paired with his attentive tongue nearly making out with your clit made you feel a bit dizzy, clenching around his fingers and tugging on his dark curls, begging in any way you could since words didn’t matter to you any longer.
His head ducked slightly, slipping his tongue in beside his fingers and nudging your clit with his beautiful nose, panting like a dog from your taste. Tangy, sweet, so very you and he couldn’t fucking get enough of it. He only groaned in encouragement when you wrapped your thighs around his head, heels digging into his scapulas as he sent you barreling into your release, accompanied by a shattering cry after a heedful suck on your clit.
He rested against your inner thigh when you came down, panting harshly and resting your head sideways on the pillow. He was too busy admiring your pretty face to see your hips bucking again.
pairings: brendon park x f!reader (kind of michael robinavitch x f!reader)
summary: Park hates you, or so you think.
warnings/contents: park seemingly hates her, but really doesn't. respects the reader. smut. biting kink (you and park), brat taming (kind of). implied age-gap. reader can be reader as an attending or a senior resident. jealous!park, jealous!reader. hook-up to friends to lovers <3
notes: oh lawd, i think i've fallen into the shark trap :,(. i may make a longer and more descriptive fic later on based on this, but i just needed to get this out. this was supposed to be a drabble but one thing led to another...bone apple teeth.
word count: 4.1k+ (the actual fic is going to be longer than this btw, let me know if y'all want. we're currently looking at 10k+ words)
the pitt masterlist | masterlist | ask
park the shark the attending that you’ve been hooking up with for a couple of months. who knows your body better than you do.
park the shark who at first hated your guts because you were robby’s number one. the one always by his side. the one who foolishly fell in love with her co-worker.
park the shark who hated that you dimmed your light because of your feelings to robby. he’d much rather have you showing off your skills to the man than be meek.
“why the fuck do you hate me?” you asked, bitterly swallowing the liquor. “that’s fucking disgusting,” you passed the whisky to the man next to you.
“that’s what you get for not ordering those fruity drinks,” he remarked, gladly taking the drink from you and downing it.
“how do you know what i drink?” flagging down the bartender, you asked for your usual go-to and turned to park. “and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“i don’t hate you,” he answered, as if you were stupid to think that he hated you. “i hate how you act around robinavitch.”
“excuse me?”
park rolled his eyes, “you’re dewy-eyed every time he comes around,” he started. “i’ve seen you in action, you’re tough, you know your stuff, you command the room, you’re willing to get down and dirty, but when you’re with him?” park made a disgusted face and rolled his eyes. “you’re clueless, as if this a field trip for you and you’ve never encountered an actual medical case.”
balking at his criticism on yourself, you were quiet, mulling over what he said. were you really like that? and if park saw it, who else?
fury ran through you though and steeled yourself, “what’s it to you?”
“i want you to be the best,” he answered. “i know that you can be the best.”
you were stunned at his words.
“you can’t be the best when you’re too busy making sure that robinavitch is noticing you, or whether he’s fucking one of the nurses again,” he sighed heavily.
park the shark who willingly took you to his place that night, something that he doesn’t do very often. and even if he did, he would usually go back to her place, not that he’d ever tell you.
“i hate you,” you glared at the man between your legs.
“i can live with that,” placing his hands on the back of your thighs, “up,” he commanded, and you obeyed.
lifting you up, you felt your back hit his door and before you could complain, park placed his mouth over yours. wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer.
“so needy,” he smirked against your mouth, at his mouth you grasped his hair and pulled. park responded by pushing you closer to the door, his cock beginning to grind into your stomach. “feel that, princess? hope you can take it.”
park the shark who matched your freak. wasn’t judgemental with what you wanted to do in the bedroom.
“you wanna bite me?” he grinned, flashing his canines. “i thought i was the shark.”
you made a face, “why would you say that to me? i’m like, dry now.”
scoffing, his hands drifted down to your damp panties. “sure, princess,” grinding his thumb against your clit, park watched intently at the way you threw your head back, your breathing becoming laboured. “look at that.”
“brendon,” you gasped, feeling his teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder, dragging your nails down his back, you could hear his grunt against you, the jerk of his hips.
removing himself away from you, brendon licked the bite languidly, a contrast to the erraticness of his hips. “look at you,” he purred, as he took in the multiple marks he’s left across your skin. “beautiful.”
you looked up at him and the meat between his neck and shoulder was practically tantalising. sensing where your attention was, park grinned to himself and lowered his shoulder. “come on, baby.”
“i’m not going to fucking break, bite me,” still a bit hesitant, you moved your mouth back to his traps, sinking your teeth slowly, you could feel brendon squeezing your hips. “that’s a girl,” encouraged.
park the shark who started to treat you slightly better at work. he wasn’t goading you like before, but he was more or less ignoring your entire existence.
“you get in my pants and then you practically ghost me when we’re at work?” you slammed his locker, refusing to back down when he glared at you.
“i didn’t realise i had to converse with you every time i saw you,” he sneered. “did you want flowers as well?”
“no,” you sputtered. “of course not. but i want you talk to me like i’m actually there.”
park sighed, “we didn’t talk before.”
“because i thought you hated me,” when he opened his mouth, you quickly interrupted, “i know that you don’t hate me.”
“i don’t understand why i have to talk to you outside of when i go downstairs.”
“it’s courtesy,” your tone was bordering on whinging you and you quickly reeled yourself back.
“what’s courtesy, princess, is me leaving hickeys where people can’t see it,” his eyes quickly flashed to your breasts, and you frowned, crossing your arms.
“don’t be gross.”
“i usually don’t talk to people i fuck,” sighing, he turned back to his locker.
“fine,” you pouted, too tired to argue, and not that you’d ever admit it, a bit hurt at his statement. “i’ll see you when we both fuck next i guess,” turning to leave, you heard make a noise before grabbing your arm.
“don’t be dramatic,” he bit out, annoyed at the whole situation. “i don’t know what to talk to you about when we’re at work.”
“the weather? the shitty but overpriced cafeteria food? the gossip?” you listed off. “it just makes me feel used, park. like i’m good enough for you to fuck but not good enough for you to talk to.”
park frowned at your statement. “i didn’t mean it like that. i thought that you would prefer for me to not talk to you.”
you couldn’t help but laugh at the miscommunication. “i like talking to you.”
park shifted, as if your words impacted him in a way he couldn’t decipher, “i like talking to you too.”
“don’t ignore me again, i swear to god, otherwise i’ll ban you from sex,” you pointed your finger at him.
he rolled his eyes and then looked around, “this is like your shitty grey’s anatomy.”
you rolled your eyes, “you like my shitty grey’s anatomy.”
“if you ever,” he threatened, a playfully mean look on his face. holding up your hands in surrender, he opened back up his locker. “what are we having tonight?”
you sat down on the bench and watched him, “i want pho,” you watched in appreciation as brendon began changing into his normal clothes. he was always so big but his movements weren’t clunky or awkward, it was always so sure.
tossing his hoodie wordlessly behind him, you barely caught it. “you’re going to get cold,” he stated and you mumbled under your breath.
“do you want to eat in? cause if so, we have to head home and shower,” he mumbled into his locker, grabbing the last of his things. he closed it and turned to you, a small smile gracing his face before it quickly dropped.
“take away?” you suggested. “i’m kinda beat,” you shrugged then stood up.
“you good?”
“tired,” before you could lift your bag to your shoulder, park grabbed it and held it for you. murmuring a ‘thanks’, you moved closer to him. “i just really want to eat pho and watch shitty grey’s anatomy.”
“you’re lucky i have netflix.”
“i have all the dvds, that won’t stop me.”
brendon park who slowly became your friend in public since that talk. he’s actually nice. he’s considerate (in and out of the bedroom), stubborn but loyal, remembers the smallest things you talk to him about and he’s sweet.
brendon park who knows how to deal with you when you’re being particularly bratty.
you weren’t seething out of jealousy, no of course not. you were just being logical. because if park was fucking other people, you needed to know because of health reasons, obviously.
you didn’t know her, she was stationed upstairs with him. but she was really pretty. soft, blonde hair, a smile that unfortunately made you fall in love. she was a stunner and you’re not an idiot, brendon probably thought she was pretty too.
his demeanor was calmer than usual. it seemed like he actually wanted to listen to what she was saying, that he wanted to be in her company.
looking up, park nodded at you in acknowledgement (which you promptly ignored) before finishing his conversation and heading over to you.
“you ready?”
giving him a terse nod, you kept eye contact with the woman from before. “who is she?” you jerked your head towards her.
“one of the or nurses,” he replied.
you hummed and tore your eyes away from her, instead looking at park. you eyed him up and down, disdain clearly on your face.
“what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing,” you said. “i’m heading home.”
“i’m going to ask you again. what’s wrong with you?”
“nothing,” you said slower this time. “i’m going home.”
“i thought we had plans,” he said, starting to get irritated at your avoidance.
before you could reply, the nurse from before came back. her blonde her swishing as she walked, her hips swaying a little bit too much, and a sultry smile on her face as she came up to the two of you. “night doctor park,” she grinned at him, not bothering to pay attention to you.
scoffing you mocked her under your breath, something that park didn’t miss. “you jealous, pup?”
“if you’re fucking her, i need to know, i’m not risking an std because you want to the fuck the entire hospital,” you snarked, tamping down the green eyed monster. you had no right to feel jealous. you were just fucking.
“i’m not robinavitch,” he spat out, as if he was offended at the thought of being with other people. at robby’s mention you frowned and you felt like he hit you in the heart. “i don’t treat the hospital like my own dating show.”
“doesn’t seem like it,” you snapped.
“fucking christ,” park exhaled deeply, and you could practically see him counting to five slowly in his head. “we’re going to my place tonight.”
-
“how the fuck do you think i have time between work and you to find time to chase some other woman,” you groaned as he punctuated his statement with a particularly mean thrust.
“brendon,” you could feel your drool pool beneath you, no doubt seeping into his mattress. clasping the fabric beneath you tightly, you were too fucked out to do anything else.
“come on, pup,” twisting his hand into your hair, brendon yanked your head next to his face. “you were so talkative before.”
gasping his name again, he slowly moved his hand to your throat, the other sneaking around to your stomach. “if you ever think that i’d go around your back,” he tightened his grip around your neck, hips snapping. “you think i want some fucking nobody, huh?”
“say who’s fucking me right now,” he growled into your ear, and when you didn’t respond quickly enough for his liking, he gave another rough jerk of his hips.
“me,” you sputtered out, your hands grasping his forearms, nails digging into the flesh.
“fuck, that’s right,” peppering kisses down your sweaty neck, the hand on your stomach moved further down, fingers latching onto your clit. “you think i fuck just anyone raw? that i just cum inside of any woman, huh?”
you shook your head, one arm going behind his neck, pulling him down to your mouth. needing him closer than you already were. you let him take control, taking whatever he wanted, you just needed him.
“come on, pup,” he goaded you, his hips no longer having a rhythm, as his fingers pressed harder, the circles against your clit becoming tighter. “cum on my cock.”
white hot orgasm rushed through your body, you would have fallen if not for brendon holding you. gasping into his mouth, you chanted his name against his lips.
spilling inside of you, he panted on your back, holding your body tight to his. softly moving you down, you melted into the bed. you never wanted to move, or think about anything ever again. you were content.
brendon hissed as he slipped out of you, his cum slowly dripping onto his sheet. moving to his bathroom, he came out with a warm and damp towel. slowly and gently cleaning you, he tossed the rag to his hamper and began slowly kissing up your neck.
“come on,” you could feel brendon lift you up and you whined in protest. “i’m not having you get a uti, you of all people should know how important this is.”
lifting you on the toilet, you didn’t want to acknowledge just how intimate this was. so, instead, you looked at him impatiently.
“what?”
“get out,” you whinged as you watched him stand next to his sink. “i’m not gonna fake pee!” you exclaimed.
brendon eyed you before nodding and leaving to go back to his bed.
walking out of his bathroom slowly, you were practically ambushed, “jesus, brendon.” without another word he lifted you up and carried you to bed. “i have legs, you know.”
“i know, but i also know that you can’t walk right now,” he grinned devilishly at you, and you couldn’t help but gather the little strength you had left, and smacked his chest.
brendon park who brought you a coffee (one from an actual cafe) and a pastry to the pitt because you said you missed breakfast and you were hungry. who gave every single person a glare as they looked at him in shock as he hunted you down and gave you the food.
“park?” you furrowed your brow, wondering if came down for a consult, but you can’t recall anyone calling for ortho in the pitt.
“pup,” he greeted, then practically shoved the contents in your hand. “eat,” he could practically see the question mark forming on the top of your head and rolled his eyes. “you haven’t eaten since you left my house. eat.”
“brendon,” you said softly, looking around the er. “I’m okay.”
“do i have to feed this to you?” when you didn’t reply, he wordlessly took the pastry back and opened it up, holding it to your face.
“park!” you chided, but nonetheless taking a small bite, very aware of the stares being thrown your way.
javadi looked around, wide-eyed, trying to see if anyone else was watching the scene unfold in front of her. finally seeing whittaker and santos across the room. gesturing with her head to where the two of you stood, she made a face.
“what the?” whittaker wondered out loud. “when did park and her become friends?”
-
“shark bait,” santos practically purred as she rounded the corner. “i always thought it’d be robby that you’d be fucking.”
rolling your eyes, you decided you were far too tired to entertain her antics at the moment. walking away, trinity followed you eagerly, her hands on her stethoscope, “so, is he mean in bed?” not answering her, you continued down the hallway.
“garcia tells me that he talks about you sometimes,” that caused you to pause your steps. smiling, trinity skipped to you, “talks about your plans together. he mentioned that you love those coconut buns from the bakery near the hospital.”
“trin,” you hissed. “stop.”
“tell me if you’re fucking him, so i can change my bet. i don’t really wanna lose fifty bucks,” she whined, rocking on the heels of her feet.
“brendon and i-,”
“brendon?” she repeated, a sly grin on her face.
“is none of your business,” and with that you began walking again, trinity trying to catch up to you.
“what’s going on?” robby held out his hands, a playful smile on his face as he saw the two of you.
“park brought her coffee and pastry because she complained she’s hungry.” eyes wide, you turned to trinity.
“oh?” robby tilted his head towards you, and trinity almost gagged as he gave you the look only reserved for you. “we could have grabbed something, if you were hungry.”
before you could answer, trinity answered for you, “when? between all the patients and nurses needing you, when?”
you both turned to her, you incredulously and robby confused. “santos,” robby snipped, “i think garcia needs a set of hands in room six.”
“shark? when did he start bringing you food?” it was an innocent question, if you didn’t know robby that well. unfortunately, for you, you knew him very well.
“he’s actually nice,” you defended. “when he likes you.”
“when has park ever liked you?” robby made a face and shook his head, “uh, sorry, not meant that way.”
you laughed at his charming awkwardness, “we became friends recently. i like him.”
“you like him?” robby arched a brow, his head tilting.
you could feel a flush approaching your cheeks, and you really didn’t want to do this right now. especially with robby. with a hurried excuse, you scampered away from him.
robby who didn’t realise why park suddenly started appearing a lot happier when he was down for a consult.
robby who could see that the two of you obviously had inside jokes together, inside stories that only the two of you were privy too - something that he once had with you.
robby who didn’t know where the nickname ‘pup’ came from, all he knew was he hated how you lit up at the name, practically preened whenever park said it to you.
robby who always had feelings for you but never wanted to do anything because you’re good. you’re kind, and you’re you. and he was too old and too weathered for someone so good.
brendon who stood by the nurses station in his normal clothes, waiting for you to finish. he ignored the looks that were thrown his way, or the appreciation in some.
he watched as you began your final chart, his eyes roaming all over you. you didn’t seem that tired compared to other days, you actually seemed to be in a pretty good mood. chatting away to him as you kept filling out forms.
“did you see that photo that i sent you during your break?” you briefly looked up to brendon, the back to the computer. “the sushi place on station square.”
“i already made reservations,” brendon simply replied. eyes scanning you and then the report briefly, tsking under his breath and pointed to the mistake.
“i was getting to that,” you snapped playfully. “and thank you.”
he looked back out to the space and saw hastings and robinavitch stopping at the station where the two of you were.
“so i was thinking of coming over tonight?” park practically rolled his eyes at the blatant flirting happening in front of him. he glanced at hastings, leaning over the counter to talk to robby and watched as the other man briefly look over to you.
“i don’t think that’s a good idea,” robby smiled tightly, still glancing between you now and then. not that you realised, too busy frowning at the computer as your screen decided to freeze.
“i swear, you motherfucker,” you cursed under your breath.
listening to the conversation happening right beside you, park closely kept an eye on your mood. anticipating your face scrunching up in distaste at the flirting going on in front of you
“done!” you celebrated as you stood up and slammed your folder shut. “fucking finally,” turning to brendon. “you ready to go, shark?”
brendon hopped off the desk he was leaning on, “let’s go, pup.”
“night,” you nodded to the other two before leading brendon to your locker.
brendon barely glanced at the two as he passed, but he did note gleefully the look on robby’s face.
brendon who isn’t afraid of dropping everything to make sure you’re okay…as friends
you watched mel instructing the breathing patterns and you tried your best to follow her, trying to will down the fast pace of your heart.
“that’s it,” mel encouraged, a smile on her face. “just a couple more.”
you breathed through your nose again, eyes looking around the room. a bit embarrassed at the situation that you were unfortunately placed in. you could see langdon and santos giving you a reassuring look, and robby who looked like he was about to blow a fuse.
before anyone could say anything, you could hear dana bellowing a ‘room three’ to someone and then a harsh opening of the doors. “what the fuck happened?” brendon barked at the room. his attention solely focused on you.
“i’m fine,” you called out. “just a bit of a scare.”
not removing his eyes off you, he addressed the room again.
“a patient got aggressive, said some mean shit, yanked her arm and threw her against some machines,” santos answered quickly, her eyes shifting between the two of you.
the air was charged and mel moved out of the way, eyeing park like he was a predator going to snap at any minute.
“you okay?” he asked softly, eyes running over your face and body, scowling when he saw the red print on your arm. when he saw you nod, he looked away, and then commanded, “out.”
without another word, you watched as your colleagues scurry away. robby hesitating at the door, looking at you softly, fighting every cell in his body that wanted to stay with you.
“i’m okay,” you murmured softly once everyone left. you weren’t, not really, but he didn’t have to know that.
“no, you’re not.”
“bones aren’t even broken,” you joked, trying to smile at him.
“i’m not talking about your bones,” he tsked, stepping forward.
“bren,” you said softly. your muscles relaxing as soon as you could feel his body heat radiate off him.
“we’re staying at mine tonight,” he muttered, tucking a strand of her behind your ear, then dragging down his fingers until he landed on your injured arm. tapping your fingertips with his a couple of times, he looked back up at you. “what were you doing with king before?”
“breathing exercises, helps me,” you watched as he slowly drifted both hands to your wrist and held them gently.
“show me,” he whispered. “i can hear your heartbeat all the way from here.”
brendon who felt his heart racing in his chest, who hasn’t felt this way since he was in high school asking out his first girlfriend.
“we’re dating,” he declared.
“excuse me?” you turned to him, baffled at his sudden announcement. you stopped chopping the carrot and leaned over to pause your music.
“we only have sex with each other, i know what you like, you know what i like, you’re practically over here every day, we make a point to have dinner together at least once a week,” brendon listed off reasons. “do you want me to go on?”
“since when was this us dating?”
brendon stared blankly at you, “if i had it my way, ever since i kissed you in my house. knew you were the woman for me after you yanked my hair.”
feeling yourself beginning to get flustered, you breathed out loudly. “and you kept this from me because?”
brendon shrugged, “you would have never said yes.”
“maybe you just liked me yanking your hair.”
rolling his eyes, “you want to date me.”
“you’re presumptuous,” you replied, a bit amused at his obvious nervousness.
“i’m falling in love with you,” he stated simply and that took your breath away. you looked at his face, scanning every nook and cranny that you familiarised yourself with the last six months, trying to see if he was misleading you.
but you saw none.
“unless you’re still fucking in love with robinavitch, i’m willing to wait until you love me back,” he affirmed, like those were the only two options that you could choose.
“most men ask,” you reminded. “and they usually have flowers or some gifts when they ask.”
“i’m not most men, and i bought you those flowers when we went to the market a couple of days ago,” he pointed to the beautiful flowers on your kitchen table.
“hr’s gonna have a fit,” was all you said. you watched in amusement as brendon took a while to understand your words, and when he did, a bright grin took over his face. ignoring your exclaim of his name, he wrapped you up in his arms.
“the form isn’t that long,” he murmured against your lips.
It’s far too early. For the both of you honestly, the sun is peaking through the window of the bathroom, a damp fog covering the backyard. You managed to convince Simon to take an early morning bath in the tub thats truly too small for the both of you. He obliged with a grumble and stretching his tired back. But it’s like when ever you get in his close vicinity, ducking your head down till the soapy water is prickling against the curls at your nape.
Eyes watching every little movement from your boyfriend as he stretches out, his beefy biceps and forearms flexing unconsciously. Broad sculpted shoulders and build filling the small space, thighs wide as to make room for you. Every tattoo that trails his skin, from the gunshot wind on his hip under the water, another on his shoulder, covered by a large arm piece. Higher, the scar that trails from the front of his neck to his ear, another scaling the side of his cheek, one across his hooked nose, right above his eyebrow—
His muddy brown eyes catch yours, enchanting you, Simon taking a pull of his cigarette as the ends of his lips threaten to curl upward, “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.” You scuff, pressing your back into the end of tub, eyes flicking else where- anywhere. Meekly stealing another glance just to get caught again, heat rising underneath your skin. Simon shift you, just enough your feet are on his chest, the tobacco burning red, making more smoke fill the steamy air.
“What’d’you want? Y’look like y’want t’ask somethin.”
“… I don’t want anythin.”
“Quit the bullshit kitten.”
It’s no hiding it, no use in hiding. But you can’t exactly tell your Lieutenant boyfriend just to spontaneously take off work to goof off with you, can you? You bite the inside of your lip, running your hands through the water to create little waves. Your silence is enough, putting out the cigarette in the ashtray near by, water splashing as Simon comes closer to you, hovering over you, his hand goes to the back of your neck. Lifting your head up, thumb running across your jawline, “Should I decide for you?”
He asks you like he hasn’t already made up his mind, glint in your mocha brown eyes shining, your heart pounding out your chest, he’s already giving you small nod with the silence as a confirmation, soft lips meeting yours, crooning, “Good answer swee’art.”
It feels sinful being so loud in the morning, your whimpers and moans echoing in the bathroom from as Simon works his way inside your tight and glossy pussy. Crown of his dick splitting you wider with every shallow thrust getting deeper and deeper till-
“Oh my god!” You’re gasping for air, head thrown back as you clutch the end of the tub for real life. His meaty length is stuffed to the brim inside you, telling every vein as his cock massages your walls. His grip is strong on the back of your knees, swinging his hips into yours, letting out a groan as he watches the weeping tip press right out of your belly, grazing your cervix.
Your legs tremble, hiccuping, “Shit- mmph- I-I feel so full Si!”
“‘F course you do,” he snickers, his fat fingers grazing your tummy and pressing down at the his cock that’s bulging out, earning moans from the both of you, “Right where ‘m meant t’ be, huh baby?”
Your mouth is stuck in to shape of an ‘o’, both set or lips drooling as Simon rams himself in you. Watching the way your eyes rolls to the back of your back everytime he angles his hips so perfectly into your sticky sweet spots, almost hitting your head against the tile of the bathroom wall at how good you feel.
“Can’t believe this slutty pussy’s taken me so well in the mornin. Should have you makin this stupid fuckin face- hnngh- every. Fuckin. Day.” His words match every single of his mean thrusts.
You let out a ragged whine, trying to find some relief by pushing yourself into the wall but Simon only snickers, sinking his cock deeper in your snug depths, “Where ‘re you runnin off to?” He dips into the water, spreading your swollen folds wider with his thumb, dipping his thumb inside to his knuckle.
You yelp out, clawing at his shoulders, “Simon- angh! Simooon!”
“Shit- hck- Greedy fuckin thing, ‘s like your cunt only wants, more and more,” he sweetly purrs, stokes getting faster as he swiveled his hips into yours. Smirking down at you as he holds you tight, “and more.” You can feel the fucking bath water starting to slosh inside you as it splashes onto the floor with every thrust.
“Fuck- ‘s too much- aah- too much!” You mewl, shaking hands going down his chest to his dark happy trail. But you don’t have the strength to push him, your hips only sluttily bucking forward to meet his.
Simons saliva coated canines show more and more, lifting you to see how his dick disappears inside your pussy, the way you keep clenching and sputtering around him, “But look at how she’s suckin me in, doll. Fuckin cunny achin for me, poor thing.” He condescendingly coos.he shudders, “Lucky Daddy knows juuust how t’ take care of it.”
He spits down on your cunt, loud thwacks filling the bathroom, thumb rubbing your inner lining while he gives you harsh stroke after stroke.
You don’t even know you were keening, an ‘imcumminimcummingimcumm-’ till you felt the wetness of your own juices against Simons stomach, white cream coating Simon’s stiff dick. Your eyes are damp, the way Simons still rutting into your used cunt till his cum is filling your pretty pussy. Slipping out of you while his cum still spurts into the now dirty bath water.
The older man looks down at you, length still throbbing even though he’s cum once. His dark and gazed over eyes glance at the clock, then to you, who’s more than delirious, trembling and still whimpering like hes still inside your gaping hole, pressed against the bathroom tile. He lifts you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist, his dick pricking your thigh. “Still gotta go t’ tha bloody place, fuck.” He grumbles like it’s a curse, because it is. Who wouldn’t want to spend the day wrapped in your arms just like this with their lover. He let’s out a breath, stepping out of the bathtub and back to the bedroom. His rough had trails your spine, leaving soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, then giving you a filthy and wet kiss.
He presses his forehead to yours, “Think you could help me cum one more time lovie?”
vacation!john price makes the most of his time off by folding you–the pretty thing he caught staring at his rental boat–in half so he can come inside you nearly every night. he's bending your legs in ways you didn't know possible, pushing your thighs to your chest so he can see the mess you're leaking around him. sometimes, if he's lucky, the light will catch you just right, the man to grunting and cooing at the shining ring of cream at the base of his cock.
"f-fuck, you're deep... feels... feels good." your praise comes out as a stuttering, slurred mess. "really fuckin'–oh, god–s'good."
"christ... s'too bad holiday's almost done, dove." john groans out the reminder, a touch of sad slipping in just under the puffs of pleased breaths. you whine at the hand he presses onto your belly, the sound and sight distracting john, who just tilts his head with pride in his grin. "oh, fuckin' looook a'that, huh. think i might have'ta take ya back home with me... would be a shame ta let a face 'n hole as pretty as yours get away too easy, wouldn't it?"
all you can do is gush and slosh around john as he keeps stuffing himself inside you. holding your knees and puckering your lips every few thrusts so he'll rub his hairy front against your chest and belly every time he bends to kiss you.
"steamin', you got yerself a bird LT?" kyle peers over ghost. liquor burning his throat so vividly he images he might be seeing things. simon riley, with a woman of all things? the man who falls asleep to the sound of gunfire?
as if.
the man of the hour pauses, annoyed by his sergeants snooping. its expected from soap, yet kyle? hes typically the more reserved nosey type.
ghost flips his phone face down towards the oak finish table top. side eye burning with annoyance, wishing kyle had gone into the mime industry instead. soap and price pause with wicked reaction time, the former nearly choking on his bourbon.
"a lassie LT?" he perks up, head tilting like a dogs. "i knen ye 'ad it in ya," he claps simon on his back like a proud father. canines pearly as he smiles. he feels himself radiating with excitement, buzzing in his seat.
with everything ghost didnt share, it was exciting knowing this much about him. even if it was little to go off of. a man of more mystery than detail. and a hint of a woman? this, this was a biggg deal.
price downs his scotch, grimacing as it floods his taste buds in a sizzling warmth. "so," he tuts, ready to open the million dollar question. "whose the lucky girl?" simon rolls his shoudlers with a sigh that weighed as much as the world.
"fuckin' dammit garrick," fingers wrap around the neck of the beer bottle. phone still face down despite the text that comes through. "she works in accountin'," johnny pauses.
..didnt you work in accounting? he doesnt think so, doesnt sound like you. plus, theres a sure plethora of accountants in the area.
"civvie girl hm? a soft lady," kyle grins. sharing a look with his captain. knowing he had just won a twenty dollar bet despite all odds.
"and?" price ignores kyle. like hell hed give up his hard earned cash.
"an' she lives out in brooksland. 'appy?" wait, now johnny knows you lived in brooksland. his phone still auto-routed to your apartment when he landed back in the country.
less, its a large city that spand miles. universe had a weird way of lining coincidences. what were the odds? so excitment kept his heart alive. adrenaline rushing his viens.
"cmon LT, kyle saw the pretty thing. put a face tae the name fer yer boys?"
"fucks sake," he grumbles. "you lot gon' shut yer shite up?" nods move in rapid tandem.
reaching for his phone and scrolling past photos till he found one without his face, less he wants to embarrass himself to the lads. simon couldnt stop a vibrancy of red flares across his face when he was with you. trust, he had tried multiple ways to end that little quirk.
with a few scrolls he lands content on one, flipping his phone around. showing off his favorite photo of you smiling towards the camera. cheeks warmed and eyes bright as you hold simons big head close to your own. his balaclava brushes against your jaw, skull print faded.
silence falls over the boys, for a second ghost thinks the photo mightve clicked off.
"shit," kyle whistles. laughing to himself with a lazy shake of his head. his brown eyes scan your face, a little jealous he hadnt picked you up first.
prices eyes widened. in all honesty he assumed you were an AI chatbot or something. guess its still an option, but fuck. hed fall for it too.
he swirls his scotch, equally as jealous as kyle.
as quick as he presented the photo simon took it away. phone clicking off and soon shoved into his one of many pant pockets.
"good man simon,"
"real pretty. aint she johnny?" kyle muses, head flicking towards soap.
"..johnny?"
soap downs the rest of his drink, its familiar burn is numb. weak even. he prays the alcohol fuzzes his brain as quickly as it can, smash him with a headbanging hangover so he forgets this whole thing.
glass clinking as he sets it down. palms suddenly wet with sweat and sticky as he wipes them on his jeans. pale blues jumping across the bar, desperate in his search to say something normal.
not like he could tell simon; "i used to date— fuck. i mean fuck her, ended up forgetting about her and somewhat ditched. didnt even see her reaction." because what kinda chaos would that bring?
"shes uh, shes cute," his poor deflect is tossed into the air. tussling his mohawk as he shrugs lamely. they startle at the sudden shift, never seeing johnny so... nervous? disinterested? "yeah.. yeah shes nice lookin',"
the boys squint at him, simons eyes eerily cutting over johnnys rash behavior.
"nice?" price parrots. "shes a right fuckin' doll,"
"youd bang a wall soap. fucks wrong wit 'er?" kyles joke swirls around ghost and price. soap doesnt hear it, centeral focused on the problem part.
what was wrong?
maybe it was how you were so quick to accept? or how you didnt bat an eye when you threw his things to the donation boxes? couldve been how he sort of saw forever with you.
no, no those just annoyed him.
it was that he knew for a straight fucking fact simon treated you better.
after price kills shepherd, he has a finite window of time to grab his things and say goodbye to his wife.
cw: angst
series masterlist
You hear the front door swing open and hit the wall behind it and your first thought is he’s early.
You’re at the stove, wooden spoon in your hand with the skillet throwing up steam, onions gone soft and golden at the edges, music murmuring from the speaker on the windowsill.
The word ‘early’ is halfway up out of your throat, light, a little teasing, but it dies there when the sound coming from down the hall isn’t the sound of a man home for the night. There’s no pause to toe his boots off, no keys dropping in the bowl. Just the stairs taken too fast, two at a time, the whole house shivering under the weight of him going up.
Your hand finds the gas dial and turns the flame down. You open up your ears, straining to listen. Then you’re moving, following the sound of him up into the dark of the second landing.
The bedroom door’s open, and inside, John’s just a blur of motion against the moonlight behind him. The wardrobe’s flung wide open, the duffle is out — the one that lives at the back of the closet behind the winter coats, the one you were trained long ago not to touch nor ask about — and now it’s unzipped, open on the bed. His hands are working through the canvas with a fervor that turns your blood cold before he’s said a single word.
He hasn’t looked up, he’s too focused. And there’s something practiced and deeply troubling about the speed of which his hands are movings — it tells you more than his face even would.
“John?” you try, his back is to you now.
“Hey,” he says, a drawer slides open, he rifles through it, turns around, and whatever he took from the drawer disappears into his bag. “Listen to me a minute.”
“What’s happening? Wh- what’re you doing?”
You take a tentative step toward the bed.
“I have to go,” he says flat, pared down, slotted neatly into the rhythm of his packing. “Right now. Tonight.”
“Go where? You’ve only just got back. Is it a—,”
“It’s not work,” he cuts in roughly, then shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut.
His hands go still over the bag and he turns his head and finally, finally looks at you, blue eyes hooking under your ribs. He takes a steadying inhale through his parted lips, then out his flaring nostrils.
“It’s… it’s not a job, dove.”
You feel so behind him in this, like you’re still standing in the warm kitchen five minutes ago, still on the version of tonight where dinner’s almost ready. You can feel a tickle of dread crawling up the back of your neck.
You’ve never seen him like this.
He’s never like this — frantic.
“Then what is it, J—,”
“Shepherd’s dead,” he spills. He says it the way you’d pluck a splinter from a soft palm, all at once because slow is worse. “It was me, I did it. There’ll be people comin’ here to look for me, and I can’t be here when they come, and I can’t—” His throat bobs. “I can’t be anywhere near you. D’you understand me?”
You don’t.
His confession arrives in pieces and your hands rise to your temples as the words work their way into whatever corner of your mind is properly conscious.
He’s gone back to moving, the zip of the bag closing like something tearing in half. It’s the moving you can’t deal with right now because the moving means it’s already decided. It was decided before he came through the front door. You’re hearing the end of a conversation he’s been having with himself for god knows how long.
Sick turns over in your belly, hot and acidic as it ascends your esophagus, burning the back of your tongue before you swallow it back down.
“Stop.” Your hand closes firm around his forearm. “Stop, just— just look at me. Goddamnit, just— Stop moving!”
To his credit, he goes still for a moment, turning fully toward you now and lifts both hands to your face, cradling your jaw, and every scrap of that frantic velocity drains out of him. His forehead comes down to yours, warm, a little slicked. And suddenly you would give anything to have the frantic version of him back, because stillness means he’s made time for it. John doesn’t make room for things that don’t matter. He’s making room to say goodbye, and knowing that opens up beneath you like a trap-door.
His thumbs sweep the tears you didn’t even feel on your cheeks. “Look at me,” his hands stiffen and close tighter when they rest on your face, forcing your gaze onto his. “I need you to hear me.”
“No.” You’ve got two fistfuls of his shirt now, the cotton crushed in your hands, your head moving side to side against the cage of his palms. “No. No! You don’t get to do this, we’ll— we’ll fix it,” you try to sniffle but sob instead. “You’ll go to someone— Kate! There’ll be a way—,”
“There isn’t,” he murmurs, almost pleading.
“There’s always a way.”
“Not for this.” He says it so softly it takes the legs out from under you. His breath is warm against your mouth. “Not this one, dove. Not this time. I’m sorry.”
Part of you doesn’t quite believe the apology. It was tacked on at the end like an afterthought. You know John. Or, maybe you thought you did. The blood in your heart feels like it’s curdling, heavy, turning to tar as you continue to process exactly what’s happening here.
What he’s done.
You wrench your neck and free your face from the heat of his hands.
“How long?” you ask, voice breaking.
He doesn’t answer.
You strike his chest with the flat of both hands, again and again, then again. You can’t even shift him an inch and the both of you know it, it’s just somewhere for the fear to go as it bubbles. His chin tucks, watching with a curling devastation as you keep connecting with his body. In a flash, he’s got both of his hands on your wrists, yanking you forward against him. “How long, John?!”
You’re starting to learn how long.
He says nothing.
This isn’t a tour. It isn’t a season away with a date at the end of it. He’s running. There is no number because there is no horizon he can point to, no morning he can promise you he’ll be standing in this room again.
The realization comes out of you barely above a breath as you tip your head back to see him. “You’re not coming back.”
His eyes fall shut. He presses his mouth to your forehead hard and holds there, and when the words come they come muffled into your hair just above your ear, into the warmth of you he’s trying to memorize.
“I love you.” It’s not an answer to your question by any stretch of the imagination. He pulls back again to meet your eyes. “Whatever they say about me, whatever you hear — that’s the only truth, yeah?” His knuckles lift to your chin, the pad of his thumb pushing against the front of it, holding your gaze. “When they come, you tell them I was here, I threatened you, and I left in a hurry.”
Your lip wobbles as you look at him, your throat is so tight it hurts.
“Say it back to me.”
“Y- you were here, you left in a hurry.”
“I was here, I threatened you, I left in a hurry,” he repeats.
“You were here, y-you thre- threatened me, you left in a hurry.”
“Good.”
He kisses you and you can almost taste both halves of him in it at once: the half that’s yours, and the half that's already gone. You give it back to him like you can hold him in the room by your mouth alone. But you can’t. And you feel the precise instant he decides to stop, the breath he takes to force himself away.
“Lock the door behind me,” he says.
And the velocity is back. He swings the duffle bag up onto his shoulder, and he’s past you before you’ve turned, out the bedroom door, and you spin and rush after him with his name tearing out of you, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood.
“John! Please! John!”
But he’s already at the foot of the stairs, already crossing the hall, always faster than you, and you’re only halfway down when the front door swings open and the cold of the night pours in over the threshold to meet you. You reach the bottom step, lurch for the door.
The street is empty.
You look left, you look right. It’s as if you dreamt the whole thing. As if you made him up, boots to beard.
Behind you, the speaker’s still playing music from the kitchen. The onions have started to catch, the sweet smell tipping over into something bitter and charred.
a/n: after writing this i decided to turn these two into a series of vignettes called ‘all we ever do is say goodbye’ 🧡
Here's a little bit of what I'm writing; tell me what you think and if you'd like to read it.
Outside, there’s peace. The only sounds of the night are the crickets and the occasional whisper of the breeze, but not inside you. There is no peace there. Not now.
The first number you dial is John’s, not because he’s the oldest or because he’s your captain. It’s because he was the first one to appear in your contacts list. You sniffled quietly and listened to the phone ring.
One… two… three… four…
Then he answered.
“Hello?”
John’s raspy voice came through the speaker. Your throat tightened and you couldn’t speak.
“Who’s this?” he asked again.
You had to answer or he’d hang up. You know he never checks who’s calling, at least not when he’s just woken up.
“Mmm… John…” your voice came out as a trembling whisper. The emotion of the moment and the pain in your face kept you from speaking properly. “It’s… mm, it’s me. Sorry for calling.”
You felt embarrassed for sounding so weak. He shouldn’t be the person you call, but you don’t have anyone else right now. Mom is in another country, and Dad too.
“Hey.”
You could hear the way his voice softened, the rustle of bedsheets as he moved in bed.
“Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?”
Damn it. He always knew when something was wrong.
You sobbed quietly, your chest aching.
“John…”
The words got stuck in your throat and you could already taste metal in your mouth. John didn’t speak while you stayed silent, but you could hear the little things that gave him away — the scratch of his beard, the shifting of his body in bed, distressed by the sound of your crying.
“Sweetheart, what happened?” his voice became softer, lower. “Talk to me, princess.”
Fuck. His voice destroyed you. You should be treated like that every day and never expect less. You never should’ve settled for less.
“Can you come get me?”
You finally managed to say it. You sobbed again and looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror of your house — your new house — and saw the crooked angle of your nose and the blood running from two different places.
“I hit the window…”
You covered your mouth with your hand and sobbed again. Damn it, you always cried like a little kid with John, but this was different.
“I need you, John.”
“Are you home?” he asked, his tone suddenly firmer.
You hoped he wasn’t angry that you’d bothered him. On the other end of the call you could hear groans and murmured voices.
You answered with a small yes.
“Alright, pretty girl. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
His voice sounded calm, but it betrayed his worry.
only soft for you brendon park who plants his fingers through your hair and massages your scalp in the staircase when he sees how overwhelmed you are from the day you’ve had. big brick built body hunched over you, cooing to you in a little voice while you hold his forearms, staring up at him like he’s the world.
“you run yourself a bath when you get home. i won’t be there immediately, but you just text me what you want to eat and use my card for it. you’re ok, you’re gonna be ok. hectic day, yeah? fuckin tell me about it.” he gets you to let out a little giggle through glossy eyes, which makes him smile small.
NO ONE in the ed would ever imagine the piece of shit could be so sweet to you. complete 180 in mood when he walks out after you
Park the Shark - Mean Shark & His Guppy... For your fake title thing.
This man literally had 5 seconds of screen time and I fell in love with him... This is the unhealthiest thing ever.
⌕ ⠀ as i look at the length of this “blurb” all i can say is… you and me both… (please send more fake titles through my inbox!)
of course the ptmc has its personal set of unwritten rules. there's the obvious ones: if you plan on getting hungover, search for your replacement two weeks in advance. if you hear your name pop up during princess and perlah's convos, don't turn to santos for translation assistance.
oh!
and if you need advice from one of the senior staff, robby's the last resort.
actually, most of those apply to the emergency department because.. Of course. disregarding that (for now), there is one rule that only the most ignorant, unfortunate souls would dare to break.
“are you stupid? it shouldn't take a diploma to figure out how this fucking ticket system works.”
uh huh.. as concerned as the scattered staff of the ortophedic unit were for you, their dear receptionist, no one dared to wade into those waters.
better to be on standby while this man (like hell he was going to be admitted as a patient after this) shed more blood (and spit (one of the nurses had their alcohol prepped to disinfect you later)) in this deluded pursuit of proving his queue number was skipped.
“i swear to god! if you can't do your job right, then—”
“then what?”
broad shouldered and gloves snapped, park emerges from an exam room. usually, he would have beelined for the hub to personally update the patient's chart. but park had heard the berating you were subjected to; a nuisance that had filled his mouth with liters of disgust.
the man falters in his bravado, shrunken by the mere presence of the chief orthopedic surgeon. he stutters, stumbles over his explanations, can't even get his words straight as he tries to back out of the trap he swam into.
“let me make this clear for you, einstein.” park articulates bluntly. “once our receptionist checks you in to the system and hands over your queuing stub, it's your responsibility to keep an eye on the screens hanging around this waiting room.”
then he leans down, hand gently set upon your shoulder, and murmurs, “angel, can you pull up the list of numbers previously called for me, please?”
“mhm, wait a moment.”
it's easier to type without the tremble in your fingers, easier to examine the screen now that you have park's meticulous gaze roving the list too. and there, among the previously summoned queue numbers, is the most important piece of evidence.
park doesn't laugh.
not just because he reserves that kind of intimacy for you. the sheer ridiculousness of this whole situation won't make him forget that this asshole tried to pin his mistake on you, his sweet angel.
so he silently gestures for the two already hovering security guards to come closer, before addressing the asshole.
“listen.” the command straightens the man's back. “these men also know how to do their job, so be a decent person. give them your information, wait for them to file a fine for your delightful manners, follow them out, then never show your ass here again. understood?”
speechless, the man merely nods and scurries behind the security guards; likely (and understandably) afraid the chief surgeon might change his mind.
of course park doesn't fully expose his usual behavior towards you. you're still at work, after all. still, he offers a sliver of your shared intimacy through the squeeze he presses against your shoulder.
“you okay, angel?” he checks in, needing to hear it from your own mouth.
and you hum, slump back in your chair. “i did tell him that he was called twice. it's not my fault he didn't reply either times.”
“yeah, it's not your fault he's a prideful dumbass.”
you lightly smack his stomach. “dr. park, you're still on shift. don't tarnish your record for me.”
“i’ll think about it.” he chuckles. then he leans over again; this time, to kiss your forehead. “come find me once your day's done, alright?”
“only if i get a kiss to get me through the rest of the shift.”
you'd only puckered your lips to tease him. at the same time, you should have expected him to actually turn your chair and kiss you; a fleeting taste, but still erratic heartbeat inducing.
“fine, i'll come find you.” he concedes without real defeat, then returns to his duties before others can get too big of a glimpse into your relationship.
and yes, that is how the ranking of unwritten rules were shaken up by one fry mistaking himself for a clownfish (he was partially right.. if he took away the fish).
unofficial but should be official rule no. 1: never mess with the shark's guppy. don't even intervene, unless you want to be collateral damage caught in his snare.
summary: you are on your first trimester and with it come new emotions; old habits die hard, though.
cw: fem!reader, angst and emotional insecurities, unexpected pregnancy, park being overprotective, reader being stubborn and hyper-independent, a brief mention of reader having enough hair to pass fingers trough, english it’s not my first language so that’s also a warning. let me know if there's something more.
wc: 3.2k
this is part. iii of the big girl pants series!
You discovered you were pregnant too far advanced in your first trimester, almost when it was ending. Eleven weeks, to be more precise, which meant that Brendon knocked you up during that first time. The bastard. The fertile, fertile bastard.
After that dinner with him, where you explained to him that you both were, in fact, not getting married—because having a baby doesn't automatically translate to also having a ring on your finger—you lay on your bed and let your head run. What do you mean three months ago you didn’t know him, you were not aware of his existence, and now you have his baby inside you? It terrifies you.
But you are also excited, and daily you check Pinterest just to see a bunch of photos of little chubby hands gripped around a feminine finger, or DIY ideas to decorate a nursery, and healthy recipes for pregnant women. The thing is, you were ready to be a mom when you entered that hospital looking for him; you had already decided to put on your big girl pants and raise that baby as a single mother because your love for that tiny bunch of happiness was bigger than your fear of doing it alone. But now you are not alone, and all your plans seem to go out the window.
Brendon not only wanted to be part of your child’s life, but also yours. It was almost like he was eager. He sent you messages all day long, saying good morning and asking how you are, do you felt, any pain?, any discomfort?, is our baby behaving with their mom?, I think I’ve found the best ob-gyn, but need you to check her out to see if you agree, can I come over tonight so we can talk about it?, send me a photo of your belly I wanna see our baby.
Brendon, I still don’t have a bump.
I know it's in there, even if it doesn’t show up yet. Send me the photo, please.
You feel like crying. You wanna roll into a ball and cry and sleep and never ever have to deal with this big emotions again. It’s just that you don’t know how to draw a line for him to stop caring so much about you; care about the baby, not you. When you send him photos of your belly, he doesn’t have to compliment the color of your t-shirt, or how your skin looks so glowy and soft—and what’s that background behind you? It doesn’t look like your apartment.
I’m at my friend's house, I just told them I’m pregnant.
Yeah? How did that go? I could have gone with you if you were nervous.
You don’t tell him that he is the one who makes you nervous. You just don’t understand what happened to the man of three months ago who barely shared his profession, let alone his number. Now he has even asked to share locations on your phones, just to know you and the baby are safe.
Why is he acting like that? Why are you so afraid? The truth is you are scared of getting hurt, because you can easily fall for that man and his nice words. You can pretend that he really likes you, and that he is not acting that way just because you are carrying his child—but you know better.
You know how men are, how easily they walk away and disappear from your life. Brendon himself had already done it before, that third night. And you know that it didn’t mean anything, that he really didn’t have to stay, that he was free and could do with his life as he pleased; but now you share a child, and putting on your big girl pants also means not believing in fantasies no matter how pretty they seem, because now there is a little life you have to protect.
You don’t want your baby to wake up one day and find their mommy crying because their daddy left her, when it was clear since day one that it was going to happen someday. No, your baby is going to grow up with two responsible and mature parents who co-parent, with the security that you don’t have to be romantically involved with someone to raise a child together. That is the wisest decision.
So you build a wall around you and accept that when Brendon tells you nice, warm things, he is actually telling them to your child.
And that’s okay, because that only means that your baby is really loved by their dad, which is amazing. There are a lot of kids out there who don’t have that; you are pretty lucky, so you shouldn’t feel sad. Big girls don’t cry just because they don’t understand a man, but you think it’s pretty valid if you sob a little because you are starting not to recognize yourself.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚
Brendon, on the other hand, feels like the shoes are getting bigger and bigger every day. He knows it’s a good thing that you are independent, and capable, and smart, but he still feels like you don’t think he is enough for you. You do things alone, you never ask for help, and you tell him about your problems in the past, after they are already solved.
“Yeah, sorry about the dirty dishes. My sink was broken for like, what, three days? Thank God the plumber finally came this morning. Anyway, do you want something to drink?”
Why didn’t you call? He could have fixed it. Besides, you don’t know that plumber—how can you let a stranger enter your house when you are alone? He could at least have been here with you, to protect you.
"Oh, I found this pizza flyer at the bus stop! We can try it.”
“What were you doing at the bus stop?”
“My car is at the mechanic and I needed to run some errands.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have driven you.”
“Nah, it’s not a big deal, don’t worry.”
Everything to you seems to be not a big deal, and you are constantly saying that you just don’t want to bother him, that he should not worry, and that you have done that a hundred times before. Well, the thing is that if something is related to you, it is a big deal for him; you can never bother him, because he is here to support you; he does worry—how could he not? He feels useless enough knowing that it is your body going through this pregnancy, and that no matter what he does, he cannot take away all the pain and discomfort that inevitably come with it. And as for the excuse of you having done things before you met him? He is here now; you should not have to do them alone.
But you don’t think he is man enough, and Brendon wants to hit his head against a wall.
A week after you revealed to him that you were pregnant, you had let him know that you were meeting with your family that Sunday to tell them the news. You also added that you were doing it alone.
“What?” Brendon turns to look at you, after giving the cash to the man who sold you the ice cream cone. It looks comically small in his huge hands, but you don’t let the image sit too long. Instead, you start to walk, knowing he will follow you. The day is nice and the park is not too full, giving you the quiet to feel relaxed. “No, I’m coming with you.”
“I think it’s better if I tell them first, alone. They can be a lot, you know?”
“Babe—”
Ignore the nickname; ignore the warmth in your chest. “I want to do it this way. It’s for the better, believe me. I know my family.”
“What—do you think they will—”
“No, no, they will be thrilled, actually. I think they had lost hope of me having children,” you laughed it off. Part of your ice cream started to melt, and Brendon had to turn his head to the sky to contain his wandering eyes over your small tongue licking it before it fell. So small, so pink, so wet. You continue talking, not noticing his deep breaths. “So I know it will be chaotic, you know? Like actual chaos. I don’t want your first impression of my Aunt Julia to be her crying her lungs out—and oh my god, my grandma is going to be so dramatic. I bet she is going to start saying things like, ‘I pray to God he lets me live long enough to see this baby!’, like, come on, she is going to bury us all, what is she talking about? So yeah, I think it’s better if you come with me the next time. I mean, if you want to. You are not obligated or anything—”
“Next time then? When is it, next week?”
“Uh, yeah, if you want.”
“Okay,” he nods his head with a solemn look. “I’m still driving you to your family’s tomorrow, though.”
“Oh, no, don’t worry. My cousin is picking me up.”
Brendon wants to peel his own skin in frustration.
The breaking point, though, comes on a Wednesday afternoon after he texts you asking if he can go to your apartment. He has actually been going to your apartment every day since the discovery of the pregnancy, but he still has the manners to ask. These last two days, though, Brendon hadn’t been able to due to his extensive workload—more administrative stuff than anything else—and he is so pent up. He has sharper words at the PTMC, colder looks, and he is constantly rolling his eyes at the slightest stupidity. He just wants to come to your apartment, where the lights are as warm as your presence, order some takeout or help you make dinner, and then sit with you and let out an exhale when you let him touch your belly. It’s still the same size it has always been since he met you, and you always remind him of that, but he still watches it in awe. He doesn’t want to miss a thing, and after two days without seeing you, he feels like the baby might as well be ready to be born without him.
So, after a difficult case with a man too drunk to care about his broken bones, he texts you:
Brendon Park: Can I come over to see you tonight? I’m off at seven.
You: sorryyy, i’m gonna be home until 10pm
His answer comes in seconds.
Brendon Park: Why? Did something happen?
You: no haha, don’t worry
You: i’ve just been picking up extra hours this week
And why the hell are you doing that? And why is he just finding out on, apparently, the third day of you overworking yourself? He doesn’t understand anything, so he texts back while massaging his temple, which is starting to hurt.
Brendon Park: ???
You: looong story, i'll tell u next time we see each other:)
Brendon Park: So tonight is a no?
You: i’m gonna be home until 10 and you wake up at like 5 am to go to the gym
Brendon Park: It doesn’t matter. I wanna see you
Brendon Park: Both of you
You: okay, see you then.
Brendon Park: I’ll pick you up. Don't argue.
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚
Later that day, he is leaning against his black car, waiting for you outside Soxman Funeral Home, your place of work. He actually thinks it’s kind of ironic that you work as a funeral director, considering he is a doctor. Your job is to take care of the dead, and his is to not send you any more. Death and life, two faces of the same coin. It’s like you were meant to be, right? Then why didn’t you accept his proposal?
He is determined to fill those big shoes until he is enough for you, and then you will want him too. He just has to be better.
You walk out of the building at 10:05 pm with your little heels clicking on the pavement and your enormous purse on your shoulder. He approaches you and takes it, and he knows you are tired because you don’t argue with him. He guides you to the passenger side, and after you are comfortable inside, he fastens the seatbelt for you. You only let out a huff but, once again, don’t complain. Really tired, then.
“Thank you for picking me up,” you say when he starts the engine. “The mechanic said my car will be ready by Friday.”
He only hums, adjusting the rearview mirror.
“Oh, and I made the appointment with the ob-gyn. She will see me next Saturday.”
“That’s good. How have you been feeling?” Brendon asks, glancing quickly at you. Your belly is still there, same as always, still no bump.
“Good, good. My boobs have been a little sensitive the past couple of days, but the doctor on the call said it’s normal,” you share with a sheepish look, fiddling with the rings on your fingers. He wants to offer to help—maybe some massage would help?—but you interrupt him before he can open his mouth. “She also said it’s normal to be more tired. In the first trimester—well, in pregnancy in general—there are a lot of hormonal changes that can cause exhaustion. She will give me the vitamins and all that at the appointment.”
“Why are you working extra hours?” he asks bluntly, and then, trying to play it cool, adds: “You covering for someone?”
“No, I asked for them,” well, goddamn, now he is even more confused. “I need to start saving more money for the baby. They are so cute but so expensive!”
You laugh while looking for your keys in your purse, because even if you are still a while away from your apartment, recently you have had the urge to piss the second you enter your neighborhood, like some Pavlovian dog.
“Save for what? You have my money,” Brendon says with a confused look in your direction.
“I mean, I know you are helping with—”
“I am not ‘helping’, I am taking care of things. Of the baby and you. You say it like I’m doing a favor by providing for my family. What do you need? Tomorrow I’m going to the bank for the card I asked for you, but you—”
“Oh, wow, wow, wow. Stop right there,” now it is your turn to look confused at him, with that little frown you make that reminds him of a bunny. “What card are you talking about?”
“Your card. Your credit card linked to my account. I mean, I can keep transferring you the money, but it’s just easier if you just have one.”
“Brendon, I’m not spending your money.”
“Why not? It’s yours too,” he replies with the same naturalness with which one says that rain is wet.
“Uh, no? It’s yours, totally yours.”
“So that means it’s yours too,” he puts his arm behind your seat while parking the car in reverse. You focus on not focusing on his bicep so close to your face, and take a deep breath to remain in control. “You can do whatever you want with it. That’s why you are picking up extra hours? You don’t need them. Spend the money on whatever you wish.”
“What if I tell you I want to buy a house, mm?” you joke, fighting with the seatbelt.
“Have you seen any you like? We can ask a real estate agent—”
“Oh my god, you have to be kidding,” you shake your head while you watch him circle the car to open your door and help you out.
“What, you prefer looking on the internet first?”
“Brendon, it was a joke.”
“You don’t want a house?”
You lean against the elevator wall while looking at him better. He is picking your floor while he has your purse on his shoulder without a care, a small frown on his face turning him cuter. It’s not safe, to be honest, how easily he seems to fit into your life; he moves with so much grace, so much confidence, as if he had already decided that he is going to spend the rest of his days there. And well, you suppose he is going to—he is the father of your baby, after all. It still feels heavy, though. Like he is trying to occupy more space than is proper. He is just your baby daddy, not your boyfriend, not your husband, not your man.
“I mean, yeah—actually, that’s why I picked up the extra hours. I don’t think an apartment is a place to raise a child, but like, I still have time until they are a toddler. I mean, it was a joke, you buying me a house.”
“I’m going to buy you a house,” he declares firmly. The elevator doors open, and he signs for you to walk first, like always. He then follows you all the way to your apartment door.
“You can't seriously believe that’s going to happen.”
“Why not? My job is to take care of you. If you say you want a house, I will buy you a house. If you don’t like any of them, I'll build you one.”
“Your job is to take care of our child, not me,” you correct, taking your heels off. He takes your arm immediately for balance while he responds.
“Well, our child is inside you, so I take care of both.”
“And when the baby is out of me?”
“I'll put another one in.”
You hit him in the chest and shake your head, trying to hide the smile that appears on your face.
“I was kidding, I was kidding,” he says.
He was not.
“Brendon—” you let out a breath and sit on your sofa. He follows you to sit next to you and takes your hands so gently; the hands of a surgeon, after all.
“Okay, let's talk, this is important,” he declares, looking into your eyes. “I take care of you—I want to take care of you. It’s a little difficult if you never let me. I know you are a strong woman, an independent one, and you can take care of yourself on your own. But it doesn’t mean you have to. I am here, baby, for you, for our baby. Let me be here for you. I already feel like I’m not present enough, so let me be where I can: you don’t call a plumber, you call me; you don’t call a mechanic, you call me; you don’t overwork yourself, you use my card and try to relax, okay? You are doing so much, pretty. You are literally creating a life inside you, and that’s not a minor thing. So let me take care of you, let me spoil you. And tell me everything, talk to me, trust me, please. I swear I will never fail you, I swear it on my life. You may not be used to what I am asking you, but let’s try, okay?”
You let the words sit for a moment. Your eyes are welling up, so you bite the inside of your cheek to try to control it, but after a moment, the tears are running down your cheeks. Not very far, though, because the fingers of the man in front of you catch them with delicacy. He pulls you to his chest, where you lay your head and inhale his cologne and the sweat of the day. He rocks you softly while running his fingers through your hair, making you melt into him.
“I don’t know how to be taken care of,” you confess between small sobs.
“Shh, don’t worry,” Brendon murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Let me show you.”
my big fool miscomunications parents ♥ i love that we can see this side of park outside the PMTC!!! what do you think? let me know!!!
Simon and yourself attending a wedding, only for him to take you home right after you’d been dancing. He promised he’d go to the after party with you, but ends up dragging you from the strap of your dress to your bed.
He fucks you deep and hard, wanting to imprint the tunnel of your cunt with the curve of his cock.
He leans down to your ear as he fucks you prone, panting heavy as he murmurs to you, tip of his cock kissing your cervix.
Portal pussy with tf141 but it’s your job to figure out who has your pussy for the day.
You’re shaking and sweating, holding the base of the chair so tightly that your knuckles turn white. The circular sensation against your clit has been non stop and your brain is about to turn to mush because of it.
“You okay, love? You look tense.” You glare at price to which he gives you a knowing smirk. “Not too much now. I’m still your captain. Could send you to train the recruits if I wanted to.” There’s an intentional pause- as if to leave the mind to imagine. “although I doubt you’ll be able to demonstrate much in this state.”
You lift your hips off the chair in hopes to alleviate some of the friction but to no avail. A string of curses leaves your lips. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum.”
“Easy now.” Ghost chimes in. “Still in a briefing. Keep it professional, kid.”
“You could just take a guess- put an end to it.” Kyle so kindly suggests. There’s a few menacing chuckles in response. “Remember your forfeit though.”
And just like that- the sensation stops. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, you no longer have to climax in front of your team at a mission briefing, while on the other, your thighs are now rubbing against one another for any amount of friction that could just give you that relief you need.
Later in the day, Soap finds you curled up on a couch, clutching your lower abdomen and eyes just a little bit glazed over. “You look like shite.”
And you felt like it. “One of you fuckers has been edging me all day,” you mumble, pressing your legs so tightly together as if that would do you any good.
“At least you know it’s not me, you know I like to give ya what you want.”
You shoot him a glare- because Soap will let you cum. The problem is, that’s all he does. You’re climaxing at least once an hour when he has your pussy, and he’s not shy to experimenting.
He’ll grind the toy against the corner of his desk, he’ll hold it under running water, he’ll even go so far as to tie it to a vibrator as he’s sleeping just to make sure you’re left satisfied.
And the day will always end the same- soap locked inside his room while you’re banging for him with cute glistening tears, begging and sobbing for him to stop which just isn’t enough for him until you’re sitting in a puddle of your own arousal outside his door.
“C’mon, lass. Just take a guess.” He steps closer, lifting your chin with a finger. His eyes glimmer with excitement when he sees the way you’re practically looking through him and not at him. “You get it right, you get your cute cunnie back. And if you get it wrong…” he leans closer to your ear, “I’ll take ya first and you know I’m good at making ya cum.”
The offer is tempting, and you almost mutter a name in his advice but suddenly you gasp when you feel a low vibration make contact with your sore clit.
You hunch over, gripping the back of the couch. “What’s going on?” You don’t even have the strength to look up but from voice alone, you know it’s Gaz.
“Looks like someone’s having fun.”
Gaz’s eyes trace from a smug soap to a pitiful you. “What d’they got going on?”
Your voice strains as you try to speak. “V-vibe.”
Gaz nods in understanding. “Sounds like ghost or price. Me? I’m a traditional man.”
Soap snorts. “Oh, we know.”
Gaz, cursed at him, rolling his eyes with no real heat behind it. But soap was right. Gaz always talking about how he wants to meet the love of his life “naturally” and properly court her, have a romantic wedding, have two kids (one boy, one girl), basically he was traditional in every sense.
This includes in the bedroom where he doesn’t believe in the need for toys. Instead, he’ll plunge his fingers in your pussy till it’s sopping and crying, and then he’ll drink it all up with the tip of his nose pushing against the hood of you clit- all to do it over and over and over again.
The pair continue to argue but you drown out their voices as you feel that sinking feeling deep in your gut again. The vibrations are so perfectly pressed against your clit that it has you seeing stars.
It has to be price, right? The fingers from earlier were rough with experience but the movements themselves were patient and experienced. They move in perfect circles up and down your folds, playing with them like pages on a book before teasingly flicking against your clit.
Or is it ghost? It’s more likely for ghost to be using a vibrator than price. He loves his toys, has a whole fancy collection that are “just for testin’” he says. But usually ghost is a little rougher, isn’t he? So maybe it’s-
The thought is cut off when you feel a blunt, large head of a vibrator forcefully being pushed against your opening. Your eyes widen, and whoever is toying with you isn’t in the room but you instinctively scream anyways which draws the attention of both Gaz and soap. “waitwaitwaitwait- It won’t fit!”
God- fuck- it had to be him. It had to be. Oh shit, just say a name. Or is it price? No- he wouldn’t. Or? Fuck- you could literally count down the seconds as the head stretches you wider and wider and - “Ghost! Stop it!”
And just like that…it stops. And for a moment, it feels like time stops.
“Oh? Looks like we have a name.”
You’re panting for dear life, vision blurry as you curl up in the couch, oblivious to the rest of the team flooding in the room.
Price kneels by your side, placing a warm hand on your forehead and using his thumb to brush away the hair that sticks to your forehead.
Once you catch your breath, you roll over slowly. Your vision is a blur, but it gradually comes to focus and you recognize price’s look of concern with the rest of them peering over his shoulder.
“Did I get it right?”
The men pause, none of them giving it away, until you notice a twitch of Price’s mustache followed my an upward turn of a crooked smile. “Oh, fuck.”
A deep and amused laugh confirms what you already know and Soap is already taking off his belt, “I’m going first, lads.”
“Why do you go first? Price did all of the work.” Gaz retorts, finger twitching in retaliation.
“Called dibs. Didn’t I, lassie?”
Gaz lets out a sputter of disbelief. “Oi, You can’t just call dibs on something like that!”
“Her mouth is still open if you want it.” Soap is already at your legs, grabbing them by the ankles and pulling them apart.
Gaz’s jaw clenches in annoyance…or is it jealousy? He looks at Price, who gives him a fatherly shrug. There’s a moment of hesitation before he’s also undoing his belt, mumbling underneath his breath. “Bloody dibs…an idiot really.”
