stardust

25 • bi • Cl16 • MV1

[rr-after-dark]

“Everything Good in You” - Brendon Park x Reader

Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.

Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!

Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare

NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie

Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist

A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive

Word Count: 18.3k

Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.

Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time. 

Tonight changes that.

It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.

But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.

The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.

“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”

The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”

Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”

Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”

Brendon rolls his shoulders.

The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.

In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fist knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.

Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrowing into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.

But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much in there.

So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.

As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.

Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”

With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”

Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”

Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.

You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”

“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”

“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”

“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”

“It’s eighty degrees out.”

“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”

With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”

“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”

“That’s hot.”

Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.

“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”

He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”

“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”

“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”

With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”

“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”

Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”

“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”

Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”

Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”

With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.

The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.

Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”

“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re so pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”

The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”

Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”

With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”

Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”

“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”

Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your now-chipped manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”

Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”

“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”

Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”

“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”

“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”

“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”

“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”

You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”

He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”

Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”

Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”

Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”

“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”

You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”

Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”

“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a road trip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”

“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”

“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”

You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”

Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.

Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”

“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”

Brendon nearly growls.

Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”

You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”

As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”

“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”

Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”

“It’s America.”

“The bill’s over four grand.”

“Like I said, America. And?”

“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”

“I barely know her.”

“Whatever you say, Shark.”

You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.

Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md

You have to suppress a squeal.

Game, set, match.

It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.

With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”

“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”

“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”

“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver Sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”

“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”

You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him sick. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”

He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”

“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being a stupid boy about it.”

“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”

Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”

“My friend, huh?”

“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in that same forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”

With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”

Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”

Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”

“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”

You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”

“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer too-”

A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”

“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I wouldn't expect you to have four grand to spare lying around.”

With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”

“How?”

“I have my secrets.”

“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”

“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinky with yours. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”

“I’d do it for anyone.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.

It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”

Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”

He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”

You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.

On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.

As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the dam finally breaks.

Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-

“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”

He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”

“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”

“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”

“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”

“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”

You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”

He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”

“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”

He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”

But he can’t resist how damn concentrated and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.

When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. Really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”

You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”

He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”

God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”

Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”

“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”

As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”

Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”

He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.

“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”

He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”

You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”

“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says, “Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”

You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”

He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”

You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”

“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”

He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”

You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”

Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.

As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”

Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”

“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”

You’re about due for a cold shower.

you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇 you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences. brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests. you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on. brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual. you: yeah? brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me. you: never. brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are. you: thank you!! i will 💕💕 you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late brendon (hot gym guy): I never am. you: that’s hot.

Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve-racking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup by your standards – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.

Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.

Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple of pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor-length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.

you: which shoes do you like better? brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck. brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language. you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇  brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t. brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow. you: you really do like my girly stuff huh? brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast. you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake? brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄 brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that. you: omg did you just use an emoji you: im already making progress on you brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight. you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑 brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass? you: oh my god. yes grandpa you: you’re so lucky you have me brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually. brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.

Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.

Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.

Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”

Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.

“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”

He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in that strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in a sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.

By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.

Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.

Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”

Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”

“Perfect; go right ahead.”

“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pinot grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22.  Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”

The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”

The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”

He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”

After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.”

“What face?”

“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”

You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.

Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.

Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild, almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce, and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him, “You’re staring at me.”

Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”

“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”

“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your free hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”

You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”

He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”

You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”

Brendon glances over it, folds and tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”

“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”

Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”

Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”

That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”

You slice into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”

“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”

He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.

Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”

Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”

He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”

After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”

“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”

You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.

When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”

Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”

The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.

Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet to every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”

You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”

She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”

“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display. “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”

“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”

“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”

She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”

“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get a bouquet, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”

“On it, boss.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.

you: most people would’ve texted bren: Did you want ‘most people’? you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!! bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very romantic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess? you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!! bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them. you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕 bren: Me too, beautiful. bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside. you: that a promise? bren: Yes. you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!! bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day. you: yes sir bren: Careful. you: rarely 😘

Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky high-rise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.

“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”

“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”

Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”

“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”

“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”

She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”

Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.

The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and wood and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.

You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”

Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.

Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.

Deep breaths.

In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.

Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you unfold a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.

Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite, given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.

In the en suite bathroom, across from a massive walk-in closet (half-full, yearning to be filled with pink designer clothes, you think), there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.

Comfortable, indeed.

One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.

While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long, deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. Excited, you realize. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.

When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”

“Too late.”

Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.

And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”

Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.

You’re in the shark’s den now.

Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper. 

“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”

Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”

Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”

You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”

“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”

“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”

“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – a phrase you didn’t fully understand until now. Predatory but confident. Knowing he has the kill in sight. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”

You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”

And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”

Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”

He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.

When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”

You whimper.

He laughs.

Again.

Bastard.

“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”

You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”

Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”

So he gets to work.

First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.

Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unfazed by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”

“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”

He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to think about your armpits.”

As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it naturally exists.”

Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”

After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”

And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”

Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”

He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tense.

Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”

And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”

“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”

Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.

Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act.

“You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”

Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between them, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.

Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”

You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”

“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of lying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”

“Just for you.”

“That so?”

“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”

He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”

You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”

“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”

Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan at the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.

Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.

Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”

“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”

Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”

“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”

Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”

He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”

You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “I don’t think so.”

“And does it still feel good?”

You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.

“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”

You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”

Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his affirmations, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”

You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”

“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”

Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”

“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything, including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”

When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.

“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”

“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”

“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”

“I- I’ll try.”

“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”

He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”

That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just instinctively fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.

“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the brink of supernova, he commands like a sergeant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”

You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.

His voice.

The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.

“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”

You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. You're barely aware of the uncontrollable gush from your cunt. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.

When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gaping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.

Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.

Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”

With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”

Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”

“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can I have your cock now?”

“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”

“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer finger, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”

“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”

“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”

Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”

Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.

He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”

“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and later you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”

His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”

You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”

Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”

You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”

“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”

Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.

His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.

He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”

Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.

But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breathe, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.

He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.

So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.

Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”

You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.

“If the very first words out of  your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”

You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.

Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”

Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.

In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.

Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysium. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.

Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”

You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.

“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple of large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”

You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”

“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”

You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”

“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”

“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”

Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”

That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”

A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”

You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”

Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”

He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”

“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”

“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”

You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”

After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.

“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”

“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”

“And I meant it.”

When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.

In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund

[billy-crudup]

SHAWN HATOSY on TODAY with Jenna & Sheinelle, June 12, 2026

[feefal]

Copper evolution line! Your daily blend of educational and fictional art content

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi! I saw that your requests are open and I was wondering if you could write an Aaron Hotchner x reader fic inspired by the TikTok trend “How long till my FBI husband catches me?”—similar to the “how long till my police husband catches me in a foot pursuit” trend. Thank you!

Catch me if you can | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, TikTok trend, 2 Y/N's, reader is athletic enough to not be too out of breath from running away for the approx 20 seconds she was running for, hair is long enough to be tucked behind your ears, hugs and kisses.

Summary: You see a TikTok trend that you really want Hotch to do with you, so you get Jack on your side, pestering him about it until eventually he agrees and does the damn video.

A/N: The things I have googled for this fic are so silly that my cookies will, from now on, show me American food trends and metric to imperial conversions based on realistic running lengths in 3 seconds.

It all began innocently enough one evening when Hotch came home after a long case. He had barely gotten inside the house, still in his suit, looking exhausted as ever, but relieved to be back with you and Jack after another case solved.

You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok—which had become a guilty pleasure of yours—while Jack finished his homework at the coffee table. And every few minutes, you’d let out a snort of laughter at yet another video of a wife or girlfriend running from their police officer partner in a foot chase, giving themselves a slight head start before getting dramatically “caught.”

Hotch loosened his tie in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee—hoping it could keep him awake, at least until bedtime—when you finally couldn’t contain your excitement any longer.

You hopped up from the couch, blanket trailing behind you like a cape, and marched to him in the kitchen.

“You have to see this,” you said, thrusting your phone at him, making it sound like you were about to show him something terrible you read in the news.

He took it with a skeptical glance, but watched the short clip of a woman sprinting across a park, her cop husband counting to five before taking off and scooping her up in mereseconds.

The comments were full of heart emojis and ‘this is goals,’ and ‘congrats 🥲’

Hotch handed the phone back to you without a word, trying his hardest not to indulge you too much—because he knew where this would eventually go—but you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“It’s cute, right? Harmless fun. They’re calling it the Foot Pursuit Challenge.”

He sipped his coffee, peeking at you over the rim of his mug, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s definitely… something.”

You leaned against the counter, grinning. “We should do it!”

“No.”

Just like that. Flat, immediate, classic Hotchner move from work.

But you weren’t deterred. He was forgetting that you weren’t one of his agents, that you weren’t so easily discouraged by having your ideas shot down as his subordinates.

You’d been married to Hotch long enough to know that “no” was rarely the final answer when it came to your ideas—especially if said ideas were something that made you or Jack happy in the long run.

Phase one of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video kicked off the very next morning, right in the heart of breakfast-making and getting ready for school and work.

Jack was standing on a chair at the counter, carefully pouring his favorite sugary cereal into a bowl—how you and Hotch kept falling for his puppy dog eyes in the cereal aisle was still a mystery to both of you—his tongue poking out in concentration as a few pieces inevitably spilled onto the countertop.

Hotch sat at the dining table, unfolded newspaper spread wide in front of him—actual newsprint, crinkling with every turn of the page. You would’ve just read the news on your phone if it were you. But he was stubbornly old-school that way, insisting on the feel of real paper despite everyone else scrolling on their devices.

You carried two bowls of oatmeal to the table and slid one right in front of him. As you did, you leaned in just a touch closer than necessary and murmured, low enough that Jack might not catch every word but loud enough to plant the seed, "Imagine how fast you'd catch me if we did that. The video would absolutely break the internet."

Hotch didn't even glance up from the finance section. His voice was once again flat and resolute. "Not happening."

Jack's head snapped up from his cereal pour, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. His eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered eight-year-old curiosity. "Catch you? Like tag? Can I play too?"

You seized the moment, turning to Jack with an enthusiastic grin while drizzling a little bit of honey over your oatmeal. "Oh, it's this super fun game, Daddy and I could play. I'd run away from him in a large field, maybe even the soccer field where you practice, and Daddy would chase me down. Kind of like cops and robbers, but way more exciting because it's for grown-ups."

Jack's eyes went comically wide—cartoon comically wide—his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He bounced a little in his chair, cereal forgotten. "Whoa! Dad, you're really fast! Like superhero fast! You'd totally win in, like, two seconds."

Hotch finally looked up from the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. It was that look—the one you'd seen a hundred times before. The narrowed eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the silent message screaming: You're playing dirty, pitting my own son against me, and you know it.

You met his glare with the picture of wide-eyed innocence, batting your lashes as you slid the honey bottle across the table toward him, knowing he was boring and would eat his oatmeal plain—yuck.

"What? Just hypothetically speaking," you said sweetly, before turning back to your breakfast with a barely suppressed smirk. Phase one was officially underway.

Phase two of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video unfolded over the next several days like a carefully orchestrated siege, every moment thoughtfully planned out and designed to wear down his defenses without ever looking like an outright attack.

It started small. While prepping dinner one evening, you left your phone propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, volume turned just high enough to carry into the living room.

A compilation of the challenge played on loop—clip after clip of women sprinting across backyards, beaches, and parks, giggling breathlessly as their husbands closed the gap in seconds, scooping them up into triumphant, spinning hugs.

Hotch walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old, oily rag, and paused mid-step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking with laughter as she was caught.

He glanced at the screen, then at you innocently chopping vegetables, and shook his head before disappearing down the hall.

You caught the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary—Maybe mulling the idea over for once.

The next night, during Jack’s bedtime routine, you pulled up “the funniest ones” on your tablet—carefully curated, of course.

You sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, the two of you huddled together under his dinosaur blanket, howling at a woman who dramatically dove into a pile of leaves to escape, only to be gently tackled and rolled around in her husband’s arms.

Jack’s giggles echoed down the hallway, impossible to ignore. And Hotch lingered just outside the door, pretending to check emails on his phone—because you were supposed to be reading bedtime stories, and not watching videos—but you saw his mouth twitch into the faintest smile when Jack declared, “That guy is so strong! Just like you, Dad!”

The real precision strike came on Wednesday. You waited until you knew he’d be alone in his office, eating a sandwich at his desk between meetings, while scribbling away at backed-up paperwork.

You sent him a single video—no text, just the clip. It was one of the sweeter ones making the rounds on the app: a man dressed in full uniform in a park giving his wife a full twenty-second head start. She bolted across the grass in a sundress—not the smartest choice for top speed, you thought—hair flying, laughing before he even started moving.

He took off at an easy lope, closed the distance effortlessly and quickly, and when he caught her around the waist, he didn’t stop. Instead, he spun her in slow circles like they were slow dancing to music in their kitchen, both of them breathless and beaming.

You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” and waited.

His reply came five minutes later: Stop it.

You took the time it took to reply as a win, because he couldn’t be as against it as he implied, because then he would’ve replied the second he read the message.

You sent back nothing but a red heart and winking emoji… followed immediately by another video.

Phase three—full weaponization of Jack—began in earnest by day four.

Jack—bless his enthusiastic little heart—became the most effective catalyst imaginable. It started at breakfast: “Dad, when are we gonna play that running game (Y/N) told me about?”

By lunchtime, it had escalated to, “Dad, can I hold the phone and film it? I promise I’ll be super steady!”

And by dinner, full-on pleading: “Daaaad, pleeease? She said you’d be the coolest dad on all of TikTok. Like, the coolest ever.”

Hotch held out for exactly one more day under the combined assault of his wife and son.

He was grumbling more, deflecting with increasing desperation, but you could see the cracks forming—every time Jack asked, Hotch’s refusal came a little softer, a little slower, and a little more undetermined.

Friday night sealed it.

You’d gone all out for dinner. Perfectly seared ribeyes, roasted potatoes, and those garlicky green beans that he pretended weren’t his favorite but always finished first.

Jack had come home from school clutching a piece of construction paper folded in half like a sacred relic.

During quiet time, he’d drawn the three of you in a sunny field.  Stick-figure Hotch with spiky hair and a huge grin, enormous arms outstretched as he caught stick-figure you mid-run—complete with little motion lines and hearts—while tiny stick-figure Jack stood off to the side holding what was clearly meant to be a phone—definitely looking more like a flat screen TV size-wise—filming the whole thing. He’d even written in careful block letters across the top: “BEST DAD CATCHES (Y/N)!!!”

When Hotch got home late from a case the team was working in D.C, tired and rumpled, he found the drawing taped proudly to his closed office door at Jack-eye-level.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at it.

Then he came into the living room, where you and Jack were curled up on the couch under a blanket together, watching yet another challenge video—this one featuring a husband who let his wife almost get to the tree line before sprinting and catching her just in time.

Jack was narrating the whole thing excitedly. “See? He gave her a super long head start and still got her!”

Hotch leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, suit jacket off, watching the two of you laugh together.

Finally, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. One of those ones that started in his chest and carried the weight of total surrender during the exhale.

“Fine.”

You and Jack both froze mid-laugh.

You turned slowly, afraid to breathe. “Wait… really?”

Hotch pointed a finger at you, expression stern but eyes betraying him with that familiar spark of reluctant amusement. “One take. No Jack in the video—we blur him or crop him or whatever you have to do if he ends up being slightly in frame. We film it somewhere away from the house. And if you post the video and even a tiny bit of the neighbourhood we live in shows, I swear I’m deleting TikTok from every phone, tablet, and laptop in this house. And blocking access to it on the WI-FI. Permanently.”

Jack launched off the couch like a rocket, barreling into Hotch’s legs and wrapping his arms around them in the fiercest hug his small body could manage—not even caring that he basically was banned to only being the cameraman. “Yes! Thank you, Dad! You’re the best!”

You rose more slowly, heart thudding with victory, and walked over to him. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pressed close, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease the moment you touched him.

“You’re the best husband ever,” you murmured against his ear. “You know that, right?”

He made a low grumbling sound—something about being a complete pushover and how the two of you had him wrapped around your fingers—but his arms came around your waist immediately, strong and warm, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

“You love it,” you whispered, brushing a soft kiss just below his jaw.

He didn’t argue. Just held you a little tighter, the faintest smile curving against your temple as he whispered. “Maybe I do, or maybe I know of other ways you can make it up to me.”

Meanwhile, Jack continued to cheer triumphantly at hip height.

Saturday morning came, and for one, the BAU hadn’t been called away on a case—yet.

Jack was vibrating in his booster seat the entire drive out to the soccer field near your house. He was clutching your phone like it was the most important job in the world. And kept practicing his “director voice” in the backseat, complete with dramatic pauses. “And… action! Take one… rolling… quiet on the set!” You had no idea where he had learned those things, but his excitement was contagious; even Hotch couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he drove.

When he pulled into the empty gravel lot and cut the engine, he turned in his seat to face both of you, expression serious, almost as if he was about to send two agents into a known ambush. “Ground rules,” he began firmly. “Ten-second head start. I count out loud, slowly. No running toward the street, no trees, no uneven ground—nothing dangerous. And when I catch you,” his eyes locked on yours, “no dramatic flailing or twisting that could actually get you hurt. I mean it.”

You brought two fingers to your forehead in an exaggerated salute, trying your hardest not to burst into laughter. “Yes dad, sir, Unit Chief Hotchner, sir.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you could hear them turning in their sockets, but the smile finally broke through. He couldn’t hide it anymore.

You all climbed out. Jack immediately claimed his spot on the sideline, like a seasoned cinematographer, phone held steady in both hands.

He even adjusted the angle twice, muttering to himself about “getting the whole field on camera.”

You bounced lightly on your toes at the ‘starting line’ you’d mentally drawn, pretending to warm up for your sprint.

Hotch looked unfairly good in dark jeans that fit just right, and a quarter-zip that stretched across his shoulders and chest in all the best ways, sleeves pushed up to his forearms—he absolutely knew what he had been doing as he got dressed, knowing this exact look would distract you enough for the chase to be over quickly.

The morning light caught the subtle strands of silver at his temples, and the relaxed set of his jaw made him look younger, lighter.

Casual Hotch—away from the weight of the world—was always your absolute favorite look on him.

Jack lifted the phone. “Ready? Okay… three, two, one... ACTION!”

Hotch’s voice rang out clear and steady across the empty field. “One.”

You bolted.

Arms pumping wildly, legs flying, you leaned into the comedy of it from the very first stride. Hair already whipping loose from its elastic, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

The grass felt alive under your sneakers, air rushing into your lungs.

“Two… three…”

You risked a quick glance back. Hotch hadn’t moved yet—just stood there with his hands casually in his pockets, watching you with that fond, indulgent half-smile that turned your insides to liquid even from ten yards away.

“Four… five… six…”

You pushed harder, aiming for the distant white goalpost like it was the finish line of the Olympics.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, joy more than exertion at this point.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

A dramatic gasp for effect. “You’re not even trying yet!” You yelled back, well aware that the phone wouldn’t catch it, but he would.

He rolled his eyes. “Ten.”

And then he moved.

It was unreal—like a switch flipped—no wind-up, no playful jog, just pure, efficient, predatory speed. Long, powerful strides that ate up the distance with terrifying speed. The gap between you shrank faster than physics should even allow.

You let out a shriek that echoed across the field. “No fair! You’re too fast! This is an abuse of federal training and resources!”

Desperate for a few more seconds of glory, you zigzagged sharply, then threw in the most ridiculous spin move you’d copied from a viral clip—arms out, one leg kicked high, nearly losing your balance in the process as you stumbled in the opposite direction.

It bought you exactly two extra seconds.

Strong arms banded around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and weren’t struggling.

You kicked your legs in mock outrage, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, while he executed one smooth, gentle twirl—full circle, your back to his chest—the world spinning in a blur of blue sky and green grass. Then he lowered you both carefully, twisting at the last moment so he took every bit of impact on his back, you landing safely straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest.

Your hair had come completely undone around your face. You were breathless more from laughter than the run, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice low, the sound rumbling through his chest under your palms. One large hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the messy strands from your eyes before tucking them gently behind your ear.

“That was barely twenty seconds total!” you protested weakly, poking his chest. “You made me look ridiculous out there.”

He smirked—actually smirked—eyes crinkling at the corners. “You managed that all on your own.”

Jack came barreling over, phone held high like a trophy. “I GOT IT ALL! The spin was SO COOL! Did you see the spin, Dad? It was awesome!”

The three of you collapsed together right there in the middle of the field—Jack diving into the dogpile with zero regard for aim, all of you tangled in a heap of limbs and laughter until your sides ached and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes.

When you finally caught your breath, you migrated to the big oak at the edge of the field. Jack launched into a frame-by-frame narration of his directorial choices, gesturing wildly.

You watched the footage together four times in a row—pausing at your comically dramatic start, rewinding Hotch’s impossibly smooth sprint, slow-motioning the mid-air spin, zooming in on the gentle landing. Every replay sent Jack into fresh fits of laughter.

“It’s perfect,” you declared finally, leaning into Hotch’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He had one arm draped comfortably around you, the other wrapped around Jack, who was nestled against his dad’s chest like it was the safest place in the world—which it was.

Hotch’s lips brushed your temple, voice soft against your skin. “Post it if you really want to.” He smiled. Although he was ‘giving you permission’ to post it, you knew he was just as pleased with the result as you were.

“Already planned,” you assured him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Just us and laughter. Text overlay: ‘How long till my FBI husband catches me?” You spread your hands out in the air, as if framing a headline.

Jack yawned, snuggling deeper into Hotch’s side. “Can we do it again next weekend? I wanna be the runner this time.”

Hotch groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the tree trunk. “We’ll… negotiate. But no filming this time.”

You grinned, knowing full well that was code for yes.

Later that evening, after Jack was tucked in with stories and kisses and one more replay of “the best video ever,” the house finally fell quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the soft glow of your phone, editing the video, adding a gentle blur to Jack’s excited dash at the end, layering music that swelled just right at the catch.

You added the text overlay in a simple white font, then hit upload before you could second-guess it.

By morning, it had exploded in the challenge hashtag. Notifications poured in as you sipped your coffee. “The SPIN took me OUT 😭😂,” “FBI husbands are built different fr,” “This is the sweetest one yet!! my heart,” “Tell me you feel safe without telling me you feel safe.” “OMG look at the way he’s looking at her when they’re on the ground.”

Hotch wandered in still half-asleep, hair adorably tousled. He came up behind you without a word, arms sliding around your waist, chest warm against your back, chin resting atop your head as he peered at the screen.

“Regretting your life choices yet?” you asked, tilting your head back to smile up at him.

He hummed thoughtfully, voice still gravelly with sleep. “Ask me again after the unlimited chocolate chip cookies you now owe me for the rest of our lives.”

You laughed softly, turning fully in his arms to loop yours around his neck. “Deal,” you whispered, before kissing him.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling a smile that made every single day of scheming, every sneaky video, every pleading child, and perfectly timed snack worth it.

Absolutely and undeniably worth it.

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi! I saw that your requests are open and I was wondering if you could write an Aaron Hotchner x reader fic inspired by the TikTok trend “How long till my FBI husband catches me?”—similar to the “how long till my police husband catches me in a foot pursuit” trend. Thank you!

Catch me if you can | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!Reader

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: Fluff, TikTok trend, 2 Y/N's, reader is athletic enough to not be too out of breath from running away for the approx 20 seconds she was running for, hair is long enough to be tucked behind your ears, hugs and kisses.

Summary: You see a TikTok trend that you really want Hotch to do with you, so you get Jack on your side, pestering him about it until eventually he agrees and does the damn video.

A/N: The things I have googled for this fic are so silly that my cookies will, from now on, show me American food trends and metric to imperial conversions based on realistic running lengths in 3 seconds.

It all began innocently enough one evening when Hotch came home after a long case. He had barely gotten inside the house, still in his suit, looking exhausted as ever, but relieved to be back with you and Jack after another case solved.

You were curled up on the couch under a blanket, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok—which had become a guilty pleasure of yours—while Jack finished his homework at the coffee table. And every few minutes, you’d let out a snort of laughter at yet another video of a wife or girlfriend running from their police officer partner in a foot chase, giving themselves a slight head start before getting dramatically “caught.”

Hotch loosened his tie in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee—hoping it could keep him awake, at least until bedtime—when you finally couldn’t contain your excitement any longer.

You hopped up from the couch, blanket trailing behind you like a cape, and marched to him in the kitchen.

“You have to see this,” you said, thrusting your phone at him, making it sound like you were about to show him something terrible you read in the news.

He took it with a skeptical glance, but watched the short clip of a woman sprinting across a park, her cop husband counting to five before taking off and scooping her up in mereseconds.

The comments were full of heart emojis and ‘this is goals,’ and ‘congrats 🥲’

Hotch handed the phone back to you without a word, trying his hardest not to indulge you too much—because he knew where this would eventually go—but you caught the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“It’s cute, right? Harmless fun. They’re calling it the Foot Pursuit Challenge.”

He sipped his coffee, peeking at you over the rim of his mug, and raised both eyebrows. “It’s definitely… something.”

You leaned against the counter, grinning. “We should do it!”

“No.”

Just like that. Flat, immediate, classic Hotchner move from work.

But you weren’t deterred. He was forgetting that you weren’t one of his agents, that you weren’t so easily discouraged by having your ideas shot down as his subordinates.

You’d been married to Hotch long enough to know that “no” was rarely the final answer when it came to your ideas—especially if said ideas were something that made you or Jack happy in the long run.

Phase one of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video kicked off the very next morning, right in the heart of breakfast-making and getting ready for school and work.

Jack was standing on a chair at the counter, carefully pouring his favorite sugary cereal into a bowl—how you and Hotch kept falling for his puppy dog eyes in the cereal aisle was still a mystery to both of you—his tongue poking out in concentration as a few pieces inevitably spilled onto the countertop.

Hotch sat at the dining table, unfolded newspaper spread wide in front of him—actual newsprint, crinkling with every turn of the page. You would’ve just read the news on your phone if it were you. But he was stubbornly old-school that way, insisting on the feel of real paper despite everyone else scrolling on their devices.

You carried two bowls of oatmeal to the table and slid one right in front of him. As you did, you leaned in just a touch closer than necessary and murmured, low enough that Jack might not catch every word but loud enough to plant the seed, "Imagine how fast you'd catch me if we did that. The video would absolutely break the internet."

Hotch didn't even glance up from the finance section. His voice was once again flat and resolute. "Not happening."

Jack's head snapped up from his cereal pour, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his bowl. His eyes lit up with pure, unfiltered eight-year-old curiosity. "Catch you? Like tag? Can I play too?"

You seized the moment, turning to Jack with an enthusiastic grin while drizzling a little bit of honey over your oatmeal. "Oh, it's this super fun game, Daddy and I could play. I'd run away from him in a large field, maybe even the soccer field where you practice, and Daddy would chase me down. Kind of like cops and robbers, but way more exciting because it's for grown-ups."

Jack's eyes went comically wide—cartoon comically wide—his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. He bounced a little in his chair, cereal forgotten. "Whoa! Dad, you're really fast! Like superhero fast! You'd totally win in, like, two seconds."

Hotch finally looked up from the newspaper just enough for his eyes to meet yours. It was that look—the one you'd seen a hundred times before. The narrowed eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the silent message screaming: You're playing dirty, pitting my own son against me, and you know it.

You met his glare with the picture of wide-eyed innocence, batting your lashes as you slid the honey bottle across the table toward him, knowing he was boring and would eat his oatmeal plain—yuck.

"What? Just hypothetically speaking," you said sweetly, before turning back to your breakfast with a barely suppressed smirk. Phase one was officially underway.

Phase two of Operation Convince Aaron to do the video unfolded over the next several days like a carefully orchestrated siege, every moment thoughtfully planned out and designed to wear down his defenses without ever looking like an outright attack.

It started small. While prepping dinner one evening, you left your phone propped against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, volume turned just high enough to carry into the living room.

A compilation of the challenge played on loop—clip after clip of women sprinting across backyards, beaches, and parks, giggling breathlessly as their husbands closed the gap in seconds, scooping them up into triumphant, spinning hugs.

Hotch walked in from the garage, wiping his hands on an old, oily rag, and paused mid-step when he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman shrieking with laughter as she was caught.

He glanced at the screen, then at you innocently chopping vegetables, and shook his head before disappearing down the hall.

You caught the way his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary—Maybe mulling the idea over for once.

The next night, during Jack’s bedtime routine, you pulled up “the funniest ones” on your tablet—carefully curated, of course.

You sat on the edge of Jack’s bed, the two of you huddled together under his dinosaur blanket, howling at a woman who dramatically dove into a pile of leaves to escape, only to be gently tackled and rolled around in her husband’s arms.

Jack’s giggles echoed down the hallway, impossible to ignore. And Hotch lingered just outside the door, pretending to check emails on his phone—because you were supposed to be reading bedtime stories, and not watching videos—but you saw his mouth twitch into the faintest smile when Jack declared, “That guy is so strong! Just like you, Dad!”

The real precision strike came on Wednesday. You waited until you knew he’d be alone in his office, eating a sandwich at his desk between meetings, while scribbling away at backed-up paperwork.

You sent him a single video—no text, just the clip. It was one of the sweeter ones making the rounds on the app: a man dressed in full uniform in a park giving his wife a full twenty-second head start. She bolted across the grass in a sundress—not the smartest choice for top speed, you thought—hair flying, laughing before he even started moving.

He took off at an easy lope, closed the distance effortlessly and quickly, and when he caught her around the waist, he didn’t stop. Instead, he spun her in slow circles like they were slow dancing to music in their kitchen, both of them breathless and beaming.

You watched the “delivered” turn to “read” and waited.

His reply came five minutes later: Stop it.

You took the time it took to reply as a win, because he couldn’t be as against it as he implied, because then he would’ve replied the second he read the message.

You sent back nothing but a red heart and winking emoji… followed immediately by another video.

Phase three—full weaponization of Jack—began in earnest by day four.

Jack—bless his enthusiastic little heart—became the most effective catalyst imaginable. It started at breakfast: “Dad, when are we gonna play that running game (Y/N) told me about?”

By lunchtime, it had escalated to, “Dad, can I hold the phone and film it? I promise I’ll be super steady!”

And by dinner, full-on pleading: “Daaaad, pleeease? She said you’d be the coolest dad on all of TikTok. Like, the coolest ever.”

Hotch held out for exactly one more day under the combined assault of his wife and son.

He was grumbling more, deflecting with increasing desperation, but you could see the cracks forming—every time Jack asked, Hotch’s refusal came a little softer, a little slower, and a little more undetermined.

Friday night sealed it.

You’d gone all out for dinner. Perfectly seared ribeyes, roasted potatoes, and those garlicky green beans that he pretended weren’t his favorite but always finished first.

Jack had come home from school clutching a piece of construction paper folded in half like a sacred relic.

During quiet time, he’d drawn the three of you in a sunny field.  Stick-figure Hotch with spiky hair and a huge grin, enormous arms outstretched as he caught stick-figure you mid-run—complete with little motion lines and hearts—while tiny stick-figure Jack stood off to the side holding what was clearly meant to be a phone—definitely looking more like a flat screen TV size-wise—filming the whole thing. He’d even written in careful block letters across the top: “BEST DAD CATCHES (Y/N)!!!”

When Hotch got home late from a case the team was working in D.C, tired and rumpled, he found the drawing taped proudly to his closed office door at Jack-eye-level.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at it.

Then he came into the living room, where you and Jack were curled up on the couch under a blanket together, watching yet another challenge video—this one featuring a husband who let his wife almost get to the tree line before sprinting and catching her just in time.

Jack was narrating the whole thing excitedly. “See? He gave her a super long head start and still got her!”

Hotch leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, tie loosened, suit jacket off, watching the two of you laugh together.

Finally, he let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. One of those ones that started in his chest and carried the weight of total surrender during the exhale.

“Fine.”

You and Jack both froze mid-laugh.

You turned slowly, afraid to breathe. “Wait… really?”

Hotch pointed a finger at you, expression stern but eyes betraying him with that familiar spark of reluctant amusement. “One take. No Jack in the video—we blur him or crop him or whatever you have to do if he ends up being slightly in frame. We film it somewhere away from the house. And if you post the video and even a tiny bit of the neighbourhood we live in shows, I swear I’m deleting TikTok from every phone, tablet, and laptop in this house. And blocking access to it on the WI-FI. Permanently.”

Jack launched off the couch like a rocket, barreling into Hotch’s legs and wrapping his arms around them in the fiercest hug his small body could manage—not even caring that he basically was banned to only being the cameraman. “Yes! Thank you, Dad! You’re the best!”

You rose more slowly, heart thudding with victory, and walked over to him. Sliding your arms around his neck, you pressed close, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease the moment you touched him.

“You’re the best husband ever,” you murmured against his ear. “You know that, right?”

He made a low grumbling sound—something about being a complete pushover and how the two of you had him wrapped around your fingers—but his arms came around your waist immediately, strong and warm, pulling you in until there was no space left between you.

“You love it,” you whispered, brushing a soft kiss just below his jaw.

He didn’t argue. Just held you a little tighter, the faintest smile curving against your temple as he whispered. “Maybe I do, or maybe I know of other ways you can make it up to me.”

Meanwhile, Jack continued to cheer triumphantly at hip height.

Saturday morning came, and for one, the BAU hadn’t been called away on a case—yet.

Jack was vibrating in his booster seat the entire drive out to the soccer field near your house. He was clutching your phone like it was the most important job in the world. And kept practicing his “director voice” in the backseat, complete with dramatic pauses. “And… action! Take one… rolling… quiet on the set!” You had no idea where he had learned those things, but his excitement was contagious; even Hotch couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he drove.

When he pulled into the empty gravel lot and cut the engine, he turned in his seat to face both of you, expression serious, almost as if he was about to send two agents into a known ambush. “Ground rules,” he began firmly. “Ten-second head start. I count out loud, slowly. No running toward the street, no trees, no uneven ground—nothing dangerous. And when I catch you,” his eyes locked on yours, “no dramatic flailing or twisting that could actually get you hurt. I mean it.”

You brought two fingers to your forehead in an exaggerated salute, trying your hardest not to burst into laughter. “Yes dad, sir, Unit Chief Hotchner, sir.”

He rolled his eyes so hard you swore you could hear them turning in their sockets, but the smile finally broke through. He couldn’t hide it anymore.

You all climbed out. Jack immediately claimed his spot on the sideline, like a seasoned cinematographer, phone held steady in both hands.

He even adjusted the angle twice, muttering to himself about “getting the whole field on camera.”

You bounced lightly on your toes at the ‘starting line’ you’d mentally drawn, pretending to warm up for your sprint.

Hotch looked unfairly good in dark jeans that fit just right, and a quarter-zip that stretched across his shoulders and chest in all the best ways, sleeves pushed up to his forearms—he absolutely knew what he had been doing as he got dressed, knowing this exact look would distract you enough for the chase to be over quickly.

The morning light caught the subtle strands of silver at his temples, and the relaxed set of his jaw made him look younger, lighter.

Casual Hotch—away from the weight of the world—was always your absolute favorite look on him.

Jack lifted the phone. “Ready? Okay… three, two, one... ACTION!”

Hotch’s voice rang out clear and steady across the empty field. “One.”

You bolted.

Arms pumping wildly, legs flying, you leaned into the comedy of it from the very first stride. Hair already whipping loose from its elastic, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

The grass felt alive under your sneakers, air rushing into your lungs.

“Two… three…”

You risked a quick glance back. Hotch hadn’t moved yet—just stood there with his hands casually in his pockets, watching you with that fond, indulgent half-smile that turned your insides to liquid even from ten yards away.

“Four… five… six…”

You pushed harder, aiming for the distant white goalpost like it was the finish line of the Olympics.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, joy more than exertion at this point.

“Seven… eight… nine…”

A dramatic gasp for effect. “You’re not even trying yet!” You yelled back, well aware that the phone wouldn’t catch it, but he would.

He rolled his eyes. “Ten.”

And then he moved.

It was unreal—like a switch flipped—no wind-up, no playful jog, just pure, efficient, predatory speed. Long, powerful strides that ate up the distance with terrifying speed. The gap between you shrank faster than physics should even allow.

You let out a shriek that echoed across the field. “No fair! You’re too fast! This is an abuse of federal training and resources!”

Desperate for a few more seconds of glory, you zigzagged sharply, then threw in the most ridiculous spin move you’d copied from a viral clip—arms out, one leg kicked high, nearly losing your balance in the process as you stumbled in the opposite direction.

It bought you exactly two extra seconds.

Strong arms banded around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing and weren’t struggling.

You kicked your legs in mock outrage, laughing so hard you could barely breathe, while he executed one smooth, gentle twirl—full circle, your back to his chest—the world spinning in a blur of blue sky and green grass. Then he lowered you both carefully, twisting at the last moment so he took every bit of impact on his back, you landing safely straddling his lap, hands braced on his chest.

Your hair had come completely undone around your face. You were breathless more from laughter than the run, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“Got you,” he murmured, voice low, the sound rumbling through his chest under your palms. One large hand came up slowly, fingers brushing the messy strands from your eyes before tucking them gently behind your ear.

“That was barely twenty seconds total!” you protested weakly, poking his chest. “You made me look ridiculous out there.”

He smirked—actually smirked—eyes crinkling at the corners. “You managed that all on your own.”

Jack came barreling over, phone held high like a trophy. “I GOT IT ALL! The spin was SO COOL! Did you see the spin, Dad? It was awesome!”

The three of you collapsed together right there in the middle of the field—Jack diving into the dogpile with zero regard for aim, all of you tangled in a heap of limbs and laughter until your sides ached and tears streamed from the corners of your eyes.

When you finally caught your breath, you migrated to the big oak at the edge of the field. Jack launched into a frame-by-frame narration of his directorial choices, gesturing wildly.

You watched the footage together four times in a row—pausing at your comically dramatic start, rewinding Hotch’s impossibly smooth sprint, slow-motioning the mid-air spin, zooming in on the gentle landing. Every replay sent Jack into fresh fits of laughter.

“It’s perfect,” you declared finally, leaning into Hotch’s side, head resting on his shoulder. He had one arm draped comfortably around you, the other wrapped around Jack, who was nestled against his dad’s chest like it was the safest place in the world—which it was.

Hotch’s lips brushed your temple, voice soft against your skin. “Post it if you really want to.” He smiled. Although he was ‘giving you permission’ to post it, you knew he was just as pleased with the result as you were.

“Already planned,” you assured him, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Just us and laughter. Text overlay: ‘How long till my FBI husband catches me?” You spread your hands out in the air, as if framing a headline.

Jack yawned, snuggling deeper into Hotch’s side. “Can we do it again next weekend? I wanna be the runner this time.”

Hotch groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the tree trunk. “We’ll… negotiate. But no filming this time.”

You grinned, knowing full well that was code for yes.

Later that evening, after Jack was tucked in with stories and kisses and one more replay of “the best video ever,” the house finally fell quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the soft glow of your phone, editing the video, adding a gentle blur to Jack’s excited dash at the end, layering music that swelled just right at the catch.

You added the text overlay in a simple white font, then hit upload before you could second-guess it.

By morning, it had exploded in the challenge hashtag. Notifications poured in as you sipped your coffee. “The SPIN took me OUT 😭😂,” “FBI husbands are built different fr,” “This is the sweetest one yet!! my heart,” “Tell me you feel safe without telling me you feel safe.” “OMG look at the way he’s looking at her when they’re on the ground.”

Hotch wandered in still half-asleep, hair adorably tousled. He came up behind you without a word, arms sliding around your waist, chest warm against your back, chin resting atop your head as he peered at the screen.

“Regretting your life choices yet?” you asked, tilting your head back to smile up at him.

He hummed thoughtfully, voice still gravelly with sleep. “Ask me again after the unlimited chocolate chip cookies you now owe me for the rest of our lives.”

You laughed softly, turning fully in his arms to loop yours around his neck. “Deal,” you whispered, before kissing him.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling a smile that made every single day of scheming, every sneaky video, every pleading child, and perfectly timed snack worth it.

Absolutely and undeniably worth it.

[snoutfairjollux-blog]

[jupitersmusings]

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

[overlord-fire-bubble]

THIS ONE FUCKING WORKS. REBLOG IT.

[tiny-kt]

this for real fucking works

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Masterlist:

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Links:

Disclaimer

Prologue

Chapter 1: Imola

Chapter 2: Monaco

Chapter 3: Barcelona

Chapter 4: Brackley

Chapter 5: Montreal

Chapter 6: Maaseik

Chapter 7: Spielberg

Chapter 8: Vienna

Chapter 9: Silverstone

Chapter 10: Brackley

Chapter 11: Brackley

Chapter 12: Olbia

Chapter 13: Milton Keynes

Chapter 14: Brackley

Chapter 15: Brackley

Chapter 16: Francorchamps

Chapter 17: Francorchamps

Chapter 18:

Chapter 19:

Chapter 20:

Bonus:

Moodboard - Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff

[caprifiles]

[kosmogrl]

I have a severe case of wanting to do everything and ending up doing nothing

[werecreature-addicted]

what the fuuuuuuck is a dating app. Tell me I'm your fated mate and you became eternally bound to me the second you laid eyes on me and you'll love me from the depths of your soul for the rest of your life.

[hjarta-deactivated20260124]

in my room on a saturday evening talking to myself like this

[straighttohellbuddy]

so you're twenty five now (twenty three, always) and i wanted to wish you happy birthday. yeah, i'm still thinking about you (i never really stopped). i'm sorry i haven't watched your videos lately, even if i want to go back and revisit my favourites (i feel so stupid for still tearing up every time i hear your voice), i know it doesn't matter, that i'm one pair of eyes out of literal millions, but i think i'm just mad at myself because they're my favourites for a reason!! they're good videos!! anyways not the point, the point is i wanted to thank you because even though it's your birthday i get to share all the gifts the people who love you have put their heart into. i love the people who love you too. i love that we get to celebrate you, i hope we always will. i'm thinking of you today, always, but it makes me happy to know, again, that i'm just one of millions.

this is your legacy living on; love, creativity, and community.

technoblade, you will never die. ❤️

[stylesnews]

Zayn talking about Harry in his Hot Ones episode - 14/03

[tomb-mold]

[solreefs]

“oh I’m too old for stuffed animals” skill issue. sorry you can’t appreciate little creatures made to hang out with you, I on the other hand am full of joyous whimsy and therefore vastly superior.

[pippin-katz]

Alex & Being Bisexual 🩷💜💙

I've seen a lot of people complaining about Alex not having as big of a crisis over being bisexual as he did in the books, but I feel like a lot of people are overlooking the development he does go through.

Henry is the first guy he has felt attracted to that he actually knew prior to getting physically involved.

Alex & Miguel

Nora's asks specifically about men Alex has "been with", not men he's liked or interested him. She means physically, and he knows that too. Alex doesn't even bother with giving any context or details for his high school hook up. His description of his hook up with Miguel is straightforward, direct, and factual, because he doesn't have an emotional attachment to that moment or Miguel.

This, and his interactions with Miguel, gives the impression that they don't really know each other that well. It seems like they met during the campaign, made out in a hot tub, and now occasionally they talk at school.

They don't seem like friends, rather acquaintances after a one night stand, which is pretty much what they did. Their first conversation is mostly Miguel trying to get quotes for his journal and flirting with him rather than any kind of real discussion.

Gifs courtesy of @phakphumm from this post

Alex isn't stupid; he knows Miguel is flirting with him, however he chooses not to acknowledge it. His doesn't discourage him, but he does not encourage him either.

He avoids saying anything about it at all. His expressions after the eyelashes comment show him at a bit of a loss for how to respond. Alex seems flattered by the compliment, but doesn't seem to have any real desire to hook up again.

Everything Miguel says, he says in an attempt to get something out of him, whether it be flirting to hook up and/or get quotes for his journal.

Same thing at the state dinner; Alex isn't fully paying attention cause he's busy staring at Henry, but Miguel opens with compliments, specifically about his memo, which is definitely an attempt to flatter him. Then he starts asking direct questions about the campaign, Alex doesn't answer, and he walks away. They're not really friends.

New Territory

It's one thing to admit being somewhat attracted to the same sex, under limited, physical circumstances. Lots of people often joke about "being straight/gay but I would sleep with this person".

It's another thing to develop an attraction to a person you know of the same sex when you've never had those feelings before. It's not just physical anymore, because you know and like this person outside of that context, and the physical intimacy gains a new meaning.

Alex VS Feelings

This is a new feeling for Alex. This man practically makes out with two women he barely knows without any qualms, but when he's waiting to see Henry? His close friend who he knows and plans to kiss?

He is nervous; not just a little nervous either:

Alex is a pretty confident guy, able to host massive parties and dance without any reservations about it, unlike Henry who awkwardly bounces. He's a fantastic public speaker. Excluding the wedding, which were extreme circumstances, he's able to navigate a room comfortably. We know from the closet conversation that he used to get scared, but it's clear based on his campaign efforts, the DNC speech, and so on that he's grown into his role and can play it well.

Here, Alex can't sit still. He doesn't know how to stand. He's shifting around, almost pacing. He visibly tries to muster up the confidence we know he has, but can't. He's trying to pose, or look confident, and almost gets there, but the second the door opens, he panics and just stands there.

"But that's just cause he really likes Henry!"

Yes, exactly; Henry is his first step towards fully realizing his identity.

Once the tension is broken, Alex is confident again and doesn't hesitate anymore. He may not be completely sure of his identity, but he is completely sure that he wants Henry. Those thoughts take priority when he kisses him. He knows physical intimacy. He knows how to kiss with someone regardless of who they are. He has been with a couple men, and is a man himself, so he knows what feels good. His confidence stays intact during their exchange when they get to his bedroom.

There are very small moments where you can see his nerves poke through.

When Henry pushes Alex over the couch, not only is it surprising to him, it also disconnects them for a few seconds. He has a chance to look at Henry while they're not touching or kissing, no direct distraction.

When Henry starts undoing his pants, he looks up, inhales quickly, blinks a couple times, and swallows; it's almost like he's thinking "okay this is actually happening now". Again, no direct distraction, as Henry isn't doing anything yet, and Alex isn't touching or kissing him.

Both moments go by fast though because he's focused on what he knows, the physical part. He knows he wants Henry physically, so he can focus on that, and deal with the other feelings later.

Alex is aware that he has feelings toward Henry that are new to him. He doesn't know what they mean, and it's nothing even close to what he feels later in Paris and at the lake house, but they're starting to form. He's the one who suggests that he and Henry see each other again, and you would have to be blind not to see the brief disappointment on his face when Henry says it has to be very casual. It's also important to note that this is right after Alex comes out.

The Bisexual Label

While his feelings make Alex nervous, Henry is still his friend and he feels comfortable around him. He's the first person he comes out to; he was unable to say anything definitive about his identity during his conversation with Nora, despite her best efforts to help him.

Henry is the first person he tells and he distinctly shows uncertainty when he first uses the bisexual label:

He's serious about it; not overly serious, but he's coming out very formally. He's nervous, even though he's telling Henry, who he literally hooked up with five minutes ago. Henry already knows he's attracted to men. Alex is not nervous about that; it is clearly the label that he's uncertain about.

Confidence

A lot of people get taken by surprise when they start questioning their identity because they had simply never thought about it before.

The uncertainty Alex has about his identity was initiated by his feelings for Henry. Alex clearly never considered the idea of being in an actual relationship with a man. Without Henry, he may have never figured out that he was fully bisexual. He may have continued fooling around occasionally with guys, never giving serious thought to the other possibilities, unless/until he met someone like Henry who basically smacks him in the face with a mirror.

Being with Henry makes him truly think about himself, and come to the conclusion that he's bisexual. Seeing/dating Henry also makes him more comfortable and confident in his identity over time.

While Alex hadn't acknowledged Miguel's advances before, after he sleeps with Henry, he actively calls him out on it and refuses without hesitation as soon as Miguel puts the suggestion out there. Miguel even says "Well, I don't anymore", confirming that had been his intention in earlier scenes.

Gifs courtesy of @phakphumm from this post

He had been trying to hook up with him again, and because Alex never addressed it, Miguel thought that it was possible. Alex may not have addressed his comments, but Miguel could see for himself that they had a positive reaction; he felt flattered and bashful. That response coupled with the fact that Alex did not outright tell him to stop was enough reason for Miguel to think it could happen again.

Also, Alex told Nora that he got the feeling Miguel wanted to hook up again, but that he was a journalist, which does not say he wouldn't be down. He never says he wouldn't want to; instead he expresses his apprehension to the idea due to his job. So for all intents and purposes, before Henry came along, Miguel was correct to think it was a possibility.

This seems to be the first time Alex has ever actually addressed their tension, and it occurs after he starts seeing Henry and using the bisexual label.

Owning The Bi Label

Then Zahra finds him and Henry the next morning. She is kind enough not to tell Ellen immediately, because even if she won't admit it, she does care about Alex a lot and recognizes the importance of something like this. However, she makes it very clear that he needs to tell her ASAP or she will.

When he comes out to his mom, he is significantly more sure of himself when he uses the bisexual label. He laughs and uses the shorten term "bi" which is a small detail but indicates his confidence, compared to how he cautiously said "bisexual" when coming out to Henry. He's not at all nervous to use the term, and says it grinning.

Gifs courtesy of @phakphumm from this post

This is also indicative of his confidence in his label because Alex doesn't lead with his sexuality. He leads with meeting someone, and clarifying that it's a man, and that it's Henry. So once they're on the couch talking, Ellen is also already aware that he is attracted to men, but this time, he's prompted about his label and he shows zero nerves about using the term "bi".

Queer Identity

By the end of the movie, Alex is able to publicly refer to himself as having a queer identity. Obviously, he was outed against his will, but he is still able to stand up and acknowledge who he is without nerves about it. He has been with Henry for a year, and he knows who he is, and he’s not ashamed of it. As he says, the leaks were an issue of privacy, not shame. Alex is not afraid to say who he is, and he is queer, he is bisexual. He’s a different person than he was before Henry. He’s learned about himself because of him.

Does he have a complete, computer-error-noise breakdown over it? No, he doesn’t, but he does not immediately start waving a bi flag around either.

Okay, that’s all! This took so freaking long to put together, but I hope it helps people understand how his bisexuality is addressed in the movie. Just because he has a different journey than he did in the book does not mean he did not have a journey at all, and I hope this allows people to see it more clearly! Thank you for reading!