Summary: Brendon notices his favourite resident has been a little off recently, and when he finds out why he is morally obligated to help out
Warnings: Power imbalance, work place romance, daddy kink, face/pussy slapping, (wet) panty gag
Word count: 2k
Brendon noticed everything. He’d noticed your patience thin as you were called to the ER for a consult that was unnecessary, he’d noticed the slightly duller tinge to your complexion, he’d noticed you taking a beat longer than normal when answering his questions on the process of the attachment of Mr Lisbon’s finger this morning. And now he was noticing that slight tremor in your hand as you stood across from him over a patient.
He told himself he would worry about any resident if he noticed these things, but even he wasn’t convinced. Any other resident would be asked how they expected a patient to hold any respect in their diagnosis and treatment plan if they were so clearly incapable of looking after themselves. But not you. You, he wanted to take home, wrap up in a blanket safe from the world. He would solve each and every one of your concerns as easily as smoothing out the crease between your brows with his thumb, until all the weight was lifted from your shoulders and you were nothing but soft and sweet for him.
“Doctor Park?” He’d been staring again. He blinked at you, sizing you up.
“Swap out.” He gestured with his head for one of the other residents in the back of the OR.
He hated watching your face crumple in response, but the fact you didn’t fight him was a testament to how far gone whatever this was had gotten. Park heard the snickers and whispers that followed you out, he could imagine what they were thinking. That the two of you were fighting (he hoped not), that he’d gotten sick or bored of your (never), that you’d fucked something up (impossible). His head turned slightly to the notice, his eyes never leaving the operating table, but the residents caught it. The noise stopped. That wouldn’t be enough to save them.
The rest of the surgery went well, he handed off to Garcia and went to find you. It wasn’t hard, you were sitting in his office. You felt comfortable here, had spent enough time at the small table in the middle of the room together pouring over case files and journals. Even sharing take out after one particularly bad shift.
You jumped when the door opened and stopped your pacing. “Are you going to tell me what is going on?” He’d ask once, a professional courtesy something only you seemed to get from him.
“Doctor Park, it's nothing. I just haven’t been sleeping.” His eyes were drawing to your hands where you were nervously picking the skin around your nails. You were lying to him and he had had enough.
He stalked towards you, his large frame quickly dwarfing you as you took a step back finding his large desk at your back. He raised an eye brow, his gaze dropping to your mouth as your tongue darted out to wet your lips.
“I just, it's nothing! I should go” you tried to straighten up but he didn’t move. Your hand almost involuntarily came up to his chest, as you tried not to think about (or squeeze) the firm muscle under your palm. You pushed but he didn’t move.
“You know I don’t like to repeat myself.” You could feel the vibrations of chest as he spoke against your palm. You cast your eyes down to look at his feet. His leather shoes shining a stark contrast to the black rubber of yours.
“I’ve just been a little frustrated recently, okay it's no big deal and nothing you need to be sticking your big nose in.” you could hear the pout in your voice as you said it.
Brendon’s hand gripped your face tilting you up to look at him, he squished your cheeks together as you determinedly looked anywhere but at him. “It is a big deal I need to stick my big nose into if it is affecting patient care. So I will give you one final chance to tell me yourself. Why is your hand shaking in my OR.” The reminder of what you do here was like cold water through your veins. Of course Brendon cared you could kill someone because you were so distracted. Hot tears welled up in your eyes threatening to spill but Brendon remained unmoved.
“I can’t cum” your voice was so quiet he hardly heard it over the background noise of the hospital. But he had, and it was like his brain whited out. The thought of you in bed with your legs spread desperately playing with your clit or pushing your fingers into your pussy trying to get off but just making yourself more needy and desperate. He needed to hear your little whimpers more than he needed air at that moment.
You whined and he realised he was squishing your face hard as the images of you flew through his mind. He let you go and watched you pout at the loss of his hand on you. “Poor baby, how long has it been since you came? I bet you are aching for it aren’t you?” His tone was thick with condescension, not that you noticed anything. He tried not to laugh at how hard you were nodding your head at him.
“Been weeks. I need to cum so bad I can’t think about anything else. I can’t focus at all, it's awful.” A few of those tears escaped and Brendon watched them race down your cheek before swiping one with his thumb and bringing it to his lips to taste.
His hands gripped your hips, lifting you onto his desk and pushing himself between your legs. It was unprofessional, improper, and grounds for termination but all he could see were your bright wet eyes begging him to help you. He was really doing this for the patients and your care, it was a completely selfless act.
“You know my rules. You need help, you ask for it.” He had lots of rules, they weren’t written down and he expected his residents to know them back to front within a few weeks. He thought it was important to recognise when you need help and to have the humility to ask for it, something a lot of his colleagues lacked. But not you, never you.
Brendon rolled his eyes at your display. He reached up to your face, but before you could lean into it he lightly slapped your face. It wasn’t hard, just enough to settle you. “I know you can do better than that.”
“Please” you whined looking at him, trying to subtly rub yourself against his leg the pressure hot against you.
You were pretty sure your scrub pants were showing the signs of how desperately you needed the Shark to stop teasing and fuck you. Your breath was fast and shallow, your brain a hazy mess of need and want. You turned your head into the hand still resting on your warm cheek and sucked his thumb into his mouth. Your tongue swirled around it a few times before you sucked it as deep as you could into your mouth. You let go with a wet pop letting the string of drool break and land on your chin.
“Please Brendon. I need you to make me cum. Please you fingers are so big” your wide glassy eyes were staring at them. “Kept thinking about how they would feel inside me watching you in surgery. How good they would feel holding me in place so I can’t do anything but take what you give me. I need to be so full of you I can’t think anymore. Need my brain to be so overwhelmed that I can’t think about anything else but you and how you make me feel.” His face was close to yours now he could feel your hot breath fanning over his face at each plea for him.
“Once we do this there is no going back baby, you’ll be mine. I can’t do things by halves, not with you. If you want to leave now, go and sleep this off we’ll never mention it again.” Your hands flew to his neck gripping him like a vice scared he would leave.
“I want it. All of it. With you.” You were rubbing yourself against him again, the whole thing too much you were convinced this was a dream.
“Are you sure?”
“I thought you didn’t like to repeat yourself?” The last part came out in an almost shriek as your found your back against the large desk and the man who had featured in every fantasy since you started at PMTC above you.
Your scrubs were quickly pulled down and you felt Brendon’s hands press down into your thighs as he ran his hands up your legs. “You smell fucking incredible baby. You’ve soaked your panties.” His thumb ghosted over the thin piece of fabric covering your pussy, making you shiver and goosebumps to appear on your thighs. “This all for me sweetheart? This how needy you get thinking about Daddy playing with you?” You let out a high pitched whine at his teasing.
Brendon’s tongue ran along your panties before sucking on your clit through them. He sighed, stopping at you moaning loudly again. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself you with you making so much noise hm? Do you want the rest of the team barging in here to find you laying out like this dripping all over your boss’ desk like a slut?” It wouldn’t happen, most were in a surgery that would still take a few hours, and the door was locked. The screams of a victim being murdered in this room also wouldn’t be enough for any on of the staff on this floor to so much a knock on the Shark’s office door.
“Nooo please I’ll be good Daddy just don’t stop please!” You hiccuped. The idea he might stop almost bringing you to tears. You were so close already just from him being so close to you.
“Hmm” Brendon mused as he pulled your panties slower down your legs, watching the sting of wetness connecting them your cunt. Once they were off he looked back at you, your wide eyes and already messy hair, and smirked. “It’s okay baby, Daddy couldn’t stop if he tried. But I am going to help you be a good girl, okay?” You nodded looking like prey.
Brendon leaned over you “open” he demanded and you did. His fingers pushed into your mouth making it open wider as he pressed the wet centre of your panties down against your tongue. Tears filled your eyes again and the humiliation burned so sweetly through you. “Do you like tasting what a messy little girl you are for me?” He used the leverage of his fingers in your mouth to move your head into a nod, making you whine and flush. “Good girl” he groaned, pushing the rest of the fabric into your mouth.
Next went your scrub top, pushed up under your chin so the Shark could mouth and bite at your tits, leaving you to try and grind against him before he held you firmly down against the desk. “Now now, what was that about wanting to just take what I give you, hm?” His tone was like syrup all sickly sweet and fucking addictive.
“Was that all it took, baby? Don’t worry you can give me more, Daddy isn’t finished with you yet.” You looked up at his smiling face, looking every bit the predator of the sea.
His hand came down hard on your cunt, the slap echoing around the room. The heat bloomed causing you to hiss and bite down on the panties, your mouth constantly filled with the taste of your own need. Your hips bucked in response, your thighs shaking and toes curling as you felt yourself finally cum. It was quick, your poor pussy clenching around nothing and aching to be filed. Your chest heaved against him as you tried to focus back on the present.
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
⟡ READ ON AO3 ⚚ PITT MASTERLIST
There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
plot! joker kidnaps you, jason's girlfriend, and take his revenge on jason and the bats. he wants to see jason suffer and after all he's gone through, his only weak spot now is you. 7,2k words
warnings: contains violence, torture, kidnapping, mention of blood and injuries. real angst with happy ending. hurt/comfort. don't read if uncomfortable!
a/n: thanks for the request sweetie i love angst and my poor boy's been through so much. hope y'all enjoy!
part two
The Joker had been watching Jason Todd for weeks.
Not in the obvious way, no flashing teeth in the alleys, no maniacal laughter echoing across rooftops. No, Joker was smarter than that when it came to the Bats.
He knew how to get under the skin of the family. And Jason Todd, oh, Jason… the boy with too much fire in him, the one who came back from death with scars so deep they bled through every word he spoke.
Joker didn’t need to kill him again.
No, no, no. He needed to make him remember.
And when Joker learned about you, Jason’s girlfriend, the one he hadn’t exactly paraded around but hadn’t exactly hidden either, it was like a gift wrapped in bloodstained ribbon. You weren’t famous, not a cape, not a cop, not someone with the city at your back. Just someone Jason had let too close. Joker knew the type: quiet, grounded, the kind of person who looked at Jason and didn’t see Robin or a mistake, but a man worth loving.
The perfect target.
It started on an ordinary night. You left Jason’s apartment after a rare evening in: Chinese takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, his jacket tossed over the arm of the couch. He’d kissed you hard at the door, that mix of reckless affection and unspoken apology for every bruise he carried.
You didn’t see the white van until it was too late.
The alley shortcut, the one Jason always told you not to take, had been baited.
A flicker of movement—then the strike.
A rag reeking of chemicals pressed over your mouth. Struggling, scratching, the burn of chloroform in your lungs.
The last thing you saw before the dark took you was a painted smile glowing in the shadows.
When you woke, it wasn’t in a cell. It was worse.
An abandoned amusement park, long condemned, half-eaten by rust. The Joker’s stage. You were tied to a chair bolted to the cracked concrete floor of an old funhouse. The air smelled of mold, iron, and greasepaint. The lights flickered, casting warped reflections in shattered mirrors.
And then you heard him.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart!” Joker’s voice sang from the darkness. He clapped his hands, the sound echoing sharp and hollow. “Oh, don’t look so gloomy. You’re the guest of honor! Well—second guest. The real star of the show will be along soon enough.”
You tried to speak, but the gag cut into your mouth. Blood tickled your tongue where it rubbed raw against your teeth.
Joker leaned in close, his breath sour with chemicals. His painted smile stretched unnaturally wide.
“Now, now. Don’t waste your strength. You’ll need it when your lover boy arrives. See, I thought about just sending him a card, maybe a gift basket. But our Jason doesn’t deserve a Hallmark moment. No, no. He deserves a memory. One that sticks. One that hurts. And trust me, this is going to hurt"
And it began with the crowbar. Of course it did.
“Tradition, tradition, tradition!” Joker sang, spinning the rusted metal like a baton. He tapped it against your legs, your ribs, the chair.
“Did you know your darling Jaybird and I had a dance once? Ohhh, it was beautiful. I hit him, he screamed, I laughed, he bled. Like music. And when I was done—well, let’s just say he had a little nap. Six feet under, HAHAHAHHA!”
The first strike cracked against your ribs, knocking the air from your chest. You bit down against the scream, but the gag muffled it anyway. Another strike followed, then another. Pain flared white-hot, flooding every nerve.
Joker crouched in front of you, tilting his head like a curious child.
“Hmm. Strong one, aren’t you? I see what he likes. Oh, Jason always did have a thing for the stubborn ones. But stubborn breaks. Everything breaks.”
He pulled the gag loose just long enough to force words into your ears.
“Tell me, do you think he’ll come for you? Or do you think he’ll hesitate? Mmmm, I bet he’s terrified, isn’t he? You remind him of everything he couldn’t save. His mommy, his daddy, his little self. And when he sees you broken—oh, he’ll hate himself more than he hates me. And that is the joke.”
Then he went to work again, slashes of a knife across your arms, shallow enough to sting, to bleed, to paint. He laughed with each line, each drop. He wanted you alive. He wanted Jason to see.
Jason knew the second something was wrong. You hadn’t answered your phone. Not once, not twice, not after three calls. He told himself you were asleep, that you’d forgotten to text. But the itch at the back of his skull wouldn’t let him rest.
By the time he checked the alley near your route home and found your dropped keys, his heart was already in his throat.
“Bruce—he’s got her. It’s him.” His voice was gravel over the comm.
“Jason—”
“Don’t say it. I know it’s Joker. I’m not waiting.”
And he didn’t. Not for orders, not for backup.
Back in the funhouse, Joker leaned against the wall, crowbar still dripping faintly.
“You know what I love about Jason?” he purred. “He’s predictable. Punch first, brood later. Oh, he’ll storm in here, guns blazing, eyes blazing. But when he sees this—” he gestured to your bloodied body, “—ohhh, it’ll be just like old times. I’ll watch his face crack. That’s the real masterpiece. Death is boring. Suffering? That’s art.”
He crouched, forcing your chin up with the crowbar’s tip. His green eyes glittered, mad and bright.
“Don’t worry, darling. You’re not going to die. Not yet. You’re just the punchline.”
Joker was a conductor, and you were his broken instrument. He paced around you, humming a carnival tune off-key, twirling a crowbar sticky with dried blood and your fresh one.
The torture didn't stop.
Joker cackled, planting the crowbar against your shoulder with mock tenderness before yanking it away and cracking it against your shin. Pain ricocheted through your body; your scream ripped raw from your throat. Joker laughed, doubling over like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.
“He cares. Isn’t that hilarious? A Bat who actually lets people in. The others brood and sulk, but Jason? Oh, he opens his door, he lets someone close, he loves. That’s his big mistake! See, love makes you weak. And weakness—” he dragged the crowbar slowly up your arm, leaving a smear of red, “—is my favorite color.”
He shoved a camera in your face, a cheap handheld camcorder duct-taped together, blinking red. He crouched, grinning too wide, and spoke directly to the lens.
“Smile, sweetheart Say cheese! This is going straight to your boyfriend. Let’s see if he laughs as hard as I do.”
Jason hadn’t slept. His helmet sat discarded on the Batcomputer console, his hair sticking damp to his forehead as he leaned over the screen. His fists were bloody from punching walls, his throat raw from shouting at empty air.
“Where the hell is he?!” Jason’s voice cracked, fury and panic blurring.
“We’re tracking what we can" Oracle’s calm voice filtered through the comm, her fingers racing across keys. “He wiped out half the traffic cams in Old Gotham—”
“Because he’s there! He’s in the goddamn amusement district, I know it!” Jason slammed a hand on the desk. His whole body trembled.
Bruce stood behind him, silent, grim.
“Jason,” he said at last, low and heavy. “We will find her. But if you go in blind—”
“I don’t care! She’s out there with him!” Jason whirled, his eyes bloodshot, his chest heaving. “Do you get it, Bruce? It’s happening again! He’s doing it again—and it’s my fault. If I’d been there—” His voice broke. He gritted his teeth hard enough to taste copper.
Before Bruce could answer, a sharp buzz hit the comm line.
Every monitor in the cave flickered.
Static bloomed, then resolved into a grainy video feed: you, bound to the chair in the funhouse, blood soaking your shirt, your face scraped.
Jason froze. His lungs stopped working.
Joker’s painted face leaned into frame, far too close, his grin splitting wide.
“Helloooo, Bats and birdies! Guess who I found wandering all alone? Oh, don’t look so cross, she’s been excellent company! Well—screaming company, but I like variety.”
He yanked your head up by the hair, forcing your face toward the camera.
“Say hi to Jaybird, sugarplum. He’s watching. Ohhh, look at those eyes. He looks like he might cry.”
Jason staggered back a step, his chest caving in. His hands curled into claws.
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Jason-” Bruce’s voice cut sharp.
“Don’t you—don’t you dare tell me not to! Look at her!” Jason jabbed at the screen, his voice shattering into a raw scream. “LOOK WHAT HE’S DOING!”
On screen, Joker tapped your face with the crowbar, leaving a streak of blood.
“You know what’s great about déjà vu? It never gets old! Last time, it was poor little Robin, and Batsy never made it in time. Ohhh, but this time—it’s even juicier. Because now Jason gets to watch! Isn’t that poetic?”
He raised the crowbar high. The camera caught the brutal swing as it smashed into your side. Your scream echoed through the cave speakers. Jason flinched like he’d been shot, a strangled noise tearing from his throat.
Joker bent down, breathing heavy with excitement.
“Oopsie! Did that hurt, darling? Don’t worry. I’m saving the grand finale for when your lover boy arrives. I want him to see your last smile.”
The feed cut to static.
Jason stood rooted, his whole body shaking, every vein alive with rage and guilt. His vision blurred red.
“I swear to God—” His voice was a rasp, broken glass and smoke. He grabbed his helmet, slamming it down over his head. “If he kills her, it’s on me. I’m not letting it happen again. I’ll put a bullet in his brain, I don’t care what you say.”
Bruce moved into his path, stern, immovable.
“Killing him won’t save her.”
“It’ll be justice!” Jason roared, shoving Bruce back, chest heaving. “You didn’t stop him then, and you’re not stopping me now! She’s all I’ve got, Bruce! She’s all I’ve fucking got!”
For a second, the cave was silent but for Jason’s ragged breathing.
Then Alfred’s voice, soft, steady, but cutting deep:
“And what will she wake to, Master Jason, if she survives, and the man she loves has become what that monster always wanted him to be?”
Jason froze, helmet tilted down, his shoulders trembling. His voice came out small, broken.
“I can’t lose her. Not like that. Not like me.”
Back in the funhouse, Joker set the camera down, angling it perfectly to catch every angle of your pain. He paced in front of you, manic energy vibrating through every twitch of his body.
“You know, sweetheart, I almost feel bad for you. Almost! Because deep down, you know it, don’t you? He’s broken. He’s not like the others. He’ll never forgive himself for this. And that guilt, mmm, that’s better than blood.”
He slammed the crowbar across your back. You cried out, the sound tearing from you before you could stop it. Joker clapped like a delighted child.
“Ahhh, music to my ears! Don’t worry, lovebird. Jason’s on his way. He always is. And when he comes, I’ll give him the same choice I gave Batsy once upon a time. Save the girl—or catch the clown. Either way…” He leaned in, whispering against your ear, his breath rancid. “You die laughing.”
Jason’s helmet fed him the faint buzz of Oracle’s voice through the comm, tinny, urgent, cutting through the static of his panic. “Jason—I found it. He’s in the old Monarch Theater. Heat signatures confirm—at least two. One’s moving, the other’s… barely.”
Barely.
The word shredded him. Jason didn’t even respond; he was already vaulting across the Gotham rooftops, heart hammering in his throat. The Monarch.
Of course it was the Monarch. Joker loved irony, loved stages, loved memories soaked in blood. Jason hit the pavement hard, boots skidding against wet asphalt as he tore down the block, every muscle wired, every breath jagged and sharp.
He pushed through the shattered double doors and the theater swallowed him whole—dark, hollow, dust clinging to the air. Somewhere in the back, a faint metallic clink echoed. The smell hit him before the sight did—iron, copper, blood. Too much blood.
“Please be alive” his voice cracked inside the helmet, though he wasn’t speaking to anyone.
He followed the sound down into the funhouse maze Joker had built in the theater’s bowels. Mirrors warped his reflection into grotesque shapes, laughter tracks from a busted speaker looped and warped into static. Jason ripped his helmet off, couldn’t stand the distortion. He needed to see with his own eyes.
And then he did.
You were slumped in the chair, arms bound to rusted metal, face a mess of bruises and blood, your lips cracked and trembling with shallow breath. Your chest rose—barely—but it rose. Jason’s knees buckled so hard he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the frame. His chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a crowbar.
“Fuck—fuck” his voice came out strangled as he sprinted forward, dropping to his knees in front of you. His gloves shook so bad he could barely untie the ropes cutting into your wrists.
“Baby, hey, hey—it’s me, it’s me, you’re okay, I got you, I got you…” He pressed his forehead against your shoulder for half a second, just long enough to ground himself before he forced his shaking hands to keep working.
You made a sound then—soft, broken, a whimper of his name that hit him harder than any bullet ever could.
Jason’s throat closed, eyes burning, tears stinging hot behind his lashes. He cupped your face gently, terrified of hurting you, but needing you to know. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here, I swear to god, I’m not leaving you with that fucking clown. I should’ve been here sooner—I should’ve—fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”
He got the last rope free and you collapsed forward into his chest. He caught you instantly, holding you so tight his arms ached, but still terrified you’d slip away if he let go even for a second. Your blood soaked through his suit, warm and wet against his skin. His breath hitched, ragged, desperate, pressing shaky kisses against your hair, your temple, whispering like a prayer: “Stay with me, please stay. Don’t do this, don’t leave me, I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
From the shadows, a faint echo of laughter drifted, bouncing through the funhouse walls. Joker was gone. Of course he was. The bastard had staged it perfectly—left just enough life in you for Jason to find, just enough pain to make the memory sear. Jason’s head snapped toward the sound, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every cell in his body screamed at him to hunt Joker down, to put a bullet in his skull and watch the blood spill.
But then your fingers twitched weakly against his chest, clutching his suit with what little strength you had. Jason froze, then grabbed your hand, pressing it to his lips.
The rage burned, white-hot, begging to be unleashed, but he forced it down, swallowed it whole.
You came first. Only you.
“Okay. Okay, I’ve got you.” His voice cracked again, rough and broken but steady enough to hold onto. He slid one arm beneath your knees, the other bracing your back, lifting you gently but quickly into his arms. You were so light it terrified him. Too light. His vision blurred as he looked down at you, your head lolling weakly against his chest. “Fuck, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Don’t you fucking quit on me.”
He bolted out of the funhouse, through the ruined theater, his boots pounding the cracked floor. He didn’t care about stealth, didn’t care about backup, didn’t care about Joker’s games. All that mattered was getting you out.
The night air hit his face as he crashed through the doors, sprinting across the empty street. He fumbled with the comm in his ear, his voice breaking. “Oracle—I’ve got her—I’ve got her but she’s bad, she’s real bad, call in a fucking ambulance right now, do you hear me? Now!”
“Jason—” Oracle’s voice cut in, controlled but urgent.
“Don’t fucking argue, Babs, I need a med team here and now!” His voice cracked into a sob on the last word, his throat raw. He ducked into the alley, your body trembling faintly in his arms.
He lowered his head, whispering against your ear, every word ragged, desperate: “Just hang on, baby, please, don’t you dare leave me. You’re stronger than this, you’ve always been stronger. Just a little longer, okay? Stay with me. For me.”
Your lips moved weakly, whispering his name again, almost inaudible. Jason’s whole body shook, and he pressed his face against your hair, choking out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “That’s it. That’s it, I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
The faint wail of sirens grew in the distance. Jason held you tighter, rocking you slightly, his whole body a shield. He could still hear Joker’s laughter in the back of his skull, still feel the phantom weight of the crowbar, but it didn’t matter. Not now. Joker could live another night. Because right now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you breathing.
Jason burst through the ER doors like a storm, boots squealing on the tiles, your limp form cradled tight against him. Nurses and orderlies gasped, rushing forward, their hands reaching, their voices sharp and professional. Oracle had called a trusted medical team, people Bruce had learnt to trust.
“We need to take her—”
“No! No, don’t touch her!” Jason barked, clutching you tighter, panic flashing behind his eyes. His voice cracked, wild. “She needs me—she needs—”
A doctor met his eyes squarely, firm but not unkind. “If you want her to live, you have to let go. Right now.”
Jason froze. Every muscle in his body locked, screaming against the order, but the sight of your blood dripping onto the sterile floor broke him. His breath hitched, his arms trembling violently as he slowly, so slowly, eased you into the stretcher. His hands lingered, desperate, fingers tracing your cheek one last time before the nurses whisked you away. He staggered forward a step, but they blocked him, pulling him back. The doors slammed shut with a brutal finality, leaving him staring at the small window, your form already swallowed by white coats and machines.
And then the silence.
Jason’s chest heaved, his bloodied hands hovering uselessly in the air. Without you in them, he felt like he was collapsing inward. He dropped to his knees on the polished tile, his helmet clattering to the ground beside him. His hands shook uncontrollably, smearing red across his face as he dragged them through his hair.
“Fuck—fuck, this is my fault—” his voice cracked, raw and jagged, bouncing off the sterile walls. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve known—he took her because of me, because of me!”
“Jason.”
The voice was steady, familiar. Jason looked up through blurred vision to see Dick standing there, already crouching beside him. Behind him, Tim, Barbara, Damian, and Bruce hovered like shadows, their faces drawn tight with worry.
Jason’s whole body shook with anger and grief. He shoved Dick’s hand off his shoulder. “Don’t—don’t fucking comfort me. You saw her—did you see what he did to her? That’s on me! I let her walk home alone, I let her—” His voice broke again, ragged. “I swore I’d never let that bastard take someone from me again. And now—”
Bruce stepped forward, his voice low, even, but heavier than steel. “Jason. This is not your fault.”
Jason’s laugh was sharp, ugly, broken.
“Not my fault? He only went after her because of me! Because she matters to me! Don’t you get it? Joker doesn’t give a shit about her—she’s just another way to get at me. And I handed him the knife.” He slammed his fist into the wall beside him, the sound echoing. Blood smeared across the tile. His forehead pressed against the wall, shoulders trembling. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”
“Then she’d be here alone” Dick’s voice was soft but firm, cutting through Jason’s spiral. He crouched closer, his hand hovering just above Jason’s back like he wanted to ground him but wasn’t sure he’d be allowed. “You got her out. She’s alive because of you. That’s the only reason she’s still breathing in there.”
Jason’s breath caught, a sob tearing through his chest before he could choke it down. He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled, broken.
“She was so fucking cold, Dick. She could barely say my name. I thought—” His throat closed, his body curling forward, folding in on itself. “I thought I was gonna lose her right there in my arms”
Tim, hovering just behind, shifted uncomfortably, his voice quieter than usual but clear. “She’s in surgery. She’s in the best hands in the city. They’ll do everything they can.”
Jason snapped his head up, his eyes bloodshot, wild. “That’s not good enough! You didn’t see her—you didn’t hear her! She was begging—” His voice broke off, collapsing into another sob. He dragged both hands down his face, streaking blood and tears across his skin. “I can’t do this again. I can’t bury another person I love because of him.”
Barbara’s voice cut in from behind, calm but steady like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not alone, Jason. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.”
Jason shook his head violently, his hands tugging at his hair. “Yes I do! Because it’s always me, Babs! It’s always my fuck-ups that get people hurt. She’s lying on that table right now because I wasn’t there, because I let my guard down. What if she doesn’t—” His voice cracked again, breaking into silence. He pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled tight to his chest.
For once, Damian broke the silence, his tone sharp but not cruel. “She is strong. Stronger than most. If she chooses to fight, she will win.” His eyes narrowed at Jason. “But she will not forgive you if you give up on her now.”
Jason blinked at him, startled. The words dug under his skin, raw and sharp, because he knew Damian was right. He let out a shaky laugh that turned into a sob, burying his face in his arms.
Bruce moved closer, crouching so he was eye-level with Jason. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “You can’t carry this blame, Jason. Joker chose this. Not you.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. “Then why does it feel exactly like it did when you left me there?!” The words exploded out of him, venom and grief intertwined. The room went still. Jason’s chest heaved, his eyes wide, like he hadn’t meant to say it but couldn’t stop it. His voice cracked, smaller now, breaking apart. “It feels the same. Cold. Helpless. Like I was too late.”
The silence stretched heavy.
Then Dick finally sat down beside him, shoulder pressing firmly against Jason’s, grounding him without asking permission. “But this time’s different,” Dick said quietly. “This time, you got there in time”
Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just let the tears spill, silent and raw, his body shaking as he pressed his bloodied hands to his face. And for once, he didn’t fight them when Dick stayed by his side, when Tim lingered close, when Barbara’s presence steadied the air, when Damian’s quiet stare held no judgment, only truth, and when Bruce remained crouched, silent, unmovable, like the anchor Jason had spent his whole life both needing and resenting.
The waiting room was too bright, too clean. Every second the fluorescent lights hummed above him felt like another nail driving into his skull. Jason paced like a caged animal, his boots pounding a restless rhythm against the tile. Every so often, his bloodstained hands curled into fists until his knuckles whitened. The others sat scattered across the room — Dick with his elbows on his knees, Tim cross-legged in a chair with his phone forgotten in his hands, Barbara leaning against the wall, Damian stiff and silent in the corner. Bruce hadn’t moved from where he stood, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the swinging double doors that led deeper into the ER.
Hours. Hours since they’d taken you from him. Hours since the last time he saw you, broken and bleeding, whispering his name like it was your last breath.
Every time he blinked, he saw it again.
The bruises. The blood. The way your body had felt so light in his arms, terrifyingly light.
Jason slammed his hand against the vending machine, the crash echoing through the sterile space. “What the fuck is taking so long?!” His voice cracked, raw with panic. “They’ve had her in there for hours — what if she doesn’t—”
“Jason.” Dick’s voice was steady, but Jason caught the tightness behind it. “They’re doing everything they can.”
Jason spun on him, eyes wild. “Yeah? And what if it’s not enough, huh? What if I walked in there too late? What if all I did was give her a couple more hours of pain before she dies in a fucking hospital bed?!” His voice shattered at the end, a raw sound caught between a sob and a scream.
The room went still. Even Damian’s sharp tongue stayed quiet.
Jason dragged both hands down his face, streaking dried blood across his skin. His chest heaved like he couldn’t catch air. “God, I can’t—” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I can’t lose her. Not again. Not like this. Not because of him.”
Barbara’s voice was calm, firm, cutting through the storm. “Jason, listen to me. She’s strong. She made it this far. That’s because of you.”
Jason laughed bitterly, shaking his head.
“Because of me? No, Babs, she’s in there because of me. She’s bleeding out on some fucking table right now because I was stupid enough to think I could have something normal. Something good.” He dropped into the chair beside him, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. His voice cracked again, small, broken. “She’s paying the price for loving me.”
Bruce finally spoke, his voice low, steady, and heavy with something Jason didn’t want to name. “That’s not true.”
Jason snapped his head up, his eyes burning. “Yes it is! Don’t you get it, Bruce? Everyone close to me gets hurt. Everyone. And now she’s—” His voice strangled off. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders trembling. “I swore I’d protect her. That’s all I had to do. And I fucking failed.”
For once, Tim’s voice broke the silence, quieter than usual but clear. “You didn’t fail. You got her out. She’s alive because of you.”
Jason looked up at him, eyes wet, voice hoarse. “For how long, Tim? How long before she realizes being with me is just a fucking death sentence?”
The words hung heavy in the air. Nobody answered.
Hours dragged on. Jason refused to sit still, pacing until Dick finally grabbed his arm. Jason yanked away, but Dick held firm. “She’s fighting in there. Don’t you dare give up on her out here.”
Jason’s jaw clenched, his throat tight. He pressed his palm to his face, swiping away tears angrily. “I’m not giving up on her. I’m giving up on me. Don’t you get it? I can’t be near her anymore. I can’t—if she wakes up and I’m still there, what’s stopping him from trying again? He knows. He knows she’s my weak spot now. He’ll never stop.” His voice cracked. “And she’ll never be safe.”
Dick shook his head, his voice sharp but full of something almost pleading. “Don’t do that. Don’t you put this on yourself and walk away. She loves you, Jason. That’s not weakness. That’s the only thing keeping you human.”
Jason’s laugh was hollow, painful. He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was on the floor, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling like he was begging it for answers. His voice was raw, a rasp. “Love is what Joker feeds on. It’s what he rips apart. And I gave him the perfect fucking target.” His breath hitched. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance. I should’ve—” His voice broke, tears slipping silently down his face. “But I didn’t. And she’s paying for it.”
The double doors finally swung open. A doctor stepped out, pulling down his mask. Every head in the room snapped toward him.
Jason was on his feet instantly, stumbling forward like his legs barely worked. “Is she—?” His voice cracked hard. “Is she alive?”
The doctor’s gaze softened. “She’s alive. She lost a lot of blood. Multiple fractures, significant internal injuries. But she made it through the surgery. She’s stable for now.”
Jason’s chest collapsed, the air rushing out of him in a broken sob. He grabbed the edge of the nurse’s desk to stay upright, his head bowed, shoulders shaking with relief and grief all tangled together. His voice came out small, wrecked. “Thank God… thank God…”
But then the doctor continued, gentle but firm. “She’s in a medically induced coma. We need to give her body time to heal. It could be hours, or days. There are no guarantees.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his face streaked with tears.
“A coma?” His voice rose, cracking. “You mean she’s—she’s not—” He couldn’t finish. His body folded in on itself again, both hands gripping the back of his neck as he staggered away from the group, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I almost lost her. I almost fucking lost her.”
Bruce reached for him, but Jason shoved past, pacing hard, his boots squealing against the floor. “Don’t you see? This is exactly what I’m talking about! She’s in a coma because of me! Because she let me love her!” He pressed both hands against the wall, head bowed, tears dripping onto the tile. “I can’t—I can’t stay near her. If she wakes up and sees me, all she’s gonna see is pain. All she’s gonna see is what Joker did to her because of me.”
Dick stepped closer, his voice low, tight. “And what do you think she’ll see if she wakes up and you’re not there? You think she won’t notice? She fought to stay alive because of you, Jason. Because she wanted to see you again. Don’t you dare take that away from her.”
Jason froze, his back to the group, every muscle strung tight. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.
Finally, his voice cracked out, soft, desperate. “What if she doesn’t wake up at all?”
The silence was deafening. Nobody had an answer.
Jason’s hands pressed harder into the wall, his forehead against the cold surface. His voice was barely audible, but the words cut deep. “I can’t lose her. I’ll break if I do. I don’t come back from that.”
And in that sterile hospital hallway, with his family behind him and you fighting for your life behind closed doors, Jason Todd: bloody, guilty, terrified, felt the walls closing in. He loved you so much it was killing him, and all he could see was the cruel possibility that Joker had already won.
The room was sterile white, filled with the low hum of machines and the quiet beeps that measured life in tiny intervals. You had been under for hours, you had no idea how many, fighting a battle no one could help you with but yourself. The surgeries had been long and brutal; Joker hadn’t left much of you untouched.
Jason had spent that entire time pacing hallways like a caged animal, fists raw from punching concrete walls, refusing food, refusing rest. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse from yelling at doctors every time they told him to “be patient.”
But when you finally stirred, eyelids fluttering open with painful effort, you weren't met with Jason.
Barbara sat by your side, Oracle having stationed herself in the chair since the first surgery ended, her hand wrapped gently around your bruised one. Even if Jason was scared about you seeing him, he had to know you were okay, he thought it was better like that but no one believed it.
Her voice was soft, almost motherly, when she leaned forward.
“Hey… hey, easy. You’re safe. You’re in Gotham General.”
Your throat was too dry to speak much. Every movement was agony, your ribs protesting, the bandages tight, IV lines tugging at your arms. But you managed a breath, a whisper that was barely audible.
“…Jason?”
Barbara’s heart clenched. She had expected it, she knew Jason’s name would be the first word, maybe the only one, on her lips. Babs stroked your hand carefully, keeping her voice calm even though she was already turning toward the door in her mind.
“He’s here. He’s been here the whole time. I’ll get him.”
Out in the hallway, Jason was sitting on the floor against the wall, head buried in his hands, staring blankly at his boots like they held the answers to every mistake he’d ever made. Bruce stood nearby, stoic but tense, while Dick leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching Jason carefully. Tim sat beside him with a cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. Damian was perched further down, silent as ever, though his sharp eyes never left Jason’s broken posture.
When Barbara stepped into the hall, Jason’s head snapped up instantly.
“She’s awake” Barbara said, voice firm but warm. “And she asked for you.”
Jason froze. For a split second, he looked like someone had just gutted him again: disbelief and fear flooding his features all at once.
“She… what?” His voice cracked, rough from hours of silence.
“She wants to see you, Jason”
He was on his feet before the sentence ended, his heart hammering like it was trying to break his ribs apart. But something stopped him in his tracks, his own damn guilt. He hovered, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight.
“She shouldn’t” he muttered, shaking his head, voice harsh to cover the break in it. “She shouldn’t want me. Look what happened because of me. Joker knew. He knew I’d lose it if he touched her. He went after her because of me.”
“Jason,” Barbara cut in, firm now. “She asked for you. That’s all that matters right now.”
Bruce’s deep voice followed, calm but weighted. “Go”
Jason looked up at him, almost as if searching for an excuse to be told no. But Bruce just held his gaze, silent, steady, like he always did when the lesson was obvious.
Jason swallowed hard, turned, and shoved through the door.
The moment he stepped into the room, the machines seemed too loud, the air too heavy. He hadn’t seen you conscious since Joker had taken you. Seeing you like this, pale, battered, but alive, nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.
You turned your head weakly, eyes struggling to focus, but when they landed on him, your lips curled just slightly.
“…hey” you rasped.
Jason froze halfway between the door and her bed, his throat burning, his chest tight. He looked like he might fall apart just standing there.
“Jesus Christ…” His voice cracked, and he moved forward, slow like you might vanish if he rushed. He took the chair Barbara had left and dropped into it, his big frame hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands shaking when he finally reached out and brushed your fingers carefully.
“You shouldn’t…” His jaw clenched, eyes wet. “You shouldn’t be asking for me. You should be telling me to get the fuck out. That I ruined your life. That I dragged you into my shit and nearly got you killed.”
Your weak fingers squeezed his, barely there, but enough to shut him up. Your voice was quiet, raw.
“...you’re the only one I want here”
Jason sucked in a shaky breath, eyes squeezing shut as he ducked his head to hide it. A tear slipped down anyway, dripping onto the sheets. His other hand came up to cover yours, holding you so gently it looked like he was afraid you might break apart under his touch.
“God, sweetheart…” His voice cracked again, lower now, full of the weight he couldn’t hide anymore. “I thought I lost you. You don’t know—fuck—you don’t know what that did to me.”
You tried to smile again, weak and pained, but soft. “..guess I’m too stubborn to let him win”
Jason let out a wet laugh that was half a sob, bowing his head until his forehead rested lightly against the back of your bandaged hand.
“I’m so sorry” he whispered, voice breaking open now, raw and desperate. “I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve known. I swore I’d never let him touch anyone I—” He cut himself off, chest shaking, before forcing it out. “Anyone I love. And he still got to you.”
Your eyes, heavy but clear, stayed on him. Your whisper was almost nothing, but it carried enough to stop him in his spiral.
“…i love you too.”
Jason’s breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, something other than guilt cracked through his chest. His shoulders shook as silent tears ran down his face, his hand trembling as he brushed his thumb across yours.
“You don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice trembling hard. “You’re it for me. You’re all I’ve got. If I lost you, there’s nothing left. Nothing. And I can’t—” His voice broke into silence, the words strangled in his throat.
You gave the faintest smile, eyes barely able to stay open. “..but you didn’t lose me.”
Jason leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your bandaged hand, clinging to you like a lifeline. “I’m not letting you out of my sight again. Not for a second. He’ll never—never—touch you again. I swear it.”
The fluorescent lights in the hospital wing hummed faintly, the only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
Jason hadn’t moved from your bedside since the moment the doctors had allowed him to see you.
He was still in his gear, helmet discarded on the floor, chest armor peeled off with shaking hands hours ago, but the rest of him was a mess: blood on his gloves that wasn’t his, bruises spreading purple along his knuckles from punching every damin wall in the hospital.
But he wouldn’t leave. Not even for a second.
You had fallen asleep again, weak and still fragile after the surgeries that had stretched through the night. Jason sat slouched in the chair beside your bed, his head leaning close to your arm, one of his large hands wrapped around your smaller one like if he loosened his grip you might slip away again. Every time the heart monitor beeped too slow, his whole body tensed.
Every time you stirred, he was instantly awake, whispering to you in that low, rough voice that cracked with things he’d never admit aloud.
Sometime near dawn, your fingers shifted in his palm, brushing weakly against his skin. Jason’s bloodshot eyes flicked open. You whispered his name, and he bent closer, forehead pressed briefly against your knuckles.
“I’m right here, sweetheart” he rasped, voice hoarse from hours of silence and swallowed sobs. “Not going anywhere. You scared the shit outta me, y’know that?” His thumb brushed over your bandaged knuckles gently, careful not to hurt you. “But you’re tough. Always were.”
Your lips curved faintly, too weak to laugh, but the intention was there. And Jason, who’d been a storm of violence and fury for days, melted instantly, his whole body curving in to shield her from everything—even the memory of Joker.
It was well past sunrise when exhaustion finally overtook him. Still holding your hand, Jason’s head dropped onto the thin mattress at your side, eyes sliding shut. The chair creaked under his weight, but he didn’t move, and soon he was asleep, his cheek resting against the blanket where your arm lay.
You woke first the next morning. The sun filtered pale through the blinds, spilling across Jason’s broad shoulders where he was hunched uncomfortably in the chair, his hand still clasped around yours even in sleep.
You turned your head slowly, every muscle aching, and just looked at him for a long moment. His dark hair was mussed, face slack in sleep but still tense around the edges, like even unconscious he was bracing himself for another fight.
The sound of the door opening drew your attention. Bruce stepped inside, his presence filling the room instantly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable as he took in the scene: Jason slumped in the chair, you awake and watching silently.
Finally, Bruce’s gaze shifted to you. His deep voice was quiet but firm, carrying weight that made her throat tighten.
“I’m glad you’re still with us” he said simply. It wasn’t flowery, not warm in the way someone else might have phrased it—but it was Bruce. Which meant it was heavy with meaning. Relief. Gratitude. Even guilt.
You nodded faintly, too weak to respond, but your eyes softened. Bruce’s jaw tightened, and after a pause he stepped closer, resting one gloved hand carefully on the railing of the bed. “You’ve been through enough. Focus on healing. We’ll handle the rest.”
It was his way of promising you that you didn’t need to carry the weight alone, that he wouldn’t let Jason shoulder it alone, either.
Your eyes flicked down to Jason, still asleep and refusing to let go of your hand. Bruce followed your gaze, and something softened in his expression. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.
“He hasn’t left your side.”
Your lips curved faintly, your heart monitor beeping a little faster. You knew. You had felt it in every brush of his thumb against your skin, in every whispered word through the haze of pain.
Bruce lingered a moment longer, silent in the way only he could be, communicating volumes without saying anything at all, before stepping back.
“Rest,” he said finally, and turned toward the door. But before leaving, he paused, his eyes on Jason again. “He needs this as much as you do.”
And then Bruce was gone, the door hissing shut softly behind him, leaving you in the quiet once more. You turned your head back toward Jason, watching him sleep, and though your body hurt, there was a deep calm in her chest now.
Because he was there. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
i think dex’s aftercare would consist of a bath/shower (clean freak things) where you two bathe together. i think you’d clean each other while you two spend more time just caressing than cleaning lol
he’ll moisturize your body afterwards and put your hair however you like it before bed before dragging you into the covers with him and holding you close :’)
This is crazy because no joke I was going to write something something about aftercare with Dex…thankyou for this anon!!! <333 18+ mentions of sex, genitals, etc not proofread
Aftercare comes naturally to Dex in my humble opinion. Especially after the state you’re in when he’s done with you, and after he’s come down from the high of finishing and you’re shaky in the legs and sweaty and exhausted - he really just wants to take care of you.
He’d definitely be the type to tell you that you don’t need to walk, so he’d pick you up with an arm under your knees and the other under your back, and you’d whine about it, I can walk by myself Dex.
Despite the fact that the minute your feet hit the floor your legs are like jello, wobbling like a newborn doe.
“Hush.”
And that’s all you need to hear because it’s resolute, he’s made up his mind, and you’re not gonna be stubborn if he can help it.
He sits you on the edge of the tub while he gets the shower hot and pretends not to notice the fact that you’re staring at him. He helps you in with one hand in yours and one on your lower back once it’s a reasonable temperature. He climbs in after you with quickness, holding you steady by the hips.
And is he doing too much? Well yes, but he wouldn’t have it by other way. He’d rather do too much than too little.
He keeps a grasp on you the whole time, even when he’s leaning out of the shower to grab a clean wash rag and you’re fixated on the broadness of his back, the raised pink scar that lines his spine like a guide map.
Even his ass. You ogle at all of it.
Dex wipes you down diligently, but softly. It’s roughness that has practiced its gentleness with the curves of your body, the softness of your skin. He didn’t know how to be like this until he met you. Loved you, devoted himself completely to you.
He gets distracted easily, though.
You’ve got your hands on his thick shoulders. Standing in place as he covers any expanse of skin he can like this is a professional matter. The soap is foamy and slippery, and the he smooths his other palm over your flesh directly after the wash cloth just so he can feel it against the velvety surface of you.
He gets under your arms, over your tits and down past your sternum until he greets your navel. He wipes his dried spend off there, tries not to get hard again but it’s failing miserably and you both know it but you’re too exhausted to go again right now and he knows that.
He gets to be with you, to touch you and lavish you so he doesn’t care.
“Spread em’.”
You cock your head at him with parted lips, peering up between bashful lashes. He challenges your stare, cocks his head right back at you as if he’s confused as to why you’re not complying.
“Dex.”
You chide, and you’d be intimidated by his eyes if his smirk wasn’t so boyish and charming and entertained.
“You had them open for me five minutes ago, don’t get shy on me now, baby.”
And you do laugh only because he’s smirking at his own domineering inflection and you scoff somewhere in your throat, but you do as he asks.
It’s hard to be embarrassed with Dex. Truly, to the core, shameful of anything. He doesn’t see things the same way you do, so he thinks nothing of taking a rag between your legs and cleaning you free of his cum and sweat and spit.
He gets on his knees to do it, and you don’t judge him for it because you know he’s admiring and you can’t be insecure because he couldn’t be looking at you more like a person who’d rip their heart out for you while it’s still beating. Even if your body gets so flustered you almost have to look away from his big frame.
You’re his girl, he did this to you and now he’s going to clean you up. It’s only right, only fair. You hiss a little when his knuckle bumps your swollen clit, and he quickly presses a hot kiss to your belly as an apology.
When it’s his turn, though, you worry he’s gonna slip from how much he’s let himself relax in your hold.
You drag a new rag over his big shoulders first. Over the bulge of his traps and then down over his chest. Suds stick to the soft blonde hair he’s got here, cascading down the rounded slope of his pectorals.
And then you’re pulling it down his stomach and over the ridges and valleys of muscle and scar and you’re really having more fun than perhaps he was just minutes ago. You’re transfixed, completely.
“You gonna spread your legs for me, now?”
You ask, playful and teasing and his dick is already getting hard again. He thinks he might short circuit when the rough rag grazes his tip, but he doesn’t mention it and just lets you clean him off or else it’ll be another hour of making a mess out of you again.
You also love showering with Dex because it’s a time where you can really just admire him freely. No interruptions and just his naked skin. Your greedy hands can explore and prod and grip.
But sometimes you just want to be slow and gentle. Like when he turns around and you are met with the broadness of his back. He’s worked hard for it, sacrificed for it. The muscles bulge just like the scar does.
He always gets a little lightheaded when you do this.
You trace a finger down the red scar, let the tip of your nail graze it just slightly at the perforated edges. You wonder what it must have felt like, what something like this does to a person. You can’t think too much on it or you’ll get upset and that’ll be awkward (to you) considering the circumstances.
So you just wrap your arms around his waist, and his hands find your wrists and holding you in place while you press your front to his back.
And then gently, almost imperceptibly your lips find his skin. And they’re kissing over his scar like it’s told you personally how badly he needs it. And he sort of just gets weak in the knees, lets himself slump against you only slightly, soft grunts leaving his mouth.
Of course there is also the lotion and oiling process after the shower that he looks forward to almost even more.
You do it after every shower - well, he likes to be the one to do it after every shower but sometimes it doesn’t work out like that.
He’s wrapped the towel tightly around you, throws a pair of black briefs on that cling to him in a way that makes it impossible not to stare if you’re human.
It’s very loving, the way his hands move.
He warms the lotion and oil mixture up first, palms big and rough and warm when they touch your back. He starts there, doesn’t miss a beat or a patch of skin.
“Ticklessss, Dex!”
You giggle when his hands smooth down your sides, and he nips your shoulder with bared teeth when you start wiggling away from him.
“Nuh uh, gotta do your legs sweetheart.”
And he’s being so serious, like this is a very important task for him. So he sits you down on the bed, gets down on his knees again and starts lathering them starting from the soles of your feet. His grip is so strong, callouses rough and it feels so good when he does this.
You let yourself lean back on your elbows, enjoying the sensation of the pressure and heat and slickness of the lotion. The air is filled with the scent of vanilla now and when he’s managed to get you thoroughly moisturized everywhere, he picks your clothes out too.
All of this is sort of like a ritual for him. Bathing you, putting your lotion on, picking out a bedtime outfit. Not only does he feel in control but he feels like he’s doing something good and devotional. You don’t have to think about anything, you just have to let him take care of you.
And that ultimately is what makes this so pleasing for him. You trust him with everything and anything.
When you’re dressed in one of his tee shirts and a blue pair of cotton panties, he grabs a brush from the bathroom and two hair bands.
He’s been practicing braising for months, he’s anything if persistent and he doesn’t like not being good at things so he typically isn’t.
It’s all very comical, really. He’s big as fuck and broad and half naked, kneeling behind you with his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration as his deft fingers work at two braids on either side of your head.
It takes longer than it should, and you chastise him for it and all he does is tug on one of the braids in response, pulling your head back enough to give you a a sloppy kiss on the mouth.
Everything is done, routine finished and he sees the sleep in your eyes. Your lashes are so low they’re fanning your cheek, and you’re becoming sluggish when you put your pink bonnet on and attempt to untuck the covers.
“You make the bed so tight in the morning Dex, uuuugggnnnnf.”
You’re straining to pull the sheet from the right corner, and he chuckles because not only do you look really cute but you’re also not lying. He goes over the same spot three times every morning, making sure it’s tucked firmly.
He pulls it out in one swift movement, and you sigh with relief and also a little bit of annoyance at his show of strength.
“You’re bratty when you’re tired, y’know.”
He crawls into bed and immediately you’re like a moth to a flame - curled up by his side and feeling his skin like you haven’t all day.
“Am not, mmm you smell good.”
Your eyes are already closed, leg thrown over his lap and arms around his middle. Your face is smooshed against his right pectoral, he can feel your soft breaths against his sternum and it gives him goosebumps. If you were any closer you’d be at risk for crawling into his skin, and he’d be okay with that.
It’s not long before you’re asleep. Snoring softly against him, his arm draped around your body and holding you here tight.
His girl, all taken care of because of him. And now he gets to watch you twitch while you dream and make soft noises of surprise when he kisses your throat in the middle of the night very inconspicuously.
He won’t sleep for a while now, and he’s the happiest he’s been all week.
Fern I adore your Dex writing oh my gods. Have you seen the pic of him with the sniper rifle in the like last episode or something with the fake bullseye fight??? where you see his big ass bicep? You KNOW he’d eat up fucking someone in a chokehold fr
oh my fucking god the armsss
dex fucking you in a headlock (18+)
your chin rests just above the crook of his elbow, the top of your neck pinned on either side by the muscles of his bicep and forearm. his skin is warm against you, and you smell his cologne as he holds you tight.
you can’t move. dex has got you in a firm chokehold, a constricting headlock as he fucks into you from behind. his hips slam against your arse, your back dipping where you arch for him, his cock splitting you open.
he reaches so deep like this, and with each flex of his bicep against your throat, your pussy flutters around the thick of him. he groans, his breath ghosting across the shell of your ear as he ruts his hips, his body a second-skin atop yours.
“just try an’ fight it,” dex mocks quietly, goading as you attempt to wriggle around beneath him. the arm on your neck tightens, your breath catching in your throat as he chuckles low in your ear. “yeah, tha’s right. you’re right where you want to be, huh?”
you moan, but it’s strained as it falls from your lips. the coil in the base of your belly pulls taut as he fucks into you, the fat of your arse rippling as his hips slam against you and his cock nudges deep inside the heat of your cunt.
fisting the sheets, you take what he gives you, whiny breaths all you can manage as you feel his muscles around you contract as he adjusts his grip. it’s unrelenting—the pressure has the edges of your vision blurring and a tingling sort of pleasure passing down your spine. the mattress groans beneath you both as he rocks himself against you, sweat building between your bodies.
dex’s smug smile presses to your ear as he speaks. “d’you like when i fuck you like this, pretty baby? you like takin’ my cock while i hold you like a little slut?”
his movements don’t relent despite the dull ache coursing through his vertebrae. his pace and rhythm remain even as his cock slides in and out of you, and he relishes in the high-pitched moan you give him as he speaks.
“y-yeah,” you manage to stutter out, eyes dropping closed as pleasure grows dizzy in your skull. the tightness in your belly triples, and your legs begin to quiver where you hold yourself in a practised arch.
dex kisses your cheek, and it’s the most tender gesture of the night. he tightens his arm around you, and you choke on a yelp when he manhandles you up and backwards. his cock buried inside you, dex sits up until you’re practically on his lap, his arm still around your neck while the other wraps around your tummy and waist.
your back presses firmly to his, and the angle drives his cock deeper against that perfect spot inside you. it makes you yowl, eyes rolling, when dex snaps his hips and resumes his rutting. he bounces you against him, your body completely at his mercy as he pins you to him.
“how’s this?” he whispers, the bed creaking as he thrusts up, bottoming out again and again until sweat beads on his forehead and something pops low in his back. he licks your cheek as he holds you still, ignoring the way you squirm in his arms. “you like it like this too?”
“y-yeah,” you squeak out, entire body buzzing with pleasure. dex knows you’re teetering on release too. he can feel the way you begin to stiffen and shake, the way you heat up against him and the way your heart rate rises until it’s a hummingbird-like thrum against your ribs.
dex groans, balls twitching as your pussy clutches tight around him. “fuck, pretty baby, you’re fuckin’ perfect, aren’t you? takin’ my cock like you’re made for it. ah—uh, shit—d’you wanna come? wanna come while i fill this pretty pussy?”
you respond with a whine as the tightness in your lower belly stretches out then snaps. you moan his name as your orgasm hits you by force, hands shooting up to clutch at his arm as your cunt clenches tightly around the thick of his cock. you tremble, clit heavy with your heartbeat as you come, and dex counters it with a moan of his own and a couple more solid thrusts.
then, he spills inside you. he calls your name, as if you’re not locked right up against him, as he buries himself deep inside you to come. the warmth that floods you makes you want to keen forward, eyes blurring now as you blink through the haze of your orgasm.
dex whimpers as his cock jerks, and when it gives one last twitch before it softens, the arm around your throat loosens and you suck in a deep breath of cool air. but even that doesn’t last long—dex falls forward, pushing you with him, slamming you down onto the bed with his body smothering yours.
he rolls his hips, semi-hard cock rubbing against the slick heat of your walls. you mewl, and he grunts like he doesn’t know what you’re reacting to. but he knows. the lazy smile on his face would suggest just that.
ok i’m having some #thoughts… what if fbi!dex and reader were dating before the whole fisk bullshit and when he went to the mental hospital, reader never visited him. he was so confused and hurt bc u told him you’d never leave him, so when he escapes prison, the first thing he looks for is u. he shows up to your apartment and sees a kid standing behind u, the right age for dex to be the father…
Scared of Life
Benjamin Poindexter x fem! Reader
warning: hurt/comfort, angst, depression during the pregnancy, your daughter being a little possessive over you
A/N: WAIT I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH OMG???? Thank you so much for the request, I hope you like this <333
Dex remembered promises with terrifying precision.
Most people forgot small details over time. Words blurred together. Memories softened around the edges until they became easier to live with. But Dex’s mind didn’t work like that. Every important moments burned itself deep beneath his skin like shrapnel he could never fully remove.
Especially when it came to you. Especially that night.
You had been laying half on top of him on the couch, wrapped in one of his shirts while some terrible late night cooking show played quietly in the background. Dex barely remembered the show itself. What he remembered was your heartbeat against his chest. The warmth of your fingers lazily tracing the scars on body. The way you looked at him like he was still human even after learning all the ugly parts of him.
“What if I get bad again?” he asked quietly. You lifted your head almost immediately after that. Confusion crossed your face first before sadness slowly replaced it. Like the question itself hurt you more than him.
“What do you mean?” Dex shrugged slightly beneath you, eyes fixed on the ceiling instead of your face.
“People leave eventually.” His voice stayed flat when he said it, almost detached. “Usually after they realize I’m too much work.”
Your expression tightened instantly. You shifted upward until he had no choice but to look at you. Your hands cupped his face carefully, thumbs brushing lightly against his jaw.
“I’m not people.” you whispered softly. Dex stared at you for several seconds without speaking.
Then quietly:
“You promise?”
Your forehead rested against his.
“I promise.” That promise became the thing that haunted him most after Fisk destroyed everything.
Because you disappeared. Completely.
No visits during recovery. No calls to the hospital. No messages. Nothing.
At first Dex thought maybe you were hurt. He asked about you constantly during the first few weeks until doctors started exchanging uncomfortable looks every time he brought up your name. Eventually one nurse admitted nobody matching your description had visited him once.
That answer hollowed something inside him immediately. Still, he made excuses for you.
Maybe Fisk threatened you. Maybe the FBI forced you away. Maybe you thought he hated you now after everything that happened.
But as weeks turned into months, the silence became impossible to explain away. Dex sat alone in sterile hospital rooms replaying every conversation you ever had together until it drove him half insane. Every memory became evidence against himself.
Maybe he scared you too much. Maybe you saw what he really was. Maybe loving him finally became exhausting.
Eventually the worst possibility settled heavily into his chest and refused to leave. You abandoned him.
Just like everyone else always did.
The realization destroyed him more thoroughly than Fisk ever could. Because Dex loved catastrophically. His body craved you like oxygen. He was utterly miserable and obsessed with you. Once someone mattered to him, they became stitched directly into his nervous system. Losing them didn’t feel emotional.
It felt physical. Like skin being ripped apart. Like he was told to stab himself over, over and over again.
So when Dex finally escaped months later, bruised and angry and barely holding himself together beneath layers of violence and betrayal, there was only one thing he needed before anything else. You.
He found your apartment just after midnight.
The building sat in a quieter neighborhood than your old place. Smaller too. Safer. Warm yellow light glowed faintly through the curtains while flower pots rested carefully beside neighboring doors.
Dex hated how normal it looked.
You used to talk about wanting normal someday. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without constant sirens and blood and fear clinging to every street corner.
Apparently you built that life without him. The thought twisted sharply in his chest. Dex stood outside your apartment door listening carefully before moving closer.
Two heartbeats. His expression darkened instantly.
You moved on???
His jaw tightened hard enough to ache before he reached for the lock. The mechanism clicked softly beneath practiced fingers. The door opened silently.
The apartment smelled exactly like you. Vanilla candles. Laundry detergent. Coffee. And your parfum in the air made it worse.
For one dangerous second, Dex nearly forgot why he was angry.
His eyes moved carefully across the room. A blanket tossed over the couch. Crayons scattered across the coffee table. Tiny shoes abandoned near the kitchen.
Tiny shoes? Dex frowned slightly.
Then he heard your voice somewhere deeper inside the apartment.
“Lily, if you’re still awake, I swear to god-” Small footsteps thundered instantly through the hallway. A child’s laugh followed.
Dex froze completely.
You appeared seconds later wearing oversized sleep clothes, hair messy like you’d been trying unsuccessfully to get someone into bed for the last hour. The second your eyes landed on him, every bit of color drained from your face instantly.
The air left your lungs so sharply he heard it.
“Dex.” His name sounded fragile coming from you. Emotional enough to make something ugly twist inside him all over again. You stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. Dex stared back just as hard.
You looked tired. Not physically exhausted exactly.
Just worn down around the edges in ways he didn’t remember. Softer somehow too. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, old stress lines near your mouth, and despite everything crashing violently inside him, Dex still thought you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Then anger surged back hard enough to choke him.
“You left.” The words came out rougher than intended. Your expression cracked immediately after hearing them.
Before you could answer, another figure peeked around the hallway corner behind you.
A tiny human, a little girl. Maybe five years old.
Dark curls slightly messy from sleep. Big eyes narrowed suspiciously at the stranger standing inside her apartment.
Dex’s breathing stopped instantly.
Because she looked like him.
The eyebrows. The cheekbones. The expression.
Even the way she tilted her head while assessing him looked painfully familiar. The little girl blinked once before gasping dramatically.
“MOMMY!!!!!!” Dex barely had time to process what was happening before the child suddenly shoved herself directly in front of you with shocking determination.
“MOMMY GET BEHIND ME!!!!!” she yelled loudly. “THERE IS A MAN HERE.”
Dex stared blankly. The tiny girl spread both arms protectively in front of you like she genuinely planned on fighting him herself if necessary.
You looked one stress induced headache away from collapsing entirely.
“Lily, sweetheart-”
“No!” she shouted. “I saw this happen on the big screen.”
Dex blinked slowly. The child pointed accusingly toward him.
“You cannot break into our house.”
Dex frowned slightly. “Technically I already did.”
“THAT’S WORSE.” You made a strangled noise beside her that sounded suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
Dex looked deeply offended instead. The little girl squinted harder at him.
“You look sus… uh… susbizi- Mommy what was the word for weird dangerous looking people.”
“Suspicious, baby. Suspicious.”
“YOU LOOK SUSPICIOUS!!”
“I look suspicious.”
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes critically. “And your face is weird.”
Dex actually looked wounded by that statement.
“My face is normal.”
“No it’s not,” she argued immediately. “You look like a sad potato.”
You physically turned away to hide your laughter. Dex stared at the child in complete disbelief. Then suddenly her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed further.
“Oh my god.” Your face lost every remaining trace of color.
“Lily-”
“You have my eyebrows.” Silence filled the apartment instantly. The little girl looked between both of you several times before gasping loudly enough to wake the entire building.
“MOMMY.” You covered your face with both hands immediately.
“IS THIS THE GUY YOU SAID WENT ON VACATION WITH PEPPA?”
“Yes, Lily. That’s him.” honestly? what were you supposed to tell her when she asked you where her dad is. So you came up with the excuse that her father is on vacation with… peppa the pig.
“So… that’s your secret husband?” she asks innocently.
“What? No!”
Dex looked equally alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
The little girl pointed directly at him again.
“You’re the daddy my mommy told me about.” Dex forgot how breathing worked. You looked ready to die on the spot.
Lily marched directly toward Dex after that with terrifying confidence before stopping directly in front of him. She planted both tiny hands on her hips while staring up at him with the exact same intense focus he’d seen in mirrors his entire life.
“Okay,” she announced seriously. “Here are the rules.”
Dex blinked once. “Rules.”
“Yes.” She pointed between herself and you. “Mommy is mine first.”
You made another choking noise somewhere behind her.
“I’m not sharing,” Lily continued firmly. “Even if you are my dad.”
Dex stared at the tiny child standing in front of him issuing territorial warnings like a mob boss. Then very seriously:
“You don’t wanna share your mother.”
“No.” She crossed her arms harder. “She’s my favorite person.”
Something inside Dex cracked slightly hearing that. Because he understood immediately. Because you’re his favorite person, too.
Unfortunately for him, Lily apparently inherited every protective instinct he ever possessed. It was as if your genes didn’t even try other than her getting your eyes.
“You can stay!” she decided after several seconds. “But if you make mommy cry, I bite.”
Dex nodded solemnly. “Understood.”
“She actually bit a pre school teacher once.” you admitted weakly.
“He was rude to you!” Lily defended instantly. Dex nodded again like this was perfectly rational behavior. Honestly, the fact that he seemed proud should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The next hour passed in complete emotional chaos.
Lily interrogated Dex like an FBI agent while simultaneously climbing all over you possessively anytime he sat too close. She demanded answers to increasingly bizarre questions while Dex answered every single one with complete seriousness.
“Do you know dinosaurs?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“Velociraptor.”
Lily gasped dramatically. “That’s mine too.”
Dex looked absurdly pleased by this information.
Meanwhile you sat frozen on the couch trying unsuccessfully not to emotionally collapse watching them interact.
Dex looked at her like she hung the moon itself.
Eventually Lily began falling asleep curled against your side while still glaring suspiciously toward Dex anytime he moved too suddenly.
Her tiny hand clutched your shirt tightly even half asleep. Dex watched her carefully from the opposite side of the couch.
Memorizing every detail about her. About his daughter.
Then Lily’s sleepy eyes slowly lifted toward him one final time.
“You better not go on vacation again.” she mumbled quietly. The room fell completely silent. Dex froze instantly. Lily yawned softly before curling closer against you.
“Mommy gets sad sometimes.” she whispered sleepily. “She cries when she thinks I’m sleeping.”
Dex looked at you immediately. And the pain on his face nearly destroyed you. After carrying Lily carefully into bed together, the apartment finally fell quiet.
The second her bedroom door clicked shut, all the tension both of you had been avoiding rushed back violently.
Dex stood near the kitchen counter while you lingered several feet away uncertainly. Neither of you knew how to begin unraveling five years of grief.
“She’s five.” you said softly. Dex nodded once.
“She likes dinosaurs. Hates cherries. Talks a lot about wanting to build an animal farm. Thinks every stray cat belongs to her.” His expression softened briefly before tightening again.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There it was. The question he keeps asking himself the whole time.
You looked down immediately because suddenly meeting his eyes felt impossible.
“Because I was terrified.” you admitted quietly. Dex stayed completely still.
“After Fisk.” you continued shakily, “people watched everything connected to you. Hospitals. FBI contacts. Your apartment.” Your throat tightened painfully. “Then I found out I was pregnant.”
Dex looked physically unable to breathe.
“I kept thinking if anyone found out about her…” Your voice cracked slightly. “They’d use her against you. Against me.”
Tears blurred your vision.
“So I disappeared.” Dex’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
“I wanted to visit you,” you whispered. “God, Dex, I wanted to so badly.”
His breathing became uneven instantly.
“But every time I thought about bringing her near any of that…” You shook your head weakly. “I couldn’t do it.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. Too small for all the pain sitting between both of you.
“The pregnancy was horrible without you.” you admitted softly after a moment. Dex closed his eyes briefly.
“Not because of her,” you said quickly. “She was an angel. Felt like she knew I wasn’t doing well and tried to not give me a even harder time.” A weak laugh escaped you through tears. “But because every scary part of it made me want you.”
His face crumpled slightly.
“I wanted your arms around me when I got sick.” Your voice shook harder now. “Wanted to tell you when she kicked for the first time. Wanted you there during ultrasounds.” Tears slipped freely down your cheeks now. “I wanted to lay against your chest and hear you tell me everything would be okay.”
Dex physically flinched. Like every word hurt him. Like you just stabbed him in his heart.
“I needed you,” you whispered brokenly. “And I couldn’t have you.”
For several seconds, Dex said absolutely nothing. Then suddenly he crossed the room. His hands cupped your face carefully. Like he needed physical proof you were still real.
“You protected our daughter.” he said fiercely. You cried harder instantly.
“You should hate me.”
“No.” The answer came immediately.
“I thought you abandoned me,” Dex admitted quietly, eyes burning into yours. “But you were protecting her.”
Your chest hurt painfully.
“I waited for you every day,” he confessed. “Every single day.”
Something shattered inside you hearing that. You wrapped your arms around him instantly.
Dex made a quiet sound against your shoulder that almost didn’t sound human at all. Relief hit him so hard it physically shook through his body. His arms locked tightly around your waist while his face buried against your neck like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
“I will never leave you again.” he whispers loud enough for you to hear.
18+ Smut!!! older bf Dex is implied but it’s not a focal point, he’s such a tease really it’s bad, y’all r so in love it’s crazy!!! raw sex, talking you through it basically cause he’s a gentleman hello? horny blabbering, reader is described as female presenting and inexperienced! Lots of ogling sorry this is soooo self indulgent, newer relationship w Dex, he is soooo adoring cause he doesn’t want you to be scared and also sooooo nasty (not proofread yet)
Dex knows you’re nervous. He can read nervousness like an open face book - can smell it on people like a hound dog who just got deployed. But your nervousness, eyes shyly but surely devouring him, scared to say a word about your own desire, unable to really meet his big green eyes.
It’s different.
He’s not used to it.
He doesn’t have anyone in his life who he gets that ache in his chest for, the tender kind that makes him think, fleetingly, weakness isn’t so bad after all, cause he might fall off the earths axis completely if something happened to you.
He doesn’t like doing that, the being honest with himself part. And right now, he thinks it’s kind of sick that he thinks it’s fucking endearing.
You’re in your room, in your apartment, laying on your belly in your bed staring at his body like you’ve never seen a half naked man before. He’s freshly showered, blue towel tied around his thick waist and fuck, you don’t know what to do with all that.
It’s strange for Dex. He’s become more confident after prison, this is true. He’s gotten attention, but nothing permanent, nothing that made him feel like it was anything more than transactional.
And he’s not lost on the fact that you ogle and it makes him feel appreciated, so he thought nothing of walking out like this when you told him he needed to get all the blood and grime off of his skin before even touching your pink sheets.
Which, he was going to do anyways and you knew that, but he lets you act bossy sometimes cause you think it’s fun. And he finds it funny.
First time spending the night together, and you’re not letting him off easy.
You’ve already told him to use your body wash so he’d smell sweet and how amusing you found the idea of Bullseye lathering himself in vanilla scented soap.
Your relationship is new enough that this is not a regular occurrence as much as he quietly yearns for it to be, but not so new that he doesn’t know where you keep your shoes when you take them off as soon as you walk into the door, or where you keep the gun he insisted on buying you since you’re a woman living alone and have that one sketchy neighbor, or what clothes are in each drawer of your nightstand.
Or what the inside of your apartment looks like, the square footage of each room and what year you bought the place. The width of the kitchen cabinets and the previous owners current address just in case he came across a hidden camera or something of the sort. You know, normal stuff.
The connection you have with Dex has been rooted so deep, that the more overtly physical stuff hasn’t even really mattered. Has he touched himself, spit in in his palm and stroked his cock thinking about how you’d say his name when he’s so deep in you he’s touching your cervix?
Well, yeah.
Or how your panties might smell even though he felt genuinely guilty at the idea of stealing a pair? Cause sure he stalks but he’s not a creep.
But he knew you didn’t have a lot of experience in that department, couldn’t fucking believe it at first, but felt undeniably relieved that almost no one had you like that.
Selfishly, sickly, possessively.
But it makes sense that you didn’t let people in easily, your spirit is like sunshine spilling into a dark room, coloring your surroundings with a kindness he didn’t know existed as legitimately as it does with you. Course no one deserved you, of course you chose people wisely. Of course no one had been worthy of getting you so fully and completely like that in so long.
And how you chose him, how you’ve chosen him everyday for the past six months? He doesn’t know how to realistically wrap his head around it. Doesn’t know what he did in another life that was so goddamn good he got to spend even a fraction of his miserable fucked up life with you.
So yeah, it makes him feel things when you go a little slack jawed while looking at every ripple of muscle like it’s something to be devoured, got your gaze switching from his big arms to his abdomen and lower lower lower.
You really wish you could help it. But he’s got a body that’s put in work, and though you’d love to not make a man feel like he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen - you can’t help it with Dex. Not when he’s this gorgeous, so adoring, so loving and spends almost every moment he has with you reminding you how he can never live without you.
And especially not when he’s two feet away and the towel is dangerously low, and the thick bulge underneath that towel is ever present, reminding you of what you haven’t seen or touched yet.
He shakes the water out of blonde his hair and onto your body, and it does exactly as intended. You squeal, shouting “Dex!” With exasperation that isn’t really genuine. Just enough of a juvenile thing to do that it breaks you out of your shell a little.
He chuckles to himself, finds it cute that you act as if he’s sprayed you with the shower head instead of flinging a few cold droplets. You wipe your forehead, and he steps closer until he’s at the foot of the bed. You sit up on your haunches so you can look at him face to face and not face to dick. You want to keep your composure at least a little.
“Rude, don’t do it again.” You frown, crossing your arms across your chest and his eyebrows lift and a stupid shit eating grin paints his handsome face.
“Oh yeah? Y’feelin brave then?” His voice is low and playful, he reaches out and wipes your cheek off. His hand is rough and warm and you keen into the touch like a kitten. His stomach fills with a familiar heat at such a small, innocent thing. God.
“Clearly not, you walked out half naked and now my knees are all wobbly.”
You say it out loud and so obviously because you don’t know what else to do about it. Truthfully, he really fucking likes that you said it that way. He admires your need to be honest even when it scares you a little. He’s jealous of it.
You also don’t realize how tantalizing, how maddening it truly is.
Don’t even know the power you have over him already.
He shakes the bashfulness off, though he can’t hide the heat staining his cheeks and neck.
“I got you, baby,” he says. And god that makes it so worse, cause now you feel that twinge of tension traveling from your chest to between your thighs. “nothin’ you gotta be scared of with me, you know that.”
You lock your eyes with his now, because it’s genuine and so full of trust you can’t look away even if you wanted to. It’s passing through you both like a power surge. A suddenly playful moment turning real, and candid within seconds even if that’s not what he inherently intended.
That’s just how it is with you and Dex
The intensity never really ceases.
He sees you stew this over in your mind, feels contentment in his bone marrow when you scooch a little closer on your knees and place your soft hands on his bare shoulders. Your touch makes him feel like a live wire, and sort of like he can finally breathe again.
“You’re just like…” you start, chewing on the inside of your bottom lip. He’s got this little smirk that he’s holding back, cocking head head but gentle in the eyes as if you tell you go on, say what you feel. “really beautiful and it’s distracting me.”
Yeah, he’s done for. He can’t even smile properly because those words are so foreign, and so completely you.
He casually cups your face and rubs two thumbs over your soft cheeks. It really does make him feel things - things he hasn’t felt in a long time. Things that didn’t mean what they mean now to him, what you mean to him. It’s the best fucking compliment in the world when it’s coming from your lips.
And would mean absolutely nothing coming from anyone else.
“Distracting you from what, sweetheart? Just you an me right now, there’s no one else to think about.”
You want to kiss him. You want to drag your hands along his trim body, feel him twitch and pant against you. The thought is burning your head, leaving a searing image in its wake - and it’s so real, so close. Because he’s right here in front of you, staring like he knows every thought that’s passing through your head. Like maybe he knows you better than you know yourself.
“C’mere.”
He grumbles, reaching around to cup the nape of your neck. He does it gently, pulling you into his mouth so slow and so careful. He’s exercising an unreal amount of self control, training himself to be gentle with hands that have done so much damage in their time.
The peck is soft, gentle. He doesn’t hold you there even though he’d like to. He lets you decide what you want to take from him. A soft sound leaves your mouth when you depart, going back in for more series of squelchy pecks. It’s his turn to hum low in his throat, you feel it vibrate through you.
And he can feel it in your movements, that you’ve tasted him and now you want more and he hopes you can feel it coming off of him too. He doesn’t want it to be scary, or nerve wracking. His thundering heart betrays his need to come off casual.
“Dex?” You murmur, starting the get cloudy in the head. He can hear it in your voice, in that sleepy way you peer up at him like you’re not fully controlled by conscious thoughts.
You’ve got this pseudo bravery that’s only here with you right now because he is, because he obliged when you told him it would be better for him to stay the night at your place since he’s in town. Because he’s made you feel so safe, so unbelievably understood.
If you knew the patience Dex exhibited with you, out of fear of scaring you off, or freaking you the fuck out, you’d probably have even more of a reverence. And not about sex, no, that’s not important to him.
But he’s never done this before. Never truly put another other person before his own wants and needs, and it feels foreign. But he’d do anything, anything for you. To keep you, to touch you, to protect you.
“Yeah, baby?” He asks, toying with your bottom lip with his thumb. The tips of his ears are going pink, and you feel his body heat radiating off of him like a furnace. You’re only separated by a few inches, not even.
He tilts your chin up when your head drops while you ask him the question, catching your eye. He can’t bear for you to be insecure, to feel even an ounce of trepidation with him.
“Would you…well, can I, touch you?”
God.
It goes straight to his dick, he feels the towel getting tighter around his waist. And he’s sure his pupils are blown out to hell. He can’t believe you feel the need to ask, but that’s just who you are.
“Course’ you can, sweet thing. Course’ you can.” His voice is so rough and so low now, emphasizing his permission. You get this pit in your gut, suddenly astonishingly aware of the fact that you can feel him completely and will and how you’ve been scared of intimacy with a person who wants nothing more than to have your hands on his body.
Your touch move from those big shoulders, and the first thing they instinctively drag over is his broad chest - his skin is hot, light body hair tickling your palms. His nerves are so reactive to your touch and he can’t help but watch you, every expression you have going on even while he feels raw and wired.
You’re concentrated, swallowing hard. They slide lower, past his sternum and over his rigid abdomen and the planes of muscle and tendon there. How they protrude, as if to say grab me, touch me.
You’ve got an awestruck look about you, and your hands feel so soft and gentle and good against him, he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth might shatter. He’s starting to feel lightheaded.
You stay here for a moment, rubbing up and down the valleys and dips. You grip his sides, till your thumbs are tracing the divots that point towards his manhood. You’re moving back up again with both palms against his sides, over his collarbones and then you’re squeezing his biceps with such a giddy look on your pretty face.
Like you’ve just realized for the first time that Dex truly is yours.
“Y’havin fun? Look at that smile.”
You snort, suddenly shy that you were making it that obvious, leaning into him completely and shoving your face in the crook of his neck - he feels all your softness against his body, your shirt a thin barrier between your pretty chest that’s smooshed against him. He smells fresh, clean, gourmand. You feel scruff against your ear, that same body heat intensifying. And since you’re pressed against him now, he instinctually wraps his arms around your frame. Holding you there firmly.
You think you hear a sigh of relief that perhaps he himself didn’t know he was holding onto.
You don’t know if it’s your heartbeat or his, thundering so loudly in your ear. He rubs slow circles over your back, wide palm a reassuring anchor.
You don’t do it on purpose, pressing your lips to that soft tender area underneath his ear. You can’t see it, but it makes his eyes roll back and flutter shut a little - your mouth is so soft, so warm. You do hear the hum that comes from his throat, though. And since your bodies are pressed together, yeah - you feel his dick twitch against your thigh where you previously somehow forgot it was there all together.
You don’t stop there, not after you’ve tasted him and heard and felt the reaction it gave him. Now you’ve got that deep seated need, and so you open your mouth a little wider, give him a genuine kiss over his carotid artery - and yeah, he tilts his head to the side for you, rolls it back when you start kissing and kissing, all the way to his Adam’s Apple.
Those big hands grip your hips a little bit harder, and the pressure of it makes you wonder what it would feel like to for him to grab you other places. How strong he really is, what his body can really do.
“Baby.” His voice is gruff.
He’s panting like a dog now, cause you’re starting to get a little feverish with your movements, got your tongue on his sharp jaw and then he’s grasping your face in his hands cause he can’t take it. He needs to kiss you.
He doesn’t mean to be rough, for the kiss to be bruising. You let out a soft, shocked whimper and he murmurs a “sorry, baby.” In a voice you’ve never, ever heard come from Benjamin Poindexter, just a register higher than it should be.
He slows down a bit when your tongues connect, warm and wet in each others mouths, his nose rubbing against yours. He takes your bottom lip and sucks on it, and your fingertips dig into his arms like you could be swept away at any second.
Now your hands are all in his damp hair, tugging and pulling and he loves it, bad. He lets out this terribly erotic groan, and a soft “yeah.” and you give him one right back. He departs only so you can breathe.
God, his lips are so kiss bitten. Pink and pretty and wet, and his big green eyes are low and pupils obsidian, like he’s on the prowl, starving. He wipes your mouth, holds your face firmly so he can look at you.
“Talk to me, tell me what you want.” He huffs, and you hate that he needs you to say it out loud. Can’t he feel you pushing yourself against his dick? Can’t he see how heavy you’re breathing and the pure desperation for him lit aflame in your gaze?
But you know he needs it.
“I…I want you, want you really bad Dexie. Why’d you stop kissing meeee?”
Oh, you’re getting whiny. Petulant. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth for just a second, tasting you again. He keeps one hand on the back of your neck and one just above your ass when he reclines you on the mattress.
You still can’t believe his towel has managed to stay on.
He’s got this fear, when he hovers on top of you, arms on either side of your head, your knees knocking his stomach before you spread them so you can rub your heels into the dimples of his back.
He’s worried it’ll be too much, that he’ll be too much.
See, he wants you just as bad. And of course he’ll take his time, of course he’ll be as gentle as you need him to be. Not even a question. But you’re already dialed up to 10, got this expression like you’re this hurt, innocent thing, all while squirming like the pressure between your legs is unbearable.
He kisses your face. Your cheeks, your forehead, letting you writhe like you’re tortured underneath him. It’s driving you mad, he knows that, but his cock is so hard it’s starting to hurt against the rough material of the towel and he can’t let himself feel you till he knows what you really want.
“S’not what I asked.”
You push at his big chest, pull at his shoulders. He doesn’t move from it, of course, but your fingernails are leaving streaks against his flesh and you finally just lock your legs around him and press him right between your legs.
“I want you to fuck me, if that’s okay with you.”
If that’s okay with you. He almost laughs, cause god you’re funny even when you’re not trying to be.
“Dirty mouth, tsk.” He says it to tease, kisses the tip of your nose when he says it. But you’ve still got that hazy lust clouding your eyes. He kisses you again, swallowing your whine.
“Yeah? You achey right here, baby?” He emphasizes by moving his hips side to side, abdominals flexing at his core, pressing his cloth covered cock harder against your flimsy pajama bottoms - and you gasp.
He would find it absurdly cute if he weren’t so fucking hard. So instead it just makes him throb.
You keep your hands on his waist of moving muscle, rutting yourself against his center, feeling the outline of his erection hot and heavy between your legs.
“Right there.” You pant back with an open mouth and bleary eyes. Everything about the moment is doing it for you. And not just the obvious, which is a 95% naked Ben with his big puppy dog eyes and a smirk that accentuates all the years he’s ever smirked, and his unfairly strong body. Just the dynamic that’s going on is making you sticky, leaking from your sex.
It’s doing it for him too. Cause now he’s kissing you with a desperation you didn’t know he had, making mmm, mmmm, noises into your throat while he does it.
“Want me inside? That what you want, pretty girl?”
Now it’s his turn to mouth at your neck, and you’re so so soft, and perfumed and the little bit of perspiration that’s gathered because of being worked up tastes so good on his tongue. He licks the divot of your collarbone, covers any expanse of skin he can see in open mouthed kisses.
“Yessss, please.” You beg. He pecks your chin, hating to pull away from you like this cause of course you sound pitiful when he does. He hooks his thumb underneath the towel and it falls off like it wasn’t somehow glued to him for 10 minutes straight.
You should’ve known, and maybe you did know. But Dex is big, it’s enough to be incredibly intimidated because not only is he a couple inches longer than average, but he’s thick. Heavy. Looks like it holds weight to it that your body can already picture feeling.
It’s pretty too. The tip is the same shade of his lips, a little smaller in width than the robust shaft and you’re honestly not surprised he manscapes, he’s always been particular- it’s neat, lightly colored, and framed where you want him most.
“I’m not the only one with starin’ problems.” He says, not predicting that you’d cover your face with your hands and try to suffocate yourself in the sheets. He grips your right ankle, shakes it before he crawls on top of you.
“Hey hey hey, just joking baby, don’t do that.”
You think you might burst at how sincerely sorry he sounds, grabbing your wrists with calloused fingers and prying them away from your eyes. When he turns you over and sees that you’ve got a big, goofy, ridiculous smile on your face - his heart settles back into his chest instead of the pit of his stomach.
You’re giggling.
“Scared me half to death, fuck, Thought I really hurt your feelings.”
You rub your palms against his scruffy face, touch his open mouth with your thumb.
“You did, asshole,”
He’s smiling goofy too, now. Kissing your wrist.
“just staring cause it’s so big.”
He knows this. He’s got eyes and he’s been told once or twice. Still, Dex doesn’t know what to do with being seen like that by you. Didn’t think about it until now.
Hearing you say it out loud, hearing the lilt of your voice and seeing your eyes rake down his body to stare at his manhood with big eyes - it strokes his ego like nothing else ever has. He sees the way you nibble on the inside of your lip again, though. Sees you calculating.
“I’ll take it slow’as you need, yeah?” He reassures, rubbing the sides of your thighs with heavy, comforting strokes. He wants to bite the flesh there, take it into his mouth, savor it.
“You know I trust you.” You pant back, and he knows you do. He can feel it in your body language, the way you’re opening your legs for him wider, like a lotus flower.
And you’re not so tense anymore, body not so rigid. You’re melting into him when he kisses you again - one big hand gripping your jaw gently. You’ve never been kissed like this before by anyone else. It’s intoxicating.
He pries your lips open, licks the inside of your mouth before beckoning your tongue with his own. He sucks it before pecking you again, languishing you with slow and sloppy pops and suckles.
“Fuck.” You whine, sexually frustrated in a way that you’re not sure has been experienced by anyone else ever because that’s how singular it feels, how maddening.
He departs to take a look at you, a good, long look. Hawk eyes trail over your body like it’s something reverent.
He tongues the inside of his cheek, takes in the way you’re panting and unable to keep still and swallowing hard. You’re so worked up from nothing, it’s making him feel dizzy and drunk with excitement.
“Can I take these off, sweetheart?”
You nod, followed by a verbal response cause he’s not gonna do it unless you say it.
“Yes.”
Two thumbs hook into the waistband of the silky shorts, and he’s taking your underwear with them when he starts shimmying them off of your soft hips. He even takes the time to graze your thighs and calves with his knuckles as he draws them down your legs.
He wants this to be good for you, the best. He’s proficient in all aspects, hits the target every single time.
Cool air breezes against your center, where arousal has made you slick. Dex is at your feet still, holding your ankles and trailing his calloused palm back up those same calves. He doesn’t even realize he’s licked his lips and has groaned deep in his chest. His senses are taking over, his desire, the thick heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline pumping through him.
He stares for a beat longer than the average man would. Because once again, he can’t believe he’s here. That the images in his mind could never do you absolute justice, how unbelievably beautiful you are in the most real and human way.
You’ve got pressure starting to become unbearable. Even just watching him, seeing how lost he is in the sight of your body - you can’t think straight.
He’s pulled out of his reverie when you grip the bottom of your shirt and pull it off your head, tossing the garment to the floor. It lands on the corner of the nightstand, but who’s checking.
“M’sorry baby, got distracted.” He says it honestly, a genuine apologetic lilt to his voice.
“It’s okay, makes two of us now.”
You smile at him in the gentle, playful way you do, and he’s leaning between your legs by the waist, cock so close you can feel the heat coming from it along with the rest of his body.
Now he’s looking at your naked chest, finds himself kissing your mouth in a heavy press of his lips before he’s moving across your jaw and neck and - he almost dips down and takes your nipple into his mouth. He’s almost forgotten his manners.
“Can I?” He asks through thick lashes and a strain in his throat, hovering over your tits with a slack jaw.
“Of course.”
Eager hands grip the softness of your waist, pressing upwards till he’s cupping the fat of your breasts and closing his eyes like he’s about to savor something sweet - and then he sucks on the hard bud, and you’re lit aflame.
You didn’t think it could feel this good. But he’s sucking harshly to get them sensitive, dribbling a little spit onto them before rubbing his bottom lip across the surface. Then he pops it back into his mouth, swirls his tongue.
Your fingers find his damp hair again, and you’re sure he’d suffocate if he stayed here for too long with the way you’re arching into him. He’s moving from one to the other like he can’t choose.
“Pretty fuckin tits, fuck.” He mumbles it like he’s talking to himself. Dirty words sound so good coming from his mouth, and his general disposition is usually so quiet most of the time that it feels like you’re being gifted with something rare.
It’s somewhere during his sucks and nips and bites to the fat, that you feel his hips get closer. And with the size of Dex, anything closer than what you were before has his shaft pressed right against your center - up against the sticky folds and now swollen clit.
He winces like it hurts with furrowed eyebrows, completely taken aback by how much is dripping out of you - he feels hot, wet slickness against his cock, and a gasp pulls from your lips
Your hips talk before you do. You thrust them upwards, catch his manhood between your legs and rub yourself against it from the bottom where his heavy balls are sat, to the aching tip.
“Please, I can’t wait.” It sounds like you could cry.
He almost chokes, eyes getting fluttery and his arms shaky, but not from holding up his own weight. He reels it in, looks you in your eyes, corners of his pretty mouth twitching upwards
“Yeah? You want it, pretty girl?”
You pull him by his neck to your mouth again, too worked up to care about your attitude or your neediness because Dex knows what he’s doing. It’s driving you crazy.
“Dex you’re twitching against me, I know you want it too.”
His thick eyebrows raise on his forehead, mouth cocking into a genuine smirk now.
“When’d you get such a dirty mouth, huh?”
He’s both more turned on than he thought possible, and so goddamn amused. Elated. You’re opening up for him, and it’s too good. He kisses you again and again and again.
“Always want you to tell me what’s goin on in that beautiful head, yeah? Tell me everything. Don’t hold back again.”
He’s lost it. He’s desperate now, and he doesn’t visit desperation very often anymore. Told himself he never would, so It’s reserved for very few things, and here you are - unraveling him with a string of words. With your tongue playing with his.
And you’re developing this pained expression, this crease between the valley of your eyebrows and your breathing has picked up considerably because you’re trying to catch gasps of air between the relentlessness of his mouth.
You’re bucking yourself against his dick now, shy girl gone and tucked away deep behind your navel where you need him most. It’s heavy in the pit of your stomach, that desire, the smoke.
“Want me to put it in? Huh?” He grunts, cause now he can’t compose himself properly. He’s being transformed, reduced to someone who was just made to please you. To give you exactly what you want.
“Yes please please please.” He doesn’t think he’s ever been harder. Your genuine desire is so sweet and honest, and he kisses you hard again. Departs to peer between your bodies at the mess between your legs.
He grips the base of his shaft.
“Don’t have to beg honey, let me just - okay lift your hips a little, fuck, that’s it, thaaaaats - oh fuck.”
He’s afraid he’s not going to last because you’re stretching around his tip perfectly, and your mouth drops open and this incoherent, fucked out sound leaves your parted lips while your insides already start pulsating around him.
Giving him a nice, welcome hug once he’s fully seated.
He can’t believe it, that he’s actually inside of you. And he can’t think about anything else other than the sensations, than the swelling in his chest and the way the tip of his dick is slowly pressing forward through your spongy walls - how the wetness is coating him, how now he’s fully sheathed inside of you.
“Tell me when to move, god you feel good.” He pants it out, staring down at you with a searching gaze, trying to figure out what’s going on in your head.
“You can move Dex - ohhhh, oh fuck.” He drags himself out slowly before pushing back in, giving you a chance to feel the entirety of him. He watches it go in out, ears twitching with the sound of your slickness and the squelchy glide of you taking it all.
He’s shuddering already, hips rocking steadily at first - just trying to let you adjust, to let himself adjust, soaking up the sensations of the warmth and the softness and wondering how in the hell he ever lived without feeling you like this.
His imagination can not, will never again compare. Not even a little.
It quickly becomes frantic, because your fingernails start leaving these little scratches down his biceps and the sting is too good, and his hips start bucking at a pace that begins shaking the bed frame.
You’re stuck with an open mouth, eyes already threatening to close and he’s envious of the ceiling and the way you’re staring at it so he grips your chin - pulls your face back down so he can look at you.
He’s so fucked out. Blotchy pink skin, the crinkles by his eyes doing overtime and the lines in his forehead deepening with each furrow and twitch of his eyebrow.
His breaths are ragged, vocal, and when you make eye contact and you feel the intensity of everything all at once, like a massive wave of emotion, and surrealism crashing down on you.
Because he’s so heavy on top of you, deliciously heavy and he’s in between your legs and inside your body and you have the want to reach out and wrap your arms around him but he’s too big and this position makes it hard.
Plap plap plap.
The sounds are loud now, his hips connecting with the back of your thighs and his heavy balls smacking against the crest of your ass - you cry out to him, pleads that are just sounds but somehow he knows exactly what you need. He always does.
“Shh, I got you, right there’s good hmm? F-f-fuck, ahhh.” He’s groaning in your ear, nuzzled himself in the crook of your neck and shoulder and now you can wrap your arms around his neck. He smells sweet from the shampoo, salty from the quickening perspiration and his skin is hot and rough against the side of your face.
“Righ-right there, r-right there, I- ohhhh, mmm.”
It’s downright humiliating, the sounds leaving you, the reaction your body is having. It’s nothing short of angelic to him, and he’s so giving - only putting himself in a position where he can’t watch what’s happening because you want to hug him while he fucks into you like this.
You can’t see much over the hulking mass of his back, just flashes of his ass from the way his hips are pistoning in and out.
It’s really a small, unconscious thing. Your fingertips glide over the raised, smooth pink scar protruding from his spine. It’s a gentle graze, just the pads pressing into it enough for your nails to kiss it.
Dex loses his mind.
The sound that rips through him is animalistic, primal and hungry and distraught. His whole body lurches, and then he’s coming back up for air and looping two big arms around each thigh while he puts your knees to your chest.
You grip the bedsheets and he’s quick to take your hands and place them on his big chest, to encourage your touches, the scratching the wanting, the all consuming desire plaguing you both like an incurable sickness.
“You just - you’re p-perfect baby, oh god you’re perfect.” He says it like it’s painful, sweat dripping down the side of his face, cocooning in the cusp of his scar and curving around his jaw.
“I can’t - dee-eep, you’re so deep Dex.” Each word is hiccuped by a thrust, and between your legs is surely a mess. Warm, hot even, soaked and sticky. His face contorts, head cocking to the side like he’s listening with real and true empathy.
His voice is even more saccharine, not mocking but understanding, because he’s the one so deep he feels the outline of your cervix against the mushroom tip of his dick.
“I know, I know honey.” He gets as close as he possibly can, lips barely ghosting yours and you’re craning your neck to meet him. To press a plush, hard kiss to his mouth and his tongue is quick to find yours. To tell it hello, to taste it.
“You can do it, ohhhhmygod, already taking me all the way. That’s it, that’s it.” He encourages, presses his forehead to yours and you make the mistake of peering down, of seeing just how good he’s fucking you with your own eyes.
He’s disappearing over and over again with strings of his precum and your arousal connecting the two of you in a sticky haze.
He feels your insides pushing, your belly is tensed and your eyes are having trouble focusing on him again. So he curves his hips, ruts into you deep and his pubic mound grinds against your clit in the process which makes you pulse even harder around him.
He knows you’re close, can feel it and see it and the way your jaw drops a little further spurs him more.
“Like this? Gonna cum for me?”
It’s a series of questions pulled out with great effort despite their simple nature, because he’s barely hanging onto his own sanity.
You nod ardently, pulling his hips closer each time he leaves your body and returns. He’s too fucked out to do anything other than keep going, exactly as he is because he needs you to finish around him.
It’s the same precision he has with targets, the accuracy unwavering and absolute in the end goal.
It flutters from between your thighs and then throughout your body, centered inside of you with a crushing intensity, the blossom of your ending.
You’re crying out his name with breaks in your voice that he’ll remember forever, thighs trembling fiercely around his waist with the urge to close from the pleasure while your walls quiver and contract.
It’s a string of “cumming cumming you’re making me cum.” And he praises you all the while at the same time - “yeah, yeah let go for me. That’s it, fuck, all for me.” And it’s hearing those whimpers, those soft sobs in his ear and your hot puffs of breath that sends him right over the devastating edge.
The thrust is final, sealing. He will never be the same, and he understands that as he releases into you, balls aching and tensing and then ropes of his spend being pumped into you with short staccato thrusts.
“I love you I love you, god, fuck I love you.” It sounds painful, like he’s never said something so honest. He grunts viciously, grips at the sheets cause he doesn’t want to hurt you with his hold.
You cling onto him while your orgasms ripple through your bodies, and he’s all tensed muscle and beads of sweat and a mirage of a normally composed man. You’re reduced him to crimson skin and tears in the corners of his eyes and ragged breaths.
You’re both shaking when he decides to pull out of you, he shutters from the way you squeeze around him as if you don’t want him to go. And truthfully he wants to sit there for as long as you’ll allow, but he’s heard it’s not good for you and he wants to get you cleaned up as soon as possible.
But he has to press his mouth to yours first, inspect your face for any signs of discomfort, a quick gaze over your body for any possible bruising - but you’re the perfect picture of bliss. A smile of content on your pretty lips, your limbs loose.
“Dex,” you’re broken from the post sex haze, eyes suddenly serious, expression more concerned that he’d like considering what you two have just done - you pull his mouth to you again, kissing over and over and over like it might be the last time ever.
His heart starts skipping beats, like maybe he missed something. Yeah, of course he kisses you back because he’d rather lose a limb than deny you of that, but his mind starts reeling until you provide an explanation.
“What is it? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He’s taken aback, content nonetheless because your lips are forgiving and warm and pleading. He sees now that you’re searching his eyes, till they’re locked in on his irises like you’ve found what you were looking for.
You break away and hold his face, nuzzle your nose against his searing cheek. He swallows hard when you take a deep breath to speak.
calling dex ‘daddy’ while on your knees, staring up at him and palming at his bulge. he likes hearing you say his name more than anything, but daddy is something you dont just call anyone. you called him daddy because he’s important to you, all he ever wanted to be was important. special. needed. it makes his cock twitch at the thought of how much you admire him.
“what is it, sweetie?” he’s looking down at you and his tone makes you feel small with how condescending he sounds. your grip on his clothed cock doesn’t falter. “need you, baby please” you almost stumble over your words with how nervous you are. he laughs at you, crouching down to your level with a cocky smirk on his face.
“i dont think you called me that earlier,” he says it while his hand grips your face tightly, you feel his fingertips grip your cheeks so hard you feel like he’ll leave a bruise. “hhng— need you please, daddy” your words meshed together due to the pressure of his fingers on your face. your head is getting fuzzy, unable to think about anything other than him.
“thats right baby. you do need me, never forget that.” you dont say anything, only whining as he pulls away his hand and smacks you across the face before you could even think of a reply. you feel dizzy and a little nauseous, pleasure seeping out of you and staining your panties. he stands back up, cock just as hard as it was before he crept down to you.
“cant think ‘nymore daddy, jus’ want you” you confess in a whisper, as if you were trying to hide it in the first place. “thats alright princess, let daddy do all the thinking for you okay? be good.” he cooed, making your clit throb as you pulled his cock out. he was long and thick, pre glistening at the top of his fat head.
you took him in your hand, lifting it up a bit as you licked the underside of his cock, earning you a deep groan. his eyes never dared to go off of you, you looked too perfect like this and it made him want to hurt you. he gets the idea to pull your hand away from his length, letting it bounce onto your face.
“shit, look so pretty like that. ‘s almost as long as your head,” as self centered as it sounds, he’s right. “open your mouth princess, let daddy see that pretty fuckin’ tongue.” he ordered roughly and you obliged effortlessly, making a lewd “aaah” sound as you opened up for him. he groaned once more and slapped the tip on it, moving it to your cheek and slapping you lightly with it.
ending it here for now but i love daddy kink w dumbification 😵💫
The chain from the handcuffs rattles against the headboard, jerking forwards with each movement of your bodies. His forearms strain above his head, fingers flexing - reaching for something to grab onto.
"You're such a good boy -" You lean downwards, a hand running through his wet hair, soaked with sweat. His cock twitches inside you when he hears your words. He leans into your touch, eyebrows furrowing as he nuzzles your palm. "Making me feel so good,"
The backs of your thighs ache, loins burning from riding him for god knows how long. Sweat pools against every inch of your bodies. His eyes are watery and glazed over, as if he might begin to cry at any moment.
"Fuck -" he gasps out, "just use me all you want, baby." His hips stutter beneath you, grinding up to meet you in the middle, his cock hitting that place deep inside you over and over again.
His pelvis rubs deliciously against your clit, your wetness has already coated the entire area of skin. Each thrust gets noisier and noiser, filling the room. His arms strain again, his biceps flexing whilst he tries not to move. Always trying to be a good boy for you.
"I wanna cum - fuck I'm gonna cum inside - fuck - wanna fill you up -"
His words head straight down to your core, your pussy tightens around his cock, getting impossibly wetter. "Say the magic words, Dex."
gill I’m thinking about jack and r making time for what was supposed to be a quickie before he has to go to work or smth but dick so good she gets all floaty and subby and he has to take care of her :’)
this also makes me think of rabbot! where jack gets you in subspace and brings you to work to do a lil handoff w robby……. much to think about…
edit: i did it ^^
18+ mdni
What was meant to be a 5 minute quickie against the wall turned into a 15 minute fuck in bed. Jack should have thought better than to thrust into you in full, deep strokes that sponged right over your g-spot and stretched your tight hole around his thick cock. He probably should have refrained from murmuring low praise in your ear, calling you daddy’s girl, telling you that your pussy was made for him. He’s definitely getting too used to indulging you.
He realizes this too late, after he spills inside you with a low groan while your walls clench around him in the throws of your own orgasm. “So fuckin’ good for me.” He breathes out against your neck, pressing a hot kiss there.
“Daddy.”
He recognizes the smallness in your voice right away.
“Baby,” he intones, dipping his head to catch your eye where your face is pressed into his clavicle. “Honey, look at me.”
Your eyes are blown wide and glassy. Jack smoothes away a single stray tear on your cheek. Shit.
“Hi, sweetheart. There she is.” He smiles at you. “Keep your eyes right here and take a deep breath for me, yeah? Can you do that?” You nod immediately, chest rising as you take in a deep, albeit shaky, breath. Jack nods along with you. “Attagirl. Another one, just like that. Good job.”
He pulls out of you, shushing your whine. His eyes stay on your face all the while, studying you, watching the effort and focus it takes for you to keep taking big breaths like he’d told you to. He curses softly. “Come on, pretty girl.” Jack smooths his warm hands up and down your bare sides in an attempt to ground you. “Come back for me.”
Your brow wrinkles and your lips purse in a slight pout at the instruction. This isn’t working. Jack’s already late.
Jack grabs his phone from the side table and shoots a quick text to Shen: -> Something came up. I can’t make it in tonight. Sorry for the short notice.
Jack looks back at you. You’re staring at his chest now, your hands extended to trail your fingers through the coarse smattering of grey hair just below his belly button. “Focus, honey.” His voice pulls your attention back. “Keep taking your deep breaths.”
Jack checks his phone to see a response from Shen.
-> I’ve got you covered. But you owe me.
Another message comes through, an apple-pay request for 30 dollars labeled ‘Dunkin for the night crew’. Jack scoffs and hits accept and pay without another thought.
“Are you mad?” The question, in your soft little voice, is enough to remind Jack to relax his shoulders and loosen his jaw. He smiles at you reassuringly, right back to calm and collected. He tosses his phone to the side.
“Never, babydoll.” He leans down to give your forehead a kiss. “I got it all figured out. How’s my girl feeling?”
Your dopey little smile and the way you whisper good, daddy, tells Jack he made the right decision. He couldn’t leave you like this. “Yeah?” he smiles. Leaves another kiss on your cheek this time. “Daddy made you feel good?” You nod. “Yeah.“ He voices for you. “That’s good, baby.”
The way you’re looking up at him, like you trust him more than anything in the world, has his soft dick twitching again. He can’t help it. And, hell, if he has the night off he might as well make the most of it. He moves downwards, settling between your legs. He coaxes your thighs further apart. “Open your legs, just like that. Let me take care of this little pussy.”
Brendon "Shark" Park / reader!F!doctor
+18 MDNI
pwp!; breeading kink? mommy issues, smut, unprotected p in v, degradation, slapping.
wc: 3.7k
pt vers here: pt1 / pt2
You didn't really remember how it all started between you and Brendon. Well, maybe there was a beginning, but it wasn't romantic or gentle — it had always been a small rivalry. You always had a sharp tongue, and he was always arrogant — so arrogant that the air itself seemed oppressed whenever he entered a room. Of course, he had his reasons to be arrogant, to have that damn ego so high; he was the best orthopedic surgeon in Pittsburgh, and in his crudest, most disrespectful comparisons, you knew his ego was as big as his dick.
Maybe it had truly started when you acted like a brat and called him "babyshark" during a shift, when he was taking too long assessing a trauma case — an amputation from an accident that left a nasty gash, as if the patient's leg had been torn apart by a rabid, hungry animal.
"What's wrong, Brendon? Turned into a babyshark? Are you going to take care of this patient or just keep staring?" You taunted while suturing the laceration on the patient's chest. Park's blue eyes fixed on yours so lethally that your spine went cold, and for a second you nearly faltered on the stitches. It was like poking a predator with a stick that was too short — playing with gasoline next to a bonfire with dry enough wood to start a fire quickly.
"Careful with that tongue. I fix bones; I'm not going to suture yours if you lose it." He shot back acidly, his jaw slightly clenched, his brows forming a furrow on his forehead that bordered on threatening. Despite the situation not being ideal, a mischievous smile formed on your face as you returned your attention to the suture you were making. "I'll take the patient. Finish your embroidery." Brendon's voice reached your ears, now too close — he was beside you, watching your work. "We'll settle this later, brat." He whispered, low enough for only you to hear. No one on the team really cared; the exchange of barbs between you was as normal as a chaotic day in the PTMC.
From there, the friction became more frequent but never disrespectful. You admired his efficiency; Brendon was, indeed, a good doctor. Arrogant, but a good surgeon. But there was something more — the way he looked down at you, the way his rigid, authoritative posture made your breath linger in your chest a moment longer, the way there was now a desire for him to put you in your place, to whisper the dirtiest names right against your ear. There were so many sinful thoughts in one mind that sometimes, in the brief moments of rest — not from work, but from your personal life — you'd find your hand inside your panties, thinking about how he might repeat that time he found you too irritated in the break room, locked the door, pulled you against his chest, and made you come gloriously while his other hand covered your mouth so no one could hear a thing. And now, amidst all the work, there was only the memory of that day; your schedules weren't aligning well enough for you to be together for any real length of time.
And now, it wasn't exactly what it seemed — you weren't masturbating thinking about your coworker; you just needed to relieve the tension that had been building in your head, more specifically in your home.
You and your mother had never gotten along well. She was always a bit narcissistic, invasive, and disrespectful of your privacy. She had the terrible habit of entering your room without knocking, and when the door was locked, she'd insist until the last second with relentless knocking for you to open it. That's why your teenage relationships never lasted long, and you could barely have sex or satisfy yourself properly.
And now, living alone, you could do whatever you wanted — well, until the day she showed up at your door with the excuse that she'd "stay a few days." No warning, no date to leave; she just appeared and walked right into your apartment, the one you'd earned through hard work.
And these had been the most hellish weeks of your life. She constantly complained that you were barely home, that you worked too much, that your apartment hardly looked lived-in, that you still weren't even dating. With every complaint, you let out a different sigh, an rolled eyes that would surely make you see your brain.
And to top it off, there was Brendon, getting assigned to the same cases as you.
"You always get to the best cases first, don't you?" Brendon's voice echoed in your ears as he entered the trauma bay. "Still embroidering, Dra. Barracuda? You used to be faster." He taunted while pulling on gloves. Park had been visiting the ER more often than you'd liked during that damned week. "I thought you liked more exposed injuries." He analyzed the arm opposite the one you were working on — a piece of flesh ruined by an explosion, twisted and burned.
"At least I didn't skip that class. I have seen your sutures, it's a fucking shit." You shot back more acidly than you should have, and he raised an eyebrow. "But thanks for the compliment. I'll finish embroidering and send the rests for you to finish mangling." He noticed your eye-rol, he could smell your bad humor.
"Little fish wake up on the wrong side of the ocean? Get swept away by the tide last night?" Perlah and Jesse stared at each other from across the room; the tension this time was palpable, suffocating. "Needs an amputation. Just do the damn job."
"Good work takes time. If you knew how to do it, you know that. Oh, I forgot..." You tied a knot and pulled the pieces of flesh together, restarting the work. People said your sutures barely left scars, and you could say you prided yourself on that. "Sharks only know how to mangle."
"Are you bragging about a suture?" He asked, pulling off his gloves, arms crossing over his chest, eyebrows drawn together in visible confusion.
"Did that offend you?" You arched an eyebrow in response, your expression revealing the impatience starting to surface. "Should I change your nickname to Dr. Sardine?" Jesse stared at Perlah with slightly wide eyes; you two usually traded barbs, but things never escalated like this. They were two predators fighting over territory. "I'm done. Do your fucking job, Brendon."
You pulled off your gloves with more anger than necessary, throwing them in the trash can in the corner. But you could still feel his gaze burning into your back. The conscious, non-irritated part of your mind knew he'd get back at you for this later, and there would certainly be more bruises than you'd like when that happened. Normally, you craved that. You liked provoking him, trading barbs — it was exciting and fun, it spiced things up in the bedroom. But today, specifically, you were irritated, tired, and suffocated.
Well, maybe that explained the current moment: your face pressed hard against the mattress, Park's hand gripping your hair with a strength worthy of an orthopedist, your hips arched at an angle that would certainly leave your lower back a little sore thanks to the force with which he entered and exited your pussy. His other hand held your ass so tightly that you could already feel the marks of his fingers on your skin, already marked with bites and hickeys that would certainly leave colors between red and purple, as he always did.
He grunted low, almost a growl, as he felt your pussy squeeze his cock — wet and hot, making obscene sounds fill the room alongside your muffled, breathy moans. For Park, it was the most beautiful symphony; he could come just from hearing the sound your pussy made whenever he buried himself back inside you.
"Your bad mood always gets fixed with a good fuck, doesn't?" He whispered in your ear when he pulled you up, the hand that was gripping your hair moving to your neck, stopping air from reaching your lungs for a few good, delicious seconds. "You're nothing more but a brat desperate for my cock."
You rolled your eyes, your legs trembling as he slowed the pace of his thrusts just to hear you whimper, to hear you beg for more, dripping and lubricating his cock further. You were so close to coming, so close it bordered on sensitive. You could see your vision starting to darken at the edges, tears wetting the corners of your eyes as he laughed hoarsely, biting your ear, growling low as he gave you another bite on the shoulder, marking you with his teeth.
"What's wrong Little Fish? Run out of words?" You whimpered again, grinding back against him, against the hand he'd moved from your waist to your clit, circling that sensitive spot so lightly it made you tremble.
You'd miraculously managed to get your mother out of the house for a few hours—enough time for Park to show up at your door on your shared day off that you'd miraculously managed to coordinate. His expression was irritated from having let you slip away for two more days after you'd been a damned brat for weeks.
But fate loved to mess with you, and this was another one of those moments. The front door of the apartment opened with a click you'd recognize anywhere. Even amidst the moans and brutal thrusts, your senses blared an alarm. Your mother was home again. You still had the damn habit of recognizing everyone's footsteps, whether your family or your coworkers.
"Brendon." You panted, grabbing his wrist. "Brendon... My mother -- Ah fuck!" Maybe, just maybe, you moaned louder than you should have when he pulled out almost completely and thrust back in one go, ripping an orgasm out of you that made you see stars, making your body shiver from the base of your spine to the nape of your neck.
"Fuck your mother. I haven't come yet." He said as he bit the other side of your neck, not caring about leaving visible marks. "Keep moaning for me and squeezing me like that."
"Son of a bitch…" You complained low, rolling your eyes as he started thrusting hard into you again, making your body fall forward again — because besides your weak legs, he loved the sight of your ass up in the air.
Then the knocks on the door interrupted your half-slow reasoning as the next orgasm started to tighten your stomach, making your heart race.
"Mom... I'm..." You bit the sheets, rolling your eyes. Brendon's cock pulsed inside you. Fuck, you loved coming together with him. "I'm... busy, for fuck's sake!" But that didn't matter to her; the knocks continued, and Park growled in irritation, taking out the frustration that didn't make him stop in a hard slap on your ass, certainly leaving another mark — not that your entire body wasn't already marked.
"She's plenty busy... Unless you want to see your daughter getting fucked!" Brendon was harsh, arrogant in the way that made your stomach churn with anxiety and that, in the present moment, made you moan loud enough to make more than clear what you were doing and betray how close you were to orgasm.
It was enough to make you come, your pussy pulsing around him, making him grunt and pull your ass against his hip as he filled you, his hot cum dripping down his cock as it still occupied the space inside you.
With your senses still dulled by pleasure, you managed to hear your mother walking away, muttering curses about what a depravity it was to have sex without even being married. But right now, it really didn't matter, because your dear "babyshark" was already starting to move again.
"I'm not done with you yet." He whispered, and turning your face to the side, you could see that toothy grin only he could give. It made you shiver and let yourself be flipped over on the bed like a ragdoll.
Well, after all, that's what sharks do. They love to tear things apart.
Brendon's body covered yours again like a blanket on a cold day — warm, slightly sweaty, and God, the weight of him on you pulled out an ecstatic sigh. Fuck his mother, how would she react to everything she'd heard, to everything that was happening? You had Park starting to get hard again between your legs, his thick, heavy cock, still wet from both of your orgasms, pulsing near your pussy, rubbing against your sensitive clit, causing tremors in your already weak legs and shivers from the base of your spine to the rest of your marked body.
"Little fish..." He bit your ear, dragging his lips across your cheek before returning to your mouth, biting your lip. "You're being very scandalous... What will your mother think of me?" You didn't answer, since Brendon silenced your swollen lips with another kiss, another bite, another moan swallowed by him as his cock slid easily inside you in a single thrust.
His chest vibrated with a laugh. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his tense biceps; your nails left irregular red lines across every centimeter of skin, and you knew he liked it—actually, he loved it. Park didn't leave much space for you to get used to his cock; he started moving again, brutally, stretching every centimeter of your pussy again, making you choke in surprise on a moan that he silenced by putting his hand over your mouth before forcing your lips open and pushing two fingers inside.
"I would love to put you on top to ride..." He whispered, half-hoarse, groaning when your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. "But I doubt you can move, you get so dumb after you come... You don't even remember how many times you've come, do you?" He laughed; it wasn't exactly a serious question. His other arm slid under the curve of your knee, bringing it closer to your stomach, opening you up even more for him. "Or how you provoked me like a brat at the hospital — the only place you should have a little respect."
Brendon took his fingers out of your mouth, still wet, stimulating your left nipple with weak pinches, watching you squirm, gasp, and squeeze him even tighter. It was incredible how he loved to air dirty laundry in those moments, throw in your face all the actions that shouldn't leave that room — but it was a game you both liked, even without admitting it.
"Just because... I called you a sardine?" You asked amidst a moan, lowering your gaze across his face, from his hungry blue eyes that devoured you as if you were the best feast a starving man could have, directly to where your bodies connected, whimpering when he brought his other hand down to caress your clit. "You... Ah, shit.. Fuck!"
Your hands went down to his wrist, trying to make him stop caressing that place like that, or you'd come again. He pushed your hands away with a firm slap, disapproving of your action with his gaze, and the thrusts slowed down. Brendon pulled out almost completely, leaving just the head inside you, moving slowly.
"You called me out in front of the new residents..." Park retorted with a growl, the hand that was on your clit moving up with enviable speed to your jaw, forcing you to look at him again. "Staring at me with that slut face while i was assessing the case."
"You were taking too long." A slight pout formed on your lips, feeling a little pain from the pressure.
"I was assessing. I know how to do my job and i think you know that better than anyone." He gave two light slaps to your cheek, before moving again, his hips slamming against your ass with a smacking sound. "But if that's not enough, i'm going to remind you."
"That you don't know... How to do a suture right?" You moaned with the slap, this time harder, that he gave to your face. "Wretch..."
"It would be easier if you knew how to ask." He retorted, going back to moving at the same speed, his balls slapping against your ass.
"You like..." You asked with a half-smile, but your mouth soon opened in a silent moan, your eyes rolling under your lids when he lowered his face to your breasts, biting one of your nipples.
"Say it." Brendon growled against your skin, leaving the mark of his teeth on the inner corner of your chest.
"You like when i provoke... You like to put me -- in my place." You murmured, grabbing his hair between your fingers, the soft strands getting lost between your fingers as you pulled, forcing him back to your nipple.
"What is it?" You knew he had that damned smug smile on his face, but still he sucked your nipple between his red lips, as swollen as yours.
"Underneath you." You confessed in a murmur, your pussy contracting around him again — your orgasm was coming again, and only he could give you what you wanted so badly.
"Good girl." He whispered, moving up your marked neck, staring into your slightly damp eyes before kissing you, but this time there wasn't so much haste in fact, it even seemed more tender than the others. But of course, with Brendon, nothing was exactly what it seemed.
Park pulled your lip with a bite, leaning back on his hands to continue the movements fast, almost violent. His chest vibrated again with a grunt as he pulled both your legs up, pressing them against your stomach, giving him the view he wanted: your face damp from the few tears beginning to escape the corners of your eyes, your red, swollen mouth, the teeth marks and hickeys on your neck and breasts, the mark of his fingers on your neck, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, completely wet.
You didn't know if it was the stimulation of his fingers or the hunger in his eyes that made you come again. Your vision darkened for a few seconds, the obscene sounds interrupted only by your sharp moan, accompanied by his, slightly hoarser and more guttural. Brendon came inside you for the second time that night, his body leaning forward, his abdomen contracted as his semen still spurted inside you, even more than the first time.
He lay down beside you, sighing deeply, turning his face with some concern to look at you when he noticed you were too quiet.
"Are you okay, little fish?" Brendon held your face, involuntarily checking your pulse. "I'm sorry... I hurt you this time?" You shook your head no, pushing him back onto the bed, lying down on his chest.
"I just want to rest a little before facing my mother..." Park laughed low, weak —more like a breath of sound than an actual laugh — and hugged you, kissing the top of your head.
You and Brendon took longer than you expected in bed. He carried you to the bathroom, helped you shower, and dressed you in an extremely comfortable silence given the chaos that would be waiting outside your bedroom door. Your steps came first, heading toward the kitchen, and you already knew you'd find your mother sitting at the dining table, with a face you knew better than anyone was just the prelude to a fight.
Park appeared right behind you, wearing only sweatpants. Of course he'd walk out of the bedroom shirtless, making it very clear — clearer than it already was on your neck and thighs, and from what he'd said — what you two had done in the bedroom. He walked toward the refrigerator as if it were a ritual: you finished having sex, showered, and would go eat something in the kitchen. The only difference was that today there was an extra guest.
"You think this right?" Your mother questioned, arms crossed over her chest when she saw you sit down in the chair with a slight uncomfortable groan. "I arrive and find my daughter moaning like a prostitute, and you let’s him say those kinds of things to me?" Brendon was still focused inside the refrigerator, certainly looking for something for you both to eat.
"Mom..." You sighed, lowering your head as you massaged your temples. "We'll talk about this later."
"No, you're not married. I didn't raise you like this. How can you bring just anyone into your house and—"
"And have wonderful orgasms? Make her feel good?" Brendon grumbled as he closed the refrigerator, staring down at your mother. "And no, i'm not just anyone, mother-in-law."
Mother-in-law?
Your mother arched an eyebrow, surprised by Brendon's audacity, her mouth opening to retort about the interruption and his lack of manners.
"And we didn't know you'd arrive so early, and as your daughter already said, we can talk tomorrow, we haven't rested from our shift yet." He walked past her like he did in the PTMC — the matter was closed, with no room for discussion. "Now let me make her something to eat. If you want to join us... you're welcome. But if you're going to complain to her like you've done for the past few weeks, i think it's better if you go to the guest room and watch some TV."
It was the first time you'd seen her speechless — or at least acknowledge that she'd lost, or respect the boundaries imposed by someone. She got up still with that annoyed look, but Brendon's indifference actually made her retreat to the room, closing the door with a little more force than necessary. Park made some coffee, eggs, pancakes, bacon, and toasted whole wheat bread, and you both ate in silence, as you always did. But that damned little word wouldn't leave your mind.
When you went back to the bedroom, the restlessness and curiosity were too strong.
"Mil?" You questioned, sitting on the bed, arranging the pillows against the headboard to lean on. "Was that just to make her feel guilty?"
"No, she just made me move up the request." You froze for a second, blinking in shock as Brendon leaned over, rummaging through his backpack, pulling out a small navy blue velvet box. "I intended to make dinner and ask you with... care, but..." He approached, opening the box, revealing two silver rings, one of them with a dark blue sapphire. "Do you want to be my girlfriend, little fish?"
Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x (female) R4! Stripper! reader
Summary: What happens when "The Shark" finds out that one of the hospital’s most promising residents also dances at a strip club to pay off her student loans and rent?
Warning: Swearing, Brendon Park himself, Age difference, Height difference, he calls her Doll and Good Girl. NSFW. Oral sex. Vaginal sex.
Words: 6,155.
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I wasn't sure if you wanted me to tag you in this. But here you are.
Walking through the hospital doors that morning weighed on you more heavily than usual. The sterile, frantic air of the ER struck you like a physical blow—a sharp slap of reality after the lingering trail of cheap perfume, stale alcohol, and tobacco you could still feel clinging to your skin.
The night before at Dixie’s—the club where you worked three nights a week to fund your way through medical school—had been pure chaos. It was a typical, rowdy Thursday, yet your mind remained anchored to a single, haunting spot at the bar.
Of all the colleagues you could have imagined encountering at a strip club, Dr. Brendon Park was dead last on the list. He lived for perfection: impeccable surgical scrubs, a notoriously acerbic wit, and a hard-earned reputation that left no room for nocturnal vices. Yet, there he had been, shattering your perception of him from the velvet shadows of the lounge.
You tried to convince yourself that the dim lights and the hazy smoke of another dancer’s set had played tricks on your eyes. But the way his jaw had tightened the moment he saw you left no room for doubt: the recognition was mutual. He hadn't looked away once during your performance. He had scrutinized your body with the gaze of an apex predator, sipping his whiskey languidly, clearly savoring the view while utterly ignoring the companion at his side.
"Hello, honey. Did you lose sleep again?" Dana asked as you approached the Hub to grab a tablet for rounds. "You have shadows under your eyes."
You forced a smile, taking a tentative sip from your thermos of hot chocolate; ironically, coffee was a taste you had never acquired.
"Too many hours of studying, Dana. You know how fourth year is. I’m ready for rounds," you lied, still feeling the phantom weight of the previous night’s wig against the nape of your neck.
"Start in South 20," Dana instructed, gesturing with her head. "Sixteen-year-old female, acute pain in the lower right quadrant."
The following hours were a blurred montage of cases: appendicitis, rapid sutures, debriding burns, and an elderly couple suffering from smoke inhalation. The ER hummed at its usual frenetic pace, oblivious to the storm of secrets raging inside you. You moved on autopilot, your lower back beginning to ache from the dual toll of the hospital tiles and the stage at Dixie’s.
An hour before your shift ended, a Trauma Code was called. A motorcyclist with an open fracture was wheeled in, his screams for the operating room echoing down the hall. As you worked alongside Langdon and Javadi to stabilize the limb, Robby barked the order you had been dreading all morning.
"Jesse, page Orthopedics for an immediate consult."
The senior nurse reached for the red phone while you performed an abdominal ultrasound, desperate to focus on the grainy screen rather than the frantic hammering of your heart. Not ten minutes later, he crossed the threshold. His gait was intimidating, a silent power that made Javadi instinctively step back to clear a path.
He didn't look like the man from the night before. Here, under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, he was "The Shark." He approached the gurney without glancing at you, his focus locked on the patient. As he snapped on his latex gloves, he stood directly beside you with a calmness that was both hypnotic and terrifying.
"What do we have?" he asked, his icy voice cutting through the ambient noise.
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. "Male, twenty-eight, high-speed motorcycle accident. Grade III open fracture of the tibia and fibula. Hemodynamically stable, FAST exam negative..." Your voice wavered for a mere millisecond at the end.
He leaned in to check the ultrasound, his fingers sliding dangerously close to yours on the control panel. The proximity made you hold your breath. For the first time since he entered the room, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours. The chaos of the ER and the rhythmic beeping of the monitors seemed to vanish.
In that silence, your mind betrayed you. You remembered his hungry gaze on your scantily clad body just hours earlier—the way he watched you spin, the sweat glistening under the neon lights, his attention following every curve and descent. It was clear he hadn't been there for the general spectacle; he had dismissed your coworkers with cold disdain when they approached him, unimpressed by the glitter or the private dance offers. But from the moment he realized it was you on that stage, he hadn't blinked. He had devoured you with an intensity that made your skin burn hotter than the stage lights.
"Well, we’re taking him to surgery," he announced, shattering the trance with his signature abruptness. "Robby, I’m borrowing Dr. L/N. It would be beneficial for her to see this reconstruction up close."
Robby nodded, completely unsuspecting. To him, it was just an elite surgeon mentoring a promising resident. "Sure, Park. She’s all yours."
You were forced to follow in Dr. Park’s wake toward the elevator. The silence within the metal walls was so heavy you could almost hear the phantom echo of the club's bass vibrating in your ears. He didn't look at you, but his massive presence seemed to swallow the small space, making you feel exposed—naked—knowing he had already seen every inch of you that mattered.
As the lift began its ascent, he broke the silence in a low, dangerous murmur.
"Doctor L/N... I never imagined you were capable of moving that way," he whispered near your ear, his breath ghosting over your skin. A spark of forbidden excitement raced down your spine, making you shudder. "I suppose I finally understand why you always refuse to join your fellow residents for drinks after a hard shift."
You didn't try to deny it. It was useless. "I had no idea Dixie’s was to your taste, Dr. Park," you finally managed to reply as the elevator passed the second floor. "I assumed someone of your... statuses... preferred environments that were more refined."
"It was a colleague’s suggestion," he replied smoothly. "But I’m glad I attended. The headlining act was far more... captivating than I anticipated."
Before you could retort, the doors hissed open. The chilled air of the surgical floor hit your face, but the heat in your cheeks remained. You felt like a seal cornered by a Great White—one that had already decided you were to be his dinner.
You walked beside him toward the scrub room, the weight of his confession settling over you. He hadn't just seen you; he had relished it. Your traitorous imagination flared, picturing him returning home that night, your image etched into his mind as his hand slid down his own body.
Inside the scrub area, the only sound was the hum of the ventilation. You reached for the soap dispenser, but before you could react, he blocked your path with a predatory agility. His body, solid and radiating a heat that defied the hospital’s chill, forced you back until your spine collided with the cold, stainless steel of the sink.
"You know what I liked most about the show, Doll?" he murmured, closing the distance until your breasts nearly brushed his huge chest with every shallow breath you took.
He reached out, trailing the back of his fingers ghost-light against your jawline before reaching for a surgical cap. His blue eyes didn't deviate from yours for a single millimeter; he hardly blinked, watching you like a predator stalking cornered prey. With agonizing slowness, he began to don the cap, his fingers gently tucking your hair away with a practiced familiarity that made your knees falter.
"Despite the lights and the noise, it seemed as though you were dancing only for me. You had that look—" He paused deliberately, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes with a smirk. "The same one you have right now. Like you’re waiting for me to give you an order."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. It wasn't an invitation; it was an absolute command, as precise and sharp as his scalpel. His thumbs finished adjusting your cap with a possessive firmness that stole your breath for a second longer than you’d ever admit aloud.
"So, now, you are going to finish prepping for surgery. And when we’re done, you’re going to gather your things and wait for me in the parking lot. Do you understand me, Doll?" His voice dropped to a register so low it made you shudder to your core.
He didn't wait for a response. He stepped away with utter indifference, moving with a slow, deliberate grace. He unfastened his Rolex—the same one you’d seen gleaming against the dark, stained wood of the bar at Dixie’s—and set it on the counter. He stepped on the water pedal, letting the jet drench his hands before he began scrubbing with antiseptic soap. You stood there, his command echoing in your mind. The parking lot? This game was only just beginning.
"Dr. L/N," he interrupted your train of thought, never breaking his rhythm. "Stop thinking and start acting. I won’t have you entering in my OR with your mind elsewhere. Wash your hands. Now."
His bark made you jump. You began removing your rings awkwardly, placing them next to his Rolex. The contrast was painful; your cheap jewelry looked pathetic next to a timepiece that screamed wealth. How much did a watch like that cost? Ten thousand? Twenty? It was likely more than you earned in a year of grueling double-shifts.
Park didn't blink at the clatter of your rings, but you noticed his blue eyes drift for a millisecond to your bare hands before returning to the water.
The surgery was a litmus test. For two hours, Dr. Park reconstructed the biker’s leg with a precision that kept you enthralled. Watching him operate was like watching an artist devoted to a masterpiece—a bloody, perfect masterpiece. Every time he requested an instrument in that deep, authoritative voice, you felt an unprofessional jolt of electricity. He tested you constantly, firing off technical questions as he worked: insertion angles, screw types, embolism risks. His eyes remained locked on yours above his mask, assessing not just your knowledge, but your ability to remain unshaken under his scrutiny.
"Suture, Dr. L/N," he ordered suddenly, stepping back to make room. "Let’s see how you handle those stitches."
You took the needle holder, a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline surging through your veins. You felt his massive presence right behind you, watching every millimeter of your technique as you closed the incision. The precision he demanded was unparalleled, but you finished with a cleanliness that seemed to surprise even him, judging by the low grunt of approval he gave.
"Passable, Doll," he muttered dangerously close to your ear—a tone meant for you and you alone—before he turned and strode out of the OR.
You stood for a moment, processing his words before following with a lingering clumsiness. When you entered the scrub room, he was already snapping off his gloves. He turned, catching your gaze as the water rushed again.
"Be a good girl. Don't keep me waiting in the car," he whispered, his arm brushing yours as he reached for paper towels. He dried his hands, retrieved his Rolex, and walked past you toward the locker room.
You stood frozen, the skin on your arm bristling. That "good girl" had sounded like a claim. As if he had already decided you were his, whether you consented or not. And truth be told, you wanted it more than anything.
Fifteen minutes later, you stepped out into the cool afternoon air. Dr. Park’s BMW X6 was idling in its reserved spot—one of the many privileges of being a star surgeon. As you approached, the window glided down, and he gave a minimal gesture for you to get in. The interior smelled of expensive leather and that intoxicating sandalwood-and-cedar cologne you’d noticed in the elevator.
You sank into the black leather seat, the central locking system engaging with a heavy thud. He didn't drive away immediately. He sat in silence, his large hands resting on the steering wheel, letting the tension thicken until the air felt scarce. You shuddered, not from the cold, but from sheer excitement. You hated to admit it, but you had been turned on for hours. You didn't know if it was the secret, the nickname, or the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the wheel to restrain himself from touching you.
"You look exhausted, Doll," he blurted out, his voice carrying a sharp, possessive edge. "I imagine dancing in a pole until three, starting a shift at seven, and assisting in a reconstruction at ten isn't the 'healthy lifestyle' they recommend in med school."
He turned slowly toward you, resting a muscular arm on the back of your seat, invading your space once again. His blue eyes swept over the dark circles under your eyes before settling on your lips.
"Tell me something... how much exactly do you have to pay off the student debt that forces you to parade yourself in front of men who don't even know who you are? Because that’s what this is about, isn't it?"
You swallowed hard. Hearing the raw reality of your financial ruin coming from him made it feel even more humiliating. It made you feel... vulnerable.
"You work at that club because you can't survive on an R4's paycheck," he continued, and this time his hand left the wheel to clamp onto your thigh. His grip was firm—the kind of possessive pressure that would surely leave a mark by morning. "And you have no idea how insulting it is to me that one of the best residents at this hospital is wasting her talent in a seedy dive when she should be focused on her residency."
"I don't—" you tried to protest, but one look from him silenced you. His pupils were dilated, darkening that icy blue into something feral.
"$96,000," you confessed, the words feeling like lead. "Happy? I’m drowning. I pay as much as I can, but the interest just keeps climbing."
Feeling his hand squeeze your thigh as you admitted your ruin made you feel small, but his gaze wasn't one of pity. It was one of absolute ownership. You couldn't bear the silence, or the way his mind seemed to be racing a thousand miles an hour, calculating.
Before he could speak another word, you lunged. You had to shut him up. Your hands tangled in the collar of his linen shirt—absurdly expensive—and you pulled him to you with a desperation that shocked you, sealing his lips with a hungry kiss that tasted like hot chocolate, black coffee, and pure, unadulterated danger.
It was like kissing your executioner.
He let out a guttural growl—a primal mix of surprise and triumph. His free hand surged from the steering wheel to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair and pulling back just enough to force your head up. The kiss wasn't tender; it was a collision of wills, a violent meeting between the absolute power he wielded and the desire you’d been suppressing since the moment you saw him at Dixie’s.
He pulled back just a fraction of an inch. With his forehead still pressed against yours, his ragged breathing fanned across your face in the gloom of the BMW.
"That number just disappeared, Doll," he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with the promise of consequences. "But from now on, whenever you feel the urge to show off, you’ll do it for me alone. Consider your contract bought... and your exclusivity guaranteed. You’re mine now. I don't share. It's just not in my nature"
He didn't wait for you to process his words. He shifted into gear with a sharp, aggressive motion, and the BMW X6 roared out of the PTMC parking lot, devouring the asphalt as he headed toward his penthouse.
During the journey, the silence was a living thing, broken only by the weight of his hand, which didn't leave your thigh for a second. He squeezed possessively every time traffic forced him to brake, his fingers brushing dangerously close to your center until he felt the damp heat that betrayed your composure.
"You can’t just..." you began, finally realizing he meant to wipe out your six-figure debt in exchange for your total surrender.
He slammed on the brakes in front of the gate of a private underground garage in one of downtown Pittsburgh’s luxury towers, the tires let out a sharp screech. He turned to you, and the mockery was gone, replaced by an icy determination that made the hair on your arms stand up.
"You’re wrong, Doll. The moment you locked eyes with me from that stage while you were undressing, you gave me permission. The moment you let me adjust your surgical cap and shuddered under my touch, you gave me control." His hand rose with predatory slowness, trapping your chin to force your gaze to his. "I’m not buying a fourth-year resident; I’m removing the distractions that keep you from being the doctor I know you can be. If the price of you being mine—and mine alone—is a six-figure check, it’s the easiest one I’ve ever written. Understood? From this moment on, your body belongs to me. If you want to dance, you’ll do it in my living room. If you want someone to look at you, it’s me. If you need money, you come to me—not the owner of Dixie’s. ME."
"Got it, Dr. Park."
"Brendon," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he maneuvered the car into his private stall. "When we’re alone, you call me Brendon, Doll. No 'Dr. Park,' no 'Daddy,' no 'Sir.' Just Brendon. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Brendon. I understand," you gasped. When you had woken up that morning, you had prepared for every disaster—administration finding out, being fired, being shamed—but never this.
"Such a good girl when you listen," Brendon murmured before killing the engine.
The silence that followed wasn't a calm; it was the eye of a storm. He didn't say another word. He simply rounded the car and opened your door, his grip on your hand firm and non-negotiable.
He led you to the private elevator. As the steel doors slid shut, sealing you off from the world, the air seemed to ionize with tension. Brendon cornered you against the mirrored back wall, his blue eyes alight with a triumphant, predatory hunger.
Before you could catch your breath, his hand—massive and skilled—descended with impetuous confidence. You felt the button of your trousers give way under his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, he slid his hand beneath the fabric, seeking out the heat that had betrayed you during the drive.
A muffled groan escaped you as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. His large, rough fingers finally found what they were looking for: the soaked silk of your lingerie.
"You're dripping, Doll," he growled, sounding utterly amused. "How long have you been like this? My poor, beautiful little doll..."
Brendon didn't hesitate. He slid two fingers deep inside you, stretching you with a determination that stole the air from your lungs.
"So tight. So fucking perfect. And all mine"
The invasion of his wide, expert fingers drew a sob from your throat, which he immediately stifled by crushing his lips to yours. It wasn't a kiss of comfort; it was a claim. The scent of cedar and sandalwood mingled obscenely with your own musk in the cramped space of the elevator.
"Brendon," you gasped, unable to fight the sensation as he began to fuck you with his fingers right there, in the middle of his building. "Fuck... I..."
"What about you, Doll? Finish the sentence," he demanded, his thrusts gaining a relentless strength that made you dig your nails into his forearms.
You were balanced on a knife's edge; your climax was hanging by a single thread. Your inner walls twitched desperately against him, growing wetter with every motion.
"Cum for me, Doll," he commanded against your ear, his voice a whip-crack as the elevator vibrated against your spine. "I want to feel you come on my fingers. Be a good girl for me."
His hand moved hungrily, claiming every inch of you, as if he were physically erasing the memory of every other gaze that had landed on you at the club. You couldn't take any more. The orgasm hit with a violence that sent your head back against the mirror with a dull thud. A scream died in your throat, muffled by his mouth, as your body buckled and soaked his hand.
Brendon didn't pull away. He held you—one hand firm on your neck, the other still buried deep within you—feeling the tremors of your surrender.
"Brendon..." you sighed as he rewarded you with a sharp, possessive nip to the sensitive skin of your neck—leaving a mark that promised you were his.
"Such a good girl. From now on, no one but me sees this body. Not these tits, not this ass, and especially not this perfect, tight pussy. Right?"
The elevator chimed, finally reaching the penthouse. He withdrew his fingers and, with an insulting slowness, brought them to his mouth to savor the taste of your climax just as the doors slid open.
"God, Doll... you're exactly how I imagined you'd be," he whispered, his voice an animalistic growl.
"How long?" you managed to ask, watching him lick his lips with a leisurely, dark satisfaction. "How long have you been imagining this?"
Brendon didn't deign to answer yet. He rested that heavy hand—the one that had just ruined you—at the small of your back and guided you firmly into the apartment. He engaged the electronic lock, the heavy door sliding shut with a final, metallic click.
He tossed his keys onto a dark wooden console, taking his time to watch you as you shed your jacket and surveyed the luxury of his home.
"You asked me how long?" he said finally, his voice echoing through the foyer as he began unbuttoning his linen cuffs. "Since the first time I walked into the ER for a consult and saw you there, splattered with a patient's blood. Your ponytail was crooked, and you were struggling to hold a lead while the residents sedated a pacer. I remember the patient even scratched you. I've wanted you since that very moment."
You froze, your jacket still clutched in your hands. You remembered that shift perfectly: an aggressive psychiatric patient who had leaped from a third-floor balcony when her caregiver turned away. There had been blood everywhere—on your scrubs, your skin—amidst the frantic, sensory overload of the ER. But you had no memory of him watching you from the doorframe.
"You stood there, your cheek marked by that scratch, and you didn't even blink," he continued. He took a slow, calculated step toward you as he finished rolling up his sleeves, revealing the powerful forearms you’d admired so many times during his consultations. "I watched you wipe the blood from your face with the back of your hand and keep working. It was in that moment I knew you had to be mine. Seeing you last night in that seedy club... it incensed me. You should never have been driven to such extremes over a debt."
He closed the remaining distance in one long stride, his hand snaring your waist. He forced you to drop your jacket; it hit the floor with a metallic clink as the zipper struck the hardwood. With his other hand, he traced the nearly invisible line of the scratch on your cheek with his thumb.
"And I thought Trinity was joking when she said you were softer with me than with the other residents..." you whispered, your voice barely audible in his proximity.
"I wasn't joking, Doll. What Dr Santos didn't know was that every time you stood beside me to get a better look at my work, I was fighting the urge to drag you into my office and lock the door," he confessed, his blue eyes darkened with a lust that seemed to devour you. "I treated you gently because you are the only thing of value I want to keep. But seeing you on that stage last night... undressing for pocket change... it made my blood boil. So, I’m going to show you exactly who you belong to. Starting with this..."
In a reflexive surge of insecurity, you tried to press your legs together, your hands reaching for his shoulders to steady yourself as he knelt before you.
"Oh, I see... No one has ever worshipped you properly, have they, my sweet little doll?"
"I... my ex didn't like it," you whispered, your voice breaking as you looked away. "He said... he said it took too long, and that his jaw would get tired..."
"It’s a mercy you left him, then, because the man was an imbecile," he murmured with thinly veiled contempt. "I’m certain he had no such complaints when he made you suck his cock until he finished in that pretty mouth of yours, right?"
Your silence was the only confirmation he needed. Brendon let out a low, dangerous growl—a cocktail of fury at your past treatment and possessive satisfaction that he would be the one to right the wrong.
"I am nothing like him. You’re going to spread those gorgeous legs, and you’re going to let me taste you until I decide I’ve had enough. Are you going to be a good girl for me?"
His hands tugged firmly at your trousers and lace; he didn't wait for you to find your pride. He slid them down your thighs, parting you with an authority that made you gasp, before forcing you back until your bare skin met the edge of the wooden console. You were utterly exposed under the foyer lights, pinned by his hungry gaze.
"Look at me, Doll," he commanded. His voice vibrated in the narrow space between your bodies, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. "I want you to see exactly who the man is who is going to spend as long as it takes between your legs until you ache. That idiot didn't know what he had; I do."
Without warning, he buried his face between your thighs. The first contact of his tongue was an electric shock—a long, firm stroke that made you arch your back and cry out. He savored the sound, his lips curling into a smirk against your innermost flesh. It wasn't subtle; it was a claim. His movements were deep and rhythmic, possessing the anatomical precision of a man who knew every nerve ending by heart.
"Was his jaw tired?" he murmured against your wet folds, his hot breath sent a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. "I could stay here until dawn just to hear you beg for more."
You clung to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt as the world outside the apartment faded into nothingness. The hospital, the rotations, the debt, Dixie’s—none of it mattered. There was only the pressure of his tongue, the firmness of his hands holding you open, and the overwhelming certainty that Brendon wouldn't stop until he had erased the memory of every other man who had ever dared to touch you.
The pace intensified. His fingers worked in tandem with his mouth, dragging you toward an abyss you had no desire to escape.
"Let it go for me," he growled against you. "I want you to see me in the ER tomorrow and still feel my tongue taking you to the edge."
"Brendon!" You screamed his name as you came with a violence that stole your breath. He didn't pull away, even as your muscles began to slacken; he remained there, savoring your surrender, ensuring every drop of your pleasure belonged to him alone.
"There it is, Doll. Do you see the difference when someone actually cares for your pleasure?" he muttered against your inner thigh, his breath warm against your sensitive skin.
He rose slowly, his towering figure looming over you as you slumped against the console, your legs trembling. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, catching the trace of your climax with a dark, leisurely satisfaction that made you blush to your roots. There was no fatigue in his expression—only a triumphant, predatory hunger.
"That man was an amateur. A nuisance who didn't deserve a second of your time, let alone your body," he said, taking your chin in his hand to force you to meet his eyes.
He pulled you flush against him, forcing you to feel the rigid length of his arousal through his dress slacks. Even in his state of obvious excitement, he maintained that iron, terrifying control. He held you there for a few seconds, enjoying the post-coital closeness, before delivering a firm, resounding swat to your bare hip. The impact drew a sharp gasp of surprise from you—a final mark of ownership.
"Into the bedroom, Doll," he whispered, lifting you effortlessly. To him, you weighed nothing at all.
You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, hiding your face in his neck as he strode toward the master suite. Every step was a statement of intent. As you crossed the threshold, the scent of sandalwood and clean linens enveloped you. He set you down in the center of the king-sized bed with a delicacy that stood in stark contrast to the storm in his blue eyes. You felt small against the expensive Egyptian cotton, pinned by his gaze as he stepped back to undress.
Each garment he discarded—an uncharacteristic mess for a man so meticulous—revealed a new expanse of taut, powerful muscle. When he finally stepped out of his underwear, the sheer magnitude of him claimed your full attention. He was imposing, thick, and intimidating; compared to the power of his anatomy, your previous experiences seemed like a distant, fragile memory. Your ex certainly would have had much to envy in Brendon Park.
He stood proud, his skin taut, a single bead of moisture glistening at the tip in the dim light. The sight made you swallow hard, acutely aware that this man was a force of nature about to claim every inch of you.
"Take off your shirt and bra, Doll."
Your hands shook, but you obeyed. You felt the weight of his darkened eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin. When the clothes fell away, you were left vulnerable on his sheets—your chest rising and falling with your frantic breathing.
Brendon didn't move immediately. He stood at the edge of the bed, savoring the sight of you offered up to him while he slowly stroked himself.
"Perfect. Even better than you were on that stage," he whispered, the possessiveness in his tone shaking you more than a shout ever could. "I’ve spent so long imagining you like this. I wondered if you’d be as soft as you looked in those black scrubs."
He climbed onto the bed, crawling over you until you were trapped in his shadow. The heat radiating from him was visceral—a scorching promise of what was to come. His hands—the hands of a surgeon, capable of both breaking and mending—snared your wrists and pinned them above your head, forcing your chest to arch toward him in a silent, desperate offering.
"Brendon, please..." you whimpered, unable to contain the longing a moment longer.
His lips caught yours in an overwhelming kiss, a seal that told you from this moment on, you were his. His tongue claimed your mouth with the same dark authority with which he had claimed you in the hallway. His body, heavy and burning, pressed into yours, forcing you to feel every inch of his impressive anatomy against your own fragile frame.
"Now you're going to learn the difference between a boy who gets tired and a man who knows exactly what to do with every inch of the jewel he’s acquired," he growled. He brushed the tip of his erection against your slick folds, where the moisture he had coaxed out first with his fingers and then his tongue now overflowed. "And I promise you, Doll, by the time I'm done with you, you won't even be able to stand for the shift change tomorrow morning."
He lowered his head to capture one of your nipples between his lips, sucking with a force that drew a hoarse gasp from your throat. Simultaneously, he began to drive inside you, his weight pressing your pelvis deep into the mattress, reminding you that in this territory, he was the only rightful owner.
"You're so perfect... so tight," he muttered against your skin, his voice vibrating through your chest. "And best of all, you're entirely mine. My perfect little doll. Right, Doll?"
"Yes..." you managed to gasp, your voice breaking into a high-pitched whisper as you arched your back, instinctively seeking more contact as he began to thrust with a relentless, forceful rhythm. "Yours, Bren. I'm yours. Please... don't stop."
Your nails dug into his broad shoulders, tracing the tense muscles you'd so often imagined beneath his surgical scrubs. The contrast of his brute strength against your vulnerability created an electric surrender unlike anything you had ever experienced.
"I wouldn't dream of stopping," Brendon growled, his voice a low vibration between your lips. His hips struck yours with a merciless cadence, increasing in speed as he searched for the exact depth that made you shudder. "This is what you missed while you were with a child seeking his own pleasure. You needed a real man. And this is what it feels like when that man has been lusting after you for months and finally claims what is his."
"I... fuck... I'm going to..." You gasped, hiding your face in his bicep as you felt the orgasm surging. You sunk your nails into his shoulder blades even harder, leaving frantic scratch marks in his skin.
"Good girl, Doll. Leave your mark on me, so tomorrow I can feel exactly where you touched me every time I move in my uniform."
The pace became frenetic. Brendon gripped your thighs with a force that would surely leave prints, lifting you so he could drive deeper, colonizing every bit of you. The pleasure was so acute, so wild, that your eyes rolled back in your head.
"Bren!" You shouted his name, your body tensing like a violin string pulled to the snapping point. Your legs trembled in his grip, your toes curling at the overwhelming sensation.
The first wave of your orgasm hit—one violent contraction after another that squeezed him with desperate force. He didn't stop; instead, he accelerated, using every spasm inside you to propel you further across the abyss.
"That's it, good girl! Come for me! Come all over my cock!" he roared, his own control shattering as he reached his breaking point.
He sank into you one last time with a power that drew a sob of pure pleasure from your lips. He stayed there, buried at your absolute limit, as he finished heavily, filling you completely. His body, sweat-slicked and heavy, collapsed on top of yours, pinning you to the mattress as you both fought to find the breath that had seemingly vanished from the room.
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by your synchronized, ragged breathing. Brendon buried his face between your breasts, inhaling your scent mixed with the trail of your combined heat and his cedarwood cologne. Before pulling away, he pressed a lingering, possessive kiss right over your heart—claiming that heartbeat, and every one that would follow, as his own.
"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice regaining that cold, authoritarian edge that usually intimidated you in the ER. "I will settle your debts. You are never stepping foot in that club again. There's only you, me, and the fact that I have a hip replacement scheduled for eight o'clock tomorrow..."
"You're an idiot, Brendon Park," you murmured, a soft smile touching your lips as you gently stroked his natural curly hair, amused by his clinical way of breaking the post-coital quiet.
"What a shame for you, Doll. You’ll have to put up with this idiot for the rest of your life," he replied, settling his weight comfortably over you. He made no move to withdraw or lift his head from your chest. "Because now that you're mine"
"I’m never letting you go. Doll"
HIIII! Luna here! hofully you arrived at the end and you liked this post since it was really hard to translate and edit so everyone liked the story (it was even harder for me since it was really hot in here while edditing)
Give a thumbs up and comment this post if you want more of the daddy sharky
Summary: Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.
Companion piece to:
Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.
The problem with Brendon Park is that despite he makes your professional life a living nightmare, he’s actually a pretty good fuck. The best fuck, in fact. Although you would never tell him that.
The way that man dicks you down is an artform, one that has you coming back time after time again despite the fact you promise yourself you won’t.
He’s intoxicating, maddening and his hands…
It’s why you turn up at his door tonight clad in nothing but a caramel overcoat and a slutty little number that leaves nothing to the imagination. You unfasten the belt when he opens the door, his hair still damp from the shower he must have taken, a white towel slung low on his hips. Droplets of water traverse his chest, clinging to the dusting of dark hair. You bite your lower lip, your gaze following the one that chases all the way down his treasure trail.
“Like what you see?” You tilt your head towards his cock as it makes itself known beneath the white fabric.
Brendon looks you straight in the eyes, the left side of his mouth quirking up into a half smile before he drops the towel completely. “You tell me.”
“Oh honey.” You pout squeezing through the doorway and ducking under his arm. He moves with you, kicking the door shut behind him, his hungry eyes stalking you all the way to the open plan living room like prey. “I hope you don’t expect me to get on my knees and worship you like the god you think you are.”
The coat slips from your shoulders, tumbling to the floor underneath your feet. His nostrils flare, his eyes a blue flame devouring all of the oxygen in the space between you. He takes in the clinging sheer fabric, the harness style bra, those thigh straps attached to the mesh underwear.
“Get into the bedroom.” His voice comes with a bite, a raw ferocious tone that promises he’s going to take you apart when he gets his hands on you.
“Make me.” You retort kicking off the fuck me heels alongside his couch so you can give him a run for his money.
“Sweetheart.” His eyes flash as he bares his teeth. “You don’t want to play this game with me.”
“You forget Brendon, that’s exactly why I’m here.” You remind him, placing your hands on your hips. “I need to get fucked and I’m not sure you’re quite up to the job.”
That slender thread of control snaps. He lunges for you, missing you by a hair's breadth as you bolt around the back of the couch. You laugh, your heart pounding in your chest, exhilaration racing through your veins as he gives chase.
You may be a runner but Brendon, he does CrossFit. Your distance marathons are no match for his short, explosive burst of power.
“Oof.” You’re hurled over his shoulder before you can get around the armchair, ass in the air as he carries you up the stairs to the loft bedroom.
“You know what happens to bad girls don’t you?” A crack resounds through the room as his hand lands on your cheek, sending a shot of ecstasy all the way through to your pussy. Your ass throbs, a raw heat gracing your skin.
You let out a sharp cry as he tosses you onto the mattress, bouncing towards the headboard. He’s on you in an instant, his hard body forcing you into the mattress as he gropes down the side of the bed. He grasps your wrist, forcing into the cuff he pulls out, it’s attached to the bedframe by slender black strap that offers absolutely no give when you yank at it.
“I had these installed after the last time you couldn’t behave yourself.” He catches your other wrist, before leaning over the bed and snatching up the other restraint. You make a show of fighting him, but he manages to manoeuvre your other hand through the loop before cinching it. He straddles your hips, leaning back to admire his handywork. “Safe word?”
“Pineapple.” You spit at him. “And a double knock on the headboard if my mouth is occupied.”
“Good girl.” He smirks at you, his fingertips trails along one of the deviant little straps that criss-crosses your chest. “Now don’t be pissed because I managed to catch you before your little game was over, this is what you wanted right? It’s why you wore this isn’t it?” His finger delves under the elastic, twanging it against your skin with a snap. “You knew it would get me riled up.”
You don’t dignify him with an answer and he sighs theatrically.
“Alright if that’s the way you want to play it…” He reaches over to his bottom drawer, taking out an item you are very familiar with from your own repertoire. “I may have done a little reconnaissance back at your place the other night.”
He holds up the wand for you to see. It’s rose gold, the same model as your own, just with a few more settings. “You’re going to come with my dick in your mouth and then I’m going to eat out that pussy until the fucking neighbours call the police again.”
It happened once. He’d had to show them that you were alive and well, eating cereal on his couch in his Steelers t-shirt with an ass he’d spanked pink because you were being a brat.
“I’ll make sure he gags me next time.” You’d quipped after they’d confirmed you weren’t being murdered. Officer Underwood still can’t look you in the face whenever he steps into the emergency room.
Brendon climbs off you, his dick in his hand as he kneels alongside your face. You clamp your lips together and he rubs the moist head over your closed mouth, coating it in glossy pre-cum. “Open.”
You don’t obey, it’s part of your charm you think. Women, they throw themselves at Brendon but you, you make him work for it.
“Fine.” He says, his thumb clicks the button on the vibrator, bringing it to life. “This thing has five speeds and an insane amount of settings, we’ll find the one that gets you making that ‘O’ face I love so much.”
He runs it over your nipples, tracing it over each one until they’re standing to attention, straining against the black fabric of your bra.
“If you’re a good girl, I might play with them when I fuck you.” He says, his dick still pressing against your lips as he jerks his cock slowly. A bead of pre-cum drips from the slit and you clench your jaw, forcing yourself not to give in and taste him. “You can keep up that resting bitch face as long as you like but I know you want this. Your eyes… they always give you away.”
Your breath catches as the wand reaches your mound. He skirts it around your clit, close but not quite touching. It’s a beautiful torture in itself because it makes you yearn for it, your thighs spread wider, your hips arching hoping to catch a reprieve. He’s a masterful tease, tracing it up and down your slit but never over the place you need it.
A whimper leaves your throat, an unwilling noise drawn from you by a man you love to hate. A triumphant smile crosses his handsome features as he slaps his dick against your lips. “Oh sweetheart I’m gonna make you come so hard you’re gonna forget there was ever anyone else before me.”
The vibrator nudges your clit, and ecstasy erupts through you like the first sparks of a wildfire bursting to life. You cry out at the sensation and Brendon thrusts the head of his cock past your lips, filling your mouth. The taste of him floods your tastebuds, your tongue swirling around the tip automatically. He lets out a ragged curse, pushing even deeper as he presses the wand against your clit entirely. You moan around him as he stokes the fire, the flames pooling in your abdomen, licking at your nerve endings with every single buzz of the device.
His thumb flicks the other button, the one that changes the rhythm and instead of a constant thrum, short spurts of pleasure ricochet through your body instead. Your throat tightens with every punch, your breath a staccato tempo around him as he buries his entire length inside making you gag.
“Fuck, it’s just like when you’re coming on my cock.” He mutters, rolling his hips, setting his own pace. “Not gonna last if you keep sucking me like this.”
You hollow out your cheeks, dragging him back into your mouth and a hoarse grunt tears from his throat. His thumb hits a different button and this time the pleasure gets more intense, more forceful.
“We’re gonna come together.” He tells you, his fingers slipping into your hair, curling into a fist at the roots. That bite of pain is like throwing fuel on a fire, the ecstasy racing through your veins as he tugs your hair, using it to control his depth. “You’re gonna be swallowing every drop of me as I get you off.”
He clicks the button again and this time, you have no fucking warning. The rapture hits you like an explosion, ripping through your entire body like an inferno, eating up your sanity, destroying every sense of reason. He thrusts hard, his cock pulsing as you scream around his dick, white hot streaks erupting down your throat. You drink them down like the good girl you are, milking him for every single drop as he alters the vibrator setting back down to that constant thrum, allowing you to ride out the aftershocks.
“Fuck…” He mutters, pulling out and sinking back onto the mattress. His focuses on your swollen lips and your wild eyes. Your orgasm it’s still going, a relentless crash of euphoria drawn out by the pressure of the vibrator clasped between your thighs.
A mischievous expression crosses his features as he leaves the device there, raising up off the mattress before opening the top drawer of his dresser and removing one of this leather belts. You watch under lowered lashes, whimpering as he returns to the bed, looping the belt under your thighs. He adjusts the vibrator, so it’s pressed firmly against your clit, threading the buckle, holding it in place.
“What are you…” He presses the button again, turning up the intensity and the air is torn from your lungs as that ecstasy starts to build all over again, faster this time, harder.
“I need to refuel.” He tells you, his palm clasping your jaw and guiding your mouth to his. “And I am nowhere near done with you yet. This should keep you going until I’m ready to play again.”
“Brendon…” His mouth captures yours, his thumb chasing over the apple of your cheek with a tenderness that always surprises you.
“Trust me.” He whispers against your lips, his nose nudging yours. “This will be the best night of your life.”
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wc: 8.9k (oof)
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: when the doors of the pitt swing open to reveal you on the gurney, dr. jack abbot’s world shatters, forcing him to fight for two lives he didn't know were at stake.
c.warning: angst with happy ending; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; graphic depictions of injury; mentions and discussions of abortions in the past; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare; jack abbot crashing out; mentions of car accident; near-death experience; never mind the medical accuracy or lack thereof (i tried my best but i’m still not a doctor)
a/n: this got out of control. it was supposed to be a usual 3k one-shot but then i kept writing and well here we are now. also shout out to my friend paula that helped me do all the medical research for this one so i didn’t embarrass myself with all the inaccurate doctor talk. love u girl <3
the fluorescent lights of the hospital always seem to hum a little louder when the er is quiet. it’s a sterile, buzzing vibration that grates on jack’s nerves more than the usual cacophony of sirens and shouting.
he leans against the nurse’s station, a lukewarm cup of bitter black coffee forgotten in his hand. he checks his watch. 2:14 pm. the numbers blurring slightly from sheer exhaustion. his shift was supposed to have ended hours ago, but the universe had other plans.
first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.
“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.
jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”
his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.
i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-
the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.
“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”
the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.
robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.
“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”
“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,
the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.
“eta one minute!” someone shouts.
robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.
the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”
robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.
no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.
“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.
as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.
“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”
frowning, dana walks next to him.
“what? why?”
robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”
but it’s already too late.
jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.
“on three! one, two, three!”
the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.
the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.
“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.
the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.
it’s you.
your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.
“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”
jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.
robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.
“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”
“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”
but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.
robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”
robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.
right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.
dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.
“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”
the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.
“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”
“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”
“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”
jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.
he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.
“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”
he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.
“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”
and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.
“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.
“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.
he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.
you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.
“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”
“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”
“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.
the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.
then, the image shifts.
robby freezes. the probe stops moving.
on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.
jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.
“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”
“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”
he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.
a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.
“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.
the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.
“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”
“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.
the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.
the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.
“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”
“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”
he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.
the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.
“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.
jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.
“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”
jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.
as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.
the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.
he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.
and he might lose everything before the sun went down.
jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.
you and the baby.
god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.
a baby.
his baby.
biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.
unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.
you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.
and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.
the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.
he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.
you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.
he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.
he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.
“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”
the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.
“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.
“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”
“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”
jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.
in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.
“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”
“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.
“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”
it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.
“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”
jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.
“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”
“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”
jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”
robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”
“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”
“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”
as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”
robby pauses at the door.
“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”
robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.
“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”
and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.
the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.
then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.
“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”
the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.
trauma 1. your room.
jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.
he runs.
the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.
he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.
“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.
he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.
the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.
robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.
“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”
“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.
jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.
“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”
robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.
the line stays flat.
“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”
“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”
“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”
robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.
jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.
“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”
“charged!”
“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.
thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.
silence.
one second. two. three.
then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.
“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”
the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.
“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”
robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.
you’re both dying.
jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.
he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.
“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”
robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”
jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.
life or life.
“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”
as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.
the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.
it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.
now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line
142 bpm.
jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.
he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.
“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”
he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.
“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.
were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.
he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.
“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”
his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.
a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.
“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”
“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”
“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”
“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.
when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.
“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”
before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.
“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”
outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.
from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.
jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”
“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”
he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.
“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”
robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”
at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.
the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.
you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.
then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.
“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”
that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.
you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.
“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.
“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”
you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.
“the… the accident… jack, i…”
“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.
“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”
the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”
jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.
“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”
the world stops right there and then.
you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”
dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.
“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”
“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”
robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.
“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”
that has you snapping your attention back to jack.
“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”
“we do,” says robby, nodding.
“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”
when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.
“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”
“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”
after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.
“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.
the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…
“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”
there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.
you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”
jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.
“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”
jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”
“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”
the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.
“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”
jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”
he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.
“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”
for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.
you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.
“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.
“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”
the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.
but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.
jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.
it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.
“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.
he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”
“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”
the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.
“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.
minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.
the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.
whoosh. whoosh.
the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.
then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.
“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”
thump-thump-thump-thump.
the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.
“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”
jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.
“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.
he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”
“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”
jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.
three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.
you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.
week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.
jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.
“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.
“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”
“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.
you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.
the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.
“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”
“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”
while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.
“jack? we’re already married.”
“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”
he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.
“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”
you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.
the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.
“jack?”
“yeah?”
“i think i want thai food tonight.”
jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”
bonus
the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.
now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.
you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.
“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.
he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.
“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”
“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”
you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.
“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.
sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.
according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.
“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.
you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:
to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),
i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.
congratulations on the final stretch!
— robby
inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.
“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.
“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”
jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.
“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”
he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.
“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.
jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.
“she’ll love it,” jack promises.
the sun begins to set outside the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the nursery, turning the sage walls into the color of a new spring. you’re a survivor, jack is a father, and in just a few short weeks, the pitt would be nothing more than a place where jack went to work, while his real life, his whole life, waited for him right here, at home.
Summary: your husband is a monster. You know this, and yet, his bed is still your favourite place to be.
Content/Warnings: reader is described as "younger" than Titus, but there's no specific age gap || pregnancy (light theme) || Titus comes with his own warning tbh || dirty talking || pussy slapping || Dom/Sub dynamics heavily implied || unprotected PIV || begging || spanking || oral sex (f! Receiving) || edging || reader has no physical description but is AFAB and able to get/be pregnant ||
Notes: I have no excuse for this. It's been sitting in my drafts for almost a month and then I saw the movie at an early screening and uh. Yeah. This will probably be part of an ongoing series. Oops.
Titus Danforth is a brutal, complex man. This much, you know. He doesn't so much make love to you as he does claim you. You'd been a nobody, really, before he'd met you. Chosen you for your quiet, pleasant nature. Your willingness to obey him, and your interest in the occult.
His twin sister had hated you at first, hated your dirty, common blood, and the way that you seemed to have her brother's ear. The way you could so easily control him.
She tolerates you now, well enough. Or at least hides her disdain.
You never thought you would see the day where your husband was anything but almost feral whenever he took you. Not that you minded. Titus often left you a complete mess, his age and experience making it almost too easy for him to fuck you senseless, until you couldn't feel your legs and the only thing you could say was his name. Even then, it was usually more of a whimper.
While he might automatically default to roughness, you love it. He never once left you harmed or unsatisfied, spoilt you rotten on a daily basis.
Titus never showed you overt affection in front of his father and sister, regarded you with a kind of predatory possessiveness. But in private, he was softer, more open to gentle touches and keeping his hands on you in ways that weren't reminiscent of a kept pet.
He had explained it to you, once, when you had both been in the afterglow of particularly good sex. That he had once had another lover that he had thought he might marry, only she hadn't received the approval of his father, nor the dark entity that his family served.
But shortly after he had introduced you to his twin and his father, the family lawyer had come to all three Danforths, claimed you as the future of the family line.
Even if Ursula wanted to, she couldn't touch you.
You had known that your life came with a price, but you had gotten to marry the brutal, sensual man that you loved. You would have willingly given your soul for that, regardless.
Titus liked that you were soft, obedient. That you took what he gave you and thanked him for it. That you embraced the occult and the darkness of his family line. It didn't hurt that you liked the way he fucked you, had soft curves and curled into him when you slept.
He also loved that you could play the part of controversially younger wife perfectly. Slid into the roles of socialite, hostess, partner in crime, almost with a scary ease. He's not a criminal mastermind, more of the brawny type over a man of immense intelligence, but he loves to show you off.
Titus loves the way his name sounds, mewled through your soft, pouty lips. Lips that he likes best when they've been kissed plump, like right now.
You chase his kisses, and he lets you. Licks into your mouth like he's claiming you over and over again. He doesn't restrain your hands often anymore; you have a tendency to claw at his broad shoulders, leaving red marks in your wake with your perfectly manicured nails. He wears those beneath his expensive clothes like badges of honour.
Becoming his wife didn't make him handle you with any more care, but now you're carrying his child, it's a different story.
He's almost gentle with you now, by his standards. Spent the better part of half an hour with your thighs draped over his broad shoulders, his big hands holding your hips down so you couldn't squirm away while he practically made out with your drooling cunt. Sucked on your clit, fucked you with his tongue, drinking down your slick like the expensive wine in the cellar that he favours.
When you'd first met him, you'd assumed he would be a selfish lover, thanks to his occasionally petty nature. He'd fast dispersed of that assumption, still ensures you never think it again.
He'd made you fall apart for him at least three times before he crawled back up the bed; now, finally, he has you caged in beneath him, one hand caressing your curves, over where your abdomen is just slightly starting to round out.
You give him some of those pretty little mewls as he takes his thick, aching cock into his hand, slaps it against your swollen clit.
"Come on, princess," he purrs, voice low against your throat, "beg for it."
Titus loves it when you beg. Loves to watch you lose your mind pleading for him to fuck you. He's always gotten off on power, but there's something particularly sensual to him about his pretty younger wife begging for his cock that gets him achingly hard. Always has, but now you're carrying his heir? Something about that little detail threatens to have him on his knees at your feet.
"Please," you beg him, "please, I need it so bad-"
He smirks down at you as you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, lets his heavy cock rest on your mound, sliding his hand between you to circle your clit with his fingers.
You know that look, that condescending little smirk as you whimper, know that he isn't going to show you any mercy.
"You don't need anything, you want it." Titus corrects, applying just a little more pressure to your clit, making you mewl before you can even think of something to say back to him.
He thinks you look so pretty like this, spread out for him, whimpering and writhing beneath him in the soft, expensive sheets.
"Mmhmm-" you agree, moaning again as his hand cups your pussy, just resting his palm over you.
The urge to slap your clit is strong, half because he likes dealing it out, and half because he knows you love his particular brand of sadism.
But Titus has to remind himself that he has to handle you with a little more care now. That he can manhandle you a little, but that he can't go as far as he usually might.
You're still looking up at him with big doe eyes, lips parted slightly. His cold hazel eyes search your gaze for a moment, the briefest silent check in, to ensure that you are, in fact, okay.
By now, you can read him perfectly. Know that beneath the cold, brutal monster, there is still a man with a heart. And whilst your husband may not ever be vulnerable with you, he's never given you any reason to doubt that he cares about you. Loves you, even though he's almost afraid to.
"Please..." You whisper, as he removes his hand, slides his palm back up, pausing to caress your abdomen again with a surprisingly tender touch.
No matter how rough he can be with you, he keeps finding his hands returning there, brushing over where his child - your child - grows.
Your eyes drop closed at the unexpected touch, which gives him a moment to regard you with an almost softness in his gaze before he shifts, adjusting your body beneath his.
He buries his face in your shoulder as he stuffs you full of his cock; the filthy groan that rumbles in his chest is half muffled into the soft skin of your neck.
Your reaction doesn't disappoint him; you inhale in a sharp gasp, the exhale coming out as a drawn out, breathy moan.
"O-ohhhhh, fuck, yes-"
You whimper as his hips meet yours, giving him a breathy little whine as you stare up at him, your hands sliding up his forearms, over thick biceps, settling on broad shoulders.
That's something Titus likes, but won't ever admit to you; that he enjoys the soft touches you give him, regardless of how brutal he is.
Even more, he likes the way you stare up at him with such desire and love in your eyes. Being desired isn't new to him, but the love in your gaze whenever you look at him is more precious than any antique he owns.
"Shhh, shh, I know, it's a lot, but you can take it, can't you? Yeah, you can, baby, that's it, good girl-"
He coos at you, drags the pad of his thumb over your kissed plump lower lip. You nod, still speechless as he slowly starts to move, giving you shallow little thrusts, barely allowing you any friction.
The little whimpers and moans you give him as he starts to pick up the pace only serve to make him harder somehow, more determined to have you coming apart around his cock.
He has to almost force himself to take his time, giving you deeper, heavier thrusts but still not fucking you the way he knows that you love.
"Ohhhh, ohhh fuck-"
You moan, each pretty sound more high pitched and needy than the last; truthfully, Titus is glad that you have an entire wing of the family mansion to yourselves, because he's certain that the sound is echoing.
He groans softly as you cling to him, pull him down into another greedy kiss. He allows it, almost melts into the embrace as he grinds against you.
"That's it, there you go," he grunts thickly as you mewl, start to tighten around him as he works you up to the edge.
By now, he knows exactly how to move, how to kiss and touch you to make you come apart for him; which is how you know for certain that he's deliberately edging you, making sure you get close only to pull away at the last moment.
You give him pretty little frustrated whines, trying to rock your hips to meet him, but he's much stronger than you, keeps you pinned with almost extraordinary ease.
"No, no, you know better than that. You cum when I tell you to, remember?"
His voice is dripping condescension, and yet somehow still low and sensual and only makes you more desperate.
Titus has spent so much of his life under the control of others; his father, his sister. You're different. You know he isn't someone to be controlled, know that he's powerful in his own right. Submit to him willingly.
After your own painful past, you were happy to switch off. To be claimed by him, to belong to him, knowing he would burn the world down before he let anyone ever lay a finger on you again.
The sort of love you share is intense, probably a little toxic, but you want nothing more.
You writhe beneath him in the luxurious sheets, gasping breathy little whines as the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each thrust, each deep, deliberate grind of his hips.
"Please-" you beg, elaborating when he raises an eyebrow, "- kiss me?"
The smirk he gives you is gorgeous, lightens every detail of his handsome face as he leans down. He kisses the way he fucks - passionate, rough, not so much kissing you as claiming you.
He licks into your mouth, your lips parting automatically to let him in; sometimes you think about the other women before you that he's kissed, that he's had in his bed, and it makes your heart twist with jealousy.
You're just as possessive as he is, just as needy.
One hand slides down your side, grabs hold of your thigh and hikes it high up around his waist, making you both moan in satisfaction at the sudden angle change.
All restraint he's been clinging to snaps; planting his free hand on the mattress to brace himself, he starts to pound you into the bed, harder and faster with each thrust.
The room swiftly fills with the obscene wet slap of his hips against yours, your high pitched moans, his filthy groans. He isn't quiet, never has been, never feels the need to pretend that he isn't taking immense pleasure in ruining you.
"Ohhhh, ohh- please!"
Your hand moves to card through his soft silver curls, tugging lightly at the roots. He lets you, for a moment, but when your other hand reaches up, he releases your hip, catches your wrist and pins your hand above your head.
He can feel your velvet walls tightening around him, your thighs starting to tremble just ever so slightly, knows you're close again. For a moment he considers edging you again. Making you cry with how badly you need to cum.
But he feels merciful today. Likes the feeling of you coming apart for him more than he likes to torment you.
He looks down at you, at your parted lips and your lust blown pupils, listens to every perfect, sweet moan you give him as he fucks you.
"Cum." He orders you, voice low and raspy, expecting you to obey.
Blissfully, you do, letting go, your back arching up off the bed as best you can with his broad frame holding you down. The climax seems to go on forever, peaking and then dropping, only to reach a new crescendo as he fucks you through it.
Titus is older, wealthy, handsome - he knows how to fuck a woman, how to draw pleasure out. So you're still barely through it, dimly aware of the obscene wet sounds of his cock stuffing your still fluttering cunt, when he pulls out of you.
You whine at the sudden loss, but he has you flipped onto your front before you can form a proper thought.
Big, rough hands seize your hips, pull your body up so that there's no pressure on your abdomen; face down, ass up, he stuffs his cock back inside you with a satisfied, filthy grunt, planting one foot on the mattress to give himself better leverage.
"Mmmffff, you love that, don't you? Yeah, you do. You fucking love it. Sold your soul for this cock, didn't you, princess?" He purrs, landing a heavy slap to your ass, groaning when you clench around him.
You gasp, hands balling into the sheets as you keep yourself upright, choked moans muffled until you turn your head to one side.
"Nnghhh- fucking... Take it-"
You love the raspy, low gradient to his voice, the way he leans over and purrs in your ear as he fucks you into the mattress, alternating which side of your ass he slaps every so often, hard enough to bruise.
He keeps himself in good shape. Better than good. Peak physical condition, stronger than most men half his age.
His endurance and stamina may be incredible, but even he has his limit; his thrusts start to become sloppy, brutal, less rhythmic.
You have no strength left in you, can only mewl and sob as he uses you to get himself there, groaning thickly as he spills inside you in a series of particularly deep, intense thrusts.
"Ohhhhh, shit-"
He chokes out, finally slowing inside you, hips stilling, palm soothing the deep purple hand prints he's left on your ass cheeks.
Once he's caught his breath, he pulls out of you, helps you turn over, watches the way you look him up and down with an expression of sheer desire and satisfaction.
"Fuck," you manage to get out, giggling breathlessly. "Every time... You manage to surprise me."
Titus shakes his head, lays down beside you, makes grabby hands, pulls you against his chest when you're within reach.
"And every time, you surprise me by just taking whatever I give you."
He sounds impressed, runs his hand up and down your side as you rest your palm on his solid pectoral muscles, fingertips tracing the soft greying curls that litter his chest.
"Did I not swear my mortal body and eternal soul to you? In this life and the next?" You remind him of the ritual vows you spoke as your blood mingled in the ceremonial bowl at the altar.
His palm caresses your abdomen once more, rests there.
"You did. And I to you."
Again, you smile, your hand moving to brush sweat damp curls from his hazel eyes, your own expression soft and loving as he reiterates his own vow.
"I love you," you whisper, uncaring how soft it may make you seem, how weak.
Titus Danforth is more monster than man most days, but you make him feel human again, evident in the way his gaze softens as he kisses your forehead.
"I adore you. I would burn this world down for you."
Perhaps from anyone else, that sentiment would unsettle you. But from Titus? It's different. As comforting as a kiss, and his arms around you.
Perhaps you and he aren't so different, after all.
hi! could you write something for macklin that involves kids or like babysitting? all the clips of him with kids are so cute and wholesome and i’d love a little fic with that side of him.
A Future With You - MC71
macklin celebrini x reader
summary: when Macklin spends the week at your family's vacation home, you see him gain the favor of all the little kids in the house, and you both start having new feelings about it.
tags: established relationship, reader's family isn't familiar with hockey, lots of mentions of future kids/a family, macklin basically being father material this whole fic, the kids kind of hate on him lol
wc: 2.4k
notes: thank you anon! hopefully this was okay. I've never written much about kids and stuff before, and I got a little carried away.
Macklin grew to understand you were not part of a hockey family. First, you had gingerly confessed to him that you did not understand icing, and then he figured out you played every sport under the sun as a kid except his. You told him about all the teams your family supports, and then he had to go look up every detail since the prehistoric era of each franchise. He felt he needed to know everything if he were to be invited to family functions in the future. He felt, for the first time in his life, inadequate about his sports knowledge. He’s always been surrounded by hockey people. It drove him crazy.
Then, he noticed all the social media posts about your little cousins, nieces, and nephews sporting those plastic gold participation trophies for baseball, soccer, basketball, and the list went on.
He never thought much about what sports his future children would play. He guesses he blindly assumed they would all play hockey because, well, he was going to be the best coach to them that way. But now, he’s thinking about it a lot. He’s thinking about how many sports you can legally put your kid in at a time. What if they pick one he knows nothing about? Would you think hockey was too dangerous? He remembers you mentioning something about your mom hating children playing football. And you did get overly worried when he’d come home with new swelling on his face or random bruises all over his body. Sometimes you scolded him for being too aggressive at optional skates.
Somewhere in the middle of this thinking, the image of you is stuck. When he saw you jumping up and down, clad in leggings and a Boston University sweatshirt on the sidelines of one of your nephews’ tee ball games, that stuck with him.
At this point in your relationship, he’s met your parents a few times and a few relatives and their children. Your family did not all live in San Jose, so he’s lived vicariously through your own ramblings on family news and the brief phone call or Instagram post. You noticed he tried to recite the statistics of one of your Dad’s favorite players to him, which you found cute. You teased him about it on the ride home. He went red in the face immediately. “I’m trying to fit in!”
Now that summer has come around, he finally has a few weeks off. And when you ask him if he wants to spend a week at your family’s lake house, there’s no hesitation in his yes. Practically your entire family would be there, with school getting out for summer break. You thought he would be a bit nervous, but he’s elated on the way there. He’s making you recite all the names of the kids in your family so he can get them right.
“And I will be converting them.” He adds.
“What? To Satan?” You joke, knowing that he’s going to try to spread his hockey agenda to all the young kids.
“No, to the greatest sport of all time.” You laugh at how serious he sounds. He’s driving down a winding road, thick dark green trees all lined up. He takes a quick glance at you, your smile wide at his banter. He thinks about all the things he would sacrifice to see you always smile at the dumb things he says.
When you get to the house, cars piled into the driveway, telling you everyone is here, Macklin wastes no time getting out. He’s buzzing while he takes both of your luggage up to the front porch. On the other hand, you have to prepare yourself for all the prying questions, the hugs and kisses. Macklin is standing in front of the door like a puppy, waiting for you.
He has a way with children. You always knew that. You just didn’t realize how much it would affect you when it was’ with your family. That afternoon, two of your nephews are sandwiched between you and him. There’s a baseball game on the screen, and some people are coming in and out of the kitchen, prepping for dinner. You hear a couple of shrieking children out in the grassy backyard. The sun is shining bright against the sliding glass doors.
“See, that’s what a base hit is.” One of your nephews says to your boyfriend, after a hitter runs to first base with ease.
“I know what a base hit is, kid!” Macklin is offended, and you find it funny that a six-year-old who just made his all-star little league squad is trying to explain the most basic baseball terms to him. The older kids know that he plays hockey professionally, and maybe they can’t conceptualize it fully yet, but they’ve been making snide comments about it this whole afternoon. They think playing a sport on ice is the weirdest thing ever.
“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head aggressively.
“You skate on the ice like a princess.” Your other nephew chimes in.
“First off,” He shifts on the couch so he’s facing the boys, “Princes can ice skate too.” He has his pointer finger up, emphasizing a one, then, “Second, I play hockey— big difference. Lastly, there’s no fighting in baseball. Makes it so uncool.”
“Oh my god, Mack—“ You start.
“You fight other people?”
“Yeah,” He’s trying to hide his huge smile at the boys’ reactions. “It’s super cool.”
“They’re going to go on YouTube and look up Macklin Celebrini fights!” You argue with him, scoffing at his bad influence.
“You just gave them the idea, babe!” And before he can even finish his sentence, the boys are running out of the living room, down the hallway, presumably to their shared bedroom.
“I can’t believe you just did that.”
He shrugs. “You’re the one who said it.”
You can’t argue with that.
—
The next morning, he’s getting embarrassed by another one of your nieces at soccer. He has lost any technical ability he gained when he was a child, and when he has the ball at his feet, he’s using his toes to push the ball forward instead of the inside and outside of his foot. He’s also quite bad at aiming it in those little pop-up soccer goals you have in the backyard. She cackles when he misses again, running in circles around him to exclaim her superiority over the athlete.
“You’re too good!” He declares, face pink and a little out of breath from chasing all those missed shots around. You’re sitting on one of the wooden chairs on the patio, a BU baseball cap slung on to shield you from the overhanging sun. The lake glitters from it, and the reflection shines a light on both of them playing. The image makes your head all fuzzy. You could sit here for hours watching him do anything, but this, specifically, Macklin getting absorbed in the innocence of it all, made you want to pinch your skin and check if you’re dreaming. You bet he doesn’t even realize the way his jaw clenches when he tries not to curse in front of them, or his constant hand coming down to give them high-fives or ruffle a hand through their hair. He just does it. It’s second nature.
One of the only things he considers himself okay at is basketball. He would play with the kids after dinner every night. He never commented when they traveled, and he helped the smaller kids get the ball in the bucket by lifting them up on his shoulders. When you saw that, you felt a lump form in your throat.
—
Your two nephews, who were enamoured by the thought of fighting being “legal” in a sport on the first day, are back again. They’ve cornered Mack to show him more fights on YouTube. You notice the loud hockey commentary blaring from your room. You see through the crack in the door, them all lying flat on the bed, staring at an iPad showing a close-up of a hockey fight. Your boyfriend is laughing along with the boys, telling them about the players he’s played against — and no, he has to remind them, he has not fought every single player that shows up on the screen.
Later that day, you finally manage to sneak off to your room after lunch to have just five minutes alone with Mack. It was hard to do. It felt like every night since your arrival, you were too tired and sun-kissed to even talk with him before your head hit the pillow and you were out like a light. Unfortunately, someone hears you two.
One of your little cousins runs into the room, a stuffed animal buried in her arms. Your boyfriend was just about to latch his mouth to your neck, and you spring apart when you hear her turn the corner.
She simply says, looking between the two of you, “I want to play hockey…like Macklin.”
You think maybe the kids were starting to listen to him at the kitchen table. He had a lot of hockey stories in him, and your family members were so interested in his job that he would go on and on, often over exaggerating a lot of the stories, but you let him have his way with your family. They were charmed by the new bright green-eyed addition to the house.
“Really?” You ask in disbelief.
“Hell yes! I’ve converted my first.” He pumps his fist in the air.
“Honey, do you even understand what it is—“
“Hey! Stop sabotaging me, y/n. That doesn’t matter! We’re starting with playing on the street.” He lunges forward and takes her in his arms. She squeals, her laughter filling the post-meal quiet of the house.
“We don’t have any equipment,” You say, hands crossed over your chest.
“We’re heading to the store then, yes?” He poses the question to the little girl in his arms, and she nods enthusiastically. You roll your eyes, but you linger on the way his arm encapsulates her, jostling her up and down to entertain her.
When you go down the stairs to ask her mom if this little road trip is okay, you don’t expect her to say:
“You might as well grab half a dozen sticks, you know? Seems like we’ll need them in the future too.” You blush deep red at the implication. You guess those words really shouldn’t make you feel like that. She’s probably just commenting on the other kids and their growing interest, but it makes you think about your future kids. How Macklin would spend the coming summers with them at the lake house, exactly like this. It is terrifying how fast the picture became so clear.
—
Now, you’re fighting with daylight. Macklin’s got all the kids surrounding him, and they’re fiddling with their plastic sticks like it’s an alien object. You helped him put those soccer goals on the street, and now you’re standing back and letting his coach persona take over.
“Okay, first, you place your dominant hand on the top…”
It is possibly the greatest thing ever, watching him try to teach a horde of kids who lose and gain interest about every ten seconds how to handle their stick. At some point, he manages to get some of them to weakly pass it in the goal, and he’s ecstatic. He catches your eye multiple times when you’re in conversation with your parents at the front of the house, just to make sure you are still watching him. The little voice in the back of his head is telling him this is like the trial period, and he has to prove his worth as your future husband.
—
“Uncle Macklin!” you hear the excited whispers through the pull of sleep. Light is barely peaking through the large glass windows. It must be before seven in the morning. You feel the soft comforter shift beside you as he pulls himself up to a sitting position. You’ve felt it so many times that you can tell what he’s doing with your eyes closed and back to him.
“Guys,” he whispers back, surprised at all the expectant faces at the foot of his bed. His voice is all groggy, “Everyone’s still asleep!”
“We want hockey now,” one of them says a little too loudly, and Macklin shushes him. “Your aunt is asleep.” Your heart flutters, eyes still shut tight. You’ve never heard them call him uncle before, nor has he needed to call you by its equivalent. Small giggles erupt in the room when you hear Macklin give in with a groan, their little footsteps fading down the hallway as the bed creaks from his movement. You hear a soft sigh from him. It wasn’t exhaustion or annoyance, but something lighter. You turn over to watch him with blurry eyesight. He’s wearing sweats, shirtless, but he’s shuffling around the room to the dresser to get a shirt. When he gets it on, he turns around and finds your eyes are open now. “Duty calls.”
“Sorry,” you manage, too tired to move anymore.
“Are you kidding me? This is the best.” He has a sheepish smile on his face. He comes over, leans over the bed to press a kiss to your temple. “Go back to sleep.”
You don’t. You get up to make coffee for you and him. You bring the mug out to the front yard, the sky turning from the purples of dawn to the light blue sky of a mid-summer’s day. He thanks you a million times over, and reports that they’re still quite terrible. You laugh, watching them try to keep the ball close to their sticks on the asphalt.
“They have to play non-checking, and they have to wear full cages until the day they get drafted,” you suddenly blurt out, and Macklin looks at you, perplexed.
“No offense but I’m sure these kids aren’t getting to that point.”
“No…I mean,” your voice gets quiet, “ours.”
His eyes soften. He slings his arm over your far shoulder, bringing you in for a tight side-hug. “Of course.”
Macklin, in those hazy, sparse dreams about a family, used to see children with his straight brown hair and non-discriminating features because he could never conceptualize what their mother would look like. Now, when he thinks about them, they have your eye shape, the same furrow of your brow, and the heady, strong nature that made him fall in love with you in the first place.
