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On vacation with Brendon you stop at a drug store, having both forgotten sunscreen like idiots. It’s no big deal. You just pop into the CVS on the way to the hotel. While there, you remember something else.
You step down the hair removal isle and Brendon doesn’t question anything at first, because why would he? Maybe you forgot a razor or something. But then you reach for wax strips.
Which is odd. He knows you don’t wax.
“What’s that for?”
You look at him like he’s an idiot.
“I get razor bumps.”
Oh. Okay. So he was right.
“No.”
“No?”
Since when does your boyfriend tell you no?
“You don’t need that” he self corrects.
“My bathing suits pretty high cut, Bren” you remind him, face heating with embarrassment.
You can’t be on the beach with a full fucking bush.
“You. Don’t. Need. That.”
He takes the box clean out of your hands.
“Baby-“
“Who paid for your flight here? Business class.”
The question catches you off guard. “Huh? You?”
“And who’s paying for your luxury hotel suite?”
“You?”
“And who bought that skimpy, sexy high cut bikini you’re so worried about?”
“You did.”
“So who the fuck cares what anyone else thinks?” He hissed.
Oh.
“Who. Cares. What anyone else thinks about your body hair? Because clearly, no one’s opinion but mine matters but mine, and I don’t give a shit.”
Warning: Age Gap (I’m putting Brendon around 35 and reader is 26) slow burn (Brendon’s gonna have to work for this), swearing,
Author’s Note: I’ve been reading way too many Park the Shark stories lately. Brendon 100% likes him a girl he can pick up and not have to worry she’s gonna break. This is Brendon having to work hard to get/keep your attention. Something he’s never had to do before but you also judge before giving him a chance. *spins in chair wondering if anyone is even gonna read this* this is their first true interaction and as expected it doesn’t go well. Hope you enjoy and stick around for more.
You hated morning workouts you’d officially decided by the beginning of your second week of them. You’d grown bored with your previous job and decided trying to sell cars might be fun and earn you more money than you’d been bringing in before.
Moving from your 8-5 to a 9-8 position most days had messed with your entire routine and the main part of that was your normal gym session with a couple girlfriends at 5:30.
Evening workouts were paced with laughs, trying new things and encouraging one another. You’d even become friendly with a couple of other patrons who seemed to show up at the same time as you.
Morning workouts were just you, your AirPods and people who had apparently decided you didn’t belong there with them. It was clear in the way you could always feel eyes watching you move between cardio and weights and finishing with the treadmill.
You weren’t fat per se but you weren’t someone who was built to ever be skinny. You had a soft stomach, thick thighs and a plump ass, all of which you rocked but you also took the time to take care of yourself in the gym because you liked to eat and weren’t ashamed of it.
At least you weren’t until you started morning workouts and men who looked like they drank their energy drinks with steroids in them and women who looked like they had never ate a carb before started watching you. It also smelled way worse in the mornings, like half of them had forgotten deodorant before their workouts (or thought the natural stuff was better for their body.)
The man who watched you the most didn’t fall into any of those characterizations. He clearly had a decade or so on you in life, was thick and strong, (not ripped liked you’d expect for someone like him) and he was agile, moving with almost a predators ease. (Yes, you may have watched more than once as he lifted his shirt to wipe sweat off his face and had seen the sheer bulk of him.) His short, dark hair was always a little unkempt from sweat and you’d yet to see an expression other than intense focus on his face.
He also didn’t seem to be there to make friends. Usually ending up with a group of guys watching him lift but never talking with them, never smiling as they patted his back over the weights he lifted with ease and he never basked in the attention the girls would try to give as he passed them by.
You’d watched him pick up some of the biggest weights in the gym day in and day out but the only cardio he ever did was twenty minutes on the treadmill to end his workout and for some reason it was always on the one next to you as you were wrapping up yours.
You’d had it timed pretty well now. He’d always finish with several reps of a light weight, wipe down the equipment he’d used and then head to the treadmill that seemed to be open next to you every time he wanted one.
You prepared as soon as you saw him begin to wipe the equipment down by taking a long drink of your water bottle, pulling your tank top up slightly to wipe the sweat off your face and then slowing the speed of your treadmill down just a little so you weren’t breathing as hard as before.
You picked up these habits quickly once he started walking next to you. If your breathing wasn’t a steady, even pace he would turn and watch you as you walked and it made you even more self conscious than you already were being there alone.
That’s where you’re currently at, lowering your speed as he headed towards the treadmills. His head turned to look at you as he passed and you almost tripped, he’d never been that direct in watching you before, you felt like an animal being stalked for lunch.
He once again took the treadmill next to you but unlike other mornings he was watching you immediately, not even trying to hide his stare. It was embarrassing how fast you could feel your cheeks turning a deeper red, not from your workout.
Glancing down at your outfit of black workout pants, black and pink striped tank top and matching black Nikes you tried figuring out what made him look at you today. Your boobs weren’t bouncing an inappropriate amount and your ponytail was still swaying the normal way it always did, you’d brushed your teeth before leaving the apartment and even sprayed a little extra perfume on your wrists, nothing out of the ordinary to explain the way he watched you now.
For the first time, you turn and look back at him which surprises him by the way his eyebrow raises a small fraction of an inch. Pulling your AirPods out you take a deep breath.
“I’m allowed to be here too” the other eyebrow raises now.
“Wha” you interrupt him as you stop your treadmill.
“Just because I don’t look like all the other girls here doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to be here too.”
“Well aware of that” His lips pressed into a thin line with that one.
“You don’t have to stare at me just so I stop showing up on a machine next to you for twenty minutes.”
“That’s”
“This isn’t your personal gym.”
“No, you’re” His jaw tightens as you interrupt him again.
“I’m allowed to be here too” with that you turn and walk off, your workout apparently done for the day.
You take a shaky breath as you flee, feeling his eyes still on you as you do, not knowing that they were following the slight jiggle of your ass as you moved or that Brendon Park had never been talked to, much less left speechless like that before.
“Fuck” was heard around the treadmills but you were already too far away to hear it.
john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist
part 12: absent
cw: angst
Your lunch break is peeking around the corner at you when the Teams Chat on your work computer begins to explode.
Notification bubbles pop up in the bottom right corner of the screen, obscuring the work you're doing on another program, and as soon as one vanishes, another one appears to take its place. Your eyes flicker to the clock ticking away. In ten more minutes, you'll be free to leave and indulge in that goat cheese you and John got at the Sunday market. It's all you've been able to think about since you first clocked in. You can already hear it whispering at you to just take an early lunch, but you've learned that there are a few people who work from home who have nothing better to do than to track the timestamp of every single thing everyone ever does on a project. Your absence won't be missed.
Sighing, you open your Teams window while telling yourself it won't hurt to react to the messages so you can prove you read them before wandering off to find some well deserved food, but what you hoped would be a short message has turned out to be a huge wall of text sent by your team lead. It's dizzying. You scoot forward in your chair to get closer to the monitor only for your stomach to get in the way—or rather, the baby.
39 weeks has stretched you thin. You feel like puff pastry rolled so thin that you're see through, and then stuffed so full you're threatening to rupture. The doctors tell you that you'll hit labor any day now, but you think Lottie has taken that to mean any hour with how often she's sending you check-in texts. It's like she's waiting for you to send her a photo, baby in hand; proof of your hard work coming to fruition.
Before you have the time to daydream of that, your team lead has other plans.
His message rivals the length of Tolstoy's War and Peace, outlining several projects and who he wants heading them. Many of your co-workers have reacted to the message with thumbs up, or asked clarifying questions that your team lead answers with too much excitement and heavier verbiage than needed. You skim through the message with glassy eyes, ready to move on with your day, until you see your name listed for a solo project. Something easy, but long winded enough to keep you busy for longer than your body will allow.
Due at the end of the month!
Your scoff is enough to disturb the baby. Heels dig into your stomach, pressing against your ribs until you're breathing deep just to get enough air into your lungs. Your hands hover over the keyboard to respond to his insane request, but you're not sure how to word it. Standing up for yourself always feels like a battle. You ask for an inch but everyone reacts as if you're demanding a mile. Unearned. Unworthy. Even now your mother's teeth nip at your ear, malice ready to spew down your spine.
Shaking your head, you roll out your shoulders before your fingers finally settle down on the keyboard. Eloquent and kind. (No one likes listening to a whiny girl).
I am unable to be the solo head on this project, as my due date is next week. If I had a partner working on it with me, I would be able to assist until the baby's arrival. Would you be able to assign someone else with me?
You hit send. Amicable enough. Blunt and straight to the point without unnecessary flowery thank yous! or other types of ass kissing. A part of you wants to add in how you're sticking around for their sake. You could have started your maternity leave weeks ago, giving yourself the time to prepare for the birth. But you have no clothes to buy. No nursery to furnish. What else would you do besides work?
Lunch hits the clock but you can't move from your desk. Your team lead is typing in chat, displaying his name at the bottom of the screen as he orchestrates his response. You could leave—you should leave—and return to the message later, but you're glued down. Stuck watching and waiting until it eventually pops up on your screen.
I set the deadline with your due date in mind. You should have plenty of time for your hospital stay and to finish this project up when you return! Thanks for your help.
Your mouth opens but you can't get a sound to come out. No gasp, no scoff—his audacity shocks you into silence as you try to think of something to say in response to something so outlandish. Are you a machine? Something meant to give birth and then return to work as if your whole body isn't being changed and moulded to fit the needs of something else?
When your fingers return to the keyboard, they fly. Wicked sharp, with terrifying attention to detail:
Once I've given birth I won't be able to work on any projects. I will be taking a few weeks off for maternity leave. Again, I am willing and able to assist someone else with this until my due date, but afterwards I won't be at work.
His response comes quickly. Short. Blunt. Slicing.
I thought this birth was a surrogacy. Don't you have to keep the baby to get maternity leave?
All you can do is stare at his message. It burns into your vision, letters etching into your corneas so that no matter where you look the image follows you—not even the tears lining the tender rims of your eyes wash it clean. The message gets deleted but the damage is already done. He cannot paint over the hole he punched clean through your chest. You're leaking. An unsightly existence that pushes shame into your throat like fresh bile.
Private messages ring through your speakers. None of them are from your team lead, of course. You never receive apologies from the people who owe them to you. They're from your co-workers, mostly women, assuring you that they're in your corner and telling you that he was out of line for saying something so cutting.
He slaps a bandaid on the situation. A message sent only because he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar:
Don't worry about it. I'll assign the task to someone else.
You stand from your chair as fast as your body will allow. Lead-like limbs weigh your feet down as you shuffle out of your office and into the heart of the cottage. All of a sudden, you're starving for air. No matter how much passes your lips, it's not enough, and you're left with a dry mouth and aching chest.
Once you reach the kitchen, you close your eyes and attempt to focus on the senses around you. Bare feet on cold floor, seeping into the thick skin of your heels, chilling you until a shiver is crawling up your spine and settling at the base of your skull. A faint aroma from breakfast lingers in the air, but the scent turns your stomach. The twist morphs into an ache. Dull. Squeezing from the bottom of your pelvis all the way up to your sternum as if something is attempting to gut you—to excise the pain that burrows too deep for you to rip out yourself.
Something stirs beneath your skin, wriggling and writhing until you move. You can't stay still. Wiping the tears from your eyes, you waddle to put your shoes on before shrugging your coat over your shoulders and vanishing outside where the temperature is bitter and pierces through you almost as bad as any word ever could. Without socks, the texture of the inside of your shoes digs deep into your feet like glass shards you can't pick out.
A thin layer of snow coats your property in a post-new-years celebration but the beauty is lost on you. Dazzling rime coating the tapering branches on the trees means nothing to you when you're focused on the ground and how your feet break through the crust of snow like they're the eggshells you always walked on when you were around your mother. It hits you square in the chest like a baseball, and you don't even know where the trigger comes from. It's as if your team lead was created in a lab to see just how close the universe could replicate how it felt to be a little girl who was too stupid to ever be loved properly.
It's all your fault—always has been. (Your dad leaving. Every bad mark you ever got in school. Getting pneumonia from playing in the rain. Your first boyfriend shattering your heart into unmendable pieces. Eating alone during lunch. Jamming your finger in the front door. Breaking your mum's favorite mug. Laughing too loud in your room. Hugging your granny too tight. Being too much. Being too you. Existing in the dining room, in the living room, in the backyard, too close to your mum, in school, at the park during the summer, sitting on the bench waiting for someone to notice you, to say hi, to save you, to say you're worth it, worth everything you've ever dreamed of. Lying in bed, music playing in your earbuds so as to not annoy mum, staring at the ceiling, daydreaming about what would happen if you were to get hurt. Comatose in a hospital, unmoving, unspeaking, but still able to hear how your mum might apologize, how the friends you forged in your mind would come to care for you, how you'd wake up with a new life, a better one, one where you could hug your mum without feeling every muscle in her body tense as if it detested the very idea of your existence. A new life where you could be loved). Everything bad that has ever happened to you has been because of you.
Once, your mother told you she hoped that you would have a kid that acted just like you so you could see first hand everything she had to suffer through while raising you. Even to this day, you wonder what's so terrible about you that you would be cursed with something so cruel.
"Darling?"
A gloved hand slips over your bicep stopping you in your tracks. You can feel the texture of it through your jacket, pressing into your skin, indenting you, morphing you into a shape you wish you could recognize but can't. John's eyes are somehow so warm compared to the algid backdrop that sprawls out behind him. A blue so dark you could swim in it, deep like blood swirling in water.
Another ache ripples through you and it only grows in intensity the longer you stare at John, teeth digging into the inside of your cheeks as you try not to fully break. Your perimeter is crumbling. Powdery snow blowing away with the slightest breath of wind. The tears on your face begin to freeze to your cheeks, but John beats you to wiping them away. He tosses something in his other hand onto the ground before using the soft side of his glove to soak up the brine. It isn't until you look at the ground to avoid his gaze that you realize he's been shoveling the sidewalk, something of which you've ruined by tracking more snow onto the freshly cleared areas.
"What's wrong?" His voice is so tender that the words fall around his teeth, like slow cooked meat slipping off bone.
You sniff but the snot building up in your sinuses hardly moves, forcing a sharp sigh out of your mouth as you shake your head. "Work is just… just so frustrating."
It's impossible to tell him how you're spiraling—why you're spiraling. Everything always links back to her in some unexpected way. It blindsides you. Whenever you feel useless (which is often) it always bubbles up to the surface like blood you can't wash clean; a wound that refuses to heal.
"I'm sorry, darling. You'll be on leave before you know it," John gently rationalizes.
He pulls you closer, body against his. His warmth bleeds through the layers separating the two of you, like nothing in the world would ever be able to fully keep the two of you apart. It's impossible to fully let your guard down long enough to go limp against him, but you try anyway. In the midst of the snow, of the pain still rippling through your abdomen.
"I just can't handle them sometimes. It's like they're not even human with the way they don't realize we have feelings or need breaks or are people. I love working from home and I'm happy with my schedule and the flexibility it offers but—ah!"
You lurch forward like someone is tugging on your bellybutton. John's hands rest on your shoulders, keeping you steady as he maneuvers you to face him. "Easy now."
"I'm fine," you insist. "Just some Braxton Hicks."
"Let's get you inside." With your hand in his, he's already leading you back towards the cottage. He holds you like you're fragile. A porcelain doll that will shatter at any moment. "I think some rest would do you good."
By the time you get back inside and you've shrugged your coat and boots off, the Braxton Hicks contractions have stopped. It takes little effort for John to convince you to take the rest of the day off to lie in bed and rest. You don't even bother messaging your team lead about you either. John butters you up with freshly brewed tea before pulling the covers over your body. Minutes later, you smell the faint aroma of smoke as he lights a fresh fire in the hearth, and you're reminded of the times you used to escape here as a kid when your mother was sick of you but your grandparents were always more than happy to take you in.
From a young age, this place has always been your sanctuary. You think that's part of the reason why you were so eager to accept such a dilapidating cottage when it was offered to you. Your grandmother is no longer around, but you still are, as are the memories of you huddling in your assigned room, curling up tight, and finally being able to cry in a place where emotion isn't a crime.
It's no small feat pushing the past out of your mind long enough to calm your brain into slumber, but all your hard work is wasted with a torturous dream. You're back in school again, wandering hallways that never seem to end. Every door you try to open is locked, but you can hear people inside. They're laughing. Whispering. You can't hear what they're saying, but you know it's about you.
Eventually, there's a teacher. Slacks and a flannel shirt—he's faced away from you and walking a fair distance down the hallway. You don't recall his name, so you just shout sir! sir! over and over until you're able to pick up the pace enough to catch up to him. He refuses to turn around and acknowledge you until you're tugging on his arm like a child begging a stranger for help finding their parents.
Revulsion soaks the features of his face as he stares at you, eyes wandering over your body until his brows raise. "Couldn't make it to the bathroom?"
The bed is wet when you wake up.
Everything sticks to you. Your clothes, the blankets, the mattress. When you sit up to look down at yourself, you realize there is… something all over you. You question for a moment if you've really wet yourself in your sleep like a child. Embarrassment gnaws at the tips of your ears as you attempt to convince yourself it's normal—you do have a growing baby sitting on top of your bladder, after all—but when you slip out of bed and stand up, there's more. It pours out of you, dripping down your legs, splattering onto the floor. No amount of holding it in will stop it. It spills out of you like pitiful apologies.
The realization of what it is hits you in unison with a contraction. It's strong. Stronger than your Braxton Hicks ever were. You bend forward with a gasp as your hands brace against the edge of the bed. It lasts so long you're not sure if it will ever end, but by the time it fades you're left breathless and trembling.
You suck in a sharp breath as your hands hold your stomach. "John!"
All it takes is one beckoning of his name before you hear his feet on the floor. His pace is quick. Worried. He pauses in the doorway and stares at you in your wet clothes with your sweaty brow. You see him connect the dots quicker than you could, and terrified realization soaks into the intense blue of his eyes.
"I think the baby's coming."
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Brendon park, who comes home from work, tired af, being mean all day just to wrap his arms around his wife's waist in bed, falling asleep with her tiddy in his mouth
in your opinion, why do you think so many people have connected with and create/consume content about brendon park? got to thinking after seeing your post saying you’ve written 100k+ about a character with a minute of screen time
(no hate because i’m loving it all)
one minute of extremely strong, dominant, clear character presence that communicates tons of subtext is worth more than hours of filler screen time. in that scene, you see A LOT. you see his reputation, you know he has a nickname obviously based on his behavior which makes him notorious, you see the way other doctors respect him, you see soooo much personality. like that’s very pope cody to me as well — if you go back and rewatch he actually doesn’t have much screen time the first half of season one. but every single time he’s there you’re getting slapped across the face with visceral characterization.
tbh as a writer when you get a scene like that it’s really all you need to play around with. plus, the less there is on screen, the more room you have to make shit up.
pairing: husband!simon “ghost” riley x wife!reader
summary: as much as you like it rough, gentle sex with your husband is just as good
masterlist!
a/n: requests are open!!!
“sweet’eart, yer so lovely,” your husband softy grunts into your ear, “so, so lovely,” his groans deepen with each thrust.
you were laid on your back, arms and legs securely binded around simon’s muscular body, the larger man rested on top of you, completely swallowing your form with his. his beefy biceps sat on either side of your head, blocking your peripheral vision. you were totally consumed by simon.
it’s been a while since the two of you had sex in missionary— even longer for such gentle sex, your husband’s pace slow and sensual.
his thick, girthy cock was reaching deep places in your pussy while brushing against your g-spot. drawn out, “love you so much,” departed both of you, your cunt tightening around the brit when you’d make eye contact.
“mmfph, si— oh!” when your husband hit just the right spot. “please! k-keep going,” you quietly begged, your eyes never leaving his, “right there— unngh” you interrupted yourself with your lewd moaning.
he moved a gruff hand to grasp your face, squishing your cheeks together, creating a pout, “‘s tha so?” he kissed your pouted lips, pulling all the way out of your cunt, “righ’ ‘ere?” he questioned, slamming back in.
this emits a yelp from you, simon shoving his cock in balls deep. “love hearin’ ya scream, baby,” he somehow rams further, strangled “ow’s” rumbling from the back of your throat.
still clenching your cheeks, he grabs your left hand with his, the clink of the metal from your matching wedding bands ringing in the air. “hon, fuck— can feel yer pussy clenchin m’,” your husband falls back on top of you, strong abs rested on your plush tits, his hips slowly humping you, “takin’ m’ so well.”
finally adjusting to your husband’s giant size, like you had to everytime you fucked, you took matters into your own hands. using your arms and legs, you tightened your grip, rolling your hips against simon’s.
the brute instantly responded, dropping both his hands to clutch your hips, “unngh, y/n—” now it was his turn to uncontrollably moan, “m’ g-gonna cum if ya do tha, luvie’,” he stuttered out, surprise washing over your features.
you’d never heard simon stutter before, the military lieutenant always in full control of every situation, even when he was head over heels in euphoria. oh, you were relishing in this moment.
“i don’t care, si. i want to make you feel good,” you answered, speeding the movement of your hips, “i’m gonna cum too.”
hearing his sweet wife admit that— the man lost his mind, only focused on sending you over the edge.
witnessing the hunger in his eyes, you prepared yourself, sensing your husband’s strong arms encircling your torso. simon sat up on his knees when he made sure you were secured in his hold, lifting your torso off the bed to fuck you.
your husband was so fucking strong, using his strength to slide you forward and backwards, syncing it with the timing of his thrusts. guess m’ don’ needa go to tha gym today, he joked to himself.
you couldn’t hold back any longer, your intoxicating moaning turned into borderline screaming. you wouldn’t be surprised if the police arrived for a welfare check.
“yes. yes. yes—” you repeated, sounding like a prayer to the brit, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. “g-god, si, i-i’m gonna cum—” “give it to m’,” he slapped a tit, “be a good girl and cum.”
you didn’t need to be told twice, your orgasm washing over you, satisfied whines softly exiting your chest. your legs quivered around simon’s waist while you tried to catch your breath, the man coming soon after, shooting his hot sperm into your womb.
he kissed your cheek, bringing your left hand to his mouth, kissing along your knuckles, showing extra affection to your ringed one, “m’ sweet wife. love ya so much.”
Pairing: Brendon Park x Wife!Reader, Past!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Female Reader, referred to with you/she/her pronouns)
Crossover: The Pitt x Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (Reboot)
Summary: Price promised Brendon Park that Task Force 141 would bring his wife home. They kept their promise—just not in the way Brendon ever imagined.
Three nights after your flag-draped casket arrives in Pittsburgh without them, the men you died protecting come to face the husband and children you left behind. Among them is Ghost, carrying what remains of a love he once let go and a grief he refuses to place beside your family’s.
Warnings: Major character death/Reader death, heavy grief and bereavement, child grief, military death and repatriation, survivor’s guilt, past relationship, lingering one-sided feelings, implied explosion and combat violence, heavy angst, hurt with very little comfort, no traditional happy ending, Modern Warfare AU where Roach is part of the reboot 141.
A/N: Hi! This was something that I wanted to try, and I’m curious to see how it is received. Reblogs are open for this one, so I would really appreciate it if everyone could be kind. I’m still a little hesitant about allowing reblogs, but I enjoyed seeing the response to one of my previous fics, so I thought I would give it another try and see how it goes.
The casket arrived in Pittsburgh without Task Force 141.
Brendon noticed that before anything else.
Before the black government vehicle rolled through the secured hangar doors on the military side of Pittsburgh International Airport. Before the uniformed officers stepped onto the concrete beneath the cold November sky. Before the British flag stretched tightly across polished wood came into view, every fold immaculate beneath the floodlights lining the military ramp.
None of them were there.
No Price. No Ghost. No Soap, Gaz, or Roach.
Instead, a British officer Brendon had never met walked beside you.
Major Elias Ward had accompanied your remains from RAF Brize Norton to Dover Air Force Base, where the official dignified transfer and mortuary processing had taken place. When you were cleared for the final journey home, he boarded the dedicated aircraft with you and remained beside you until it touched down on the military ramp at Pittsburgh International Airport, near the 911th Airlift Wing’s Air Reserve Station.
His uniform was spotless, but exhaustion had settled into the lines around his eyes. He carried a narrow black presentation case against his chest as though it contained something fragile.
Brendon stood with one hand resting on his son’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around his daughter’s fingers.
Mason was eleven and old enough to understand what the casket meant, although he had not cried since the casualty officers came to the house. He had stood beside Brendon while two uniformed strangers explained that his mother had died overseas, his hands buried in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and his face frighteningly blank.
Seven-year-old Sophie kept staring toward the aircraft as though she expected you to step down after everyone else.
Brendon was still wearing his hospital clothes beneath his coat. He had left PTMC as soon as another attending could take over the procedure, stripping off his gloves while Garcia explained that your flight had landed earlier than expected.
He remembered telling her to close for him.
He remembered Garcia taking his shoulders in both hands and telling him she had it.
After that, there was nothing.
He could not remember changing out of his surgical gown. He could not remember calling the children’s school or driving across the city. He could not remember parking outside the hangar.
He only remembered the casket coming through the doors without the people who had promised to bring you home.
Major Ward stopped in front of him.
“Doctor Park?”
Brendon did not look at the officer. His eyes remained fixed on the flag covering you.
“Where are they?”
Ward’s expression tightened.
“Captain Price and his unit were placed under operational restriction following the incident.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Mason’s shoulder went rigid beneath Brendon’s palm.
Ward glanced toward the children before lowering his voice.
“They were not cleared to leave immediately. By the time they were, none of them believed they had the right to stand beside her casket and face you.”
Brendon finally looked at him.
“They didn’t believe they had the right?”
“No, sir.”
“They could survive chemical attacks, gunfire and torture, but they couldn’t face my children?”
Ward’s jaw shifted.
“There is a difference between recovering one of your own and delivering her to the people who were waiting for her.”
Brendon wanted to hit him.
He wanted to grab the front of the man’s uniform and demand that he open the casket, wake you up and explain how five men trained to walk through hell had been too afraid to stand in a hangar with your husband and children.
Instead, Sophie tugged on his sleeve.
“Daddy?”
Every person in the hangar went still. She looked past him toward the casket.
“Is Mommy inside there?”
Brendon crouched in front of her. His knees struck the concrete harder than he intended, but he barely felt it.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
Sophie stared at him, her small face serious.
“Can we see her?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Ward turned his face away.
“Later,” Brendon finally managed. His voice scraped against his throat. “After they make her ready.”
“Why does she have to get ready?”
Brendon swallowed.
“Because she had a very long trip.”
Sophie considered that before nodding. She trusted him. She believed that he still understood how the world worked and that, if he promised she could see her mother later, he could make it happen.
That was the worst part.
She pressed herself against his chest, and Brendon held her while the honour guard approached the casket.
Mason did not move.
His face stayed blank as the officers lifted you. Only his breathing changed, growing shallow and uneven beneath Brendon’s hand.
They carried you past them with slow, measured steps.
Brendon watched until the casket disappeared beyond the hangar doors.
Major Ward remained behind.
“The Regiment asked me to give you this.”
Brendon slowly rose.
Ward lowered the narrow case and opened it.
A folded Union Flag rested inside, along with your beret, dog tags and the battered watch Brendon had given you on your first wedding anniversary.
He had bought it because you were always late.
You had laughed when you opened the box and told him that a watch could not fix a personality defect. Then you had worn it every day for thirteen years.
Brendon stared at the scratches across its face.
“The flag covered her during the transfer out of theatre,” Ward said. “She served beside British soldiers. She saved British lives. The Regiment wanted her family to know she was considered one of ours.”
Brendon looked at the Union Flag.
“She was ours here, too.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ward accepted the words without argument.
Brendon reached for the watch.
The metal was cold against his palm.
“Was she alone?”
“No, sir.”
Ward answered immediately, and something in Brendon’s chest twisted.
“She was never alone.”
“Who was with her?”
Ward’s gaze dropped briefly to the presentation case.
“Sergeant MacTavish.”
Soap.
Brendon closed his fingers around the watch.
“Did she suffer?”
Ward took a careful breath.
“I was not present when she died.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.” Ward’s voice softened. “It isn’t.”
Brendon waited.
“She was given pain relief as soon as the team reached cover. Captain Price remained with her until evacuation personnel arrived. Sergeant Riley did not leave her during the flight out of theatre.”
Ghost.
Brendon looked toward the doors through which they had carried you.
“Then why isn’t he here?”
Ward did not answer.
He did not need to.
Brendon closed the case himself.
Price came to the house three nights later.
All five of them did.
Brendon had been sitting at the kitchen table with your calendar in front of him, staring at an appointment you had written down for Mason’s dentist six months from now.
Mason — dentist, 3:30. Do not let Brendon claim he forgot.
Your handwriting slanted upward at the end, as though even the letters were amused with him.
The doorbell rang shortly after nine.
Sophie was asleep upstairs with one of your old sweatshirts tucked beneath her chin. Mason had gone to bed but had not closed his bedroom door, something he had not done since the casualty officers came.
Brendon opened the front door and found Task Force 141 standing beneath the porch light in civilian clothes.
They looked wrong without their gear.
Smaller somehow.
Human in a way Brendon had never wanted them to be.
Price stood at the front in a dark coat, his shoulders squared as though he were reporting for punishment. Ghost remained behind him, his face covered even here. Gaz kept his hands buried in his pockets. Roach stared at the wooden boards beneath his feet.
Soap had one arm strapped against his chest.
Brendon saw the bandages near his throat. Healing burns climbed along one side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.
He understood before anyone spoke.
“Which one?”
No one answered.
Brendon stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him so the children would not hear.
“Which one did she die saving?”
Soap’s eyes filled immediately.
“Me.”
Brendon crossed the space between them.
Price moved first, putting himself between Brendon and Soap.
Brendon’s fist struck Price across the mouth.
The blow snapped his head sideways. Price stumbled into the railing, one hand catching the wooden post as blood appeared along his lower lip.
Ghost did not reach for Brendon.
None of them did.
Brendon hit Price again, catching him near the jaw.
“You promised me.”
Price remained upright this time.
“You stood in my kitchen.” Brendon grabbed the front of Price’s coat. His hands shook violently against the fabric. “You ate at my table. You looked my children in the face and promised you would bring her home.”
“I did.”
“In a box!”
The words carried through the quiet street.
Price closed his eyes.
Brendon shoved him away.
The captain struck the railing again but made no attempt to defend himself.
Brendon turned toward Soap.
Soap looked ill. His injured arm remained secured tightly against his chest, and stitches disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
“She came back for me,” he said.
His Scottish accent had gone thin with grief.
“The first blast trapped my leg. She could’ve made the extraction point, but she came back.”
Brendon pressed both hands over his face.
“She got me loose,” Soap continued. “There was another device.”
“Stop.”
“She covered me before it went.”
“I said stop.”
Soap’s mouth closed.
For several seconds, the only sound came from Brendon’s breathing.
Then Soap spoke again.
“She was conscious afterward.”
Brendon’s hands dropped.
Price looked sharply at Soap, but Soap continued.
“She knew she wasn’t coming home,” he whispered. “She made me take her tags. Told me Mason would pretend he was fine and Sophie would start sleeping with the hallway light on.”
Brendon stared at him.
“She said you’d forget to eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.”
A sob tore out of Brendon before he could swallow it.
He bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other pressed to his mouth.
Soap looked down at the porch boards.
“She told me to tell you that she wasn’t scared until she thought about you having to tell the kids.”
Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see you saying it.
Not because you had not been afraid to die, but because even at the end, you would have been thinking about everyone except yourself.
“She kept asking if we’d contacted you,” Price said quietly. Blood remained on his lower lip. “We told her we had.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Brendon looked up.
Price did not look away.
“Communications were compromised. We couldn’t reach command until after she was gone.”
“You lied to her.”
“Yes.”
Brendon straightened, his vision blurring. His mind was no longer on the porch. It was with you in those final minutes, wondering whether you had been scared, whether it had hurt, whether you had known how badly he would have wanted to be there.
God, if he had been, he would have begged you to stay. He would have kept asking you to hold on until the words became selfish, because he would not have known how to let you go.
So he said the only thing that made sense now.
“Good.”
Price’s brow tightened.
“Good,” Brendon repeated, his voice breaking. “She didn’t need to know I wasn’t there.”
The front door opened behind him. Mason stood in the doorway wearing his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled from bed, but his eyes were wide awake.
Brendon’s stomach dropped.
“Mason—”
His son’s gaze moved across the five men before settling on Soap’s injured arm.
“You're the one?”
Soap’s face crumpled.
“Aye.”
Mason walked onto the porch.
Brendon reached for him, but his son moved past his hand and stopped in front of Soap.
“My mom saved you?”
“She did.”
“Why?”
Soap lowered himself carefully onto one knee despite his injuries. His face tightened with the movement, but he did not stop until he was level with Mason.
“Because she was my friend,” he said. “Because she knew I had people waiting for me too.”
Mason’s chin trembled.
“Then you better do something good.”
Soap stared at him.
“With your life,” Mason said. “You better make it worth what she gave you.”
Soap bowed his head.
“I’ll try.”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“No,” Soap whispered. “It isn’t.”
Mason stood there for another second, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then he turned and buried his face against Brendon’s chest. Brendon wrapped both arms around him.
Mason’s entire body shook as the first sob came out of him. It sounded small and frightened, nothing like the silence he had carried around for the past three days.
Brendon held the back of his head and pressed his face into his son’s hair.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, although he no longer knew whether he was speaking to Mason or trying to convince himself. “I’ve got you.”
Behind them, the front door opened wider.
Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching one of your old sweatshirts.
The grey fabric hung nearly to her knees. She had pushed one sleeve clumsily above her wrist while the other covered most of her hand.
She looked at the men who had returned without you.
“Are you Mommy’s friends?”
Price wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Yes, love.”
Sophie held the sweatshirt tighter.
“She would want you to come inside, then.”
That broke whatever composure they had left.
Gaz pressed a hand over his mouth. Roach sank onto the porch step, elbows braced against his knees as his head dropped. Price turned away, his jaw tightening while he stared into the darkness beyond the railing.
Ghost said nothing. He only looked towards the empty street, as though there were something in the dark he could drag you back from, if only for your children.
Ghost understood the first punch. Price had promised to bring you home, and the rest of them had made that promise in their own ways. Brendon had every right to break something when they arrived on his porch without you.
Then your daughter appeared wearing the grey sweatshirt you had stolen from your husband years ago.
Ghost recognised it immediately. He remembered you curled into the corner of a safe-house sofa, arguing with Brendon through a cracked phone screen while Ghost cleaned blood from his gloves just outside the camera’s view.
“My name is on the tag,” Brendon had said.
You had twisted around to check before laughing and wearing it anyway.
Something tightened beneath Ghost’s ribs, but he pushed the feeling aside.
Years before Brendon, that laugh had belonged to moments shared only with him. Whatever had existed between the two of you had never been given much of a chance to become a life. Ghost had wanted you, but wanting you had been easy. Staying would have meant letting you close enough to see everything he kept buried, and he had been too damaged and too frightened of what loving him might eventually cost you to ask for that.
He had let you go before you could build a future around a man who did not know how to believe in one.
It had hurt you. For a while, the two of you spoke only when the job required it, but eventually you found your way back to each other. You became friends again, not the way you had been before, but close enough to trust each other through long missions, bad orders and everything that followed.
Ghost never tried to interfere when you met Brendon, although he remembered the first time you mentioned him.
You had returned from a favour for Laswell after helping an American unit with something outside Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, of all bloody places. Ghost had barely thought about the city before you came back saying you had met someone there.
Once the assignment was over, the soldiers from the base had taken you to a nearby bar. Some drunken patron had mistaken your patience for permission and put his hands where they did not belong.
You had not needed rescuing. Ghost knew you could have put the man through the nearest table before anyone finished ordering another round, but Brendon had stepped in anyway.
You told the story with an amused smile, describing the American doctor who had caught the man’s wrist and calmly advised him to move before you broke it yourself. Brendon had understood that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. He had simply made it clear that the stranger would not be touching you again.
Things had taken off from there.
Ghost remembered the jealousy that settled beneath his skin when you returned. You seemed lighter and distracted, carrying a private happiness you tried and failed to hide. When Soap made some filthy joke about how thoroughly the American doctor must have seen you off before the flight home, you told him to shut his mouth without meeting anyone’s eyes.
That had been answer enough.
Ghost kept his thoughts to himself. He assumed Brendon would become a story you occasionally told, one unexpected night with an American you had met in a city neither of you had expected to matter.
He never imagined it would lead to a wedding ring beneath your gloves, photographs tucked into your vest and two children waiting for you in Pittsburgh. He never imagined he would one day stand on your porch and see that same grey sweatshirt hanging from your daughter’s shoulders while your husband tried to survive the fact that you were gone.
Pittsburgh should have been a passing detail. Instead, it became the place where you built the rest of your life.
Even after you married Brendon, there were moments when the past still found its way between you and Ghost.
One night in a safe house, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside him with the pieces of your rifles spread across an old towel. You cleaned his weapon while he worked on yours, continuing a habit left over from the years when trusting each other had come more easily than admitting what you felt.
Ghost inspected the bolt you handed back to him.
“You missed a spot.”
You glanced over without lifting your head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Carbon on the edge.”
“That was already there.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You keeping photographs of it now?”
Ghost looked at you across the scattered gun parts. “Could start.”
Your mouth curved. “You always were fussy about my weapons.”
“Someone had to keep you alive.”
“That what you called it?”
The teasing came back easily—too easily—and for a moment, the years between you seemed to disappear. Ghost remembered the way you looked at him then, amused and fond, with just enough understanding in your eyes to make the room feel smaller.
Then your phone vibrated against the floor, and Brendon’s name lit the screen.
The old familiarity between you settled back into the past where it belonged.
You picked up the phone with a softness already touching your face.
“Hey, you.”
The warmth in your voice struck Ghost harder than he expected. He lowered his head and returned to your rifle, dragging the cloth carefully through the chamber while Brendon spoke through the phone.
“No, we’re fine,” you said, glancing towards Ghost. “Just cleaning up before we move again.”
Brendon said something that made you smile, and Ghost kept his attention fixed on the weapon in his hands.
“I know,” you murmured. “I miss you too.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. Whatever flame had once existed between you and Ghost belonged to another time, while Brendon had become the life you were returning to.
When the call ended, you placed the phone beside your knee and reached for the rifle.
“Where were we?”
Ghost checked the chamber one last time before handing it back to you.
“We’re finished.”
You studied him for a moment, as though you knew something had shifted and respected him enough to leave it alone.
“All right, then.”
Ghost missed the years when your smiles had turned towards him first. He still remembered the softness of your lips against his and the way you had once looked at him as though there might still be a man beneath everything the world had made of him.
Missing it did not make it his.
Brendon had built the life with you that Ghost had once been too afraid to imagine. He had seen how freely you smiled around your husband and heard the warmth that entered your voice whenever you spoke about the home waiting for you in Pittsburgh. Your love for Brendon lived in every part of you: the ring beneath your gloves, the photographs tucked into your vest and the children waiting for their mother to come home.
Ghost respected you both too much to turn his regret into something you had to carry.
Perhaps another version of him, in another life, might have been brave enough to stay. In this one, he had always stood outside the frame.
When Sophie invited them inside, Ghost lowered his head and waited for Brendon to open the door.
Brendon looked down at his children and understood that you were still taking care of them through every habit you had left behind.
There was Mason’s stubbornness, Sophie’s open heart, the extra meals labelled in the freezer, the emergency contacts taped inside the kitchen cupboard, and your handwriting on the calendar reminding him about dentist appointments months after your death.
He opened the door wider. The five men entered quietly.
Gaz helped Roach to his feet. Price paused beside Brendon, his lower lip already swelling, but neither man apologised.
There was nothing either of them could say that would make an apology useful.
Soap stopped at the threshold.
Mason had not released Brendon’s coat, but he turned his head enough to look at him.
Soap waited.
After a moment, Mason gave a small nod.
Only then did Soap step inside.
Sophie led them toward the living room, dragging the sleeve of your sweatshirt along the floor.
“You have to be quiet,” she told them. “Mommy’s things are sleeping.”
Price made a sound that might have been a breath or the beginning of another breakdown.
Brendon remained on the porch.
The cold air moved against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and chimney smoke from somewhere farther down the street.
The road was empty.
For one irrational moment, he imagined headlights turning the corner. Your car pulling into the driveway. You leaning across the centre console to grab your bag before stepping out, tired and irritated because nobody had warned you that Pittsburgh had already become this cold.
He imagined you climbing the steps and asking why everyone was standing around looking miserable.
Nothing happened.
The street remained empty.
Inside the house, the Union Flag rested beside the folded American one.
Two countries had claimed the honour of mourning you.
Neither could give you back.
Brendon opened his hand.
Your watch lay in his palm, its scratched face reflecting the porch light. The second hand had stopped sometime during the journey home.
He pressed it into his skin until the metal hurt.
Then he went inside to raise the children you had died trying to come home to.
I loved it! I mean, it made me cry so much, and it broke my heart, but the way it's written is fantastic. It's a great story. I don't think I'll ever get over reading this, so I'm going to keep crying, hahaha.
❤️👏🏻
And by the way, they had kids?! I'll never get over that. My weakness. For a moment I thought the son was going to get his revenge too like Brendon did with Price, but on Soap.
summary: your husband will do anything to keep you happy, even if it means losing.
warnings: established relationship, age gap (40s!titus|25+!reader), empty twinkie (fluff only), incredibly spoiled!reader, minor pervy!titus, ass smacking
w/c: >1.9k
author notes: minor blurb again, had to write for zaddy titus bc I had no other inspo and Titus has been on my mind for days. i need that crazy man so bad. my tags weren’t working mid draft and I crashed out like five times, i hate this app. I changed my layout again, im so indecisive. and I’m lowkey debating on deleting all my other posts so I can start fresh…
The afternoon sun blared down on you in a harsh wave of warmth as you stood against the freshly trimmed green grass, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. The tip of your tongue pressed out in between your lips, expensive shades pushed up onto your head. Your feet were spread shoulder-width apart, one hand wrapped around the rose gold grip of your golf club.
You carefully winded your arm back just six inches, lightly tapping the golf ball with about as much force as a heavy exhale. You watched as it rolled slowly, following the slight curve of the grass before sliding into the hole with a soft clatter.
“Yes!” You clenched your free hand into a loose fist, pumping your hand in the air as you quickly turned to your husband who was watching with a pleased smile.
“Good job, sweetheart,” He praised with a slow nod and a short clap as he tucked the club grip first under his arm. You shrug lightly as if this type of talent came naturally, stepping aside as your husband subtly jerked his chin towards Pernilla in a silent command to have her grab the ball from the hole. “So, that puts you at what… 35?”
You let out a small, sarcastic laugh, tapping the club head of the club into the damp grass as you approached your husband. “Close, but it’s actually 15.” Titus raises an eyebrow at you, tilting his head slightly.
“15? Is that accurate?” He watches you as the both of you subconsciously make your way towards one another, stopping just at the foot of the golf cart.
“Read the scorecard, baby. One-five, soak it in.”
He leans closer beside you as you pull out the scorecard with a dramatic flourish glancing down at the italicized flourish of your name with a whopping 35 next to it. Your eyes shift down to the neat, bold claim of Titus’ name beside your high score where his score is a gaining with a lower 32 (which was incredibly high even for him, but you knew he’d purposefully been fucking up the entire game). He hums lowly, looking over at you as you’re already looking up at him with a small look he’d gotten familiar with.
He doesn’t say anything at first, studying the little pout on your lips and the pointed look you gave him before quickly caving with a content smile. “Pernilla must’ve miscounted.” Your pout immediately goes away, like a flip is switched, an eager grin slips onto your mouth.
“So, we agree. But don’t worry, I’ll go easy during the last hole.” He laughs at that, letting out a quiet huff through his nose.
His arm finds its way around your waist, tugging you closer to him with a firm grip on your hip. “Thank you, baby. I really appreciate it.” With a steady movement, he guides you towards the golf cart, keeping one hand braced on your back as the other hovered in the air to ease you into your seat.
You accept his extended hand, stepping up onto the golfcart as Titus tilts his head down just a few inches to peer under your small black pleated skirt. But he’s barely caught a glimpse of the colored cotton of your panties before you’re already sitting down. You hand him your golf club without a second thought, as he quickly moves to put your clubs into the cart bag. He moved to slide into the driver’s seat, giving Pernilla four seconds to make her way into her own golf cart before pulling the cart back in drive.
The two of you make your way towards the final hole, golf cart gliding over long hills of bright green as the wind forced the thick dark leaves of the trees to sway loudly. You slid the sunglasses from the top of your head, allowing them to sit comfortably on the bridge of your nose as Titus’ hand made its way towards your thigh.
A comfortable silence stretched between the two of you, tires rolling quietly against the lawn as the cart moved towards the long stretch of empty space. Titus’ thumb rubbed up and down against the smooth expanse of your thigh, occasionally looking over at you to ensure you’re comfortable. You curiously glance over at Pernilla, who’s trailing behind the two of you, turning to look back at your husband. You rest your hand on top of his, rubbing his knuckles with your index finger as he actively fights back a smile.
The cart is shifted into a park as the two of you finally stop at the hole, Titus is the first to glide out of the vehicle. Immediately moving to help you down, though you probably could’ve easily hopped down, the two of you refused to allow yourself to do any simple task like that. Titus quickly grabs your club, extending it your way without you even having to look his way. You turn to him with a bright smile, leaning up to press a lipgloss sticky kiss to his cheek.
“Don’t go easy on me now, I can take it.” You lift up your shades, tucking them into the v-cut of your top as you press a hand to your eyebrows. Blocking the sun from your vision, you squint towards the hole, tapping the clubhead against your shoe.
Titus laughs, stepping beside you as Pernilla places a golf ball on the tee, adjusting it quietly. “I think we both know I don’t do easy,” You side eye him, giving him a blank look as if he wasn’t intentionally losing just to see you win. “Hey, don’t give me that look. It’s windy.”
You snicker slightly, nudging him forward as he makes his way towards the tee in the ground. You stand back just a few steps, watching as he positions himself beside the ball. Your eyes follow the movement of his arm as he reels it back, and for a second you’re actually convinced he’s gonna hit the ball force for. Y’know, taking the last round seriously. His hand ‘slips’, the clubhead barely nudging the ball two feet away from where you both stood.
You gasp loudly, pointing a perfectly manicured finger his way. “Hey! I said don’t hold back.”
His brows lift slightly in faux offense, motioning one hand to the club. “I’m not. My hand slipped.”
“Fine, I’ll try not to wipe the floor with you.”
You brush a stray strand of hair from your face, waiting as Pernilla placed your ball on the tee before positioning yourself in a familiar stance as your husband. Your eyebrows furrow, eyes glued onto the ball in concentration as you drew your arm back up into a 90° angle. With as much strength as you can gather, you swing your arm forward, your clubhead clacks against the ball in a loud thwack.
The ball flies out a good 70 something yards, stumbling over the grass as it rolls to a slow stop somewhere beside a neatly trimmed bush. Titus lets out a low whistle, meeting your excited smile with an approving grin. “Beautiful swing.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
Titus steps four steps towards his ball, as you move horizontally to watch him. Your eyes follow his arm as it moves back before rushing down in a crisp clip against the ball. It flies out, a small chunk of dirt flying off somewhere in the distance as his ball moves towards yours. It falls short by a few feet, perfectly angled towards yours. You clap excitedly, rushing up to Titus’ side. Your hand wraps around his arm as you jump up slightly. “That was perfect!”
He turns his head towards you, a boyish looking grin on his lips at the praise. He doesn’t respond, mimicking your nonchalant shrug from earlier. Instead of taking the time to walk towards the ball, the both of you turn towards the cart again. The thirty second walk time is cut off to a quick six second drive because Titus refuses to allow you to walk and potentially get your pretty little shoes fucked up.
It only takes another heavy swing for the ball to go into the hole, and honestly you were lucky. If it weren’t for that tree in the distance, you would’ve overshot by a foot. But thankfully the thick trunk knocked the ball backwards into the hole in a satisfying plink. Titus follows in suit with two more swings.
By the time you check the score points, your 35 has turned into a 15, which somehow turned into a 10. But considering the happy smile on your face, no one is saying shit about the obvious cheating. Titus sets your club into its corresponding pink bag, before ignoring his own club so he could help you into the cart. Pernilla is probably putting his equipment away as the two of you scramble into the vehicle, but Titus doesn’t check so neither do you.
Your arms are wrapped around his neck, lips pressing repeatedly against his cheek in eager, little peppers. One hand grips the wheel to keep from driving the two of you into a bush as the other is buried comfortably under your skirt. His large hand is heavy against your ass, palm squeezing and gripping your cheek as he revels in your kisses.
“You did great, hon. And that last swing?” He whistles again at the memory, earning a happy hum from you. You lean back slightly, giving a half hearted attempt to wipe away the gloss shining on his cheek. “Leave it, I don’t mind.”
Your hand finds its way back to his shoulder, squealing in surprise as he gives your ass a firm smack. “Stop that, Pernilla might see.” You whisper slightly, but you don’t make an attempt to move his hand away. He looks down at you with a slow grin, intentionally giving your ass another squeeze and a heavy smack.
“I think a little ass smacking is beyond her worries.” You smile despite yourself, running your other hand up and down the curve of his neck. He leans into you, tilting his head down to meet the loud mwah of your lips as you press another kiss to his cheek. His fingers dip under the sides of your panties, pressing against the flesh of your ass for better feel.
“I think I deserve a reward.”
“Yeah?” He looks at you again as he parks the car at the entrance of the Danforth Manor. “Whaddya want?”
You purse your lips as he helps you off, looking up into the sky while trying to recollect the newer things he bought you. A new pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, a new Dior handbag, a gold Chanel necklace. “Hmm,” you trail off as he rests a hand on your hip to keep you in reach as the two of you climb up the steps. “Oh! We should get matching bracelets. Wouldn’t that be so cute?”
“Don’t we already have matching bracelets?”
“Oh, phooey,” as the two of you step inside the Manor, you’re enveloped in a rush of cool air. “Fine, rings then.”
He hesitates, momentarily glancing down at the flashy wedding ring on your finger but being smart he doesn’t correct you again. “That sounds good.”
You turn to him with a soft smile, planting a kiss to his lips. “And I want another handbag. Maybe that Gucci one we saw last month.”
He shifts forward, pressing another kiss to your lips. “The ostrich one?”
“Mhmm… oh, oh! And I saw this cute pair of earrings too.”
“From Gucci?”
“No, Chanel. But I was looking online, and Prada has this gorg—” Titus’ hand moves towards yours, intertwining your fingers with his before kissing your forehead gently to politely shut you up.
you were awoken, rather abruptly, by the sound of toys clattering down your side. blinking sleep away, you groan softly, before you’re face to face with your little toddler, her little ringlets messy and sticking up in every direction. she blinks at you. you blink at her.
“g’mo’ning, mama,” she says, in something akin to a whisper, but it comes out more just like hot toddler breath in your face. you can smell coffee wafting from the kitchen.
“mm, baby, what’re you doing?” you croak, lifting a sleepy hand to move the sheets off of you when you’re instead met with a small plastic toy car. then, a little train. then — ah! another toy! this time, in the form of a small cloth bee stuffed with pellets. there’s a damp spot on its antennae, where your darling daughter had no doubt chewed on it just moments ago.
she blinks at you again, extending a little pointer finger towards the collection of trinkets now placed on your stomach. “play.”
“play?” you ask, as she hands you yet another toy from her chubby fingers. she must’ve gotten out of her crib somehow, and judging from the fact that jack’s side of the bed is empty, that’s probably how. “where’s papa?”
“ou’side.” she says, walking the little bee plush along your blanketed stomach. “mama, play.”
“mm.” you groan slightly. you give her one last look before resigning to your newly appointed role as a play-mat. the books did say to encourage spontaneous play. “m’kay.” you pick up the little car, rolling it along your torso as she mimics the buzzing of a bee.
her cheeks are flushed a sleepy pink as her brows furrow in concentration. freckles dust her little nose, and the person who gave them to her walks into the bedroom. jack, still in his sleep shirt and plaid pajama pants leans against the doorframe, as a warm smile graces his aged features.
“there you are, buggy,” he says, as your daughter’s head whipped over her shoulder to look at him. jack cocks his head behind him. “pancakes’re ready,” he smiles.
then, your daughter turns to you. “mama, pancakes.”
“mm, i’ll be there in one sec, baby,” you nod, still wearing off the last of your grogginess as you sit up, the toys clattering into your lap. your daughter, sweet and full of energy as she is, waddles her way out of the bedroom with the soft pitter-patter of her feet following her. as she rounds the door into the hallway, jack extends a hand to cup the back of her little head, gentle.
then, he turns to you, a bright glint in his eyes. “she wanted to play.”
a little smile graces your lips. “yeah, she did,” you murmur, stretching your arms over your head.
rubbing your sleep from your eyes, the comfortable silence is broken by the sound of your toddler shouting, “mama! papa!” from the kitchen, the clumsy clanging of her plastic utensils against her paw patrol plate joining her.
you can’t help the laugh that leaves you, and jack’s chuckles join you.
“she’s a tyrant,” you sigh with affection, kicking the duvet away from you as you stand, approaching jack. you rest your hand on his lower back as his drapes over your shoulder, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead before walking the both of you out in the hall, muttering, “yeah, but, i mean, look at her,” he says, nodding in the direction of where she tries to climb into her high chair. “she makes for a pretty fuckin’ cute one.”
hey! i was wondering if you could please do a jack x wife!reader where they have a toddler daughter and while jack is alone with her in the park or the beach someone mistakes her for his grandchild and then he gets really insecure, reader finds out through the daughter and comforts him
Today you and Jack decided to take your four year old daughter, Aria, to the park for a family day.
Jack had worked more than normal this week and you felt he just needed a day to get out of the house and enjoy a good day outside.
“Who’s excited for the park?” you ask, looking in the rear view mirror at your daughter.
Small eyes identical to Jack’s look at you with excitement.
“Meeee! I want to go to the slide with daddy! And then the swings!” she rambles on with a smile.
“Don’t worry baby,” you smile back at her “you’ll get to do all of that.”
Jack enterwines your hands and brings it up to place a gentle kiss as his eyes stay focused on the road.
“I’m glad to have you both to myself for the day.”
You squeeze his hand briefly “We’re glad to have you too J. You deserve a break.”
He smiles as he thinks of the relaxing day ahead of him with his girls.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The walk from the parking lot to one of the open field areas is a good twenty minute walk.
Jack has a cooler bag of drinks and snacks while you carry Aria and a bag of her things she may need and some toys.
Once you guys find a decently shaded spot with a few people, Jack lays down a light blanket and sets everyone’s stuff down.
You set Aria down and look through your bag.
“Shit” you mutter quietly, still rummaging in the bag.
Jack looks up from his seated position on the blanket as he grabs some water from the cooler.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“I forgot the sunscreen in the car.”
He nods “Well, we’ll just play mostly in the shade. It’s okay.”
You look at your husband with the classic ‘are you serious’ face.
Jack Abbot,” you start “you and your daughter are the most sunburn prone duo on the planet. If you want to risk it with never ending teasing from Robby, go for it. But our daughter is not leaving here looking like a tomato and in pain.”
He chuckles at the tomato reference “Okay sweetheart, be safe and hurry back.”
You run your hand through his grey curls as you pass him.
“Will do, J.”
—---
As Jack waits for you to get back, he has his full attention on Aria as she tells him about the Bluey episode she watched that morning.
“You know I was sitting there with you silly” he laughs as he tickles her side gently.
She erupts in giggles as he continues and attacks her face with kisses.
“You and your granddaughter are adorable” a voice says from the walking path a little bit in front of him.
His eyes furrow a bit as he looks up at the older woman walking her dog.
“I’m sorry?”
Did he hear her right?
She points at Aria with a smile “Your granddaughter,” she says again “she’s just a cute little thing.”
Jack forces a smile at the words.
“She’s actually my daughter.” he corrects politely
He sees the exact moment when the woman realizes.
“Oh my! I am so sorry hun, I-I didn’t mean anything by it. I just assumed th– I’m so sorry. You and your daughter have a great day.”
She waves briefly before continuing on her way down the path. Once she’s out of sight, the smile Jack had been faking falls immediately.
Granddaughter? Did he really look that old?
He was nearing fifty in a few years and you were a good eighteen years younger than him.
Did people think you were his daughter?
Did people make comments like that to you?
Were you upset about things like that? That he was so much older?
Would you prefer someone younger?
“Daddy!”
A small body falls into his lap, pulling him from his downward spiral of thoughts. He plasters a convincing smile as he goes back to playing with Aria.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
You hurried to the car as quickly as you could and hurried back. You see Jack tossing a foam ball back and forth with Ari. She giggles as it bounces out of her hands and to the side.
She sees you first.
“Mama!” she squeals as she runs towards your legs.
You pick her up and kiss her cheek “Hey baby. Were you playing with daddy while I was gone?”
“Yes yes yes!” she cheers while clapping her hands.
You laugh as you set her down on the blanket.
“Okay sunscreen time for you both.”
You look towards Jack and see him looking ahead with a slight frown.
“Babe, everything okay?” you ask softly
You see him immediately give a half smile that’s not convincing.
“Yeah honey, I’m good.”
He’s definitely acting weird.
You raise an eyebrow “You sure, J?”
He nods as he sits Ari in his lap.
“Alright” he says “lets get some sunscreen on our little monster” he attacks her with tickles.
You can’t help but smile at them but you’re still not convinced Jack’s okay.
You let it go for now but you’ll get him to tell you what’s wrong in a little while.
—---
You guys have had a great time spending the day entertaining one another with Aria.
After finishing the lunch you had packed for everyone, Jack wipes his hands off.
“M’gonna find the bathroom. I’ll be back sweetheart.”
“Kay, be careful” you say as he walks past you.
While he’s gone you talk to Ari.
“Are you having a good day with mama and daddy today?” You smile
Ari grins big, looking more and more like her dad every day.
“Yes!”
“Good, baby.”
You go to grab your drink when her little voice speaks up.
“Daddy sad.”
You face her quickly with furrowed brows.
Huh?
“What baby? Why’s daddy sad?”
Maybe she saw what had happened.
You pick her up and hold her in your lap.
Ari leans the side of her head against your chest and gets comfortable.
“What happened baby?”
She looks around and then points at something.
You look and see an older lady with a dog walking.
“Who’s that?” You ask gently
Ari snuggles closer to you.
“Her and doggy said hi.”
“They talked to you and daddy?”
Aria nods against your chest.
Bingo.
What the hell happened when you left earlier?
Jack comes back a few minutes later.
“Alright Abbot girls, do we want to make our way home soon? Maybe get someeee ice cream on the way?” He says in a silly voice to Aria.
“Ice cream daddy!” she claps in excitement.
“Okay baby, we will soon.” he grins at her
You set her down in front of you where some of her toys are.
“J,” you say quietly
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You grab his hand “Are you gonna tell me what happened earlier?”
He noticeably stiffens at your question and shakes his head briefly.
“Nothing happened?” you press.
“So,” you turn to look for the lady “that woman over there didn’t come over and talk to you and Ari?”
He follows where your finger points and you see his fists clench and unclench.
“Baby, please… tell me what happened?” you plea.
He takes a deep breath.
“When you went to the car, she was walking by and said… something.”
You look at him silently waiting for him to continue.
“She uh, thought I was Ari’s grandfather.”
You tilt your head in confusion.
“She thought Ari was your granddaughter?”
He nods not making eye contact with you.
“Well J, we know that’s not true. So what’s the matter baby?”
“It… it just made me think. Does everyone see it that way?” he shrugs “Do I look that old? Do you think I look too old? Would you want someon—“
“Jack Abbot don’t you dare finish that question.”
His face looks defeated.
“But would you?”
With wide eyes you reassure him “Jack, I would never.”
Your heart breaks at how the interaction upset him.
“Jack listen, I understand where those insecurities can come about but babe…” you pause briefly
“there is no one else on this earth I want more than you. I chose you because you’re funny, you’re considerate, a gentleman, mature, passionate, and talented. You’re also so fucking handsome. Incredibly hot.” you wink
“But most importantly, I chose someone who would make not only the most amazing husband but also the most amazing father to our kids. And I'm not always the best at choosing things, we know this” you laugh softly
“but I couldn’t have chosen someone better for those roles than you. You’re it babe and you’re stuck with me and Aria forever. Ari also doesn’t care about your age, she just loves her dad.”
“Isnt that right, Ari?” you look at your daughter whose attention is being held by the toys in front of her.
You gently pick her up and set her in your lap.
“Where’s daddy?” you ask as you hold her.
She points at Jack with a smile.
“Tell me something you love about daddy.”
She giggles as you blow raspberries against her cheek.
Jack can’t help but grin at his two favorite girls.
“He plays with me and he, he kisses my boo boos and and he’s nice to you. I love daddy.” she rambles.
You look at Jack with a raised eyebrow as if to say ‘see, I told you’.
His eyes water at his daughter’s words.
“I love you too, sweet girl.”
Ari starts to move in your lap and reaches her arms out to Jack.
“Daddy! Hold meee!”
Jack reaches over and takes her from you.
She immediately wraps her arms around his neck, squishing her cheek against his. The action grounds him, melting away the remaining insecurities from earlier.
The sight melts your heart.
You grab your phone and snap a quick picture.
“Anytime you feel down about this again,” you show him the picture you had just taken
synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.
Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!
Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare
NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie
Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist
A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive
Word Count: 18.3k
Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.
Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time.
Tonight changes that.
It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.
But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.
The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.
“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”
The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”
Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”
Brendon rolls his shoulders.
The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.
In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fit knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.
Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrows into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.
But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much there.
So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.
As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.
Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”
With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”
Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.
You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”
“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”
“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”
“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”
“It’s eighty degrees out.”
“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”
With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”
“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”
“That’s hot.”
Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.
“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”
He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”
“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”
“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”
With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”
“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”
Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”
“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”
Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”
Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”
With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.
The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.
Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”
“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”
The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”
Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”
With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”
“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”
Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”
Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”
“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”
Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”
“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”
“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”
“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”
“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”
You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”
He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”
Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”
Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”
Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”
“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”
You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”
Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”
“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a roadtrip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”
“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”
“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook work. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”
You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”
Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.
Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”
“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”
Brendon nearly growls.
Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”
You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”
As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”
“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”
Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”
“It’s America.”
“The bill’s over four grand.”
“Like I said. And?”
“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”
“I barely know her.”
“Whatever you say, Shark.”
You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.
Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md
You have to suppress a squeal.
Game, set, match.
It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.
With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”
“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”
“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”
“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”
“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”
You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him want to vomit. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”
“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being all stupid about it.”
“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”
Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”
“My friend, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in a long-forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge him and insist, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”
With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”
Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”
Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”
“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”
You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”
“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer to-”
A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”
“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I didn’t expect you to have four grand easily lying around.”
With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”
“How?”
“I have my secrets.”
“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”
“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinkie with yours. “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.
It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”
Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”
He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”
You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking around as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.
On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.
As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the damn finally breaks.
Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot stick in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-
“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”
He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”
“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”
“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”
“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”
“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”
You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”
He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”
“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”
He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”
But he can’t resist how damn determined and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.
When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. That was a really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”
You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”
He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”
God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”
Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”
“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”
As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”
Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”
He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.
“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”
He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”
You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”
“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says,“Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”
You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”
He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”
You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”
He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”
You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”
Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.
As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”
Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”
“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”
You’re about due for a cold shower.
you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇
you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences.
brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests.
you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on.
brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual.
you: yeah?
brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me.
you: never.
brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are.
you: thank you!! i will 💕💕
you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late
brendon (hot gym guy): I never am.
you: that’s hot.
Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve wracking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup for you – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.
Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.
Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.
you: which shoes do you like better?
brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck.
brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language.
you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇
brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t.
brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow.
you: you really do like my girly stuff huh?
brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast.
you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake?
brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄
brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that.
you: omg did you just use an emoji
you: im already making progress on you
brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight.
you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑
brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass?
you: oh my god. yes grandpa
you: you’re so lucky you have me
brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually.
brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.
Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.
Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.
Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”
Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.
“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”
He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in his strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in that sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.
By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.
Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.
Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you here again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”
Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”
“Perfect; go right ahead.”
“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pino grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22. Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”
The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”
The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”
After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.
“What face?”
“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”
You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.
Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.
Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him,“You’re staring at me.”
Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”
“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”
He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”
You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”
Brendon glances over it, tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”
“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”
Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”
Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”
That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”
You cut into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”
“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”
He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.
Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”
Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”
He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”
After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”
“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”
You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.
When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”
Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.
Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet for every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”
You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”
She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”
“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display, “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”
“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”
She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”
“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get their bouquets, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”
“On it, boss.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.
you: most people would’ve texted
bren: Did you want ‘most people’?
you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!!
bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very roman-tic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess?
you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!!
bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them.
you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight
you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕
bren: Me too, beautiful.
bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside.
you: that a promise?
bren: Yes.
you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!!
bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day.
you: yes sir
bren: Careful.
you: rarely 😘
Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky highrise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.
“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”
“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”
Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”
“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”
“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”
Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and woods and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.
You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”
Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.
Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.
Deep breaths.
In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.
Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you find a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.
Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.
In the en suite bathroom, across from the massive walk-in closet, there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.
Comfortable, indeed.
One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk back into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.
While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.
When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”
“Too late.”
Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.
And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”
Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.
You’re in the shark’s den now.
Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper.
“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”
Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”
Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”
You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”
“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”
“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”
“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – an expression you didn’t fully understand until now. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”
You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”
And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”
Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”
You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.
When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Again.
Bastard.
“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”
You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”
Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”
So he gets to work.
First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.
Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unphased by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”
“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”
He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to notice your armpits.”
As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it grows.”
Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”
After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”
And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a sharp breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”
Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”
He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tight.
Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”
And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”
Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.
Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”
Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between your legs, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.
Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”
You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”
“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of laying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”
“Just for you.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”
He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”
You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”
“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”
Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.
Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.
Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”
“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”
“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”
Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”
He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”
You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “N-No. I don’t think so.”
“And does it still feel good?”
You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.
“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”
You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”
Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly little smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”
“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his encouragement, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”
You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”
“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”
Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”
“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”
When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.
“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”
“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”
“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”
“I- I’ll try.”
“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”
He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”
That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.
“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the bring of supernova, he commands like a servant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”
You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.
His voice.
The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.
“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”
You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.
When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gasping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.
Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.
Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”
With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”
Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”
“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can you fuck me now?”
“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”
“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”
“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”
“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”
Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”
Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.
He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”
“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and late you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”
His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”
You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”
You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”
“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”
Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.
His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.
He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”
Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.
But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breath, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.
He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.
So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.
Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”
You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.
“If the very first words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”
You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.
Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”
Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.
In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something long-forgotten in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.
Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysiam. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.
Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”
You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.
“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one large hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”
You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”
“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”
You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”
“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up, princess.”
You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”
“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”
Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”
That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”
A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.
“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”
You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”
“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”
Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”
He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”
“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”
You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”
After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.
“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”
“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”
“And I meant it.”
When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
