Heard wrong, fucked right || Adrian Chase x reader ||
Pairing : Adrian Chase x fem!reader W/C : 4396
Summary: Adrian thinks you’re planning to break up with him after Peacemaker overhears a wildly out of context phone call.
Tags/warnings : SMUT MDNI, oral female and male receiving, p in v sex, fingering, overstimulation, mating press (?), miscommunication, emotional overly needy Adrian.
A/N : got this idea, the pov kinda shifts in the beginning but it all comes together (I hope) towards the end. like always Comments, tags, and reblogs with reaction memes always make my day 🩵 Masterlist here
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You press your phone between your shoulder and cheek while you dig through the kitchen drawer for a pen that may or may not exist.
“I swear I’m just gonna cancel,” you sigh into the phone. “He’s super sweet, but it’s not working out. I’m gonna tell him tonight.”
Your friend asks something about your schedule and you hum, distracted.
You’re talking about your manicurist, whose shaping technique somehow makes all your nails look like different people designed them.
But from behind the fridge, there’s… a noise.
A violent gasp like a dying sea lion. You freeze.
“…hello?” your friend says.
“Uh…sorry. Thought I heard something.”
You keep talking, stepping out of the kitchen toward your room.
The fridge shudders.
Peacemaker, peeks out like a raccoon in a metal helmet who just overheard a felony.
“Oh. Shit. She’s dumping him.” He whispers to himself. Then he takes off sprinting, knocking over a cereal box and stepping directly into Leota’s sneakers like a bat out of hell.
“CHRIS!” Leota yells after him, but he’s already gone.
Adrian’s room door bursts open before he can register the footsteps. Adrian jumps, nearly slicing his own fingers, he’s polishing a knife in bed, like a completely normal not at all concerning person.
Chris storms in, helmet gleaming.
“BRO.”
Adrian blinks. “Is this a—hi?”
Chris is panting. Sweaty. Helmet askew. “Bro. Bro. BRO.” He marches forward like a he’s about to deliver the worst possible news. “Actually, you need to sit down for this.”
Adrian, absolutely terrified by Chris’s tone, sits on the floor.
“You’re getting dumped.”
Adrian freezes. “By who? You?”
“Your girlfriend! You fucking moron!”
“That makes zero sense dude,” Adrian scoffs, and the next second his eyes are wide, “but it also makes too much sense, now I’m scared!”
Chris shakes him. “She said and I quote ‘it’s not working out’ and ‘I’ll tell him tonight.’”
Adrian stares at him, horrified.
“No… no. She wouldn’t. I haven’t even done anything wrong lately! I haven’t killed anyone in front of her in weeks.” Adrian’s face collapses in real time. His eyes go glassy. Like someone unplugged his hope. “No seriously what did I do??” he whispers, voice cracking. “We had sex twice this morning!”
“How many times did she actually cum?” Chris asks.
“I don’t know like at least twice,”
“That’s probably why she’s leaving dude,” Chris says gravely.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Adrian mutters, traumatized.
Chris shakes him roughly. “DUDE THIS IS FUCKING BAD.”
Adrian’s breathing accelerates.
“Wh—what do I do? Can you tell me what to do.”
“Alright, listen to me very carefully. You’re about to learn a very important lesson. You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying. Her knees should shake the second she sees your face. Blow her mind so hard she forgets English. Make her walk crooked for three days.”
Adrian swallows, absolutely terrified and absolutely ready for war.
“Three days??”
“THREE. DAYS. And then you gotta be so clingy she can’t shit without you handing her toilet paper. Full boyfriend mode. You basically become her emotional support animal.”
“But I don’t understand why she would—”
“Sometimes women can’t handle being dicked down too good,” Chris interrupts like he’s performing a TED talk. “They get scared. They run.”
Adrian sits there, devastated.
“Should I have done it… worse?”
“No dude. Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? You should’ve done it BETTER.”
Adrian’s eye twitches. “That sounds scientifically impossible. I do everything she likes.”
“Shut up. Get up. Go in there and prove you’re boyfriend of the fucking year. Touch her. Kiss her.”
Adrian shoots to his feet like his spine was yanked by divine intervention.
“I’ll fix this,” he declares, voice shaky but determined. “I’ll be the boyfriend of boyfriends.”
“Hell yeah,” Chris nods. “Now go get your girl back before she rips your heart out and eats it.”
You come out of your room stretching and freeze. Adrian is standing RIGHT THERE like he spawned in.
Wide eyed. Flushed. Smiling way too hard.
“Adrian,” you say slowly.
He doesn’t blink. He inhales sharply. “Hi.”
“…you okay?”
“Yep!” he says too fast, too high, too not Adrian. “Totally normal. Normal boyfriend. Normal day. Normal day loving being your boyfriend.”
“…Are you sure?”
“Mm-hm,” he says, voice cracking, “just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing. Provide… emotional support. Or physical. Or both. I’m versatile.”
“…Adrian.”
He thrusts objects into your hands like he’s bribing you to stay. Your favorite snacks. His sweater. A blanket. And a water bottle.
You look down at the pile. Then at him. “…are you buttering me up for something?” you ask. “I already told you I’m not dressing up as peacemaker when we—”
“No, no,” he interrupts immediately. “I’m just… doing things for you.”
“Honey, you always do things for me.”
He shakes his head aggressively. “No. No, not like this. I’m doing EXTRA things. Boyfriend things. Mega boyfriend things.”
“…mega.”
“Yes,” he whispers, intense. “Mega.”
“Are you hiding something from me?” You squint at him.
He laughs too loudly. Then lowers his voice dramatically. “No. I just love you and want to be close to you at all times while also being extremely attentive and also maybe touching you all day. That’s all. That’s normal.”
“…baby,” you drawl, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” He swallows, panic in his eyes. “Everything’s AMAZING.” He beams.
It is the most suspicious sentence you’ve ever heard.
He leans closer, almost chest-to-chest.
“Do you want your feet rubbed?” he whispers.
“What??”
“Or your shoulders? Or your thighs? I can do thighs too, I’m good at thighs—”
“ADRIAN.”
He freezes like a kid caught stealing cookies. You cup his face gently. “You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” he lies instantly. “I’m confident. I’m sexy. I’m hydrated. I’m doing things for you. Because I want to. Because you deserve them. Because I’m a great boyfriend who does boyfriend tasks.”
You blink. “…what’s a boyfriend task?”
He sputters. “Like… following you. And holding things. And touching you. And doing that thing with my tongue that makes you—”
“ADRIAN.”
You clamp his mouth shut. “I mean,” he whispers, “if you want.”
He follows you into your room like a shadow that learned how to love. He’s carrying the snacks, the blanket, the sweater, and that cold water bottle like offerings to a beloved deity. He drops the items onto your bed and you turn to him, crossing your arms.
“Okay,” you say softly. “Talk. What’s going on?”
He straightens so fast his spine cracks. “Nothing!” A beat. “Except I want to take care of you. Because you deserve it. And because I’m your boyfriend and boyfriends are supposed to do boyfriend tasks.”
“…you mean ‘acts.’”
“No,” he says sincerely, “I’m pretty sure it’s tasks.”
Before you can interrogate that, he steps behind you and gently brushes your hair over one shoulder.
“Lay down,” he murmurs. “Please.”
Your heart stutters. “Adrian—”
“I just want to make you feel good,” he says quietly and there’s a softness there that melts your resistance. “Let me, please.”
So you do. You lie on your stomach across the bed, cheek against the pillow, feeling him crawl up to straddle your thighs carefully, gently, like he’s afraid you’ll break or vanish.
His hands settle on the small of your back. It’s warm and tentative, shaking just slightly.
You swallow.
“Honey… what’s—”
“Shh,” he whispers, leaning forward so his breath fans across your ear. “Just relax.”
His thumbs press into the muscles along your spine, slow and deliberate.
Not deep like a trained massage therapist, no, this is him learning your body by memory, by instinct, by devotion.
You sigh out a sound you didn’t mean to make.
He stills. “I like when you do that.”
You bite your lip.
His hands glide lower to the curve where your back meets the top of your ass. A place no professional would go, but a boyfriend with tunnel-vision panic sure as hell will.
His fingers knead your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft space just above them, slow circles that send warmth curling down your spine. You feel heat slip through your belly.
You try to ask again, breathless “Seriously… what’s gotten into you?”
He pauses.
You feel him hesitate like the secret is right there on the edge of his tongue. But he swallows it.
“I’m just appreciating you,” he says instead. “Properly. Like you deserve.”
Then he keeps going. His hands slide up, fingertips tracing the sides of your ribs, not your back, not your shoulders your ribs, where you’re sensitive, where you always shiver when he touches you there.
You do shiver.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know you’re ticklish. But you also like it.”
You do. You really do.
He drags his palms down your waist, stopping just above the curve of your ass again squeezing gently, like he can’t help himself. Your breath hitches. You turn your head to glance back at him. He looks destroyed like a mix between desire and like he’s pushing himself. Like loving you hurts him physically.
“Baby…” you murmur, warmth curling between your legs. “Come here.”
He leans over your back, chest pressed to you, his mouth brushing your shoulder, breath shaky.
And you, god, you should ask more questions. You should get to the bottom of this weird clingy hyper-attentive behavior. But his touch feels like honey and you’re sinking into the mattress like you’re made of wax. “I love when you touch me like this.” You whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His hands tighten, fingers spreading over your hips possessively as he breathes a relieved, desperate laugh into your skin. “I wasn’t planning to.” He kisses the side of your neck as his hand fights its way between your body and the mattress snaking his way down the front of your shorts.
You arch into his touch, back curving, thighs parting just enough to let him settle closer.
Adrian exhales like he’s drowning in you. “I just wanna make you feel good,” he breathes into your shoulder. “Like… stupid good. So good you’ll never wanna leave.”
Your heart lurches. That’s not a line. That sounds like fear, stitched into a confession.
You twist slightly beneath him, enough to meet his eyes and what you see there wrecks you. He looks flushed, wild-eyed, desperate in a way he doesn’t usually show. There’s love in it, sure, but also panic, guilt, like he’s trying to make up for something you haven’t even accused him of.
Your voice comes out softer than you intend “Adrian…what are you doing?”
You can feel how hard he swallows. Then his fingers apply pressure over your panties, and he lowers his forehead to your shoulder blade like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “I’m keeping you,” he whispers. You want to ask what the hell he’s talking about but when he starts rubbing tight circles against you, the thought dies.
You reach back pressing your palm to painfully hard cock straining against the fabric of his sweats. He leaves a trail of wet kisses up your neck, across your jaw until he meets your needy mouth. It’s a wet sloppy battle for dominance that you gladly let him win when you feel his hand push past your wet panties. He skips the teasing, slides a finger into you like he’s done it a thousand times, but tonight feels different. You clench around him instantly, already soaked, already aching.
“Fuck, no foreplay?” You tease before turning over to lay on your back. You spread your legs letting him settle comfortably between them.
“I have a couple things in mind,” he says against your neck and he begins kissing his way down your body. He removes your shorts in one fell swoop. You watch as his mouth goes straight to your heat over your panties, this is new. His hands spread your slick folds while his tongue zigzags around your clit over the fabric.
“Please tell me you’re gonna fuck me after this,” you breathe. He finally shoves your panties aside and hungrily licks your throbbing heat.
“Soon as you say the word,” he gasps, rubbing deep, slow strokes with his fingers inside you like he’s trying to memorize your pulse. “I’m gonna give you everything.” His voice cracks. “All of it. Everything I’ve got.” He reiterates.
You almost ask again, what are you making up for, but your body arches, thighs trembling, breath catching, and your words dissolve into sound.
And right as your thighs lock, your moan tipping into something shattering…there’s an obnoxiously loud knock. You both freeze. The knock is aggressive. Violent.
“FUCK OFF” Adrian yells against you, the sensation making your thighs shake.
They knock again.
“CHASE,” Harcourt’s voice barks through the door, dry as sandpaper and twice as grating, “get your dick out of her and your head in the game. We’ve got a live one.”
You slap a hand over your mouth.
Adrian lets out the most annoyed groan you’ve ever heard.
“I DIDN’T GET TO THAT PART YET! Oh and WE’RE OFF THE CLOCK,” he shouts.
“Not anymore.”
You hear rustling. The unmistakable click of her loading a gun.
“Gear up. Van leaves in five.”
Adrian pulls his fingers from between your thighs like it physically hurts him to do it. He lets his forehead fall against your lower belly and just… stays there for a second.
“I was two seconds away from crying in a good way,” you mutter into the blanket.
He sits up. Pants tented. Face flushed. Murder in his eyes.
“I HOPE WHOEVER THIS MISSION IS FOR FUCKING DIES.” He yells toward the door.
There’s a beat.
Then Harcourt, dry as hell “Wow. Romantic and professional.”
You both groan. Adrian flops onto the bed dramatically, hand covering his face. “I hate my job,” he mumbles.
You pat his stomach. “Get your suit on, Romeo.” He glares at the ceiling like it insulted your orgasm personally.
“I will be back in exactly two hours. I don’t care what does or doesn’t get done on the mission, but you be ready.” He says turning to look at you.
“Adrian….you’re not really yourself.” He stands and starts undressing himself. You watch as his hard member springs free.
“I’m fine, just be ready when I’m back,” he assures as he grabs his Vigilante suit from the closet.
“Come here,” you motion him with your finger. He walks over to the edge of the bed. He shuffles over as he gets his legs in the suit. You stop him from pulling it up past his thighs. You grab his member and slide your tongue across the tip, pumping him slowly wrapping your lips around the head.
“Shit,” he sighs, gloved hands fisting your hair pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His eyes screw shut as he thrusts his hips gently keeping you on him. His mouth falls open as you take him. He pushes deeper making you gag and he opens his eyes suddenly stopping. “Oh fuck, sorry—I’m sorry,” he stutters.
You furrow your eyebrows, “Sorry? What the fuck is going on with you?” This is so unlike him it’s kind of pissing you off.
“Nothing! I gotta go,” he quips, leaning down giving you a quick peck on the lips, “I’ll try and get this done quickly.” He says and he’s gone.
You decide to take a shower and change into pajamas. The house is quiet with every one gone. You hoped someone would stay, but even John’s cowardly ass went on the mission. With nothing to do you decide to doom scroll on your phone.
An hour goes by without any word from the team. Then another and you really did expect Adrian to bust through the door, but he didn’t. Then another hour. You checked their location making sure they were at least moving. At around 12 you decide to call it a night. Prepping for bed you play Gilmore Girls on your laptop watching it until your eyes get heavy and fall asleep.
You feel a familiar dip in the bed followed by damp hair against your neck.
“Adrian,” you mumble lazily, slowly turning to face him. “What time is it?” You ask.
His voice is low and hoarse, sleep drunk and yet also sex drunk. “Four-something. Maybe five. I didn’t check. Didn’t care.”
“Go to bed baby,” you sleepily groan, trying to push him back. He replies by taking your hand and putting it against his hard naked cock. You moan at the feel of his bare skin. The fucking affect this man has over your body is insane.
“I haven’t been able to think about anything but your pretty warm mouth around me,” he murmurs into your throat, voice wrecked. “Six fucking hours.”
You moan as his hand wraps around yours, guiding it over his cock again. He’s hot and hard and twitching in your palm, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.
You squeeze gently and feel him shudder.
“I played it over and over in my head,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Like, I full on came in my suit thinking about it. On the van ride back. I couldn’t stop.”
You blink, wide-eyed. “You came in your—”
“Yeah,” he gasps, already crawling between your legs, eyes blown wide with panic and worship. “Don’t tell anyone.” He pushes your tank top down exposing your tits to him. Your nipples harden instantly
You laugh, breathless, flushed, needy but it turns into a gasp when his mouth drops to your chest. His tongue flicks over your nipple and his hands are already pushing your pajama shorts down like they offended him.
He kisses his way down your stomach. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t talk. You cry out when his tongue drags through your folds, slow, deep, messy like he’s trying to imprint your taste on his soul. He groans like it hurts, like he’s starving, like he could stay between your legs until the end of time and still not have enough.
“Chris said if I do this right you’ll never leave,” he mutters into your cunt like it’s a prayer.
Your head jerks up. “What?” But your thighs tremble because he slides two fingers in at the same time, crooking them just right, and his tongue flicks over your clit like he wants a fucking medal.
You collapse back into the mattress, gasping.
He groans. “Fuck. That. Right there,” he mumbles, mouth full. “That sound. That’s the one.”
He presses deeper into your sopping pussy. His tongue works in tight, perfect circles so messy, wet, yet dedicated.
You thread your fingers into his damp hair and tug, and he moans into you, he switches to tongue fucking you harder in response.
“I’m gonna make you see god,” he whispers like it’s a threat. You laugh, or moan maybe both.
“I think I saw god when you skipped foreplay,” you choke out.
“Peacemaker says that’s a mistake. He says you’re supposed to worship the pussy first. And I trust him.”
You blink again.
“Baby, you CANNOT take sex advice from Peacemaker.”
“I can and I AM,” he says, voice muffled against your clit. “He’s always RIGHT.” You’re too far gone to argue.
Because his fingers curl just right, and his mouth sucks hard enough to make your back arch, and then he murmurs “Gonna make you forget every orgasm you had before me.”
You come undone. Hard. Thighs clenching around his head. You feel your whole body pulsing, but he doesn’t stop.
He keeps lapping up everything, groaning like it’s the best meal of his life until you’re gasping, sensitive, trying to wriggle away. He holds you steady under him. You’re panting Seeing stars, fuck seeing galaxies your thighs twitching as he continues sucking on your sensitive clit.
“round two should happen fast enough to disorient you.”
“Adrian,” you wheeze, “I literally can’t breathe.”
“Perfect,” he whispers, moving up to kiss you hard.
You taste yourself on his tongue. He presses his cock against your entrance, slow and steady, watching your face the entire time.
“I’m gonna do this so good,” he whispers almost to himself against your mouth, voice shaking.
You dig your nails into his back. He groans a raw, broken sound and pushes in bottoming out quickly. Your back arches off the mattress instantly. He lifts your legs to his shoulders and bends over you at the same time, folding you in half deeper, tighter and your mouth drops open with a sound that doesn’t even have vowels in it.
“Oh my god,” you choke.
He moans like he’s the one falling apart.
“You feel—fuck—you feel fucking unreal,” he pants, his forehead dropping to yours as he pulls back halfway and thrusts in again, harder this time. “You always do, but tonight?you’re…” He doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans. Deep and shaky. Like he can’t find the words.
His hand slides under your lower back, lifting your hips toward him, tilting your pelvis up at the perfect angle — something you didn’t even know he knew how to do. Something no one’s ever done to you.
Your eyes roll back. Your hands fist the sheets.
“ADRIAN—” He kisses you through it, swallowing the cry like he wants it for himself. He starts moving faster. Not jackhammer fast. Not rabbit fast. It’s just perfect-fast it’s measured, filthy, exact. Like he studied and is now executing a master plan to ruin you.
“Holy shit—”
He laughs, breathless, smug, unhinged and thrusts deeper, just to prove the point.
“That’s the one,” he whispers.
Your legs shake on his shoulder. Your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to anchor yourself to earth.
He slows down just long enough to reach down between you using his thumb to find your clit, lazy circles that should be too much, but instead have you gasping.
“I don’t want you to come yet,” he says, voice ragged, “but I kinda do, because I need to see it again.”
You grip his arms like you’re drowning. “You’re fucking obsessed.”
He kisses you hard, hips stuttering, breath broken. “With you? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking am.” He grunts. Then he starts thrusting again, his thumb not letting up, your body burning from the inside out.
You can’t think. You can’t talk. All you can do is feel his skin slick against yours, his mouth hot on your neck, his cock hitting just right every single time, like he tuned himself to your body.
And just when your orgasm starts creeping up your spine like a stormcloud. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it.” And that’s it. That’s all it takes. You fall apart around him with a cry that rips through your throat, thighs shaking, body going tight and wet and fluttering, and Adrian groans like he’s been shot.
He follows a few thrusts later, hips jerking, mouth open, hand gripping your shoulders like it’s the only thing tethering him to this dimension.
He spills into you with a moan you feel in your chest, collapsing against your body like he’s just survived something catastrophic.
You’re both trembling, your heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to crawl out of your chest and kiss him again. Adrian’s whole body is draped over you, skin sticky, hair damp, arms locked around you like he’s worried you’ll dissolve.
He’s still inside you buried deep. Still breathing like he just won a war. You rake your fingers through his hair.
Soft. Slow. And finally whisper “Why the fuck,” you pant, “were you following sex advice from Peacemaker?”
He goes completely still. Like you just asked him how many beanie babies he has.
His breath hitches. “I wasn’t!” He lies. “Ok, maybe I was. Fuck. Okay, wait, let me explain.”
You start laughing, breathless but you don’t let go of him.
He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are huge. Still wrecked. Still full of love and something else guilt? Shame? Something in between.
“I had to do it,” he starts, propping himself up on one shaky elbow. “Like, one minute I’m sharpening my knife, the next Chris is screaming that you’re dumping me because he heard you say we’re ‘not working out’ and ‘telling me tonight’”
Your eyes widen. “Oh my god…”
“I KNOW,” he says, eyes darting like a cornered raccoon.
You snort.
“But then,” he rushes on, “he said the only way to stop you from leaving me was to give you so many orgasms you forget everything. Verbatim. He said, and I quote…” He does an awful impression “‘You need to give that woman so many orgasms she thinks she’s fucking dying.’” You cover your face. He keeps going like he physically can’t stop. “He told me to be clingy. Said you liked ‘boyfriend shit.’ Said to worship the pussy and to rub your shoulders like I care about tension.”
You’re shaking with laughter.
“And then he said—he said—‘Breed her emotionally first. THEN physically.’”
You choke. Adrian nods solemnly. “I didn’t know what that meant, but I think that was really fucking close. You know? Like I understood it in my soul.”
You wipe tears from your eyes, trying to speak.
He leans closer, suddenly dead serious.
“I panicked, which I don’t do often. So I did everything he said. And it worked. You screamed and now you don’t wanna leave me right?”
You’re cackling now, whole body shaking under him.
“I did scream,” you wheeze. “And you were so gentle earlier, I thought you were possessed.”
“I was possessed,” he says grimly. “By Chris’s amazing advice and my secret fear of abandonment.”
You lose it again. He drops his forehead to your chest, groaning. “You’re not going to break up with me now right?”
You grin and kiss his temple. “Baby, I was talking to my friend about letting the man who does my nails go.” You explain.
He pulls back to look at you, eyes wider this time.
“What?” he asks, quieter. “You weren’t talking about letting me go…?”
You brush his hair off his forehead. “I was not talking about you.” You confirm.
“Fucking Peacemaker,” he groans, yet he sounds relieved. You laugh and pull him down into a kiss.
sigh i need dex to hold me in a headlock, my bare back against his bare chest as he plays with my pussy, two fingers pumping the wetness in n’out while his thumb stays on my clit, and he tells me to stop moving every time my hips jerk from the pleasure ssssiiiigggghhhh
ughhh i cant i cant thats so hot
you’re shaking, face red from the two long, thick fingers abusing your walls and the strong arm holding your head in place that just barely cuts your airways by a bit. you can’t help the way your hips jerk and one of your hands tries to reach for the arm locked around you for leverage.
“oh, im sorry, did i say you could fucking move?”
his tone is so harsh, his grip tightening on you. “what? can’t fuckin’ talk to me now? yeah, ‘ts what i thought.” his stern tone echoing in your ear. you’re sure you could cum right there.
“stay fuckin’ still, damnit.” as he quickens his pace. now you’re sobbing and the tears are trickling down all the way to his toned arms, and it makes you scream for him. hes kissing your neck now, sucking on the skin so he can mark you.
needless to say, you wont be cumming for a long time.
park the shark is intimidating but only soft for reader…
➻ pairing: Dr. Brendon Park x Wife!Reader
➻ summary: Orthopedic surgeon Dr. Park “the Shark” didn’t earn his nickname by being nice and friendly- he’s an asshole and for good reason but to you? Never.
➻ warnings: 18+ MDNI, p in v sex, choking, pussy slapping, bleeding/blood mention, biting, rough sex, daddy kink, dacryphilia, fluff, Park being a dick, inaccurate medical procedures, Park being an angel to his wife
➻ author’s note: YES I LOVE HIM OKAY? NO ONE LOOK AT ME RN-
Dr. Brendon Park who was sharp. Calculating. Mean. Who was the epitome of an competent surgeon and ortho jock. Whose presence turns a room quiet- icy even when he steps in for a consult. Who doesn’t soften his words or speak to anyone unnecessarily. Who won’t lower himself for anything or anyone. Who didn’t earn his nickname by being a nice guy- who gets called an asshole, jackass, jerk, dick and plenty more. But to you? His sweet wife? He’s baby, honey, my love, handsome, sweetie- and anything else that comes to mind when you want to let him know he’s the love of your life.
Dr. Brendon Park who strikes fear into an interns heart. Who makes a new scrub nurse cry because she didn’t know he preferred staples over sutures because ortho work needed stability and to be sturdy- nothing delicate like sutures. Who prefers something loud when he’s in the OR like Breaking Benjamin or Black Sabbath or Sleep Token. Who snaps at residents or other surgeons but the instant that the nurse says “Dr. Park, it’s your wife,” and holds up his phone after answering for him? The music is off- the OR pauses because- “Brendon, baby- the flowers are beautiful!” Your sweet voice comes through the phone and instantly his eyes soften, some can even see a smile behind his mask- “Happy Birthday angel-” his voice so much softer- regretting that he can’t be home with you- but promises to take you out tomorrow night and reminds you that he’ll be home late but “wait up for me baby? I love you. So much.” Immediately after the call ends his eyes narrow- voice strong again and barking out to turn the music back on.
Dr. Brendon Park who bites the heads off of residents who don’t speak up when he asks them a simple question- who is a shark and narrows his eyes when they stutter and apologize. Who is fucking sick of incompetence and doesn’t think he’s asking for too much- it just needs to be perfect. Who strips off the Shark persona the second he’s home. The second you come rounding the corner to throw yourself into his arms and kiss the smile that he had- an actual fucking smile and not the scowl he’s been sporting all day even underneath the mask. Who holds you so close and gently in his arms to walk you back to the couch and groan in relief because he’s been on his feet for hours from a multi car pile up- so much trauma and repairs and fractures and- he just needs a second with you in his arms to breathe.
Dr. Brendon Park who feels relaxed with your arms around him- who kisses you softly and asks about your day because he could listen to you talk for hours. Who has a smile on his face as you kiss over his jaw and neck while you mumble about work or doing the laundry and shopping and- god he fucking wishes he didn’t have to deal with stupid people all the time. If no one was stupid or incompetent then he’d be needed less and could spend more time with you- he could actually see you when you’re awake instead of crawling into bed hours after you’ve fallen asleep even if you tried to wait up for him. When his phone goes off in the middle of the night because some idiot decided to drink and then drive- he’s arguing on the phone. Who’s not on call, who just got off a 60 hour work week and- who misses his fucking wife. But the on call surgeon is in the middle of a spinal cord injury with neuro and- “baby?” Half asleep, mumbling into the dimly lit room but you feel him leaving the bed- leaving you. “Go back to sleep angel,” who kisses you so fucking softly because he hates the way your face drops when you realize he’s getting dressed to go back to work. “I’ll be back in a few hours- I promise.” Who never breaks his promises to you.
Dr. Brendon Park who many speculate about as to what he actually does in his free time- provided he has any. Golf? Too boring and quiet. Working out? Well- yes but he needs the strength to keep up with his job and other than you it helps him relax. Feeding off the innocent souls of children and interns? Only on Thursdays. But- who actually spends his limited free time with his wife. Who, on his one day off this week mind you, is following you around the farmers market while you’re asking if he’s sure this is what he wants to do in his day off. The answer is always yes with a smile and kiss to your cheek, taking your hand and letting you lead him through the crowd of people who were also spending their early mornings picking out artisan goods and sniffing homemade beeswax candles- Brendon smiling and nodding when you ask if he likes it. Who likes what you like- he loves what you love. Who sees you sniff the fresh bouquets of flowers and buys anything you look at- who opens his mouth so you can pop a fresh strawberry in because they’re so sweet that he needs to taste them. He who his free time being happy.
Dr. Brendon Park who is so rough and mean- sometimes doesn’t know his own strength. Who needs that brutality to reset bones and hammer out titanium rods in the OR but doesn’t bring it home- much to your frustration sometimes. Who fucks you slow- soft and sweet words mumbled in your neck while he fists the sheets or the headboard because he’s trying to maintain his composure and not fuck you into the mattress right now because you’re the best this he’s ever felt. Who thinks you sound so good and feel so fucking soft underneath him- who hears that little whine of his name with a little “fuck- baby don’t stop,” thrown in and his integrity snaps. Immediately the switch is flipped and he’s the Shark again- hammering into your greedy pussy with rough, heavy thrusts that have stars dancing behind your eyes and a fucked out smile on your face that he can’t see. You know what breaks him- you like the Shark sometimes.
Dr. Brendon Park who never quite realizes that you do it on purpose sometimes- who doesn’t realize the marks he leaves and bruises he puts on your body are welcomed by you until weeks later when he recognizes the pattern. Who doesn’t hear little blissed out sigh you let out when you feel his hand slide up your neck to give your throat a squeeze- because he’s too busy listening to the sound of the headboard slamming against the wall to the rhythm of his thrusts. Who gets mean- “need to be fucked? Want my cock again- yeah?” Grunted in your ear when you’re begging for him to put it back inside you- heavy slaps to your weeping pussy when you try to grind against him for more. “Greedy fucking slut, wants daddy to be mean?” While he teases your folds with the tip of his leaking cock, smearing his precum along your wetness before pulling away again and slapping a large hand on your cunt over and over again until you cry- fat wet tears when you cum from the force.
Dr. Brendon Park who licks your tears- who moans when he tastes the salty drops rolling down your cheek while he forces you to take slow feeds of his cock between your forgiving walls. Who makes you cum over and over again- biting at your ankles that rest on his broad shoulders or smirking when your hands weakly shove at his chest and leave angry red scratches on his skin. Who bites the fat of your breast when he cums- groans muffled by your flesh between his teeth and your weak cries when the pain hits.
Dr. Brendon Park who dotes on you after- who apologies and looks sick with worry when he grabs a warm rag to clean up the mess between your legs after wiping your tears and any blood he may have drawn. Who kisses every fucking inch of your skin with soft whispers of “I’m sorry angel,” while he goes to run a bath for you. Who washes your hair, gently scrubs you clean, puts you in one of his shirts- who brushes your hair and puts it out of the way for you to sleep. Who pulls you to lay on his chest- kisses your temple, runs a heavy hand up and down your back to soothe you to sleep with you practically on top of him. Who doesn’t see your smile when you relax into his warmth- sleepily mumbling a soft “good night my love,” before melting into him.
Dr. Brendon Park who smirks when he hears the residents whispering about the angry red scratches on his neck- the bruises that disappear under his scrubs. “Did he kill somebody and they fought back?” “Get back to fucking work,” barked out when he turns to them and points to the OR board because they need to be doing his pre-op and not speculating on how he got those marks. Who smiles- thinking about you every time he feels a sting from a scratch or soreness from a bruise.
Dr. Brendon Park Who can’t fucking wait for this day to be over so he can have you crawl into his lap and listen to you talk about your day.
Brendon Park x Reader. 18+ MDNI. Power imbalance. corruption kink. bully kink. degradation. manipulation. biting. enemies to no-other-choice-but-him
The engine isn't turning over.
You sit with your hands on the wheel and your foot on the brake and you listen to the sound of nothing happening. The key is in the ignition. You turned it and... nothing. Not even a click or a stutter; nothing your brain can latch onto and diagnose. Just the key, turned, and the absolute refusal of two thousand pounds of metal and combustion engineering to do the one thing it exists to do.
You try again.
Nothing.
Your hands are still on the wheel. You knuckles have gone pale across the ridges, tendons standing out beneath skin that's been washed so many times today the texture has gone papery and tight.
You're gripping the wheel the way you'd grip the edge of a stretcher, the way you grip things when the alternative is letting your hands shake where people can see them, and you can feel the vibrations traveling up through your forearms into your shoulders where it meets the tension that's been living in your trapezius since approximately six forty five this morning when Dr. Park looked at your patient pre-op notes and said "Did you write this with your eyes closed?"
You breathe.
The parking garage is nearly empty. The late night shadows and overhead fluorescents are doing their usual thing- that sickly amber wash that makes everything look darker and more jaundiced, turns concrete pillars and painted lines into something out of a liminal space photograph. Your shift ended nine minutes ago. You've been sitting in this car for three of those minutes and you're no closer to leaving than you were when you got in.
You try the ignition a third time because you are a person who went to medical school, which means you are clinically incapable of accepting a result without attempting to replicate it, and the result is the same.
Silence.
The dashboard stays dark. The engine stays dead. Your car, the one last reliable thing you have left in your life has chosen today- today- of all days, to stop working.
Something behind your sternum cracks, a seam letting go, a thread that's been holding two pieces of fabric together finally giving up under the accumulated weight of seventeen hours of Park's voice in your ear, Park's corrections on your chart, Park's particular way of standing just inside your peripheral vision so that you could never fully forget he's watching. The sound he makes when you do something wrong, a small exhalation through his nose that somehow communicates more disappointment than a full sentence. The way clicks his tongue when you fumbled the angle of the retractors, not loud enough for the scrub nurse to hear, pitched just for you, intimate in its cruelty.
You get out of the car.
The concrete is gritty under your sneakers. The garage has that particular underground acoustics thing where every sound arrives twice, once directly and once as an echo off the low ceiling, so the slam of your door comes back to you a half second later, duller, like the garage is mocking you. You walk to the front of the car. You pull the hood release. You prop the hood up with the little metal arm and you stare at the engine.
You have no idea what you’re looking at.
You know this. You are aware, in a detached and increasingly unhinged way, that you possess exactly zero mechanical knowledge, that the greasy labyrinth of hoses and reservoirs and metal components in front of you might as well be quantum mechanics for all the good looking at it is going to do. But you’re looking anyway, because the alternative is standing in an empty parking garage at eleven pm and crying, and you are not going to cry. You are not. You’ve made it through seventeen hours without crying and you are not going to let a dead battery or a seized alternator or whatever the fuck is wrong be the thing that-
Your eyes are wet.
You blink. Hard. Twice. You sniff, once, sharp, and press the back of your wrist against your nose and stare at the engine and try to convince yourself that you are absolutely, categorically not falling apart in a parking garage. The fluorescent light catches the moisture on your lashes and turns it amber. A tear escapes down the side of your nose and you swipe it away with your knuckle so hard the skin stings.
Headlights bloom across the concrete behind you.
The light stretches your shadow forward, elongates it across the front of your car, and for a second you’re just annoyed; someone pulling through on their way out, someone who got to have a normal end to their shift and get in their functioning car and leave. The engine behind you is idling, smooth and low, and it doesn’t pass. It slows. It stops.
A door opens.
You don’t turn around because some self preserving corner of your brain already knows. Before the footsteps, before the particular rhythm of that walk- unhurried, deliberate, the gait of a man who has never once rushed to be anywhere because everywhere he goes adjusts to accommodate his arrival- you know who it is.
You know the way you know a headache is about to become a migraine. The way you know a patient is about to code before the monitors catch up. A full body premonition, cellular and certain.
Park’s footsteps stop somewhere behind your left shoulder.
You keep staring at the engine. Your vision has gone blurry, half tears, half exhaustion, half the flat refusal of your eyes to focus on anything that isn’t a pillow. You can feel him behind, the shift in pressure and temperature that changes the quality of the air against the back of your neck.
He doesn’t say anything for five seconds. You count them.
Then he leans past you.
His arm enters your field of vision from the left and he reaches into the engine compartment with the casualness of a man who reaches into open body cavities for a living and finds a car engine charmingly simple by comparison. His shoulder is close enough to yours that you can feel the warmth radiating off him through his clothes.
You catch it then, his cologne, or whatever it is, something clean and warm and slightly woody that cuts through the garage smell of concrete and motor oil and settles into the space between your throat and your chest with an specificity that makes you want to bite down on something.
He smells good. Offensively, inappropriately good. And you hate him for it with a purity that borders on religious, that causes you to jerk back, take several steps away with your arms crossed over your chest and your teeth clenched so tight your jaw is clicking.
He doesn’t let you get very far before. “Come here.”
He says it without looking up from the engine compartment, one hand braced on the frame, the other buried somewhere in the tangle of hoses and cables, and he says come here like he’s calling a dog that pissed on the carpet.
You don’t move.
“I said come here. I’m not going to say it again.”
You move and he grabs your wrist, fingers closing around delicate bones, and pulls you forward until you’re standing beside him with your hip against the bumper and your face approximately eighteen inches from an engine block you couldn’t identify at gunpoint.
“Look.” He positions your hand over a cable terminal crusted with greenish white buildup. Presses your fingers down onto the corroded metal and holds them there. “Feel that?”
You feel it. Gritty. Calcified. Wrong.
“That’s neglect.” He says it close to your ear. Not whispering. Just close. “Months of it.”
He lets that sit for a second. His thumb shifts against the inside of your wrist, a small, almost idle adjustment that drags across your pulse point and there’s absolutely no way he doesn’t feel how fast it’s going.
“When did you buy this car?”
“Two years ago.”
“Two years.” He drops your wrist like he lost interest in holding it, and straightens up. Pulls a cloth from somewhere- his back pocket, his jacket, the fucking ether- and wipes his hands with slow, methodical attention, finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle, while you stand there with engine grease on your palm and the residual ghost pressure of his grip still pulsing around your wrist bones. “And you’ve never once popped the hood. Not once. You’re telling me you’ll spend six hours memorizing the branches of the brachial plexus but you can’t spend five minutes making sure the thing that keeps you alive on the highway actually works.”
He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at his own hands as he cleans them, like they’re the only thing worth his tim, has all the time in the world and you are not a factor in how he spends it.
“I mean, it’s almost impressive.” He glances at you. Just a flick of his eyes, there and gone. “The commitment to not giving a shit. You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”
“That’s not- ”
“Your positive cable’s loose. Terminals are shot.” He’s still cleaning his hands. Still not looking at you. “The whole system’s been dying for weeks and you just- what? Turned the key every morning and assumed it would keep working because it always had?” He folds the cloth. Tucks it in his pocket. “That’s not optimism. That’s not even denial. That’s just being stupid about the things you depend on.”
The word stupid lands different coming from him. Not like an insult. A fact. Like a lab value being read off the chart, something they can’t be interpreted in any other way, just is, and always will be.
“You’re smart in the OR. I’ve seen it.” He says flatly, without investment, a concession that costs him nothing. “You’ve got good hands when they’re not shaking. Good instincts when you’re not choking on them. But then you do this- ” He nods at the engine. “And I have to wonder if the OR version of you is the anomaly and this is the baseline.”
He lets that hang.
“Get in the car.”
“What?”
“My car.” He says, an instruction, not an offer, delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.
“I can call a- “
“It’s eleven at night, you’re not calling a tow from a parking garage, and you’re not sleeping in your car. Get in.”
“But-”
He’s already walking away. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t look back. Just walks to his car- a dark Lexus that looks like it costs more than your annual salary- and gets into the driver’s side and sits there with the engine running and the passenger door unlocked and the absolute unshakeable certainty that you will follow.
You follow.
The inside of his car smells like him. That’s the first thing you register as you pull the door shut, the contained, ambient version of whatever you caught leaning over the engine, multiplied and warmed by the closed space.
You put on your seatbelt. You stare straight ahead. You give him your address in a voice that comes out smaller than you intended and you feel him register that, feel the quality of his silence change as he files it away.
He pulls out of the garage.
He doesn’t speak.
You wait for it- braced- shoulders locked, breath held, every nerve ending oriented toward him. You’ve spent enough time in his proximity to know how he operates: silence first, then the observation, then the correction, delivered with the flat, unhurried precision of a man who learned a long time ago that volume is unnecessary when accuracy will do. You know it’s coming. You sit in the passenger seat with your hands in your lap and your spine so straight your lower back is already aching and you wait.
A minute passes.
Two.
The streetlights strobe across the windshield in rhythmic amber intervals. The road noise fills the car, a low, constant hiss of tires on asphalt, the faint vibration of the chassis transmitting through the seat into your femurs, your pelvis, the base of your spine. The heater is on. You can feel it against your shins, a warm current that smells like clean filters and leather conditioner.
Three minutes.
He’s not going to say anything.
The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings something worse, a vacuum. The silence that Park deploys in the OR when a resident has made an error significant enough that commentary would be redundant. The silence that says I’m not going to dignify this with a response. The silence that forces you to sit inside your own failure without the scaffolding of his criticism to push against, without even the dignity of being yelled at, because yelling would mean he cared enough to raise his voice and Park does not care enough to raise his voice. Park has never cared enough to raise his voice. He saves his volume for the things that matter and you, apparently, do not meet the threshold.
Your throat is doing something. Tightening. The muscles along the anterior triangle contracting in a slow, involuntary squeeze that you recognize as the precursor to crying and you clench your jaw against it so hard you feel your masseter pop. You are not going to cry in this car. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry in his car with his cologne in your lungs and his silence pressing against you from every direction like something with weight.
You stare at the dashboard. The blue numbers of the clock. The GPS display showing your route- a clean, illuminated line from the hospital to your house, nineteen minutes, no traffic, as though the journey is simple, as though the distance between where you are and where you’re going can be measured in miles.
“The tibial plateau.”
His voice enters the silence without disturbing it. No change in his posture, no preliminary breath. Just the words, arriving with the same flat, unremarkable cadence he uses to call out hardware sizes mid-procedure.
“You hesitated.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t explain which moment, which hesitation, which specific fraction of a second he’s referring to. He doesn’t need to. You know. He knows you know. The sentence is a key inserted into a lock you’ve been trying not to look at all day, and it turns with a click you can feel in your back teeth.
The silence returns.
It’s worse now. It has a shape. The two words gave it a frame and now the quiet is no longer empty, it’s full- full of every specific thing he could have said and chose not to, every elaboration he’s withholding, every detail of your performance that he catalogued and filed and is currently letting you imagine instead of stating outright. Your brain fills the silence the way fluid fills an enclosed space, expanding into every available cavity until the pressure builds against the walls.
You think about the tibial plateau. You think about the oscillating saw in your hand and the way your fingers tightened on the grip a half second before you made the cut and that half second is what he’s talking about. That imperceptible pause. That flicker of uncertainty between intention and execution. Anyone else would have missed it. The scrub nurse didn’t see it. The anesthesiologist didn’t see it. But Park was standing across the table with his hands resting on the sterile drape and his eyes on your hands and he saw it, he felt the hesitation, stored it, and now he’s taken it out of storage and placed it between you in the car like an exhibit.
Your eyes are burning.
“And the hardware count.”
Four more words. Still no elaboration.
Flat, observational, a statement of fact that requires no emotional emphasis because the gravity is inherent. He keeps his eyes on the road.
You know what he’s referring to. The post-op notes. Six screws documented instead of eight. A discrepancy in the record that could follow the patient to every subsequent surgery, every future scan. He caught it. He corrected it. He didn’t report it.
He’s telling you now, in this car, in the dark, with nineteen minutes of road between you and your house, and the telling is worse than a formal write up because a formal write up would have structure. A formal write up would have a process: documentation, a meeting, a remediation plan, something to do with the failure. This has nothing. This is Park dropping two facts into the silence and letting you drown in the space around them.
Your left hand is trembling. You flatten it against your thigh and hold it there, pressing the tremor into the muscle, willing the vibration to disperse through the fascia and the quadricep and the femur beneath it. Your dominant hand. Your operating hand. The one that held the saw. The one that miscounted the screws. The one that’s been shaking on and off since hour six of a seventeen hour day and you’ve been hiding it by keeping it busy, keeping it occupied with tasks and tools and the physical business of the job so that nobody- so that he- wouldn’t see.
“You should have asked for a break during the reconstruction.”
You close your eyes.
“Your hand was fatiguing by hour four. You compensated by overtightening your grip on the retractor, which changed the angle.” A pause. “You knew the tremor was developing and you chose to hide it rather than ask for relief because you were more concerned with how it would look than with how it would affect the surgical field.”
That’s the most he’s said at once. Three sentences. They land in your chest like hardware being placed in sequence- tap, tap, tap- each one seated precisely, each one load bearing, the cumulative construct designed to hold a specific weight.
Silence again.
The thing that’s happening in your chest is not something you can name with language. It’s too large and too formless and it keeps changing shape, contracting into something hot and dense behind your sternum and then expanding outward into your ribs, your clavicles, the soft tissue of your throat where the tightness has progressed from uncomfortable to actively painful. You swallow against it. Your throat clicks. The sound is audible in the quiet car and you hate it, hate the way your body keeps betraying you in small acoustic ways, producing evidence of its own distress for him to collect.
You think: say something back.
You think: defend yourself.
You think: tell him he’s wrong, tell him the hesitation was clinical judgment not fear, tell him the hardware count was a transcription error not negligence, tell him the tremor was fatigue not incompetence, tell him he doesn’t get to sit there in his seventy-two-thousand-dollar car smelling like that and sounding like that and dismantling you with seven sentences spread across ten minutes of silence-
You don’t say any of it.
You don’t say any of it because your throat is closed and your eyes are wet and your hands are shaking and everything he said is true. Not approximately true. Not partially true. Not true-with-caveats-you-could-argue-if-you-had-the-energy. True. Completely, specifically, documentably true, and the fact of its truth is sitting on your chest like a sternum retractor, cranking you open one inch at a time.
A tear escapes. It tracks down the side of your nose and catches at the corner of your mouth and you taste salt and you don’t wipe it away because wiping it away would require moving your hand and moving your hand would require admitting that you’re crying and you are not admitting that you’re crying. You are sitting in this car looking straight ahead and the moisture on your face is condensation, it’s a physiological response to dry air, it’s anything other than what it is.
Park doesn’t look at you.
He knows. You know he knows. The quality of his silence has shifted again- it’s softer now, or not softer, that’s not the right word, it’s attentive. The silence of a man who is aware that something is happening beside him and has decided to let it happen. To let you sit in it. To not offer a tissue or a word or even the small mercy of turning up the radio. He just drives, steady and unhurried, and the road unspools, and you cry without sound in the passenger seat of his car while he navigates the route to your house.
You wait for the rest. The elaboration. The lecture.
It doesn’t come. Instead, after a long moment, he says something worse.
“You know what’s funny?”
You don’t answer.
“You’re actually not bad.”
The sentence lands wrong. It lands wrong because it sounds, for one disorienting half second, like a compliment, and your starved, exhausted brain almost reaches for it before the rest of him catches up- the tone, the timing, the particular way he says not bad. A minimum. A floor. The lowest possible bar of acceptability, offered with the cadence of praise so your body responds to it like praise while your brain is still trying to decode that it isn’t.
“You’ve got a feel for the work. I’ve seen you read a fracture pattern faster than most of my third years. Your spatial reasoning’s above average. Your hands- ” He pauses. You feel the pause in your sternum. “When your hands are right, they’re right.”
He’s building something. You can feel it assembling in real time, each sentence another load bearing element, and you don’t know what the structure is yet but you know it has a weight it hasn’t distributed.
“That’s what makes it hard to watch, actually.”
There it is.
“Watching someone who could be good just… ” He makes a sound. Not a sigh. Something smaller. Something almost like amusement, which is so much worse than disappointment that your vision blurs. “It’s like watching someone with perfect pitch sing off key on purpose. You want to fix it. But you can’t want it more than they do.”
He turns onto your street.
“And I’m starting to think you don’t want it at all. I think you want to want it. I think you like the idea of being good. But when it actually costs you something, when it means admitting the tremor, asking for the break, counting the fucking screws, you’d rather protect your ego than protect your patient. And that’s- ”
He pulls into your driveway.
The engine idles. The blue dashboard light hums. Your house is dark. The porch light is off because you forgot to set the timer this morning, because this morning happened to a different person in a different version of your life.
“That’s not a skill problem. I can fix a skill problem.” He’s looking straight ahead. Blue lit profile. One hand on the wheel. “That’s a you problem. And I can’t fix you.”
I can’t fix you.
Four words that shouldn’t feel like anything. Four words that are, technically, a statement of professional boundaries, an acknowledgment that his role has limits, that your development is ultimately your own responsibility. That’s what they are on paper. That is not what they are in this car at eleven pm with salt drying on your face and his cologne in your lungs.
I can’t fix you means you’re broken. It means I looked, and what I found isn’t worth the effort. It means he assessed you the way he did with the engine and the prognosis is: not salvageable. Not worth the parts.
You should get out. You should open the door and walk inside and lock it behind you and shower and sleep and come back tomorrow and be better, be sharper, be the version of yourself that doesn’t hesitate on the approach and doesn’t miscount hardware and doesn’t sit in a man’s car at eleven pm leaking tears onto her own scrub top.
Your hand is on the seatbelt release.
“The hesitation,” Park says.
You stop.
He’s looking straight ahead. His profile is blue lit, jaw set, one hand resting on the steering wheel at twelve o’clock. His index finger taps the leather once, a single, idle percussion that might mean nothing and might mean everything.
“It’s going to get someone killed.”
Six words. Delivered without emphasis, without cruelty, without any of the sharp edges that have characterized everything else he’s said today. That’s what makes them worse. The previous comments were barbed, they were designed to cut and they cut and the cutting was something you could be angry about, something you could push against, something that gave the pain a direction.
This is different. Neutral. Factual. Almost gentle in its certainty.
It’s going to get someone killed.
Not it might. Not it could. Going to. Future tense. Inevitable. A definitive, not a warning.
You sit there with your hand on the seatbelt and the salt drying on your upper lip and you feel the sentence settle into the shape of your self concept like a fracture propagating, a slow, branching failure that spreads outward from the point of impact into every adjacent structure until the whole system is compromised.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He just sits there. Engine idling. Blue light. One hand on the wheel. And the silence after the sentence is the worst silence of the night because there’s nothing left to wait for. He’s said the thing. The final thing. The thing that all the other things were building toward- the corroded terminals, the loose cable, the tremor, the miscount- all of it was scaffolding for this, the load bearing statement at the center of the construct, and now that it’s in place the scaffolding falls away and you’re left sitting in the bare, terrible clarity of what he actually thinks.
He thinks you’re going to kill someone.
He thinks it with the same certainty that he had when he looked at your engine and found the problem in four seconds. He looked at you the same way. He looked at your hands the same way. He’s been looking at you for months, confirming what he already suspected, and tonight- the car, the drive, the prognosis- tonight was the consultation where he tells you the findings.
Your seatbelt is still buckled. Your hand is still on the release. Your body is doing something that doesn’t align with the plan your brain is trying to execute, which is: unbuckle, open door, leave. Simple.
Three steps. Motor planning so basic a first year anatomy student could diagram the neural pathway. But the signal is getting lost somewhere between your prefrontal cortex and your extremities, scrambled by the interference of everything else your body is processing- the smell of his cologne in the warm car, the blue light on his hands, the tear track tightening on your cheek, the ache in your trapezius, the tremor in your dominant hand, the sound of his breathing.
His breathing.
You’re listening to him breathe. You’ve been listening to him breathe for the entire drive, you realize, a low, even rhythm that hasn’t changed once, that maintained the same rate and depth through every cruel observation and every silence and every tear you failed to hide. His respiratory rate is probably twelve. Maybe fourteen. Resting. Resting. He’s been resting this entire time. His nervous system has been in parasympathetic mode for the entirety of this drive, calm and regulated, while yours has been in full sympathetic cascade- tachycardic, diaphoretic, pupils dilated, hands trembling- and the asymmetry of it, the sheer physiological unfairness of it, lights something in the back of your skull that isn’t sadness and isn’t defeat.
It’s rage.
Not the sharp, vocal, defensible kind. Not the kind that generates arguments and rebuttals and righteous indignation.
Something lower. Something that lives in the body, not the mind. Something that has nothing to do with what he said and everything to do with the way he’s sitting there, breathing his twelve fucking breaths a minute, resting his hand on his thigh, occupying his leather seat with the boneless ease of a man who has never once lost sleep over the things he’s said to someone while you sit fourteen inches away vibrating at a frequency that might actually be damaging your soft tissue.
You want to hit him.
The thought arrives without preamble. You want to hit him in his calm, blue lit face. You want to put your fist into the hinge of his jaw and feel the impact travel back up your metacarpals and into your wrist and you want him to feel something, anything, any disruption at all in the flat, metronomic equilibrium of his goddamn resting heart rate.
You don’t hit him.
You look at him.
You turn your head and you look at him and he must feel the weight of it because he turns too, slow, unhurried, and his eyes find yours in the blue dark of the car and they’re steady. Completely steady. No tension in his eyes, no furrow in his corrugator, nothing in his expression that suggests he’s experiencing any version of the catastrophic internal event currently leveling every structure in your chest. He’s just looking at you. The way he looks at the surgical field. The way he looks at a fracture pattern on a film. Assessing. Reading. Processing the data without any visible emotional response to the findings.
But there’s something else. Something you almost miss because it’s buried so deep in his face that you’d need to be exactly this close, exactly this wrecked, exactly this far past the boundary of professional distance to catch it.
His gaze drops.
To your mouth.
It’s fast. A quarter second. Maybe less. And then it’s back, steady and clinical and blank, but you saw it and the seeing rewires something in your brain so fast you feel it as a physical lurch, a tilt in the axis of the car, the sudden sickening recalibration of a system that just received information it doesn’t know how to process.
He looked at your mouth.
He has spent the last twenty minutes telling you that you’re negligent and broken and dangerous and going to kill someone and he just looked at your mouth.
And the thing that breaks you isn’t the cruelty. It isn’t the silence, or the criticism, or I can’t fix you, or it’s going to get someone killed. It’s the quarter second glance. It’s the knowledge that somewhere inside of this man who has spent seventeen hours making you feel like the smallest, most incompetent person in the building, there is a circuit that looked at your mouth. That the same eyes that catalogued your hesitation and your tremor and your miscounted screws also, in the same sitting, looked at your mouth. And he thought you wouldn’t catch it. And you did. And now you’re both sitting in the knowledge of it and the air in the car has changed entirely.
And something about the way he can sit here in the aftermath of everything he’s said and look at you with the same detached focus, cracks the last load bearing wall in whatever structure was keeping you upright.
Your body, which has been running on cortisol and adrenaline and seventeen hours of accumulated fight-or-flight with no outlet, moves without conscious thought. Your hand comes off the seatbelt release and goes to the back of his neck and your fingers close in the short hair above his collar and you pull, and your mouth finds his in the dark, and it’s not a kiss so much as a loss of structural integrity. Catastrophic failure at the point of highest stress. The break you saw coming but couldn’t prevent because the forces were already in motion before you understood what they were.
He doesn’t flinch.
That’s the last thing you register before everything goes: he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stiffen. His mouth is warm and the sound he makes against your mouth is quiet and short and so unsurprised it makes your blood run sideways.
He was waiting for this.
The knowledge doesn’t stop you. It should. It should be the thing that makes you pull back, that trips the wire between mistake and trap, but his mouth is already moving against yours and your brain has been demoted to a purely observational role, a bystander taking notes while your body runs the operation.
You kiss him like you’re trying to hurt him. Teeth and pressure and the graceless, artless force of someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing and doesn’t care, and for a second- a long, terrible second- he lets you. He sits there and he takes it, your mouth on his, your hand fisted in his collar, your breath coming in sharp little pulls through your nose, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reciprocate. Doesn’t push you away. Just absorbs it, and the passivity of it is so much worse than rejection that you feel your eyes sting behind your closed lids.
Then his hand moves.
It goes to the back of your neck, fingers closing around the nape and gripping, thumb pressing into the tendon beside your spine, the rest of his hand spanning the width of your neck, and he holds you there. Holds you mid kiss, mid breath, mid everything, and the grip says stop. Not stop kissing him. Just… stop. Stop thrashing. Stop fighting. Stop moving.
You stop.
He pulls you back. Just enough to break the contact. An inch of cold air between your mouth and his, and you can feel the heat of his breath against your wet lower lip and you can see his eyes, close enough to make out the individual fibers of his iris contracting in the low light, and he’s looking at you with something that makes your animal brain go very, very still.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just looks. And the quality of the looking is- you don’t have language for it. Something pre-verbal, pre-civilized, something that belongs in a context where the lighting is firelight instead of dashboard glow and the power dynamic is measured in muscle mass and jaw strength rather than titles and institutional hierarchy.
He looks at you like he’s deciding where to bite down.
His grip on your neck tightens. Fractionally. A compression you feel in your molars.
Then he kisses you.
And it’s different. Everything about it is different. Where yours was frantic and desperate and searching, his is slow. His mouth moves against yours with a patience that feels predatory, that feels like the unhurried gait of something that doesn’t need to chase because it already has what it was after, and his hand on your neck isn’t holding you still anymore, it’s steering.
Tilting your head where he wants it, adjusting the angle, his thumb pressing under your jaw until your chin lifts and your throat is exposed and the sound that comes out of you is something you’ll hear in your own head for weeks.
Your fingers scramble against his shoulders. Your nails catch the fabric of his scrub top and drag and you feel the muscle underneath shift in response, a twitch, a contraction, involuntary and brief, and that one small proof that his body is responding makes you desperate in a way you don’t recognize.
You need to be closer. The thought is incoherent and absolute. There’s a center console between you and fourteen inches of dead space and it’s intolerable, physically intolerable, your body rejecting the distance, urgently, violently, without higher input.
You pull back. Fumble the seatbelt. The buckle snaps free. You get one knee on the console and your hand on the headrest behind him and you’re climbing, graceless, desperate, your shin banging the gear shift, your elbow catching the rearview mirror, and the logistics are terrible and you don’t care. You don’t care because his hands have dropped to his sides and he’s not helping you, he’s just watching, his head tipped back against the headrest, his eyes half lidded, tracking your clumsy, frantic movements in the space with something that isn’t amusement and isn’t patience.
It’s hunger.
Controlled, banked, hunger behind glass.
Your knee finds the seat beside his thigh. Then the other one. You settle into his lap and the steering wheel cuts into your lower back and his thighs are solid beneath yours and you’re breathing too hard, chest heaving, hands shaking where they grip his shoulders, and he’s… still.
Completely still.
Looking up at you. His hands at his sides. His jaw set. The only thing moving is his chest, rising and falling with breaths that are marginally faster than they were ten minutes ago, and you fixate on that the way a drowning person fixates on a piece of floating debris.
You wait for him to touch you.
He doesn’t.
The seconds stretch. Three. Five. Seven. You’re sitting in his lap and his hands are resting on the seat on either side of his thighs and he’s looking up at you with that banked, glass walled hunger and he is not touching you.
He is making you sit in it, in the wanting, in the desperation, in the raw, humiliating fact that you just climbed into your attending’s lap in a driveway and he’s giving you nothing back.
Your hips shift. You can’t help it. A restless, involuntary roll that presses your cunt into his cock, and you feel his abdomen tighten beneath you, a hard, sudden contraction that he controls almost immediately but not before you feel it, not before you register the proof that his body is doing things his face won’t admit to.
His jaw tightens. You see it. The masseter flexing, the tendon standing out below his ear.
Then finally- finally- his hands move.
They don’t go where you expect. They go to your hips. Both of them. Settling over the bones with a grip that is immediately, unambiguously possessive, not exploratory, not tentative, not the careful hands of a man testing boundaries. He grips you like you’re his. Like you’ve always been his. Like the last four months of corrections and cruelty and silence were just the long, patient process of wearing you down to this, to the moment where you’d put yourself in his hands because you had nowhere else to go.
His thumbs dig into the hollows inside your hip bones. The pressure is just on the edge of pain, right at the threshold where sensation tips from one thing into another, and you gasp and his hands tighten in response and you realize with a full body lurch that the sound you made didn’t concern him. It fed him.
He pulls you forward. Down. A controlled, forceful drag that seats you flush against his him, and the contact makes your vision white out at the edges and one of his hands goes from your hip to your hair and he's gripping it, pulling it, fingers twisted strands at the crown of your head, yanking, exposing your throat, and the sound he makes rewires something fundamental in your nervous system.
His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the tendon that runs from your ear to your clavicle, a slow, dragging pressure that leaves a trail of heat in its wake, and then he bites down, hard enough to make you jolt, to make your fingers tighten on his shoulders, to make your hips roll forward again in a motion that is completely involuntary and that he responds to by pulling you into his clothed cock harder, fingers digging into the meat of your hips with a strength that’s going to leave marks.
You know it’s going to leave marks. You know because his hands are surgeon’s hands, hands that crack bones into alignment and drive hardware through cortical shell, and they are currently clamped onto your body like he’s setting a fracture and the thing he’s reducing is you.
He doesn’t let go of the bite. He holds it. His jaw flexing against your throat, his breath hot against your pulse point, and you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against his teeth and he can feel it too; you know he can feel it, your pulse trapped between his mouth and your skin, and he stays there. Counting it, maybe. Tasting it.
Your hands are moving without thought. Down his chest, pulling at the fabric, trying to find skin and not finding it fast enough. You’re making sounds- small, fractured, desperate things that you’ve lost the ability to be embarrassed about because embarrassment requires a functioning prefrontal cortex and yours left the building sometime around the moment you smelled the cologne on him in the parking garage.
He releases the bite. His tongue passes over the indentation once, flat and slow and then his mouth is at your ear and his breathing is different now. Ragged at the edges. Fraying. The composure that he’s worn like a second skin all day is coming apart in increments you can measure by the roughness of each exhale and the tightening of his grip.
“You should eat more,” he says and his hands slide under your scrub top, palms flat against your bare skin and the heat of them is obscene, radiating a constant steady warmth that seeps into your tissue, spreading outwards from the points of contact and into the muscles beneath. His hands slide up your sides, palms dragging over abdominal muscles, calluses catching against your skin, and his thumbs find the ridges of bone, thumbs tracing your ribs, counting them. “I can feel every one of these.”
It’s not tender. It’s not concern. It’s inventory. He’s cataloguing what’s his and finding it insufficient and the disapproval is so tangled up with the want that you can’t separate them, can’t tell where the criticism ends and the desire begins because in him they’re the same thing. The same impulse. He wants you and he’s angry about the state of what he wants, angry when something he’s claimed isn’t being maintained to his standard.
His hands stop. Bracketing your ribcage, fingers splayed across your back, thumbs resting in the shallow valley between bones. The heat of his palms is sinking through your intercostal now, settling into the spaces between your ribs like something poured, and you can feel your own lungs expanding against his hand with every breath, pushing into the warmth, your body leaning into him without your permission because its been so long since anyone touched you with this much sustained focused heat.
His hands drop to the hem of your scrub top. He pulls it up, bunching the fabric at your ribs, exposing your waist, your stomach, the line of your hip bones above the drawstring of your scrub pants until your shirt is pulled above your head and dropped somewhere to the side. The air in the car hits your bare skin and you shiver and he flattens his palms against your stomach.
“Someone needs to feed you,” he mutters. His thumbs press into the soft tissue below your navel. “Make sure you actually sleep.” His hands drag down, hooking into the waistband pads of his fingers against your lower abdomen, the weight of his grip tilting your pelvis toward him. “You’re a goddamn mess.”
You are. You are a goddamn mess. You are shaking and crying and half undressed in your attending’s lap in a parked car and his hands are on your bare skin and his teeth marks are throbbing on your neck and every word out of his mouth is an insult wrapped in something that sounds, horribly, like a promise.
A promise that he’s going to fix what you can’t fix. That he’s already decided. That this- the car, the drive, the cruelty, the bite, his hands inside your waistband- this is just the intake assessment. The preliminary exam. The first step in a treatment plan that he’s been designing for months, one that ends with you exactly where he wants you, which is right here. Underneath his hands. Dependent on his attention. Unable to function without the particular combination of damage and repair that only he provides.
You should be terrified.
His hands tighten. He pulls you into him again, harder, and your breath leaves your body in a rush and your forehead drops to his shoulder and your teeth find the muscle where his neck meets his trapezius and you bite down because it’s the only language your body has left.
He groans. The sound travels through his chest cavity into yours, a vibration you feel in your sternum, and his hand slides up your spine and fists in your hair again and pulls, arching your neck back, exposing your throat, and he looks at you, looks up at you from below, his lips parted, his breathing finally, irrevocably wrecked, and the expression on his face is the most honest thing you’ve ever seen from him.
It’s not the mask. It’s not the bored superiority. It’s not the carefully metered cruelty he portions out across an operating day.
It’s greed.
Simple, uncut, undisguised. The face of a man who found something he wants and is currently in the process of closing his hand around it and he does not intend to open that hand again.
“Come here,” he says, for the second time tonight, and this time it means something completely different and exactly the same.
You come, your body answering the order the way it answers every order he’s ever given- before thought, before shame, before the part of your brain that still pretends it has dignity can raise an objection, and you lean in, mouth crashing against his.
You hate yourself for it. You hate the speed of it, the automaticity, the way your knees dig harder into the leather on either side of his thighs and your mouth finds his again. You hate that you’re shaking and he’s not. You hate that your hands are fisted into his collar and pulling and desperate and his are still, idle, unbothered, a man being kissed by someone while he decides whether or not to kiss back.
He tracks you. Every tremor of your lower lip, every frantic slide of your tongue against his, every wet graceless sound you make when his teeth catch your bottom lip and tug. Controlled. Proprietary. Taking this in like he takes in everything, filing it, noting it, adding it to whatever mental inventory he maintains of all the ways you embarrass yourself in front of him.
You pull back. Your chest is heaving. His isn’t.
“Fuck you,” you say.
It comes out wrecked. Shaking. Nothing close to the strength you want it to be. He looks at you flatly, unimpressed.
He hooks two fingers into the drawstring of your scrub pants and pulls. One motion. The knot gives. The pants slide down your thighs and you should stop this. You should stop this right now. You should climb off his lap and open the door and walk into your house and lock it behind him and never look at him again. You know this. The knowledge is clean and certain and completely irrelevant to what your body is actually doing, which is lifting one knee, then the other, kicking cotton of your ankles, while your hand stays fisted in his collar like letting go would kill you.
His hand goes behind your back. One flick of his thumb and the bra releases and the straps slide down your shoulders and you feel the air hit your skin and the humiliation is so acute it tastes metallic, like biting down on foil, like blood from a split lip.
He doesn’t even look.
He lets the fabric fall and his palms settle over your breasts and his thumbs brush across nipples already tight from the cold and the adrenaline and he does it with absent focus, like this is a step in a sequence, like your body is a series of tasks to be completed on the way to something else.
“You’re an asshole,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “You know that? You’re a completely fucking-”
His hand slides down your stomach. Hooks into the waistband of your underwear. Drags. The fabric catches on your thighs, resists, then gives away with a tear.
“- asshole.”
“Yeah,” he says. That’s it. Yeah. One syllable. Bored. His eyes haven’t changed. His breathing hasn’t changed. You are sitting in his lap in nothing but the blue dashboard light, stripped and shaking, every flaw and rib and tremor illuminated, and his pulse is resting.
You want to claw his face off.
You want to rake your nails down his cheeks until he bleeds, until something in his expression breaks, until he shows you one single shred of evidence that this is affecting him even a fraction as much as it’s affecting you. But he’s still dressed beneath you- scrub top, scrub pants- and the obscene imbalance of naked and clothed, wrecked and composed, is doing something to the power dynamic that you feel in the base of your skull like a boot on your neck.
One hand leaves your hip. You hear the shift of fabric, the elastic drag of a waistband, and then he’s there, cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, hard and hot. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, slow, lazy, and you watch the muscle in his jaw flex and that’s it. That’s all he gives you. One flex of one muscle while you’re sitting naked in his lap with tears drying on your face and your whole body vibrating like a plucked string.
Then he lines the head of his cock up, blunt insistent pressure of him against the entrance to your cunt, and your body- your traitorous, mutinous, shame soaked body- is already wet. Has been wet. Has been wet since the you smelled his cologne in the parking garage, maybe earlier, maybe since the OR, maybe since the moment you were first introduced to him as your attending and the knowledge of that is so humiliating you actually close your eyes against it, squeeze them shut like a child who thinks not seeing makes them invisible.
“Sit.” A command. Like he’s speaking to a dog, like you’re a dog, like you’re a misbehaving mutt caught doing something you shouldn’t and he’s issuing a command to correct. Sit, heel, lay down, roll over-
Don’t, you think.
You sink.
The stretch is immediate. Obscene. A slow, relentless parting that you feel in your cunt, your thighs, your abdomen, your teeth, and you hate every inch of it and the contradiction is going to break you in half. He fills your cunt the way he takes up any space around him- completely, unapologetically, without any interest in whether you were ready to accommodate him or not.
Your hands fly to his biceps. Nails through fabric into muscle. And for one heartbeat you sit there, trembling, adjusting, feeling the way you body has to restructure around him, and your eyes are open now and burning and you’re looking directly at his face and his expression is…
Calm.
He looks calm. His dick is buried inside of you to the hilt and his face is the face of a man sitting in traffic. Waiting for the light to change. Reading a notification on his phone. And you want to scream, wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until something in those steady, half lidded eyes shows you that he’s here, that he’s present, that this is costing him anything at all.
His hands find your hips again. Thumbs pressing bruises into bone. And then he moves you.
Up. Down. Controlled. Like you’re nothing more than a doll, an instrument, something he can use and play until he’s had his fill, and that pisses you off.
You start to move on your own and the first roll of your hips without his guidance is yours, angry and hard, grinding down onto him with a force that’s closer to violence than fucking, and you watch his face for the flinch, for the flutter of his eyes, for his lips to part open, for any crack, any goddamn indication that you’re getting to him.
His eyes lower. Barely. The faintest contraction around the corner of his eyes.
That’s it. That’s all you get.
His hands tighten and he takes back control of the rhythm, pulling you down on his cock hard, forcing the depth, and the sound that rips out of you is something between a sob and a moan and you hate it, hate the wet broken sound, hate that he heard it, hate that his expression doesn’t change when he hears it.
“This is what you’re good at.”
The words are like a slap and you feel them behind your eyes, in your lungs, in the slick slide where your body is betraying you again, again, again.
“Fuck you- “
“Not the tibial plateau.” His hips drive up. “Not the hardware count.” Again. “Not even remembering to get your fucking car serviced.” His hands drag you down so hard onto his cock that your clit grinds against the base of him and your vision whites out and your mouth falls open with a sound you can’t control, high pitched and needy. “This. This is the only thing I’ve never seen you hesitate on.”
“I hate you- “ Your voice splinters with another thrust, that grinds his cock against the spot that has your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to break skin through fabric. “I hate you, you fucking-”
“I know,” he says. Quiet. Unbothered. Like you just told him the weather. And then he rolls his hips up into you with a hard grind that makes your spine arch and your head fall back and the I hate you dissolves into a whimper you’ll never forgive yourself for.
“Look at you,” His breathing hasn't changed. Twelve per minute. Resting. While yours comes ragged and sobbing, chest heaving, your whole body shaking on top of his. “Seventeen hours of your hands shaking. Seventeen hours of being unable to hold a retractor steady. But you can ride cock like this. Perfect rhythm. No tremor. No hesitation.” He pulls you into another downstroke, meets you with his hips, punches the breath from your lungs. “Maybe this is what I should have had you doing all along instead of letting you pretend you’re a surgeon.”
You hit him.
Your palm connects with his face, an open handed strike that lands hard enough to make a sound in the car, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense, just absorbs it the way he absorbs everything, and his hands on your hips don’t even stutter.
He smiles.
Not wide. Not warm. A thin, asymmetric thing, one corner of his mouth pulling up in the blue dark, and it’s the first genuine expression you’ve seen on his face and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever looked at. Because the smile says he liked that. The smile says do it again. The smile says he has been waiting, patiently, methodically, for the entire duration of the encounter, for you to hit him, and now that you have he can file it alongside every other piece of evidence that you are exactly as out of control as he’s always suspected.
“There she is.” His thumb slides between your bodies. Finds your clit. Circles it in a way that makes your spine lock and your teeth clench. “There’s the good girl I knew was buried under all that incompetence.”
“Don’t call me- “ Your voice breaks, hips moving faster not, frantic, beyond your control. “Don’t you dare-”
“Come on.” His thumb presses harder. His other hand drags you down into the next thrust. “Show me the one thing you’re actually competent at.”
“I fucking hate you- “
“You keep saying that.” His mouth is close to your ear. His breathing is finally, finally different- rougher, a fraction faster, the composure fraying at the thinnest edges- but his voice is still steady. Still controlled. Still the voice of a man who is winning and knows it. “And yet here you are.”
And yet here you are.
The truth of those words- the bare, unarguable, catastrophic truth of them- hits harder than anything else he’s said all day. Here you are. In his lap. In his car. In his hands. Naked and shaking and full of him and crying and still moving, still rolling your hips into his, still chasing the orgasm that’s building in your lower abdomen, because he told you to and because you want to and because the wanting and the hate have fused into something singular and molten that you couldn’t separate even if you had the higher brain function to try.
The car is rocking on its suspension. The windows are opaque. Sweat slides down the valley of your spine. Your breasts move with every thrust and his eyes track them and the shame of being watched makes something tighten in your lower belly and you hate that too, hate the wiring of your own body, hate that humiliation and arousal are using the same neural pathways and you can’t tell where one stops and the other starts.
“This is what you’re good at,” he says again. Quieter now. Almost fond. And the fondness is worse than the cruelty because the cruelty you can fight but the fondness seeps in and finds the soft tissue and stays. “Not saving lives. Not pretending to be a doctor. Just this. Just taking what I give you until you forget you ever had anything else to fuck up.”
“Shut up.” You’re crying openly now. Tears and sweat and the sounds coming out of your mouth are wet and broken and you can’t stop them and you can’t stop moving. “Shut the fuck up-”
“Make me.”
Two words. And they’re not said like a challenge. They’re said like a dare, and underneath the dare is something that sounds terrifyingly like affection, the way someone would talk to a small animal that keeps trying to bite them, amused and patient and completely unthreatened.
Your orgasm is building. You feel it in every trembling muscle, the quiver in your inner thighs, the tightening low in your abdomen, the involuntary clenching of your body around his cock that makes his breath hitch for one unguarded second before he smooths it over.
You’re close. You’re so close it’s blurring the edges of your rage, softening the anger into something needier, something that wants to collapse forward against his chest and be held and the wanting of that- the wanting to be held by the man who’s been destroying you- is the most humiliating thing that’s happened all night and that is a competitive field.
His grip adjusts. His thumb digs in deeper. His pace doesn’t falter.
His mouth finds your ear.
“Don’t you dare come until I tell you you’ve earned it.” His thumb circles your clit and the contradiction- don’t come while his hands do everything to guarantee you will- is so perfectly, characteristically cruel that a laugh rips out of you, unhinged and wet and bordering on hysterical. “You don’t get to be good at anything unless I say so.”
And you keep bouncing, because he told you to.
Because somewhere between the parking garage and the engine and the drive and the months of him taking you apart and breaking you down like you were a failed construct, you stopped being a person who makes her own decisions and became a person who waits for his.
You hate him.
You don’t stop.
***
The hospital smells the same.
That’s what gets you. The absolute, insulting sameness. You walk through the door at six thirty and the air hits your face with its standard cocktail of antiseptic and recycled ventilation and floor wax and the distant, perpetual ghost of coffee, and it is exactly, precisely, atomically the same as it was yesterday morning when you walked in as a person who had not yet detonated her entire life ion the front seat of a Lexus.
Your neck hurts.
Not the muscular ache of a bad night’s sleep, though there’s that too- you slept maybe ninety minutes, in twenty three minute increments, each one interrupted by the sensation of waking up inside a body that still smelled like him despite the shower. The shower that was too hot. The shower where you stood with your forehead against the tile and your hands flat on the wall and mentally assessed the damage- bruise on your left knee, bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingerprints, raw patch on your lower back from the steering wheel, and the bite. The bite on your neck, which you examined in the bathroom mirror, reddish purple, visible above the collar of a scrub top. Visible above the collar of anything you own.
You’re wearing a turtleneck under your scrubs. In September.
You keep your head down. Badge clipped. Hair pulled back so tight your scalp aches. You walk with a posture that says normal day, regular morning, nothing to report, and you’re almost to the locker room when another resident steps into the hallway and says, “Admin wants you.”
Every drop of blood in your body goes cold. You stare at him.
“Underwood’s office.” He says. “Now.”
You don’t ask why. You don’t ask why because your body already knows. Your body already knows before he opened his mouth, maybe before, maybe the moment you walked through the doors and the air tasted the same and the hallway looked the same and nothing was different except everything was different.
The walk takes ninety seconds. You count your footsteps because counting is something your brain can do while the rest of it shuts down.
You see him through the open door.
Park is in the left chair. One ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He’s holding a coffee, steam curling from the lip, which means its fresh, which means he stopped on his way here, which means he budgeted time into his morning for this.
He doesn’t look up when you walk in.
Gloria Underwood is standing beside her desk. She’s holding a manilla folder. It’s thick. Too thick for something assembled this morning. Too thick for a single incident. The thickness of it does something to the air in your lungs, displaces it, compresses it, makes the next breath feel like trying to inflate against a weight.
Gloria’s face is arranged in the express you’ve seen administrators use when they’re about to change the trajectory of a person’s life. Controlled. A mask of professional compassion that has been practiced in mirrors and refined in meetings and has nothing to do with whether the person wearing it actually feels anything at all.
“Please sit down.”
You sit. The chair is identical to his. Your elbow is inches from his elbow and you can smell him, smell the coffee, and the soap, and the cologne, and your body responds with a full system lurch of sense memory so violent you have to press your fingernails into your palms to stay in the chair.
“A formal complaint has been filed,” Gloria says, opening the folder. Turns to a page that’s already been flagged with a colored tab, pre-marked, pre-organized, the administrative infrastructure of a process that was set in motion before you arrived. “Regarding conduct of sexual nature directed at Dr. Brendon Park by a subordinate member of the surgical team.”
Directed at.
The preposition enters your ear and detonates.
Directed at Dr. Park. Not by Dr. Park. Not between you and Dr. Park. At him. By you.
“Dr. Park has reported that over the course of several months, he has been subjected to escalating patterns of inappropriate attention from an intern under his direct supervision.” Gloria’s eyes move across the page but she’s not reading. She memorized this. “Including persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity, repeated instances of unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures, and recently, an incident of unsolicited sexual contact initiated in his vehicle after he offered professional assistance with a mechanical issue in the hospital parking garage.”
Persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity.
That’s- standing near him. In the OR. Where he assigned you to stand.
Unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures.
That’s- watching him operate. When you were assisting.
Unsolicited sexual contact.
That’s-
The room is doing something. The walls aren’t moving but the space between them is contracting, the air thickening, the fluorescent light taking on a quality that feels granular, particulate, like you’re trying to see through something that’s settling between you and the rest of the room.
“The complaint has been supported by documented observations,” Gloria continues. She turns another page. Another colored tab. “Dr. Park has provided a written timeline of concerning behavior, including specific dates and incidents.”
A timeline.
He kept a timeline. He’s been keeping a timeline. Every shift, every surgery, every moment you stood too close or looked too long or held your breath- he was writing it down. Dating it. Building a file. Constructing a narrative in which every single thing your body did in his presence was evidence of you pursuing him, and the evidence is in Gloria Underwood’s hands right now, and it’s thick, and it has colored tabs, and it’s been here since before you walked in the door.
“Given the nature of the supervisory relationship and the severity of the allegations, you are being placed on immediate administrative suspension pending investigation, effective as of this meeting.”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You try again and what emerges is a sound that isn’t a word, is a breath, a fragment, the beginning of that’s not what happened that stalls in your larynx before your larynx has done the math that your brain hasn’t finished yet.
The math is:
He is a senior attending. Board certified orthopedic surgeon. Ten years at this hospital. Published. Respected. The kind of name that appears on department letterheads and in the acknowledgment section of textbook chapters. He has a reputation. He has colleagues. He has a record, spotless and long and documented in the same filing system that is currently absorbing this complaint.
You are an intern. Four months in. No publications, no tenure, no institutional weight. You have a shaking hand and miscounted screws and a performance record that he has been personally authoring for your entire rotation.
Who is Gloria going to believe?
Who is anyone going to believe?
The intern who can’t hold a retractor steady? The one who freezes on approaches and forgets to count hardware and cries in parking garages? The one who ended up naked in her attending’s car at midnight?
Or the attending who has spent months carefully, meticulously, documentably expressing concern about a subordinate’s fixation.
“During the suspension period,” Gloria is saying. “You are not to enter clinical areas, access patient records, or make contact with Dr. Park directly or through intermediaries.”
You turn your head.
Park is looking at Gloria. He’s been looking at Gloria the entire time. Sitting in the chair with his coffee and his crossed ankle, and his face arranged in an expression of restrained concern; brows drawn, mouth set, carefully composed like a man navigating a difficult situation with professionalism and grace. He looks like someone this is being done to. He looks like a man who tried his best with a troubled intern and is now dealing with the unfortunate consequences of his own generosity.
He is sitting in this chair, hours after his teeth were in your neck and his cock inside you and his hands on your hips dragging you down onto him while he told you that riding him was the only thing you were competent at and he looks troubled.
Something happens behind your face. Not tears. Something past tears, something drier and more dangerous. A sensation like the moment before something snaps, the last frame of structural integrity, the instant where the material is still holding its shape but the forces have already exceeded its capacity and the failure is inevitable, just not yet visible.
“Do you have anything to add,” Gloria asks you.
You're still looking at Park.
He turns his head. Finally. Slowly. Meets your eyes for the first time since you walked in.
His face is still wearing the mask. The concern, the gravity, the restrained compassion of the Wronged-Mentor. It’s flawless. Every muscle recruited, every micro expression calibrated, the kind of performance that could only be produced by someone who’s been rehearsing it for a very long time.
But his eyes.
In the space behind the performance, in the deep architecture of his gaze, where the mask doesn’t quite reach, there’s something looking back at you that makes your blood crystallize in your veins.
It’s not guilt. It’s not satisfaction. It’s not even cruelty.
It’s patience.
The bottomless, immovable patience of a man who built something and is now watching it work.
He holds your gaze for two seconds. Then he turns back to Gloria and picks up his coffee and drinks and the meeting continues, and the folder stays open, and your badge is collected, and you walk out of the hospital at seven forty one am wearing a turtleneck in September and it’s sunny outside and the sky is very blue and you don’t remember driving home.
(And Park watches you leave, coffee in hand. You look very small. Smaller than you looked in scrubs, which is saying a lot, because you already looked like a stiff breeze would snap you in half-
(And the first part is done. Solved. He doesn’t have to watch you bite your lip when you concentrate anymore, doesn’t have to correct the angle of your hands and pretend the contact is clinical. Doesn’t have to stand behind you during a procedure and smell your shampoo and keep his hands professional while he vividly imagines what he’d do to you if the room was empty-
(Four months of that. Four months of keeping his hands on the instruments instead of on your waist, of watching your throat move when you swallow and thinking about his teeth there, of memorizing the exact pitch of your voice when you’re nervous because he wanted to know what it would sound like under him, or fucking his fist to the memory of the little punched out breath you made when you startled coming out of the supply closet, imagining you making that sound with his fist in your hair and his cock grinding against your cervix-
(And you’ll spiral. That’s fine. That’s the design. You’ll go home and fall apart and burn through the anger hot and fast the way you burn through everything, and then the anger will run out and what’s left will be the silence. No OR. No corrections. No one watching. No one who knows you hold your breath when you’re nervous or that your left hand shakes first or that you haven’t been eating enough or sleeping enough or taking care of yourself the way someone should be taking care of you. The way he would, if you’d stop being so fucking difficult about it-
(Give it three weeks. Maybe four. You’ll reach for your phone. You won’t call, not yet. But the intervals between looking at his name and putting the phone down will shrink every time until eventually you just stop putting it down. And he’ll answer when he’s ready, and you’ll be crying, and he’ll listen the way he always listens to you you- completely- because that’s the drug and he’s the only supply you’ve got left.
(Pavlov’s dog with a prettier face. He spent four months ringing the bell- every correction a tap, every silence a withhold, every rare scrape of approval timed to land when you were most desperate for it- and now that the bell is gone and you’re salivating into nothing, confused and aching and reaching for the only hand that ever fed you even though it’s the same hand that kept you starving-
(He’ll feed you. Get your weight back up. Move you into his place once you can’t make rent. He’ll frame it as practical. You’ll be grateful. And in six months you’ll be standing in his kitchen in his T-shirt and you’ll look up when he walks in with that open, searching expression- the same one you used to give him across the operating table- checking his face for what he wants you to do next, his pretty obedient wife, trained so fucking well-
toxic attending! dennis who inherited some of robby’s..unsavory traits, he has a bit of an affinity for bedding med students. he’s not brazen about it, no. it’s a slow development, testing the waters really. he’s weirdly sweet about it, more intimate. a gentle hand a kind word…
“so much potential” he says. voice full of nothing but pride.
brings you in on the interesting cases under the guise of teaching which technically, he is. talking you through procedures softly always standing a bit too close. tips of his shoes brushing the backs of yours. his breath on the back of your neck causing you to waiver, indiscernible to anyone else, but obvious to him. coaxing you through every incision every suture. voice steady and low.
reverberating around your skull as you take in the information. lodging deep into your brain as you attempt to concentrate. every word sliding down your spine sticking to your spinal cord in an utterly satisfying way they really shouldn’t.
then it’s the compliments, starting small. your perfume or cologne, a new hair style, how nice your smile is. he eyes you in a way that hides his intentions gaze impossibly soft— especially for what he’s thinking about doing to you. doing so that creates plausible deniability if he were to get caught in his stare.
you feel him lean towards you a moment before pulling back. you yourself leant up against the hub, ipad in hand looking over the charting for your last patients. the warmth radiating from his skin gone before you can even properly process it.
“you smell different, it’s nice.” clean, simple, like it’s an obvious observation.
“you know how I usually smell?” is what you want to say, but you don’t. you lick over your bottom lip tugging it between the blunt of your teeth and reply.
“I don’t— have anything on today. I was rushing this morning and forgot it so..”
he hums, knuckles rapping twice against the counter eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. nodding, then looking back into your eyes. something that mirrors amusement swimming in the striking blue.
“you, smell nice then.” he corrects. smiles and walks away. leaving you reeling from the small comment. the most minuscule of changes to the sentence making his words take on a completely new meaning.
—
his hands somehow always finding an excuse to rest on you. herding you in the direction he needs you in while speaking out commands. fingers resting at the base of your neck curling around the sensitive skin there. barely sparing you a glance when he feels you take in a sharp breath. nudging you when he passes, a silent way to say “follow me” incredibly pleased when you follow dutifully behind him.
always finding some exposed skin to brush over, enough to make you feel it. to feel how his touch sears at your flesh minutes after he’s long gone. hand an inch too low on your back finger tips barely dipping below your waistband in a way that can be written off as an accident.
it’s gradual, his acquisition of you. persuading a soft obedience into your psyche. molding you up into a student who feels most comfortable with him. who always looks to him, seeks him out. seeks out his guidance, his praise, his correction. it’s not hard really, not when you already look at him like he’s your answer. eyes bright and eager, he loves how eager you are. to please him specifically, you light up so brightly when you do something to his approval. like your entire body becomes feather light when he smiles at you offering kind words like wine at communion. each step bouncier than the last, smile a little wider and eyes soft.
“good work in there, not every student would have caught that.”
he muses, pulling off the bloody blue latex to dispose of it in the trash. chancing a look at you over his shoulder and the sight nearly does him in, he could almost coo. there you stand scrubs blood soaked, face sweaty with a beaming smile on your all too enticing lips. matching the glimmer in your eye and— oh, there it is, that full bodied reaction to his simple words. your entire body preening under his view.
“thank you— dr. whitaker!”
your mouth moves quicker than your mind does making your words stumble out between clumsy breaths. no doubt due to the adrenaline pumping through your veins. your pulse must be hammering through the thin flesh over top it, he’s certain. wanting to press his fingers to the line and count the beats. 115? 130? he wants to know now, right this second but he’s patient, you have to be with these things. robby taught him that much.
how far would you go to please him he wonders, how far would praise get him with you. he hates to say it but, you’re easy. so very easy it’s almost laughable. so, pretty far he assumes, far enough to have you bent over in his backseat after a shift. sun barely dipping past horizon when taking him to the hilt like it’s your job and to an extent it is because he made it that way. made it your job, one you seemingly enjoy based on how your body responds to his every touch.
he always knew you would end up beneath him, that eagerness you showed in the scrutiny of the emergency department. translating beautifully into how you throw yourself back on him trembling hands gripping the door in front of your head. meeting his thrusts like it was routine— as of now it wasn’t but soon it would be. moaning his name through the gaps in his fingers that attempt to muffle your sounds like secondary nature. never dennis though, not his name. purely his title, because that’s not who he was to you now or ever would be. he was your attending. plain and simple.
“d-octor whit—whitaker..!” you stutter. the title you’d called him so many times before now sounding completely new to his ears.
Summary: Abbot finally manages to persuade Robby into sharing you.
Warnings: Dark-ish Dr. Robby, power imbalance, implied age-gap, jealousy. Smut| eiffel tower kinda threesome, oral sex (m and f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, creampie, praising, pet names.
This is a second part to this fic, but it can be read alone
The bar was crowded. The kind of crowded you could barely hear yourself think, which is probably why Michael hadn’t shut the conversation down right away.
“C’mon, man, I know you two have your own... arrangement.” Dr. Abbot was talking, a little amused at the annoyance on his friend’s face.
Robby was acting as if what he was asking was scandalous. When, really, they both knew how many more scandalous things they’d done together.
“I’m not saying I want it to change, just- y’know...” Jack raised his brow, his gaze panning to you. “We could try once, for old time’s sake.”
Michael’s jaw ticked.
“I’m not sharing her.”
His eyes were on you too now. You were oblivious, laughing and talking with all the other residents at the table across the room.
“C’mon, you know you’d like it.” Abbot rebutted, taking a step closer to the man.
It was like you sensed something was happening. One moment you were laughing with Whitaker; the other your eyes had found the two men staring at you.
It felt as if the world froze, and all any of you could sense was each other.
“Just imagine how pretty she’ll look,” Jack was murmuring, only for Robby to hear, “with two cocks filling her up... How out of it she’ll be while we use her until she can’t take it anymore.”
Michael inhaled sharply, his traitorous mind picturing exactly what Abbot was putting in his head.
“You know you want that,” Abbot continued, sensing Robby’s breaking point closer. “You know you wanna feel her come on your cock while she moans around mine.”
The night’s attending was met with silence for a moment- that was until Dr. Robinavitch finally gave up, shaking his head as he groaned, “Fucking damnit”.
__ __ __
- I’m leaving -
The text told you all you needed to know.
It had been weeks now.
Weeks of stolen glances and murmured praises and secret texts that told you when to start saying goodbye to people so as not to seem suspicious when Dr. Robby left too.
At the end of most shifts, you ended up going home with Micheal, sometimes you even spent the night.
You were, as he put it, his special girl. And it was a feeling like no other.
The only thing that was hard was pretending like nothing ever happened while you were at work. You caught yourself slipping up more times than you liked to admit.
Sometimes it was a reference to “last night,” sometimes it was a touch that lingered too long, or a stare that conveyed too much... thankfully, however, no one seemed to suspect anything.
Or at least no one had brought it up with you.
You made your round of goodbyes, and with the excuse of being tired, you finally managed to get out of the bar.
The chilly night’s air greeted you as the doors closed behind you.
You shivered, closing your jacket as you started to walk to where you knew Michael’s car was parked.
The streetlamps illuminated the sidewalk with a soft glow as silence wrapped around you.
There was no one out.
No one except...
Dr. Abbot was leaning on a car you knew all too well.
Shit.
What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t exactly stop there now. What were you gonna tell him? That you were waiting on your attending so he could take you back to his home and fuck you?
Not to mention the fact you didn’t want Michael to see you talking to Jack- hell, him flirting with you was the reason all of this started.
You were planning to just give him a little nod of acknowledgment and keep walking, when, to your dismay, he shattered all your plans.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You skidded to a stop, trying to think of what to say.
“Dr. Abbot. Hi,” you finally regained the ability to speak, conceding him a quick smile.
“You can come closer, I don’t bite,” he chuckled.
His arms were crossed against his chest as he watched you with amusement.
You must have looked dumb, blinking up at him from five feet away.
“I just... I was making my way home,” you lied, your voice weak.
“You sure?” his lips pulled into a smirk.
“I-” you trailed off, watching the look in his eyes intently.
And in an instant, it clicked.
He knew.
“Do you... Do you know?” you asked, your voice low as you hurried closer to him.
Again, he laughed as he looked you up and down, seemingly happy with what he found.
“I know a lot of things, sugar,” he murmured, his fingers moving some hair out of your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek,
His touch warmed your skin like liquid fire, sending shivers to places they had no business going.
“I know you’re very beautiful,” he murmured softly, his words caressing your skin. “I know that even if you try to hide it, you like looking at me...”
“Stop,” you whispered, biting your lip, “y- you shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t do what?” he hummed, his eyes falling to your lips as he leaned closer.
Your heart picked up like a hummingbird. You could almost feel his lips on yours, his beard on your skin, and his hand in your hair- when someone cleared his throat to your right.
Fuck.
You gasped, jumping back as if Abbot’s touch had turned scorching hot.
Dr. Robinavitch was right there, looking at what was happening- looking at you.
“We weren’t- nothing happened,” you blurted out immediately, eliciting a cackle from Abbot.
You were expecting to see anger in Michael’s eyes, but when you looked closer... There was just some jealousy; the rest was something else.
“It’s ok, baby,” he reassured you.
“R-really?”
He gave you a simple nod, and you sighed shakily with relief.
Your breathing was starting to get back to normal, but as you watched the two men before you, a weird sensation overwhelmed you.
Michael had moved to stand beside Jack, and both their eyes were on you.
You’d noticed them before,talking in the bar while looking at you, but you just assumed it was something to do with work, but now it felt... different.
What the hell was going on?
“You ever been to Paris, sweetheart?”
It was Abbot’s voice that broke the silence.
“Jesus,” Robby laughed, shaking his head.
Huh?
“W-what?” you murmured, confused.
But they simply looked at each other, a grin on both their lips.
“Nothing, baby, just get in the car.”
__ __ __
You felt dazed as you followed Dr. Robby into his apartment.
The door closed behind Abbot with a loud click, and you almost jumped.
You had no clue what was going on. You had no idea how you were supposed to act.
You certainly couldn’t behave like you did when you and Michael were alone, but it’s not like he remembered that.
He’d already touched you inappropriately, and you hadn’t known how to react.
This was all so confusing.
“You want something to drink?”
While Jack answered positively behind you, you could only shake your head no.
Dr. Robinavitch smiled for a moment before walking to the kitchen, leaving you alone with the other man.
“Let’s get on the couch, yeah?”
When did he get so close?
His breath was fanning your neck, causing shivers down your spine.
“Mh-mh,” you hummed, complying.
You stared at your hands as he sat beside you.
“You don’t have to be nervous, sweetheart,” he spoke gently.
His voice was tinged with a delicious warmth.
“I just... I don’t really know what’s happening.”
Abbot couldn’t help but grin as his index finger guided your face up to look at him.
“We’re just here to... enjoy each other’s company,” he murmured, looking at you sweetly. “You don’t enjoy being around me?”
“No, I do,” you nodded shily.
“And you enjoy being with Robby?”
“Y-yes”
“That’s good,” Abbot bit down a proud smile as he moved closer, his fingers toying with your hair. “I bet he makes you enjoy yourself a lot.”
You choked on nothing at those words, heat spreading on your cheeks like wildfire.
“W-what? I-I”
I mean, it’s not like he was wrong. Dr. Robinavitch was definitely the best sex you’d ever had.
“It’s ok, sugar,” he shook his head, caressing your cheek soothingly. “I’m sure he does. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Your breathing quickened, “Y-you shouldn’t know that.”
“Oh, Robby doesn’t care that I know what you two do,” he grinned, his gaze shifting behind you as Michael came into the living room. “Do you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to turn and look at the man.
“Can’t say that I do.”
The answer shocked you. Why didn’t he want anyone else to know, but Abbot was fine? That made no sense.
“W-why?”
Michael was shrugging, finally in your line of sight now. He handed a beer to Abbot and sat on your other side, taking a swing of his own bottle.
“’Cause sweetheart...” Jack murmured, placing the beer on the coffee table next to him, before letting his hand slowly move to your thigh, “Robby and me... we’ve got a history.”
You swallowed, trying to make sense of his words.
“A history?” you repeated, watching each man questioningly.
A beat passed, then two.
“A history of sharing women, sweetheart,” Jack spoke softly, but your heart skipped a beat nevertheless.
Did he just say...
“You’re in a rush,” Robby commented, arching a brow at the other man.
“I’ve been wanting this for a long time,” Abbot answered truthfully, his eyes only on you.
Your heart was pounding in your chest, and yet you felt almost hypnotized by the look in Abbott’s eyes.
He just grinned, his fingers leaving your face as he reached for his beer and took a sip.
“At the same time?”
It felt dirty to even say it, but the lava-like heat low in your belly was everlasting.
The things you were picturing...
“Yes, baby,” Robby spoke now, his hand finding your other thigh.
“Y-you mean...” you couldn’t even finish the sentence, your brain was short-circuiting.
“Yes, sugar.” Michael leaned closer, kissing you slowly without any warning. “We like to fuck women at the same time.”
You were pretty sure you weren’t breathing anymore.
Both their hands and stares were on you, and you felt like you could have died.
“Is that something you’d be interested in?” Abbot asked, his gaze burning.
“I’ve never done anything... like that.”
You glanced at the beer bottles forgotten on the coffee table, trying to calm yourself.
“We’ll teach you, sweetheart.”
You gulped as Robby asked, “So?”
You looked at each of them, eyes wide, breathing erratic, and the answer was out before you could stop it.
“Yes”
I mean, it’s not like it was much of a tough question- You couldn’t think of one person on this earth that would turn the opportunity down.
Robby’s lips pulled into a smirk.
“Good girl,” he praised you, before crashing his mouth with yours.
You whimpered into the kiss as he tasted you like he owned you- the kiss was hard, branding, and it left you breathless.
He pulled away way too soon, but then he nodded to Abbot, and you felt about to combust.
Was this really happening?
Your question was answered in a matter of seconds, because as soon as you turned around, Abbot was leaning closer.
His kiss started softer, like he was trying to test out the water, or perhaps trying to hold himself back.
But then something switched, your tongue started exploring his mouth too, and he groaned, as his movements turned desperate... hungry.
His hands gripped your face as he forced you impossibly close to him, and he made a point of tasting every single inch of you until he could barely breathe.
Your puffy lips caused a smile to Jack’s face as he leaned away.
He really had been wanting to do this for a long time.
“Let’s go to the bedroom.” Robby’s voice broke the thick silence.
__ __ __
You were sitting on the bed like you’d been told to, watching with a mix of anxiety and excitement as the two men glanced at each other, communicating silently, before looking back at you.
You had so many questions- you wanted to ask how any of this was gonna work, you wanted to ask what was gonna happen... but no words could make it out of your mouth.
They were silent too. Not in your panicky way, but in a calm, confident way.
Jack moved first, walking to you before slowly kneeling down. His hands fell to your legs, and butterflies filled your stomach.
“Let’s get you out of these clothes, yeah?”
Robby rounded the bed, the mattress creaking underneath his weight as he came to kneel behind you.
Wordlessly, Jack undid your pants while Robby helped you out of your shirt.
In moments, you sat there in only a pair of panties and a bra.
You would have felt self-conscious, if it wasn’t for the adoration blanketing the men’s eyes.
Michael took off your bra, and you watched Abbot’s jaw tick as his eyes fell to your naked chest.
He didn’t move - it was Robby who initiated the dance.
His mouth fell to your neck, leaving hot, wet kisses on it while his hands traveled up to cup your tits hard, squeezing and groping as he groaned against your neck.
Your eyes were on Abbot as you bit your bottom lip, trying and failing to silence your moans.
It was a weird feeling, having someone watch such an intimate moment... but it was extraordinary too.
It took a moment for Jack to snap out of it, but once he did, he just smirked at you as he slowly peeled your panties off.
You held your breath, your hand shooting to Michael’s hair as he sucked on a spot behind your ear that made you feel dizzy.
Abbot couldn’t resist anymore, as much as he enjoyed the show, he guided your legs to open, watching with twisted satisfaction your whole heat come into view for him.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed, leaning down further, his fingers gripping the outside of your thighs, “You’ve got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”
You only whimpered as he moved your legs to rest on his shoulders, his breath fanning to your core while his lips started to leave taunting kisses on the inside of your thighs.
Soft whines left your throat as his stubble grazed your skin, his mouth inching closer to where you needed it, but never fully reaching it.
You tried to wiggle your hips to get him closer, but all that caused was a smirk on Jack’s lips and a sudden bite to your skin.
You yelped, causing both men to laugh.
“Please,” you mumbled, your chest heaving.
“Begging already?” Abbot shook his head, chuckling as he continued to torture you.
“Jack’s taking his sweet time, huh?” Robby spoke to your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
You nodded desperately, hoping he’d get on your side and tell the man to get to work... only of course, Robby absolutely loved seeing you like this.
“I wanna enjoy this,” Jack spoke in between kisses, and now licks, to your sensitive skin. “Who knows when you’re gonna let me do this again.”
“If.” Robby corrected him immediately, moving your hair to the side to grant some attention to other spots on your throat. “If I’m gonna let you do this again.”
“See?” Abbot arched a brow, laughing softly as he looked at you. “He’s seriously possessive about you, sweetheart- You really cast a spell on him.”
You couldn’t help but smile at that. The thought of you being so special to Robby... it did things to you.
The distraction lasted only so long, because soon Jack was back at kissing your skin and you were back at whining.
“I’ll give you something to keep you occupied, baby, don’t worry.”
With that, Robby undid his zipper, quickly guiding you to lie down and taking his cock out of his pants.
He pulled your head on his lap, giving his dick a quick squeeze.
“Open up.”
In a second, you found yourself sucking his big tip into your mouth.
“That’s it, baby, that’s it.” Robby inhaled sharply, moving your hair out of the way.
You wanted to do a good job, but the moment you felt Abbot’s lips on your mound, the task kind of fell into the background.
You looked, as much as you could, down at Jack, as he finally gave you what you wanted.
In seconds, all that teasing was forgotten. The man was starving.
His tongue delved into your slick pussy like he’d been waiting his whole life for it. He was licking and kissing and sucking everything he could find, and you were already over the moon.
“Fuck- you taste amazing,” Abbot groaned.
You moaned around Robbys cock, as Jack’s lips began focusing on your clit, stretching it and sucking it into his mouth enough to drive you crazy, just to stop and focus everywhere else.
The room filled with the sound of his feasting and your pathetic attempt at giving Robby head.
Abbot’s nose was deep inside your core as his tongue delved into your hole, eating you out from within and making you see stars.
Your back arched from the bed, but his strong hands quickly pulled you back down.
His biceps were bulging against his shirt, and his eyes were laser-focused on you, watching every single proof of his good job cross your face.
“Jack’s making you feel good?”
You nodded desperately, looking up at Robby, one of your hands gripping his forearm as his friend made out with your pussy.
“Yeah? So much so, you forgot how to suck my cock?”
Those words sent a wave of something desperate through you as you immidiately began trying to bob your head and suck more of him into your mouth.
You looked up at him with apology, trying to please him as much as you could in the position you were in.
“Have mercy on her, Robby,” Jack spoke against your core, shooting delicious vibrations through your body. “Who knows when’s the last time someone ate her out this is good,” he smirked, shooting you a wink. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”
Heat invaded your face as you pretended not to hear, all the while not being able to silence your moans.
He really was spectacular at it.
It’s not like Dr. Robby didn’t eat you out, it’s just that it was different... Robby was quick, aggressive; he was a taker. He made you come as if you owed it to him- while Abbot... he was taking his time tasting all of you, showing love to every inch of you, and just simply... giving.
You were making a mess, you were drenched and slick all over, and you could see your juices all over Jack’s face, but he simply kept going, groaning into you in pleasure as he dined.
“Mmmph-” You hummed around Robby’s cock once Jack finally started focusing on your clit again, your free hand moving to grasp his silver locks.
He watched you like a hawk, gripping your thighs as he quite simply decided to put an end to this torture and make you come.
Which he did- in an embarrassing short amount of time, you found yourself crying out like a madwoman as a tsunami of pleasure washed over you.
You regained consciousness as Jack’s lips found your stomach, starting a trail that led him all the way to your mouth.
Robby had taken his cock out of your mouth somewhere in the meantime.
Abbot kissed you softly, letting you taste yourself as your hands cradled his face, palm against his humid stubble.
“You did real good, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded as you tried to calm your breathing.
He smiled, kissing you once more before leaning away and off of you until he was standing up.
It was then that you noticed Michael was already undressing, and renewed heat pooled in your belly as both men stood shirtless in front of you.
“I wanna look at her,” Jack spoke to his friend as he got rid of his pants.
Robby looked at him for a moment as he did the same, appearing almost annoyed with the request.
“Fine. As long as you don’t come inside her.”
At that, Abbot’s lips pulled into a grin and he shook his head, looking at you as he muttered, “So possessive.”
You wanted to smile, but then Jack took off his underwear, and all thoughts left your head.
Your mouth hung slightly open as you blatantly admired him. His pecs, his strong, broad chest, the V-shape pointing downwards to his big, huge cock...
“You can handle it, sweetheart,” he winked, slowly stepping towards you.
Without so much as a warning, he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the mattress and legs spread for him.
He wasn’t much bigger than Robby; he was just girthier.
You glanced at Michael, swallowing dryly.
He was still wearing underwear as he watched the scene unfold.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this.
“You’re gonna be good for Jack, baby?”
You nodded mindlessly, whining softly as Abbot gripped his dick and slid it against your slick folds.
“I’m sure you will, sugar,” he smiled, leaning down to kiss you quickly. “You’ll have to forgive me if I can’t fuck you missionary, it’s kind of hard with my leg,” he murmured against your mouth.
He was saying it mostly for himself. It was at times like this that he hated what had happened to him- getting robbed of normalcy, not being able to do what so many took for granted. Not being able to kiss the woman he was fucking, just because of his fucking prosthetic, angered him much more than it should have.
Your eyes panned down to his right leg, nodding slowly “It’s ok,” you murmured.
With that, he kissed you once more before standing upright again.
With how wet he’d made you, he managed to slip into you with ease... or the first inch at least.
Your back arched from the bed as he retracted his hips and thrust into you, repeating the routine over and over again until he was finally fully seated inside of you.
You cried out his name as you fisted the sheets under you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he gripped the outside of your legs.
“Fuck me,” he groaned, stopping for a moment to regain some sort of control. “So tight for me, sweetheart.”
You could only moan in response, the feeling of being so full rendering you a putty mess.
“Please,” you murmured, your hips trying to move to gain friction, “Please, Dr. Abbot.”
“You want me to move?” he taunted.
You nodded feverishly, eyes shut as your heart beat like crazy in your chest.
Yes, please.
“Look at me,” he ordered, watching you comply in a second, “Like that, good girl.”
Your eyes met his, and just like that- he started fucking you.
Your breath got stuck in your throat as his dick began plunging into you over and over again, balls slapping against your ass as you felt him reach parts so deep inside of you that had you curling your toes.
You were whimpering with every thrust, your pussy barely able to stretch around all of him.
“So pretty,” Jack grumbled as he started going harder, faster, shutting your brain down altougether.
You were so lost in Abbot’s gaze that you didn’t notice Robby walking to the end of the bed, right where your head lay.
He was fisting his cock slowly, watching you take his friend’s dick like a champ, until he couldn’t simply look anymore.
Without speaking a single word, he turned your head towards him, guiding your mouth to open with a thumb to your bottom lip.
“R-robby,” you cried out, pupils filled with ecstasy as they almost rolled to the back of your head.
Abbot was making you feel that good.
“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, impatiently guiding his cock into your mouth.
This time, you didn't even try to suck it. You were too far gone.
Thankfully, however, he took pity on you and simply started using your mouth as he would with your pussy.
The feeling of both of them inside you... both of them using you however they pleased made you feel on top of the world.
You were hot all over, drooling around Michael’s shaft while soaking Jack’s.
Both men were groaning in pleasure, a choir of sounds that made you feel close to the edge even faster.
“Doing so good for us, baby,” Michael groaned, looking down at you almost proudly as he abused your throat.
You were gagging, tears welling in your eyes as your right hand went to grip his waist, needing something to keep you grounded- keep you sane.
“Jack’s making you feel good?”
“Mh-mh,” you nodded as best as you could, glancing at the man furiously fucking you.
“Yeah, I am,” He growled, his movements frantic, desperate, “I can feel you squeezing me, sugar.”
You could feel every ridge and vein of his dick against your velvety walls, claiming every inch of you as if he wanted to leave an invisible mark.
“Taking me so good, sweetheart,” he murmured, “So deep.”
You could only moan in response, involuntarily squeezing him tighter and eliciting a deep rumble from his chest.
“Let me hear her.”
Michael hesitated a second before complying, pulling himself out of your mouth.
Immidiately, you were moaning like crazy into the thick air, your eyes on Jack’s.
He was gonna remember those sounds for the rest of his life.
“Fuck” he grumbled as you whimpered for him, “You’re gonna come for me?”
“Y-yes,” you couldn’t help but mumble the truth, “Please Dr. A-Abbott- please.”
“Jack, sweetheart,” he smiled, “Call me Jack when I’m fucking you.”
You nodded, biting your lip.
“Oh!” you squeaked as Michael’s hand materialized on your clit. “O-Oh my god- Jack- I-I-”
“I know sugar, come for me,” he breathed, “come around my cock like a good girl.”
You glanced at Robby, and when he nodded in encouragement, you couldn’t help but let go.
The tension in your belly exploded with the force of a volcano as your orgasm took over your body.
You writhed and moaned and cried, eyes shut in pleasure, until you could finally remember where you were again.
Jack was still slowly thrusting into you, letting you ride out your high, but the movements were very quickly turning overstimulating.
You could only whine, opening your eyes up again as you tried to scoot away from him.
“Too much?”
“Y-yes,” you nodded, biting your lip.
He smirked, eyes falling to where you were still swallowing him up. “I’d love to get another one out of you, but I think someone’s getting impatient.”
Your eyes panned to the man next to him, eyes dark and cock angry... yes, he indeed seemed impatient.
You gave Jack a lopsided smile, already feeling fucked out of your mind, and he finally pulled out of you.
It was a miracle he’d managed not to bust inside you.
“Get on your hands and knees, baby.”
You felt weak as you obeyed Michael’s command. Your legs were barely holding your weight as you got into position, but it was when you felt Robby climb onto the bed and slide his dick against your folds, when Jack came into view, standing before you, his cock right in line with your face- that you gulped.
You had no clue how you were gonna survive this.
“I-I,” you stuttered nervously, looking at Robinavitch behind you.
He only shushed you as his palm stroked your ass, and he started guiding himself into your core.
“Shh, baby,” he cooed, “You can do it- I know you can... now be good and suck Jack’s cock while I fuck you, yeah?”
You swallowed the sand in your throat, trying to stifle your moans as he filled you up.
“You want to be a good girl for me, right, baby? For us?”
Finally, you nodded. Of course you did.
You looked back at Abbot as Michael seated himself completely inside of you.
You cried out, your body and consequently your face sliding forward with the thrust, making your lips come in contact with Jack’s tip.
Having it right in front of you like this made a completely different effect. Trimmed gray hair adorned his base, and his cock looked even bigger up close.
You eyed his member worriedly before looking up at him.
He smiled at the look in your eyes, his hand shifting to move some hair away from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek to caress your skin.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he soothed you, gently guiding his dick into your mouth.
His head fell back, hissing under his breath as you instinctively hollowed your cheeks.
“Jesus,” he groaned, his hand going to fist your hair in a makeshift bun as you began working him into your mouth, all the while looking up at him like a literal angel.
Michael needed to speed things up because he was already much too close to the edge.
Thankfully, it was like the other man heard him and did exactly that.
Robby’s pace quickened and hardened at the same time. His thrusts turning brutal, scathing, and leaving you a complete mess.
You could feel him everywhere, every single cell in your body was being overriden by how good he was making you feel.
He was fucking you like he always did. He claimed you, fingers buried into your skin enough to bruise, and cock so deep inside of you, you’d feel like something was missing the moment he pulled out.
Actual tears dampened your cheeks as his pace forced you to gag around Jack’s cock.
“Good girl,” Michael groaned, landing a quick slap on your ass, “take it, like that- good.”
“Doing so good, sweetheart,” Abbot breathed from above you, knuckles white with the effort not to come in your mouth much earlier than he wanted to.
You were moaning around him, nothing but a doll at their mercy as your body moved however they wanted.
You weren’t in control anymore- not that you ever were- but now you felt truly so out of it you almost wondered if you’d already fallen asleep and this was just a hot, lucid dream.
As spent as you felt, however, a burning, familiar feeling started coiling low in your belly.
Michael’s hand reached your tits, his fingers toying with your nipples, before suddenly pinching your right one, and that feeling only heightened.
Your walls were strangling Robby’s cock as you struggled to keep your eyes open.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, “Fuck- that’s it.”
His fingers found your bundle of nerves, and it was like the pearly gates of heaven opened up for you.
Your muffled cries sounded through the room as, once again, you reached your peak.
“Good girl— come for me.”
Jack didn’t even try to hold it anymore and came with a loud grunt, forcing himself as deep as he could down your throat and painting it all white.
“I’m gonna fill you up now-” Robby was hissing, his thrusts turning sloppy as he got closer and closer “Gonna give it all to you, baby— all of it.”
And that’s exactly what he did. He filled you up with a growl, flushing his pevis with your ass in one brutal final thrust.
Your legs trembled as you dropped onto the bed, eyes closed and breathing erratic.
Both men were staring at you, at the come leaking out of your core, at the mess that had become of your hair, at the flush on your cheeks... and they couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Fuck, man,” Robby shook his head, still out of breath.
“Told you it’d be worth it.” Jack grinned, patting the man’s back.
frank looks so pretty on his knees staring up at you
those big blue eyes are so pitiful and needy and desperate and he knows it kills you
he's a big fan of dropping to his knees after you tell him he's being a dick, picking some stupid argument with you after he had a bad day at work
he's defiant for a while and then just "i know baby, i know, i'm the worst… let me make it up to you?'
and it gets you every time because you're only human!
his mouth is good for arguing but also good when it's lapping at your core, whimpering into your heat and all over you like you're the best thing he's ever tasted
frank gets so into eating you out, too — he palms himself while he's on his knees, face buried so deep in you you're a little scared he can't breathe (he would happily suffocate there)
you eventually have to pull him off of you and he whines when you pull his hair, his eyes glazed over when he looks up at you
he starts begging after that — "please, please baby, anything you want. you can take anything you want from me. please just let me make you feel good."
yousharknotpass
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
prguitarman
pixelskylines
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
romaincrisis
