dr. jack abbot swears he's not a panty sniffer. unless they're yours ofc.
mdni, 18+, panty sniffing, mutual masturbation, patheticsubby!hudband!dr.jackabbot x slightlydom!wife!reader, that one scene from animal kingdom iykyk
listen to this ♬.ᐟ
the key turned in the lock at 4:47 am.
dr. jack abbot stood in the doorway of his own house like an intruder. a man who'd forgotten how to live in it.
his grey scrubs were wrinkled beyond salvage. he reeked of antiseptic; that sharp, clinical smell that clung to everything, embedded in the fibers, ground into his skin like a second layer. there was something on his sleeve that he didn't want to think about. his eyes burned with the particular brand of exhaustion that two weeks of back-to-back shifts, three code blues, a pediatric trauma that still made his hands shake when he thought about it, a patient who flatlined twice before they got her back, a few patients who they couldn't—
robby had been watching him with those too-knowing eyes during rounds. until he pulled him into a corner and sat him down through a whole lecture:
"you're a danger to yourself and your patients."
and then, with a sigh–
"go home, brother. i got this."
jack had argued, of course. his pride was a stubborn thing. but the truth was undeniable: his hands were trembling, and an hour ago, in a haze of fatigue, he'd nearly hung a bag of vancomycin on the wrong pole. a fatal error, prevented only by dumb luck. and besides, robby had already forged his signature on the cover sheet.
so here he was. home.
for a moment it was dark, heavy and quiet. but as soon as the door clicked shut, the air changed. it smelled like that vanilla bourbon candle you'd been burning lately, too sweet, too warm, and something else. something that was entirely soft and comforting. a scent that reminded him what a home actually was.
the particular, curated warmth of a space that had been lived in by someone who loved gently.
you.
he felt like he hadn't seen you in a lifetime. the last few times he'd managed to drag himself through the front door, you were already asleep, or he was too comatose that he barely registered you kissing him on his forehead and slipping him out of his scrubs before passing out.
you were an angel. a saint. anyone else would have left him by now, fed up by a husband who was a ghost in his own marriage, absent and hollowed out, smelling like disinfectant and existential dread half the time. but there you were. still with him. always.
he passed the kitchen on his way through. stopped. on the counter he found a plate covered with saran wrap, food still faintly warm. and on top of it, a note in your pretty, looping cursive writing: be a good boy and eat. hearts all around it. little doodled hearts in the corners and beside his name and one big one at the bottom.
he stared at it for too long. his throat got tight. he set the note down carefully, like it was something precious, and kept moving.
his chest ached.
not in a clinical sense. this was worse. this was the dull, spreading ache of realizing he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation with his wife that lasted longer than forty-five seconds. the last time he'd looked at you, really looked, instead of glancing at you over a coffee mug while his brain was already back at the pitt, replaying lab readings and imaging results. even now, even here, in the quiet of his own hallway, his hand drifted to his hip where his pager sat clipped to his waistband—habit, muscle memory, the phantom itch of obligation. he caught himself doing it. stopped. his fingers hovered there for a second, trembling, before he forced them away. forced himself to leave it there. just in case.
he dropped his bag by the door. toed off his shoes. didn't bother with the lights.
the bedroom door was open a crack. warm, faint streaks of moonlight from outside spilled through the curtains, painting a pale stripe across the bed.
and there you were.
jack stopped breathing in the moment.
you were asleep on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped over the mattress. your hair was spread out, messy and soft against the dark sheets. and you were wearing one of his old tees; from his first years as a war medic. the faded olive green one with the frayed collar that he'd had since his second deployment.
it was too big on you. the neckline hung loose, sagging forward, and in the low light he could see straight through the thin, worn cotton. the bare swell of your breast. the shadow of your nipple, perky and soft against the fabric. the shirt had ridden up exposing the flat plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the gentle curve of your hips where the fabric bunched. and below that, lace. white lace panties, barely anything, just a scrap of fabric over the place he'd been thinking about for fourteen straight days.
fuck.
jack braced one hand against the doorframe. his one good leg failing him. his other hand hung useless at his side. he could feel it, the insistent heat and the weight and the need, starting to build low in his gut, spreading through his pelvis like a fever.
you looked divine.
and, god, he wanted to touch you. he wanted to crawl into that bed, slide behind you, press his bare chest to your back and pull you into him until your plump ass was right against his aching cock. he wanted to push the shirt up and put his mouth on the curve of your spine, taste the salt of your soft skin. he wanted to hook his fingers in that lace and pull it down slow, the way you liked, inch by inch, and bury himself so deep inside you that he could feel every pulse and twitch of your pussy around him.
he wanted to fuck you the way he'd been dreaming about in the on-call room between codes—slow and hard, your legs wrapped around his waist real tight, his forehead pressed to yours, while he whispered filthy, sweet things that made you whine all low and needy for him.
but you were sleeping. you were asleep, and you looked beautiful and peaceful, too pure, untouched by the horrors he'd seen today.
you'd been alone in this bed for two weeks while your husband worked himself into the ground, and you were probably wearing his shirt because you missed him, because you wanted to be close to him even in sleep. and he was not going to wake you up just because he got hard watching you sleep.
so he backed away from the door. quietly. one step, then another.
the bathroom. he'd go to the bathroom. he'd splash water on his face. he'd get himself under control. he'd take a cold shower. he'd—
he saw it the moment he stepped through the bathroom door. the hamper, wicker lid was slightly open. and poking out from beneath a towel was a flash of fabric—soft, pale pink, the kind of thin cotton panties you wore when you were just lazing around the house.
jack stood there for a long moment. his reflection in the mirror looked feral. flush creeping up his neck. jaw clenched so hard he could hear his own teeth grinding.
don't.
he reached into the hamper.
don't do it.
his fingers closed around the panties; lighter, softer than he expected. they were still warm. still faintly damp. he brought them to his face before he could talk himself out of it and—
oh, fuck.
you. it was you. that smell, musky and sweet and unmistakably, devastatingly you.
the scent flooded his senses and something in his brain just short-circuited. his eyes fluttered shut. his shoulders dropped. a sound came out of him that he didn't recognize; low and wrecked and desperate.
his hands were already moving. he pulled the pager from his waistband and threw it onto the bathroom counter where it clattered against the porcelain, the screen flickering once before going dark. scrubs shoved down. briefs next. he was already half-hard and getting harder by the second, and when he wrapped his hand around himself, he groaned through his teeth like a depraved man.
he dragged his fist up the length of his cock, thumb pressing against the underside just below the head, and his hips stuttered forward into his own grip. the panties were pressed to his nose, pressed to his open mouth, and he breathed you in like oxygen.
then he started stroking his cock. slow. real slow.
that was the whole point. that was what he'd been craving. not the rushed, fumbling quickies in the dark before his alarm went off, not the half-awake hand jobs that left him feeling more empty than satisfied. he wanted slow. he wanted to feel every stroke. imagining himself fucking into you.
he pumped himself, deep thrusts, his hips rolling forward like he was buried inside you, like his fist was your pussy, tight and wet and warm pulsing around him. he closed his eyes and imagined it. the way you'd clamp down on him. the way you'd whine when he went too deep. deep enough that he was grinding deliciously against your cervix. the wet, filthy sound of skin slapping against skin. the way you'd say his name all pretty when you begged for more more more.
"fuck—" his voice was wrecked. his neck was flushed, blotchy red spreading down from his jaw to his collarbones, and he could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. "oh, fuck fuck fuck."
his hand twisted on the upstroke. his thumb swept over the tip, smearing precum, and he used it to slick the shaft, making everything wet and hot and obscene.
his head dropped back. his mouth fell open. the sounds coming out of him were pathetic—whimpers, really, thin and shaky, the kind of sounds that would humiliate him if anyone at the pitt could hear them. dr. jack abbott, former combat medic, and attending physician reduced to a trembling mess in his own bathroom with his wife's underwear pressed to his face like a perv.
he pressed his tongue to the cotton, licking into the fabric, chasing the ghost of a taste of you—salt and musk and something sweet that made his eyes roll back. just a little taste. just enough to make him tip over the edge.
in that moment morals were the last thing on his mind, what was right or wrong. how he looked utterly desperate and pathetic.
he didn't care. couldn't care.
all he could think of was his hand over his cock and the scent of your panties at his nose while he moaned pathetically to no one: "baby—" the word came out broken. "oh, baby—"
"honey?"
his entire body locked up.
the voice was soft. thick with sleep. coming from the doorway.
his eyes flew open and there you were; leaning against the frame, the olive green shirt still hanging off one shoulder, your hair a mess, your eyes heavy-lidded and confused. the bathroom light caught the curve of your body; breast through the fabric, the bare skin of your hips, the lace panties failing terribly to cover your pussy.
"what are you—oh." your voice caught in your throat as you finally sobered up and saw what was in front of you; in his right hand, your pink panties to his nose. in his left, his cock, slick and flushed and leaking a copious amount of precum.
the silence lasted approximately one thousand years.
"i—" jack's voice came out strangled. he tried to drop the panties. tried to cover himself. ended up doing neither effectively and instead just stood there like a deer caught in headlights, neck burning, chest heaving, looking at his wife with an expression that fell somewhere between mortification and pure arousal. "i can explain, i just—the last two weeks, and you were sleeping, and i didn't want to wake you, and i—"
you sighed, "jack."
"—the thing is your panties looked so pretty and they were just there and i—"
"jack."
he stopped. his mouth hung open. his heart was going to explode.
you looked at him. eyes trailing over his body; his flushed neck, his bitten-raw lips, his swollen cock, his shaking hand. your gaze was unhurried. assessing.
then you said something that made his brain go completely, totally blank.
"keep touching yourself."
he blinked. "what?"
"keep touching yourself." your voice was calm. steady. but there was something underneath it—a current, a heat. "don't stop. i want to watch."
"what do you—" he gestured vaguely at himself, at the absurdity of the situation. "you want me to just—"
"mhm" you hummed, a small grin playing on your lips. "you heard me just right, jackie."
his hand twitched. his cock jerked in his grip. that nickname—it always got him. always. it didn't make sense, not logically, not for a man his age, not for a man who ran trauma bays and made life-or-death decisions before breakfast. but something about the way you said it—soft and sweet, a little mocking, like you knew exactly what it did to him—stripped away every layer of authority and left him raw.
you stepped closer, into the bathroom. bare feet on tile. the shirt swayed against your plush thighs. "keep touching yourself for me."
so he did.
because what else was he going to do? when you, his beautiful wife were standing three feet away telling him to touch himself all sweet and pretty and he had no other choice but to submit.
his hand was already moving again before his brain could form a coherent objection. slow stroke, base to tip, the way he liked you touching him. his thumb dragged over the head again and he hissed through his teeth, his hips rolling into it. the wet sound of it filled the space, obscene and raw.
he gave you a desperate look, awaiting praise, anything that told him this is what you wanted to see.
and you simply watched him.
your eyes tracked every movement—the flex of his forearm, the twist of his wrist, the way his abs contracted with every slow thrust into his own fist. you watched his face, the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth fell open, the way his jaw went slack when he dragged his thumb just right over the ridge beneath the head.
and lower, his cock was huge, flushed dark and heavy in his grip, curving up toward the silver-streaked happy trail running down his belly. a prominent vein along the underside of the shaft, thick and pulsing with each stroke. the tip was blushing rose, shiny and wet, precum leaking in slow, steady beads every time his thumb swiped over it. each pass made a soft, sticky sound that echoed off the tile.
"yeah, just like that," you said quietly, encouraging. "you're doing so good, honey. keep going."
he made a pathetic sound from the praise. a desperate whimper that cracked in the middle, his chin dropping to his chest, his whole body shuddering.
then he heard a familiar beep. his eyes flicked, just for a second, to the counter. to the pager. dark screen. silent. it must have been in his head but his hand still faltered. the rhythm broke.
"eyes on me." your voice came out low, a little commanding. "stop thinking about anything else right now. just us. just this."
"but i heard–" his gaze drifted again. the pager sat there on the counter like a accusation. his jaw tightened. his hand slowed—
"jackie." softer now. but firm. "focus. don't think about anything except my voice. can you do that for me? can you stay with me, jackie?"
oh, now he was a gone man.
"i—" his voice cracked. "'m so sorry-yeah, i can—"
"good boy." the words hit him like a physical blow. his cock jerked in his grip, a fresh bead of precum spilling over his thumb, making everything slicker, wetter. the sound of his hand on himself grew filthier. "just listen to my voice. just feel how good this is. nothing else exists right now."
then you reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it over your head.
you did it slowly. teasing. fingers curling under the frayed cotton, lifting it inch by inch, letting the fabric drag up the plane of your stomach, revealing your skin bit by bit like you were unwrapping a gift. just for him.
he watched as the fabric skimmed over your ribs first — the ones he'd trace with his lips on when you were half-asleep, counting each one with a kind of care that made your breath hitch. then the soft underside of your tits, where he'd bury his face after a long day, nose pressed into the warmth of you, breathing you in. then the shirt cleared your head, and your hair came with it, mussed and wild, falling over your pretty face. you dropped it somewhere behind you without looking.
didn't care.
jack's hand faltered. the panties fell to the tiled floor.
you stood there in nothing but those white lace panties, and you were stunning. soft stomach, the way your bare tits spilled over your chest, nipples already peaked in the cool bathroom air. the bathroom light painted you in gold and shadow and jack thought, distantly, that he might actually pass out.
"keep going, jackie," you whispered. "need you."
"yeah—okay, baby." his hand started moving again. slower now. his eyes roamed over you—your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the way your ribs expanded and contracted with each breath. you were breathing harder now. he could hear it.
then your hand drifted up. over your stomach. over your ribs. and you cupped your own breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and your lips parted and your head tipped back just slightly and—
"fuck," jack groaned. his hand tightened. his pace stuttered. the wet sound of his fist on his cock grew faster shlick shlick shlick frantic and shameless.
then you hooked your thumbs into the lace and pulled it down. stepped out of it. kicked it aside.
and he could see everything.
your pussy was glistening. swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. you brought two fingers to your lips, parting them slow, pushing them past your teeth. your tongue dragged heavy against the pads, cheeks hollowing as you sucked, coating them with saliva. he watched, chest heaving, panting low and ragged.
his mouth was practically drooling at the sight, a low, wrecked moan slipping from his throat, his cock twitching violently in his hand.
you pulled your fingers free, a string of spit connecting your lips. then you trailed the wet fingers down slow, leaving a wet streak trailing down your sternum, sliding over the curve of your navel, and disappearing right down between your thighs.
you dragged them through your already sopping pussy—slow, deliberate, showing him exactly how soaked you were just from the sight of him—and the sound it made was obscene. a soft, wet schlorp that seemed way too loud for the quiet bathroom. then you slipped them inside deeper. just to the second knuckle.
his mouty parted, jaw slack, a low moan rumbling out of him. "oh baby, you're so–." the words came out broken, barely held together. "so fucking hot."
"come closer," you breathed. barely a whisper. barely a command. but it hit him like a freight train. "jackie, come here."
he shuffled forward, no hesitation. one step. then another. until he was close enough to feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the wet sounds of your fingers filled his ears. nothing else.
"can you feel me?" your voice was thin, ragged, barely holding together. your fingers kept moving, slow and deliberate, dragging through your own wetness with a sound that made his vision blur. "can you feel my heat, jackie?"
you pressed the heel of your palm against yourself and rolled your hips into it, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, letting out a filthy moan, the sound of his name, jack thought he saw god.
"uh huh," he moaned low at the sight. the sound came out feral. barely human. "yeah, fuck baby, i can feel you—"
he watched you intently, his adam apple visibly bobbing in his throat. and he took note of how your hands moved. commited the act to memory, taking mental notes he would use on you next time.
"i'm so fucking wet for you." you dragged your fingers out, and he watched a thick, glistening strand of slick stretch and break as you pressed them against your clit, circling slow, and your whole body shuddered. "imagine how tight i would feel wrapped around your cock." your eyes found his, dark and half-lidded and burning. "imagine sinking into me raw."
you were dripping, actually dripping, down your wrist. he could hear it. each tiny wet squelch of your fingers working inside yourself. your thighs were trembling, your stomach clenching, little ah ah ah sounds punching out of you with every curl of your fingers.
"oh, fuck—" his hand tightened on his cock, his pace turning sloppy, his hips snapping forward into his fist, precum smearing over his knuckles. "i'd fuck you so deep, baby—stretching you up real nice around my big cock. filling you up all the way to the hilt—i'd make you take every fucking inch and then i'd keep going—"
"ah ah— more jack" you whimpered. your fingers thrust back inside yourself, and the sound it made was pornographic, your pussy sucking at your own fingers. "tell me more. tell me exactly what you'd do to me."
"i'd—god—i'd pin you down," he groaned, his voice cracking. "fold you in half, thighs pressed to your chest, put you in that angle that makes your pretty pussy clench down on me so tight—"
"yeah?" you moaned low and needy, eyes rolling back. "go–ah–on."
"i'd burry my cock so fucking deep in your pussy baby and fuck you until i got you squirting all over my cock just like the last time, make a mess everywhere—"
"oh–fuck–jack!" you pressed your fingers impossibly deeper inside you and rolled your hips into your fingers, a tiny, helpless movement, and when your back arched, your mouth fell open, your tits bouncing with the shift of your hand.
jack almost came at the sight of it, his restraint wearing thin with every stroke, every moan, every second his hands are not all over you.
"can i—" he reached for you with his free hand. desperate. needy. pathetic. "please baby let me just touch you—" he breathed it out like he didn't even know he was saying it. "please, please—"
"uh uh, jackie" you shook your head. "keep touching yourself."
"but, baby, i—"
"just keep your eyes on me." your eyes found his and they were dark now, pupils blown wide, and your voice was still firm but had a tremor in it that hadn't been there before. "just–just a little more, mmkay?"
"okay, baby." he obeyed you easily.
and he watched.
he watched your chest flush, spreading down between your breasts, and he matched his strokes to the rhythm of your breathing without even thinking about it. in and out. slow and steady. the wet slap of his fist working his cock mirroring the wet slide of your fingers inside yourself.
he wanted to put his mouth there. he wanted to taste it. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you had to physically pull him away.
but you said don't touch. so he held back.
when he thought of it, there was something almost intimate about it all. the physical ache of wanting, and the sheer, agonizing will to stay perfectly still. it made a religion out of restraint. just two people laid bare in the quiet, watching each other with a mutual, burning, want. almost as if your souls were already committing the act before your bodies. like this was the truest form of your desire. it was all too much.
and far from enough.
he could feel your breath now. your exhales were skating over his sternum, over his collarbone, up the column of his flushed throat. and as his nose skimmed just above the curve of your shoulder he could smell you—that same scent as the panties, musky and warm and wet, your pheremones rising off your skin in waves, mixing with the vanilla still clinging to your hair.
his mouth was right next to your cheek. close enough to kiss. just mere inches away, you could almost taste him then, his breath brushing over your lips with each sigh.
but he pulled back.
you whimpered then. your head fell forward, your hair curtaining your face, and your shoulders curled inward like the pleasure was too much to hold upright. like some part of you actually hoped he'd give in.
take over and fuck you like you both yearned for.
"oh, fuck—" jack's voice was wrecked. absolutely destroyed. his neck was crimson, his chest blotchy with flush, sweat beading at his temples. his hips were fucking into his fist now—chasing something, building toward something, the slow rhythm he'd tried to maintain falling apart. the sounds his hand made on his cock grew louder, wetter, more desperate. a staccato beat that matched the frantic pulse of his heart. "oh, fuck, baby, you're so—i can't—you're so pretty—"
his hand slowed. his breath hitched.
a sound tore out of him—something caught between a groan and a sob. his whole body shuddered, hips snapping forward into his fist.
you lifted your head. looked at him through half-lidded eyes. his lips were swollen from biting them. his cheeks were wet.
had he been crying?
god, he looked so pretty.
your name fell out of his mouth like a prayer. then again. and again. each repetition more broken than the last, each one punched out of him with a thrust of his hips. his hand working frantically now, thumb pressing hard against the underside of his cock his other hand playing with his balls.
"baby, please—" the word came out whined and fractured, tears streaking his flushed face, barely holding together. the wet sounds of his hand on his cock had reached a fever pitch. "wanna cum, please let me cum—"
he was asking so sweetly. so needy. it almost tipped you over the edge right then and there. it was a rare sight—jack like this. he had his moments of softness with you, achingly tender ones. but this—begging, pathetic, wrecked, stripped of every ounce of control—it fed something in you that you didn't even know was hungry. something primal and dark that liked seeing the man who held other people's lives in his hands come completely undone in yours.
"yeah, oh jack, me too. i'm about to—" you whimpered it. low and desperate. more air than voice. "about to–"
"yeah, yeah, give it to me, sweet girl—" he could feel himself getting close. he could feel you getting close. could hear it in the way your breathing went ragged, in the tiny, desperate sounds escaping your throat, in the way your hand was moving faster, your wrist angling just—
"jack—"
he kissed you.
he didn't touch you with his hands. not once. but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. the warmth of your bare chest millimeters from his, the flush of your body bleeding through the air between you, your nipples almost brushing his stomach with every shuddering breath you took. it was like standing next to a fire.
and oh, he wanted to burn in it.
his mouth against yours was all desperation. sloppy and hungry. his tongue pushed past your lips, found yours, licked over it, then dragged against the roof of your mouth. his nose pressed into your cheek. his teeth clicked against yours. he couldn't think straight. couldn't do anything but kiss you and stroke himself and—
you came first.
he felt it. your whole body seized against him—a full-body shudder that started in your shoulders and rippled down through your chest, your stomach, your thighs. you moaned into his mouth. loud. helpless. wrecked. and he swallowed it. every gasp, every broken sound—he drank them down like communion wine as you trembled apart. he could hear it. the way your fingers kept moving through the wettest part of your orgasm, the sound changing, growing thicker, sloppier as your release coated your hand and dripped onto the tile.
that did it.
the taste of you. the sound of you. the feeling of you shaking apart against him while your orgasm rolled through your body—jack's hips jerked forward once, twice, and then he was coming with a groan that came from somewhere deeper than his throat. it ripped out of him, muffled against your mouth, his whole body going rigid, his hand working through it.
he came all over you. hot, thick ropes of it striping across your bare belly, pulsing against your stomach with every wave, the head dragging through the mess he was making of you. and he kissed you through all of it. through the peak and the aftershocks and the slow, trembling come-down. he kissed you until his lungs burned and his legs shook and his hand finally stilled.
the sound of his fist on his cock slowed. each stroke more labored, more sensitive, until he finally stopped, his shaft twitching against your cum-slicked stomach.
when he pulled back, a string of spit connected your mouths. it stretched. broke. his lips were swollen. his eyes were glassy. he looked absolutely, thoroughly destroyed.
and then you both leaned in. slowly. like your bodies just gave up on holding you upright and decided to hold each other instead. noses brushing, breath mingling in the small hot space between your faces.
his fingers came up, tentative, careful, and skimmed over your bare skin. just barely there. light enough to raise goosebumps in their wake, trailing over your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hip. then his toned arms settled around you, large hands pressing flat against the small of your back, pulling you against him. not tight. just there. you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours, both of you breathing ragged and uneven, still coming down from the high.
your arms wrapped around him, fingers splaying across his firm back, feeling the warmth of him, the dampness, the way his muscles still twitched faintly in the aftershocks.
a beat. his thumbs drew slow circles against your lower back.
then you leaned back. just enough to look at him.
"hi, honey." you said and you smiled at him. soft. sweet. ruined and impossibly pretty. like you hadn't just watched your husband fall apart in front of you. completely ruined to only the sight of you.
"…hey, baby." his voice came out shy. small. a ghost of the man who barked orders in a trauma bay.
then a little sheepishly he added, "sorry for sniffing your panties like that i was just really...pent up. didn't wanna wake you up, baby."
"it's okay, honey. i don't mind." you laughed all soft, too sweet. your manicured fingers drifted up to trail through the salt and pepper hair on his bare chest. featherlight. just barely there. but you could feel him pulse under your fingertips.
"actually, if i was being completely honest..." suddenly you were flushed, smiling a little shy now yourself. "i've also been…pent up this week. been sniffing your shirts too."
"have you now?" that admission woke something raw in him. his jaw tightened. his throat bobbed. then, suddenly, it dawned on him at that moment, tonight when he found you wearing one of his shirts. "wait does that mean–tonight you were–"
you flushed a shade deeper.
"fuck." he groaned. he twitched against your belly, thick and hot and unmistakable. impossible to ignore.
his eyes trailed over you. the way your lips were swollen, slick and kissed raw. the way you were still panting, your chest heaving. your pupils blown wide, dark and hungry, your lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him through the haze. you looked thoroughly fucked and you hadn't even been touched.
his thumb came up, without a second thought, pressed against your lower lip. just resting there.
you opened your mouth, muscle memory. sucked it in slowly, your tongue pressing flat against the pad of it, your eyes never leaving his.
something shifted behind his eyes and he let out a low pleased groan deep in his chest. that hunger—the one you thought was sated—reared its head again. licking its lips. because this wasn't enough. it was never going to be enough. not when you looked at him like that. not when he had spent two whole weeks without you and burried in work at the ER.
you looked at him like you wanted him just as much too.
you released his thumb with a soft, wet sound. looked up at him through your lashes and asked, all pretty and needy and barely above a whisper—
"so you gonna fuck me now, dr. abbot?"
he was already getting hard again.
"fuck yeah."
author noteఌ︎: i think about that scene from animal kingdom alot. had to write it down somehow lol.
i'm working on part two of misconduct btw :3
Jack decides to test you, and you end up stuck in his trap, with a little help from his best friend.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael Robinavitch (Abbot x Reader is the main pairing)
TW: noncon, kidnapping, figging, dp in two holes, piss kink, breeding bench, rough, smut smut smut! Read at your own risk <3
wc: 7k (a LOT of smut)
You’re not stupid. You know it’s a trap.
Even if you’d been dumb enough to convince yourself it was a dream last time.
You wake up on your couch, wondering how you got there. Mind fuzzy, limbs stiff, cunt aching like you’re bruised all the way to your womb.
There’s a moment where you forget that he could still be there, and then you freeze, waiting for any sign that you aren't alone.
Heavy footsteps, or the sound of something moving.
But there’s nothing.
The silence in your place fills every corner.
Your phone and pill bottles are sitting on your coffee table with a glass of water, like you fell asleep on the couch after a long day.
But you know better.
And silently, you tip toe into the kitchen to grab your butcher knife, slowly making your way through each room. Looking for signs of him you know you won’t find, he’s too smart for that.
When you make it to the bedroom you notice how nicely made up your bed is, crisp corners that look military grade, and you can’t hold yourself back from ripping the linens off. From throwing your pillows and duvet to the side, tearing at the bedding until you’re staring at the piss stain you knew would be on your mattress.
The confirmation that it’s all been real has air whistling through your constricted throat as you nearly choke.
Slumping to your knees, the knife falls to the bed as you grip the mattress and press your face into its side, screaming yourself hoarse.
You're too wired to even cry, mind going a mile a minute as you try to figure out what to do.
Go to the police?
What evidence do you even have? He pissed away whatever dna was inside you, and he’d be too smart to leave finger prints. If you’re lucky, he might have left a hair or two, but when has luck ever been on your side?
The police won’t be able to do anything, it’ll be your word, with no evidence, against a well respected doctor.
Like they would even believe you in the first place.
No, you’re going to have to save yourself.
And even though you know this is a trap, a test to see if this time you really will try to run.
But running feels like your only option, you know in your gut he’ll be able to find you anywhere in this city.
So you’ll leave town.
Take the first flight out.
You don’t care where, anywhere to get you away from him. Anywhere to buy you the time to figure out what to do with your place, to figure out how you’re going to uproot your entire life.
Your heart won’t stop racing and you can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s going to shove his way through your door any minute to claim you as his pet.
So you quickly dig out your old backpack, moving fast as you scramble to think of what’s important to you, what you can’t leave behind if you decide you can never come back here.
Jewellery from your grandmother, photos from your childhood, the stuffed bear your parents gave you the day you were born, your old diary that you never really kept up with filling, important documents, your laptop, a change of clothes, and some toiletries.
It has the backpack nearly bursting at the seams, but you make it work.
You pull on jeans and a hoodie, at the last minute pulling on a baseball cap, realising you might need to disguise yourself a little. Then you’re quickly lacing your shoes and shouldering your bag. You do one last lap around your place to make sure you didn’t miss anything.
Mourning all the things you can’t take with you. That you pray you’ll be able to come back to. A life you hope you'll be able to come back to.
You’re ready to leave when you remember your phone, and in a daze you make your way back to the couch.
Staring at it sitting innocently on your coffee table.
Is it bugged? Did he put a tracker on it?
If you use it to try to order an Uber or buy a plane ticket, will he know?
There’s no way for you to be sure, so you leave it behind.
Another heartbreak to add to the pile.
You just hope your laptop will be enough to get you by.
When you reach your door, you freeze. Suddenly terrified you’ll open it to him right on the other side, ready to punish you for trying to leave.
You steel yourself, trying to be brave, even though all you really want to do is curl up in a ball and pretend none of this actually happened to you.
And then you shove your way outside, locking the door behind you and walking as fast as you can to the closest bus stop. To where there will be witnesses and a bus that’ll take you to the airport.
Air presses down around you and you start to sweat, feeling far too vulnerable out in the open, already feeling eyes on the back of your neck. Like you're being hunted, even though you aren’t even sure if he’s really after you.
But paranoia has you skittish and jumpy, constantly darting your eyes around to catch a glimpse of his broad shoulders and silver curls.
When you safely make it to the bus stop, you breathe a sigh of relief, settling in to wait for the next 28X.
People line up and get on their bus routes as you wait for yours. Twenty minutes pass and you get antsy, hoping the bus will be here soon, desperate to be on it and making some progress to real safety.
The minutes tick by, and still no bus.
Another comes by, still not yours, filling up and leaving you standing alone at the empty stop.
You stay vigilant, eyes always scanning for him.
And you nearly jump out of your skin when a tall man with a beard and soft eyes wanders over to ask you the time and if you know when the next bus is coming.
You blink, brain struggling to let down your guard for long enough to remember how to make small talk.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t have my phone on me, so I’m really not sure.”
He whistles before laughing, warm eyes crinkling in a way you find endearing, “Here I thought no one left their house without a phone on them anymore.”
You try to smile, but you’re pretty sure it comes out as more of a grimace.
He seems nice, and in any other situation you'd be thrilled to have a cute guy like him chat with you, but your skin prickles hot as you realize it’s only the two of you. And for no good reason, dread coils its way deep through you, prey instincts kicking in.
“I guess we’re both in the dark then.” He jokes, and you nervously smile and nod, before the roar of an engine has your head whipping around to see what’s happening.
A green bronco with tinted windows screeches to a stop in front of the both of you. And you jump back, your stupid backpack knocking right into the chest of the man you were talking to. Your heart jams its way into your throat, and before you can turn to run, a big hand is covering your mouth, and the prick of a needle is biting into your thigh.
You claw at the hand gripping your jaw, adrenaline and blood pumping fast and hard as you wildly kick back at his shins. Your foot connects and some of his weight slumps forward into you, swearing as he readjusts his grip.
His other hand snakes its way around your waist and he starts dragging you towards the car.
Oh god, if he gets you in there, you're as good as dead.
You dig your nails deep into his arm, drawing blood as you struggle against him, screaming into his hand. Slumping into dead weight as you twist and turn in his grip, looking for any opening to slip free.
“Don’t piss me off, honey.” He growls into your ear as you keep struggling. “You're in enough trouble already.”
Your fighting doesn’t last long as the effects of whatever he injected you with hit you all at once, eyelids suddenly feeling like hundred pound weights, heartbeat turning sluggish in your veins. You panic as unconsciousness barrels toward you like a freight train.
You try one last time to twist out of his hold. But he’s too strong, and your muscles refuse to listen as you beg them to fucking move.
The last thing you remember before sleep claims you, is the sound of the car door being wrenched open and the feel of soft leather seats under your hands as you’re unceremoniously shoved inside.
Read the rest on Ao3 (sorry, I just don't trust Tumblr's weirdness with anything porn related!)
But please leave me a comment over there if you liked this! or send me a request if you're interested in me exploring some other kinks!
mdni, 18+, posessive!popecody, dom!popecody, borderline obsession, based off season one and two pope cody (still catching up)
listen to this ♬.ᐟ
pope cody’s really possessive over you. but he doesn't show it.
it’s quiet, a heavy feeling that settles in the air. it’s the way he sits at smurf's pool parties, back against a chair, just watching you. not little glances, stolen and shy. no, not that. he stares long and hard until you feel the uncomfortable heat of his gaze burning a hole at the back of your neck.
especially now, with you in that cute little two piece he loves, the one that makes your boobs sit just right and pretty, shows off the curve of your hips and ass. his jaw stays tight, the beer bottle sweating in his grip while some guy by the barbecue lets his eyes drag over your legs a beat too long. but he doesn't say a word. he doesn't have to. he just stores the image away, coming home later with a split lip and bruised knuckles from slamming his fist into the guy, a silent, violent way of marking his claim.
and when any of his brothers talk to you, especially baz okay, mostly just baz, something ugly snaps in him. if baz even just says hi to you once, pope gets quiet in a way that’s terrifying. he’ll grip his bottle until the glass shatters in his palm, not even flinching as the shards pierce his skin, blood welling up and dripping between his fingers. it’s like he’s too focused on the idea of someone else taking up space in your head, that his own body becomes an afterthought.
he'll never acutally tell you he doesn't like when you smile at other guys. he isn't built for conversations like that, never has.
but later, when you're asleep in his bed, breathing slow and warm against his shoulder, he reaches for your phone on the nightstand. he memorized your passcode weeks ago, just watched your thumb move over the keypad enough times until he knew the pattern better than he knew his own. he scrolls through the texts to your mom, your friends. then he checks the logs. the endless strings of messages and missed calls between you and him while he was at work. just how it should be.
after he puts the phone back exactly where he found it, down to the millimeter, he doesn't close his eyes. instead, he lies there in the pitch black and watches you for an hour straight, chest tight with a quiet, irrational fear that if he looks away, you might just slip out of bed and disappear into another man's arms. and, when he's definitely sure you won't, he pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his toned arms around you so tight it’s almost hard to breathe, tangling his legs with yours, and finally lets himself drift off, anchoring you to him.
girls nights out make him sick. like borderline physically ill. the nausea sits heavy in his stomach when you mention them. he won't say a word, just nods his head, murmurs "have fun" in a voice so flat it sounds hollow. but he’s already planning the route in his head. he parks three blocks away from whatever bar you're at, sitting in the dark with the engine off, just waiting. he watches you through the foggy glass of the bar window.
it’s not about trust or the lack of. he knows his sweet girl could never ever lie to him. he knows you could never do him wrong.
it’s the men.
he knows exactly what runs through their heads when they see you walk in the room. watching you like a pack of wolves to a lamb. and he can't stand not being there to put his body between you and their eyes.
and, god, it drives him fucking feral knowing you had a love life before him. he hates the thought of other mouths kissing you, other hands that had touched you before his ever did. it lives under his skin like a deep, festering splinter he can't dig out.
and he tries to fuck it out of you every single time.
it’s like he thinks if he just goes deep enough, hard enough, slow enough, he can physically overwrite every memory of anyone who ever tried to claim you before him. that's when the quiet, simmering possession cracks wide open and turns into something desperate and hungry.
he leaves kiss bitten bruises in places you can't hide. the hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. the soft inside of your thigh where your skin is sensitive, where the blood pools into a pretty, dark purple. little flowers blooming where everyone can see them, visible above the neckline of your blouse, impossible to miss. marks that scream "stay away" without him ever having to open his mouth.
and he can go the whole night just pounding into you, fueled by that inhumane stamina of his. his large hands grip your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, dragging you back onto his cock with every painfully sweet stroke, until you're sobbing, a drooling, whimpering, beautiful mess. only then, only when you're completely undone, would he slow down, burying himself to the hilt and just holding himself there.
his lips brush over your ear, low and wrecked, "tell me." you always know exactly what he needs to hear before he even says it. "tell me you're mine. tell me this pussy's mine, sweet girl. please, please, please." he chants it into the damp skin of your neck, over and over, until the words lose their shape and just sound like a desperate prayer. and you moan it back, delirious and broken, "yours, yours, 'm all yours, popey."
"good girl."
his large hands come up to wrap loosely around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. his thumb pressed against your pulse point where he can feel your heartbeat hammering frantically against his skin—proof that you're alive, and here, and entirely his. he can feel the vibration of every moan and whimper right there under his fingertips and it makes his cock twitch inside you. he grinds his hips forward just once, slow and filthy, watching your mouth fall open and your eyes roll back.
and when he finishes, he finishes inside you. every single time. he thinks about it more than he should, obsesses over it when he's alone. getting you pregnant. watching your belly swell with something that is purely, undeniably his. a living, breathing proof that he's the one who gets to have you. that you belong to him and him alone.
a dark, twisted part of him hates that you're on birth control. to the point that he even has your cycle memorized down to the day. and when you’re ovulating, he fucks you with a savage, desperate intensity, filling you up over and over again till you're practically dripping, silently praying the pills fail. just waiting for that one slip-up that will tie you to him forever.
but he'd never say any of this out loud to you, of course. never let you know about the obssessively possessive thoughts that fester his mind, because he's terrified you'll leave him if he ever does, if you ever find out.
little does he know the more terrifying truth is, you already know.
and it doesn’t scare you in even the slightest, if anything, it only makes you love him more. because maybe you're just as unhinged as he is, because maybe you two are broken things feeding off a mutual madness, and you're more than perfectly willing to let him ruin you for anyone else, to let him consume you completely. whole.
just as long as he lets you ruin him for anyone else too.
♡ synopsis: the moment he sets his eyes on you, dr. brendon park is sickened by how soft and weak you seem. as such, he makes it a personal mission to get under your skin every time he crosses your path as revenge for you invading his every thought. intoxicating little thing that you are, however, he can hardly get enough... despite his efforts to the contrary.
♡ content: enemies to lovers, jack & robby both pine after you, reader is a spoiled crybaby brat but also a sweetheart, reader slaps dr. park & almost does so again later, kissing, fingering, p in v sex, dom!brendon, sub-coded!reader, dubcon (brendon decides to go in raw w/o asking reader if she's ok with it (she is)), sub drop, teasing (sexual & otherwise), reader has hair long enough to make a braid, medical inaccuracies, dacryphilia, slut-shaming, misogyny, reader eats meat in 1 scene, brendon gets a little physically rough with her in 1 smutty portion [idk. if i missed anything, just tell me]
"It won't need surgery," Park remarks while shaking his head.
Mr. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God." Turning his head to the right, he looks at Dr. Park. "How do we fix it so I can get the hell out of here?"
Standing half-hidden behind Robby, and close enough that your breasts brush against the back of his arm, you glance curiously toward the clock on the wall, worried that this ortho surgeon can smell fear like a shark does blood in water. As long as you don't make eye contact, he'll never know that you're here.
It's not that you've heard an extraordinary amount of stories about this Dr. Park fellow—hardly any, truth be told, since the ED isn't exactly his domain—but the ones you have make you want to run and hide beneath the nurses station until he's gone back to his designated floor of practice.
Glancing around the room in search of an aid, Park quickly takes stock of you—one he's never seen before, and, who, instead of focusing on the teaching opportunity presented to her, would rather stare adoringly at the back of Dr. Robby's head, apparently.
Seeing the older man's hand slyly brush against your thigh when he thinks no one is looking is when Brendon decides to make an example out of you.
Sleeping your way to the top? Taking the easy route? He'll get some satisfaction out of seeing you squirm when he holds you to the fire before a live audience.
"You," he barks while zeroing in.
Jerking your head in his direction, you nearly stumble into Robby. Staring with wide eyes, you think to begin backing up before making a run for it. "M-Me?" You say while pointing to your chest uncertainly.
"Did I stutter?" He spits. "Come over here and help me pop this joint back into place. Now."
You swallow thickly and the back of your neck warms.
You half hope that Robby will save you, but that wouldn't be very professional if he stepped between you and his colleague, now, would it?
Not that he's always been when it comes to favoring and babying you, but... No one else needs to know that. Except half the ED, who he's stopped hiding it from, anyway.
Stepping forward, your arm brushes against Robby's—what if you latched onto it and refused to let go until Mr. Ortho picked somebody else to torture?—and you walk on unsteady legs toward him.
Standing at full height with a puffed-out chest, he nods at the man's affected leg. "Get yourself into position."
You blink stupidly, followed by a nervous laugh. "I... What?"
"Jesus Christ," he mumbles under his breath.
Leaning down, he positions his lips next to your ear. "Put your right leg on the edge of the bed."
At least he had the forethought to lower it beforehand, you think.
"Or do you not want to learn?" He growls.
Doing as instructed, you plop your Skecher next to the man's injured leg.
Dr. Park pinches his nose while exhaling sharply.
Looking back to Robby, he gestures to you. "Is this what you're teaching down here now? Incompetence?"
You can't see it, but you just know Robby's temper is being summoned for duty.
"Give her a break, Park, she's just nervous. First time she's ever popped a joint."
Park snorts. "I bet," he mumbles doubtfully.
"Should I—"
You promptly shut your mouth when he puts his hands on you. Grabbing the back of your right thigh with one hand and your shin with the other, he repositions your leg between the patient's.
"Don't move," he commands.
You're afraid that if you do, Mr. Quinn won't be the only injured party in the room by the end of things.
Stepping to the side with crossed arms, he stares you down. "Now, grip the back of his thigh and calf in both your hands."
You bend over and do just that and proceed to grab handfuls of squishy flesh smattered with dark hair.
Park circles around behind you to see things from your exact angle. "Rotate the leg outward. You'll feel a click. When you do, shove it back into the socket.
You hesitate. "What if... What if I make it worse, or—"
Mr. Quinn lifts his head and grants you a worried look. "Maybe you should take over, doc. Don't think I like the sound of that."
He levels him with a stern gaze. "I'm right behind her. This is a teaching hospital. Without trying, those at the bottom can't move up." Park leans in close. "Unless you find a workaround, it seems."
You open your mouth to ask just what he means by that, until he startles you with a yell.
"Now turn it," he bellows.
Slowly, you swivel his leg outward and the gentleman sucks in a sharp inhalation of breath.
"Fuck, I don't think—" He begins.
When you hear a click, you hesitate.
Mr. Quinn's protestations are cut short when Park commands you like he's a drill sergeant and you're one of his subordinates. "Now, put your hand on his foot and push!"
Doing as you're told, you bear down, and like magic, things slide right into place where they belong.
Mr. Quinn looses a ragged breath and sighs with relief. "Ah, that feels better," he says contentedly.
"For now," Park replies. "You'll be sore for a few weeks, but we'll send you home with crutches and meds to help with the swelling and pain. As well as a follow-up with me put on the books."
"Long as it ain't surgery," he replies with a shrug while folding his hands together atop his stomach.
Taking a step back, you're startled by the sound of a single set of hands clapping.
You look at Whitaker, who's smiling happily for your job well done, but it quickly melts off his face when Park burns a hole right through him with a venomous glare.
What is this guy's problem?
Taking a step forward, Park sneers at you. "Go on," he says with a jerk of his head. "Back to your teacher."
He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne. And then he lowers his lips until only you can hear what leaves them when he whispers in your ear. "Pet."
You gulp, then scurry away and back to your previous position. Only this time, you hide almost entirely behind Robby's towering form. Safe, safe, safe is all you can think once you've reached him.
You'd very much like to never do that again. Popping joints you can maybe handle. The asshole teacher, not so much.
You prefer gentle instruction when available. Patient, even.
"Class dismissed," he announces, much to your relief.
Seeing how the patient was handed off to him, Park is required to do a few pages of paperwork before he can go, which he reluctantly accepts the task of completing, as if he has another choice.
He's a man who's not easily distracted—he's always precise, straight to the point, and efficient. But he'll be damned if your annoying little self hasn't stepped on his every last nerve without even trying.
Studying you as you chart at the nurse's station—oblivious to his staring daggers at you—he watches as Abbot enters through the ambulance bay doors, only to make a beeline straight to where you sit. Leaning over the counter in front of you, he reaches forward and says something Brendon can't discern before giving you a gentle tap under your chin and walking away to begin his shift.
A moment later, Robby exits Trauma 2 and rubs sanitizer over each of his hands before picking up a blue nitrile glove and shooting it between your shoulder blades. Just as quickly, he turns around and pretends to be looking over a stack of paperwork as you ignorantly swivel this way and that, searching for your attacker.
After a moment, he walks by, you look up, he smiles—giving himself away on purpose—and plants a kiss on the crown of your head before going in search of Abbot.
Makes him fucking sick to watch this goddamn rom-com. This place has gone from pulling out bullets to now being a pathetic romance novel.
He'd like to believe that when he's not down here, the two of them push you to your limits to see what you're capable of—if much of anything, soft thing that you look to be—instead of succumbing to your pretty eyes or sweet smile because they're that fucking pussy-whipped. And by a resident of all things.
Shaking his head, he returns his attentions to something more worthwhile—which isn't saying much—paperwork.
"Not the only fish circlin' that pond, Park," remarks Dana, who's come to stand beside him.
He rolls his eyes without looking up. "Not interested."
She chuckles. "I remember a couple attendings tellin' me the same thing not all that long ago. Now look at 'em—wrapped around her little finger."
"It's a problem that you can say that," he spits. "It's unprofessional. Grossly so." He looks at her. "And you know it."
She shrugs while draping her forearm atop the counter they stand at. "Brought the light to Rob's life that he needed. Can't complain about that. As for Jack... Never thought he'd smile at a woman ever again after losin' his wife. But there she sits: sunshine in human fuckin' form."
He returns to scrawling his signature across printer paper. "You're making me nauseous."
She laughs, then pats him on the back. "Don't gotta be so tough all the time. Let your hair down every once in awhile. Never know what could happen, kid."
He deigns that she's lucky she left when she did because Park was nearly at his boiling point. If she'd kept talking, he would've blown his fucking top like a barrel of dynamite blasting through a hillside.
A sheet of paper is slammed down beside of you, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Sign it," snaps Park.
With now trembling hands, you drag the document closer.
"Even highlighted it for you," he says while pointing to the designated line. "Sorry it wasn't in pink," he sneers.
"What is it?" You ask innocently while looking at him.
"A fucking marriage license. What do you think it is? It's about the procedure I had you perform today."
Turing away, your eyes begin to sting. Why is he always so mean?
You pick up a pen, click the ballpoint down, and write your dainty signature upon the line provided.
Snatching the document away, he stands at full height again.
"You ready?" Calls Robby from across the way, looking at none other than yourself.
You nod while grabbing your bag and sliding it over your shoulder. "Yes."
Park shakes his head in disapproval, but Robby hardly pays him any mind before wrapping an arm around your shoulders to lead the pair of you to the parking lot.
You're barely out the sliding doors before you feel your braid coming undone. Reaching up, you slide your fingers along the end of your strands, only to come up empty-handed. "Did you—" Pulling away, you begin turning this way and that, searching the asphalt for your missing hair band.
"You drop something?" He asks.
"My hair band," you mutter while retracing your steps.
He sighs, wanting nothing more than to get home so he can jump in the shower. "You don't have another?"
You frown, then straighten, and return to his side. "I'll get one out once we're in the truck."
When Park reaches the elevators, the indicator overhead dings and the doors slide open, welcoming him inside the steel and aluminum box. Stepping over the threshold, he presses the button for the 7th floor—appreciating the pretty little cream-colored hairband that's wrapped tightly around his wrist when he does so.
Things are busy as ever today. You began your morning by running through half a dozen patients, and every time one walked out the door, two more popped up on the board.
No wonder why Robby seems to deflate every time he looks at it anymore.
It's nearing 5 before you bother to take a second bathroom break, and just as you've exited the restroom, you bump into Mel, who seems to be in an overstimulated tizzy.
You know the feeling quite well.
"Hey," you say quietly while grabbing her by the shoulders. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"Oh, sorry," she starts while nervously pushing her glasses back into place.
Good thing they didn't shatter on the floor, you think.
"I have an ultrasound that needs to go up to the NICU. I tried sending it over email, but an office assistant said it was too dark—which I don't really see how, unless it's a problem with the monitor, which they should probably get look at by IT—so, I was going to bring a printed copy up, and maybe they'd—"
"Slow down," you say while laughing quietly. "If you're busy—and you look like you are—I could deliver it for you."
"Really?" She says excitedly while bending at the knees, then springing up. "That would just be—so great! I have so much to get to. And there's this—"
You hate to interrupt her, truly, but it's probably best that the requested image is delivered sooner rather than later. Slipping it from Mel's hands, you grant her a reassuring nod. "No problem. I love going up there. Consider it done."
You're practically glowing by the time you make it back to the elevator.
Holding and kissing babies, as well as talking neonatal medicine and pregnancy with the fine doctors upstairs always puts you in a chipper mood. Plus, there'd been chocolate chip cookies in their break room, which you'd helped yourself to a couple of before reluctantly heading back the way you came.
It's not that you don't love the Pitt—awful name for it, really, if not also terribly fitting—but little ones and expectant mothers are where your heart truly lies, you're quickly coming to learn. Everything is just so...pink and squishy up there, and smells like baby powder. Such a pleasant place.
You certainly prefer that over pools of blood and erratic drunkards running half-naked through the common area downstairs.
Bouncing happily on the balls of your feet, you wait for the elevator to reach the floor you're currently on, and just as you make to sweep inside after the doors have shoved open, you pause.
With the heels of his palms planted atop the railing behind him, Dr. Park slowly lifts his head, trailing his eyes along you all the while.
"Going down?" He questions.
You chew your lip for a moment and consider turning back around and claiming you forgot something, but you're sure Robby is already looking for you. He won't be pleased if you're gone any longer than is necessary.
Which you've already been...
With a sigh, you come inside. "Yes," you chirp before pressing the A button.
"Not surprised," he retorts.
Your brows furrow in question, but you ultimately choose not to say anything.
He sure does seem to love his private jokes.
When the doors close, you remain at attention, watching as the floors pass by.
6
5
4
3
Park steps forward and flips the emergency stop switch, bringing the machine to a sudden halt.
Swinging around, you mean to ask him if something is wrong, until he shoves you back against a wall.
Your heart now hammering away between your breasts—terrified that you're about to be assaulted—you open your mouth to scream, until he speaks.
"What the fuck is it about you, huh?"
Your eyes flit between his. "W-What?"
"First, you get Robby and Abbot wrapped around your goddamn finger, and now I can't get you out of my fucking head. You wanna try explaining that to me? I meet you once—one fucking time—and now it's all I can do to not think about bending you over the desk in my office. I'm doing paperwork, in surgery—hell, driving myself home—and am I concentrating on what I should be?" He slips the tip of his tongue between pursed lips before shaking his head with raised brows for emphasis. "No," he says while slamming his hand against the metal wall beside your head, causing you to squeak in fear. "All I can focus on is the thought of you."
Half of you thinks to begin blubbering like a baby—wailing for him to let you go so you can return to the ED—while the other half is fighting against a hysterical laugh climbing its way up your throat. Nervous response in the face of absolute fear, apparently.
Before you can do either—before you can so much as get the wiring in your brain to work properly so you can actually formulate a plan, or even string together a coherent sentence like pearls on a string—he leans in impossibly close while gripping your jawline firmly in his hand.
"Just one taste," he rasps. "Just one, and I can finally get you out of my system."
He doesn't ask. Instead, he merely takes when he crushes his lips painfully to yours.
Ravenously does he devour you. Forcing your lips apart with his own, his tongue plunges inside and deftly explores the cavernous space within. He runs its tip along your teeth, the fleshy walls of your cheeks, and even the solid roof of your mouth before flicking it against your own, tempting it to stir to life.
You make to slip away from him, but his other hand flies to your hip and slams it back against the wall to hold you firmly in place. "I told you before: don't fucking move," he rumbles, repeating his command from the day you treated... What was the man's name again? Quigey? Quill?
Feeling suddenly dizzy, you can no longer remember.
Working his way lower, he nips at your neck with his canines while submerging his fingers in your hair and tugging painfully against the strands.
You whimper, and it only spurs him on all the more.
Sucking at your pulse point, he wedges a knee between your thighs and plants a hand against your belly. And then he slides it lower. And lower. And—
Shoving him away, he stumbles back. Looking down at your pants, you're horrified to see that he untied the neat little bow you had done in the front.
He advances on you again, until you yell for him to stop.
And to his credit—as well as your surprise—he obeys.
With violently trembling hands, you attempt at tying a knot, only to fail miserably at the task.
"What...What were you trying to—" You begin, but fall short when an amused look crosses his sharp features.
He chuckles darkly. "Most of us learned about sex ed well before medical school, sweetheart. Unless you're still waiting on lessons from Robby and Abbot for that, too?"
You glare at him. "I'm not the kind of girl who—"
"What?" He spits, interrupting. "Gets felt up in an elevator?"
He steps forward. "No, you just prefer to climb the corporate ladder by climbing on top of something else at night, I imagine. Just to indulge my curiosity: have you given it up for both your attendings yet, or are you holding out on them like your pussy is some prize to be won, so long as they give you what you want in terms of a career?"
Slap.
You reel back in horror and tense up in preparation for the gesture to be returned tenfold when he knocks you on your ass.
Instead, however, Park merely fumes while staring you down with fists clenched tightly at his sides.
You startle when he stomps forward and sends the elevator slightly reverberating from the movement. Grabbing either of your arms, he pins them above your head while lowering his lips dangerously close to your ear. Close enough that the tip of his nose swipes against your cheek. "Do not ever do that again," he growls.
You swallow thickly when you feel his erection pressing against your belly, but keep your mouth shut about it, lest he take things further. One way or another...
Finally, you nod fervently, and he releases you. Planting your hands on your knees, you double over and struggle to catch your breath. Your face is burning hot, as is another part of you, but you choose to ignore it as best you can.
After adjusting himself, he steps forward and flips the switch back into place. With a jolt, the elevator is off again.
Standing straight once more—by God do your legs feel like jelly beneath you—you swiftly tie two loops together to remake a bow at the front of your pants before throwing your head forward and gathering your hair into a ponytail. Messy will do just fine.
Just as the doors spread apart, you race to get as far from him as possible.
Difficult feat, since he's clearly sticking around on your floor for a bit.
You can't get past the feeling of mortification which has covered you like a veil.
Not when a shark swims but a handful of feet from where you sit, talking to Robby about God knows what.
You did nothing wrong. He came onto you. You couldn't have fought back if you wanted to! Did you want to? Yes, of course!
He's insufferable and egotistical and pretentious and mean. He's just so mean!
The steady pulse which is still going strong between your thighs clearly has different ideas about him, though. Stupid, useless thing.
Studying Robby from beneath your lashes—because you refuse to look at the other one—you trail your eyes along his handsome, weathered face and soft belly. Yes, most assuredly more your type. Stern and strict when he needs to be, and sweet on you when you deserve it.
You do so adore him.
When Park folds his arms, however, you bolt out of your chair when you catch sight of what he has.
Coming to stand beside the two of them, you stare up at him until he ackowledges you.
He hardly glances in your direction before returning to conversing with Robby, though.
"Ahem," you say—feigning clearing your throat.
They both grow silent.
Looking at you with a raised brow, Park doesn't say a word.
"You have something of mine," you state with an outstretched palm.
Looking at you like you're a bothersome fly who won't leave him be, he shrugs ignorantly. "Mind telling me what that might be?"
Your eyes drop to his wrist before flitting upward again. "My hair tie. You stole it the day we met a couple weeks ago, didn't you?"
He snorts incredulously while unwinding his beefy arms. "Are you accusing me of theft?"
Robby holds up his palms before half placing himself in front of you. "Alright, just calm down." He looks at Park's wrist, then turns back to you. "Sweetheart, what would Dr. Park want with one of your hair ties?"
You shrug, then gesture to him. "I have no idea, why don't you ask him?"
Robby runs a palm down his face in exasperation before turning fully toward you. "We are not making a scene out of something so miniscule," he states lowly.
You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off. "Honey, look at me."
You do, but while scowling.
"Let it go." He nods toward the computer station. "And finish up with your charting. We're going to be grabbing a new patient in a few once I'm done here."
You grit your teeth. Child that this bastard has turned you into, you have half a mind to throw a damn tantrum—stomping feet, screaming; the whole works.
Instead, you act the adult and get back to work.
But you've won either way, because now he's on Robby's radar.
"You wanna tell me what that was with Park earlier today?" Robby says between bites of his sub.
The two of you are currently parked in an empty lot, downing your dinner to-go, you're both that hungry after your grueling shifts. When you began whining that your stomach was hurting, Robby promptly swung into a drive-thru to order for you whatever you liked. Now, you feel quite content as you snack on toasted bread and grilled meats.
Stealing one of his fries from the cupholder between you, you munch on it momentarily before speaking. If you tell him about the elevator incident, his head may very well pop like a cherry tomato. Not that you enjoy lying to him by any means, but...it's also not like the two of you are together. You flirt while at work, and he's been driving you back and forth while your car is in the shop.
That's it.
"I told you: he stole my hair tie and I wanted it back. Yes, it seems small and stupid, but it's something I did technically purchase, which doesn't rightfully belong to him. Maybe if he was actually using it for his own hair I wouldn't have cared." You look at him. "But he isn't."
He leans his head back against the seat and takes another bite. "Why would he bother taking it in the first place? That's what I'm asking."
Truth be told, you have as much explanation as he. You don't get it either. So, he hates just the thought of you, but has presumedly been wearing something which belongs to you every day for the last couple of weeks?
Make it make sense.
You take a sip of your drink and shake your head. "Maybe he uses it as a fidget toy."
Things are soon back to smooth sailing for you. You stay attached to Robby's side during the day like usual, and bask in Jack's attention at night before you're due to go home.
There's no hide or hair of Park because he's clearly gone back to his ivory tower to stay.
Fine with you if you never set eyes on him again. But every time you pass the elevators, you can't help the stirring you feel within your loins at the sight of them.
When you try relieving the pent-up sexual frustration one night, you're just in the middle of things—hand firmly settled between your slick thighs while lying nakedly atop your bed—but despite every effort to think of anyone else, such as Robby, Jack, hell even Langdon at one point, your mind keeps drifting off to him instead.
Eventually, you gave up and went to sleep, despite being so close.
You refused to give him the satisfaction, even if he'd never know it.
"Hey, Shark Bait," Santos calls from a handful of feet away.
Your head shoots up and you glare. "What?" You spit.
Sarcastically widening her eyes, she throws her hands up and turns back around. "Geeze, I'll ask somebody else, then. Try getting laid at some point—might be good for you."
Now being the evening, Jack mouths to Robby across the room Shark Bait?, to which he's granted a shaking head in return.
So help you God if she makes that your new nickname, you'll—
"What seems to be the problem?" Jack inquires while straddling the seat next to you.
Boredly typing the same thing repeatedly into the computer because you're exhausted, you shrug. Your forearm rests atop the desk you sit at while your chin is positioned atop it. If your head gets any lower, Robby may very well have to carry you out of here.
Now there's an idea.
"Tired," you mumble.
He settles a palm atop your thigh, which awakens you even slightly.
"Robby says you've been in a mood all day."
"Been tired all day," you pout.
He squeezes your thigh and you whimper, wishing he'd do a great deal more than that.
"That whole Shark Bait comment have anything to do with Park?"
Groaning in irritation, you finally lay your forehead atop your arm. "He's an asshole."
He lets out a low whistle. "Never heard a foul word come from those pretty lips before. He must've really done a number on you."
"He stole my hair tie," you complain.
Jack snorts. "Please tell me that is not what this is all about."
No, you want to say. It's not. What it's about is that he has given me the female equivalent of blue balls. Something which you and Robby could easily take care of if I wasn't such a coward and finally bothered asking for as much.
"No."
Sliding his hand off your thigh, he rests it atop the back of the chair he occupies. "Honey, I can't read your mind."
Gently banging your head off your arm, you remain silent for a moment. "I'm just frustrated."
He raises a brow in interest. "This uh...frustration. Does what Santos said have something to do with it?"
You don't reply.
Wheeling closer, he speaks lowly to you. "Sweetheart, if you need a vibrator, I'd be all too happy to get you one."
Your head sprouts up so quickly that it makes you dizzy.
"Yeah, thought that'd get your attention," he says with satisfaction.
You narrow your eyes at him, which he finds to be all too adorable a look for you. Like a pissed off kitten.
Before you can think up a smart aleck reply, Robby comes over and slides a hand up your back before gently massaging your neck.
He keeps that up, and you'll curl up in his lap in one of the hospital beds before finally drifting off to sleep.
"C'mon, let me take you home."
You make to stand, but stumble slightly before falling into his side.
Jack picks up your bag and hands it to Robby, who slides onto his shoulder before holding you close and leading you outside.
When your car was first carted away on the back of a tow truck, your sense of stability went with it. How would you get around? Run errands? Get to and from work?
Your episode of spiraling was short-lived, however, when Robby caught sight of you exiting an Uber the following morning before starting your shift. He'd promptly questioned where your personal vehicle was, and when you awkwardly mumbled as to its current state and subsequent whereabouts, he told you he'd be your designate chauffer until it was made road-worthy again.
You'd thought to protest, simply because you didn't desire for him to go out of his way, waste extra gas, and be a burden on top of it all, but ultimately decided that you were selfish enough to accept his offer if it meant spending more time with him. Especially one-on-one.
So, imagine the great sense of disappointment which settles over you when you receive a call that your vehicle is ready to be retrieved and taken home.
Telling Robby is a rather interesting exchange.
"I could just rip the alternator out," he'd said with an earnest expression.
You'd giggled, assuming he was joking.
"I'm serious," he'd continued while sliding a hand down your arm. "I'm going to miss my passenger."
After assuring you at length that if you ever needed anything—not limited strictly to a ride—you could call him any time and he'd come running.
You were grateful to know that he cared that much.
"I mean it," Robby had reiterated in the parking lot before leaving work. Cupping your cheek in his hand, he stood oppressively close as his warm, chocolate-brown eyes gazed into yours. "Anything."
Maybe he'd hoped for more time—a proper opportunity to ignite something more between the two of you. You had wanted him to, but if it was all mere flirtation, sided with a bit of adoring affection... You didn't want to make yourself seem like some lovestruck, dewy-eyed schoolgirl obsessed with being the teacher's pet.
So you had simply nodded while pawing gently at his soft middle.
When he leaned down, your eyes nearly fluttered closed in anticipation of a kiss. Your heart had quivered at the exciting prospect. And he did grant you one, but only on the forehead before stepping away to head home.
If one more man saw fit to tease the bundle of nerves between your legs—whether intended or not—you might very well end up attacking one of them in an on-call room to finally satiate your sexual needs.
Just as you've popped open the door to your car, you glance to the left and see—the phrase 'speak (or in your case, think) of the devil and he shall appear' comes to mind—the very man who's kept you so riled up in the first place.
With a huff, you sink into the car and shut the door behind you. Ignoring the way your hands tremble just from the sight of Park, you click your seatbelt into place, turn the ignition over and... It makes an awful whirring sound, like it's struggling for life.
No.
Oh no.
You just got it back! Coupled with a bill you can't even bear to look at a second time...
Then again, when Jack saw you staring down at it with elbows propped up and fingers pressed into your temples as the cogs in your mind slowly rolled as you thought of the things you could sell and the ways in which you could start cutting back to cover the due costs, he'd snatched it away before settling his glasses upon the bridge of his nose and whistling quietly. "You know if you'd brought it to me or Robby instead, you wouldn't have had to pay a dime, right?"
He'd lowered his chin while looking at you from over the rim of his glasses.
"You're both already so busy. That—that wasn't an option. Even if I did, I still would've had to pay for parts."
Walking over to the printer, he laid it face down before pressing the big blue button which in turn spat out another copy of it.
"I'll take care of it," he'd said while handing you the original for record-keeping.
You'd blinked before flying into a torrent of insistence that he not.
Jack had then leaned over while gripping the back of your chair. "And no, you wouldn't have paid for parts, either. Between the two of us, we make more than enough to ensure you're taken care of."
You'd chuckled nervously while leaning back. "Think of all the trouble I saved you, though."
Gripping your chin, he grew utterly serious. "Next time, it's our hands under the hood. Got it?"
You'd nodded in agreement, then watched as he tucked the bill away into his back pocket. "I find out you've paid a cent on it," he began while straightening. "And you and I will be having a talk."
You watched silently as he walked away, appreciating his unsteady gait all the while.
Throwing yourself back against the driver's seat with a groan, you squeeze your eyes shut while thinking he may just get his wish. And very soon.
After sliding your keys out of the ignition, a rapping of knuckles against the window beside you causes you to shriek. Peering out, you frown at the sight of Park waiting for you with folded arms.
Tossing your keys into the cupholder, you sigh before exiting. "Yes?" You ask while keeping the door open, lest you need to suddenly lock yourself within the safety of your vehicle's confines.
"What, Robby finally get tired of carting your ass around?"
You glower at him from beneath your lashes. "No. I just got my car back from the shop."
A smirk flits briefly across his lips. "Not a very good one, apparently." Coming around to the front, he looks at you. "Problem with women and thinking they know anything about anything with a motor."
You sneer, and he leans down and tucks his fingers under the car's grill. "Pop the hood."
You hesitate. "And how do I know you're not going to just make it worse?"
He snorts. "It is a tempting thought: the idea of you being stranded here and taking a morning shower in the sink in the women's restroom."
You shrug casually. "I'll just call Robby to come and get me. Maybe ask him to take me home with him." You grin. "Both the ER cowboys have a hard time telling me no."
He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Course they call themselves that." Instead of telling you a second time, he chooses instead to stare you down.
With a huff, you finally oblige him. As long as it rids you of his annoying presence, you'll be happy.
"C'mere and shine a flashlight on it. Can't see shit with only the streetlight overhead."
Slipping your phone from your pocket, you come to stand next to him while illuminating the engine bay with your device.
Reaching forward, he fiddles with what on one end looks like a very odd screw before pulling it out. Marching over his vehicle—of course it's a muscle car—he messes around in the trunk for a moment before bringing over a roll of shop rags. "Spark plugs are fuckin' filthy," he remarks before wiping it down.
Returning it to where it goes, he starts on the next one while looking at you. "Don't go back to that shop. This should've been a basic diagnostic step."
"Well, it ran fine this morning. So I'm sure they fixed the main problem," you say with a shrug.
"While leaving another one go," he spits. He shakes his head while turning away. "Sheer laziness."
You roll your eyes. Seems a simple enough fix, so you're not all that perturbed by it.
As he works, Park makes small talk with you. "Where were you coming from that day?"
You can feel your cheeks warm. He just couldn't resist the temptation of reliving it, could he?
"6th floor." You smile. "I love it there."
He huffs. "Figures. So you like kids, then?"
You nod vigorously. "I do."
"Got any of your own?" he asks while half glancing to you.
"Not yet," you reply. "But I will someday. When the right man comes along."
Finishing up, he stands back and wipes his hands with a clean towel. "Figures," he states while surveying you. "You seem the mothering type."
You narrow your eyes while crossing your arms. "I fail to see how that's a bad thing."
His eyes flit to the driver's side of the car. "Turn it over."
You shake your head, but ultimately do as you're told.
You may have a bit of a mouth on you, but he nevertheless appreciates just how obedient you are.
To your relief, the engine roars to life. Leaning back, you breathe a sigh of relief.
No restroom showers for you.
With a thunk, Park shuts the hood of your car and you switch it back off again momentarily so that you can reluctantly thank him for his assistance.
Returning to his own sedan, he tosses the shop rags back into the trunk before fetching a bottle of sanitizer and lathering his hands until they're clean and smelling of alcohol.
"Thank you," you murmur, watching him walk back over to you. "And for your peace of mind: yes, I will go somewhere else in the future for so much as an oil change."
He hums in acknowledgment to what you've said. Intent on crowding, he doesn't plant his feet until you're backed against the side of your car. "Wha—What're y—"
With a neutral expression painted upon his finely carved face, he grips either of your hips in his hands before shoving them against the glass behind them. "I might've only said one taste," he drawls. "But I didn't say of what."
Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along your neck. "Since I'm sure there's so many other places for me to go."
Cupping you over your pants, he prods against your heat with his index and middle finger, causing you to jolt in response.
"How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?" He rumbles.
You fight to keep your eyes open when all they seem to want to do is roll back in your head as he presses the heel of his palm to your clit.
"N—None."
He scoffs. "Good girls know better than to lie to their betters."
You squirm beneath his hand. "I—"
Yanking against the bow at the front of your pants shuts you up entirely. "You want it?" He groans. "Because if you don't," he continues while slowly sinking his hand beneath the hem of your panties. "Then you're going to have to use your words and tell me as much."
Silence suddenly seems like such a preferable option to you.
Traveling lower, when his hand finally cups your bare, weeping cunt with no layers between the two of you to hinder the experience, your eyes fluttered closed while a gasp of satisfaction escapes your lips.
"God, you're fucking soaked," he growls.
Prodding against your clit with the pad of his thumb, you whine.
"Please."
He swiftly runs a single finger between your sopping folds before circling that perfect bundle of nerves with your own lubrication. "Needy little thing," he mocks before sliding the tip of his tongue up the length of your neck. "Bet it doesn't take much for you," he whispers right against your ear—his warm breath puffing against the shell of it. "Does it?" he asks before easing a single digit inside of you.
"O—Oh God," you gasp.
"Just as desperate as I thought you'd be," he commentates before slipping another between your fluttering walls.
Curling the digits upwards, you practically jump onto your tiptoes.
With two fingers massaging the fleshy ledge inside of you while his thumb continues working at your swollen clit, it's all you can do not to beg him. For what, you're not sure.
To keep going? He already seems intent on that. To never stop? Tempting enough prospect. To bend you over the hood of either of your vehicles so he can have his way with you? God, what you wouldn't give just to finish around the throbbing length of his cock.
He pauses his ministrations and you begin to quietly cry in panicked frustration. "Please, please don't," you plead through teary eyes.
Having you right where he wants you at long last, he savors the moment. Brushing tears from your heated cheeks, he clicks his tongue mockingly. "Don't what?" he glances down to where half his hand is submerged in your body cavity. "Keep going?"
"No!" You cry. "Don't stop!"
He chuckles. "So pathetic," he mutters before kissing away your tears. "You'd give anything just to come on my hand in a parking lot of all places, wouldn't you?"
You've lost control of your senses. As much is confirmed when you nod so hard that something twinges in your neck.
When movement begins again, you nearly start bawling from a sense of gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," pours from your lips.
He grunts as his fingers keep beckoning forth your orgasm.
As you near your apex, you reach up and sink your nails into either of his shoulders and hold on for dear life as an overwhelming crash of white light soon explodes behind your eyelids. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you squeeze tightly around his slick fingers, trying to suck them inside.
Whatever it is which you say as you come undone is garbled and utterly nonsensical. But you somehow know that he understands whatever it is which you meant by it.
Removing his hand from between your legs is when you finally open your eyes. The world seems a bit hazy—blurry, even—and your body drained of all energy.
You watch with fascination as he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks. "Just as good as I thought," he breathes.
You try retying the front of your pants, but with your coordination now shot, you quickly give up.
Gently grabbing you by the neck, he pulls you in toward him and gives you an open-mouthed kiss, just the same as the one in the elevator.
"See you around," he says with a smirk before stalking off.
You're out of sorts for the next few days—crying at the drop of a hat, latching onto Robby for attention (proceeded by feeling guilty about it), berating yourself for every little mistake you make, and following Jack around like a lost puppy when he comes in early a couple days in a row for his shift...
Suffice to say that you're not yourself.
Not after what happened between you and Park.
Just like he did between your legs, he's also now burrowed into your head somehow. Like a parasite. Or a nasty insect you'd love to squash with the heel of your tennis shoe.
You don't understand what's the matter with you. Why all you want is to be held; pampered; cherished with reassuring words.
It had something to do with things afterward, you think.
One moment, you were on Cloud Nine while he fingered you to completion, and the next, you were bawling in your kitchen because your spoon fell out of your cereal bowl and onto the floor the following morning.
You decide you hate him. And that you made a mistake. Who does that in public? Anyone could've seen! Talk about a lack of self-respect...
You avoid traveling in the elevators at all costs now, instead opting for the stairs every time something needs ran here or there. Makes for good cardio. That's what you tell yourself when you're out of breath three floors up one day. You deem the sacrifice of getting a little sweaty worth it, though, if it removes almost any and all chances of you running into him.
Your dreams of never setting eyes on his stupid face ever again, which you'd like to punch like one of those inflatable clowns, doesn't last long when you run into him—literally—after exiting the women's restroom one day. Bounding off his chest, you seethe while glaring up at him.
Noticing how your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy—not that he should be surprised, crybaby that you seem to be—he folds his arms behind him. "Don't tell me the princess of the ER didn't get her afternoon nap today."
You are so past obnoxious banter with him. You go to step around him, until he gently grabs you by your wrist. "Hey—"
Shoving his chest, he staggers back, then jeers. "Who the hell do you think you a—"
"You left me!" You cry.
His brows furrow while his eyes flit between yours for understanding. "What?"
Your chin wobbles and you sniffle. "You got what you wanted and then you just left me there! I felt so used and—and disgusting. We didn't talk about it, or, or—"
He snickers. "You really are a brat when you're not the constant center of attention, aren't you?"
Roaring in anger, you draw an open palm back, which he swiftly catches and pins against a wall. "What did I tell you about that?"
You pout. "I wouldn't have. Not really."
You're not so sure of that.
And then your eyes well with tears. "Why are you so mean to me?!" You wail.
"Jesus Christ," he curses lowly. "Get your fucking act together."
You only begin to cry harder.
Realization finally dawns on him then of what's come over you. And his stomach sinks.
Moron, he mentally chastises.
Drawing you into his chest, you attempt to battle against him with ineffectual fists before soon succumbing to the warmth you've been needing.
"You really are a sub, aren't you?"
You sinks your nails into his pectoral. "Why did you just call me a sandwich?" You cry.
He rolls his eyes. It's a fucking miracle you ever made it through medical school.
He sighs while settling his cheek atop your head and keeping both arms wrapped firmly around you. So help him God if so much as a janitor rounds the corner and finds him in such a compromising, and not to mention pitiful, position...
"It's called a drop. We were intimate, and instead of me sticking around like I apparently should've and giving you the attention you're clearly reeling from the loss of, this is the result: you being an emotional mess, which is becoming everybody else's problem to deal with."
"You're a mess," you mumble against his chest while snuggling against it.
"When it comes to you, apparently," he grumbles discontentedly.
You hum in satisfaction from the affection he's finally giving you. Not that you need it, of course. You still hate him and never want to see him again, but... It's rather nice to be embraced.
"I can't believe I'm saying this," he starts while running a large palm up your back.
You nuzzle against his neck. "Mm, what?"
"You are the very opposite of what I usually go after," he mumbles.
You interrupt before he can continue. "Well that's not very nice."
"Never said I had any intention of being that," Park snipes. He kisses the crown of your head. "Come to dinner with me."
You shrug in an attempt to play hard to get. "Maybe I already have plans."
He grits his teeth. He's liable to tighten his arms until he snaps you in two so you'll never be his problem again if you keep testing his patience. "I won't ask twice. Turn me down, and we're done. For good."
You frown at the ultimatum. Being given direction is nice so you're not left figuring things out on your own all the time—it's why you're so fond of Robby—but taking orders? Boy, does it make your blood boil.
"Fine," you spit while clutching at his shirt.
"Fine."
Things have changed. At times, you think for the better, while others, the worst. Robby and Jack have both backed off since the entirety of the ED caught wind that Park has suddenly claimed you as his.
They're both still friendly—kind and helpful, even—but no longer sweet on you like they once were. You understand why, even if you miss that aspect of your relationship with each of them.
Jack seems fond of Mohan now, and because she's so very kind, you hope something works out between them, even if you're sort of jealous... On both ends.
You might've daydreamed about kissing her once or twice...
Robby on the other hand seems a tad withdrawn. You think he's hurt, but don't know what to say or do to make it right. Loss of the affection there once was between you has been hard to take on both your ends. You're unaware of it, but he can't stop replaying the day of the joint reset. If he'd only left you with Mel tending to an abscess, this never would've happened.
He blames himself for his loss of you.
Robby had been concerned initially—whether it was genuine, or because he was desperate to find a reason why you shouldn't be with Shark, is up for debate—but because of how stoic Park is at all times, as well as the temper he's known to have, the worry was there that he would mistreat you. Not handle you like fine China as he and Jack both have.
Not that the orthopedic surgeon's disposition ever changes, but he's different with you. Softer, gentler, and more attentive. And you beam from the love he showers you with.
So Robby relinquishes what was clearly never his while throwing himself into work on his new bike, and planning an eventual trip that's been weighing on him.
Stepping over an unfamiliar threshold, Brendon's living space somehow is both exactly as you imagined it and not. You'd envisioned something industrial looking—all high ceilings and black and grey and white coloring, made to look sterile like an OR.
Instead, there's ambient lighting, a soft couch (not made of leather, also to your shock), a collection of DVDs, which unsurprisingly includes Jaws, a kitchen with a tea kettle on the stove, and an assortment of healthy green plants littered around the space.
"Not what you had in mind?" he asks while tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
A man with a decorative grab and go bowl? Now you are most certainly taken aback.
"No," you quip.
"What did you expect, then?" he asks while stalking toward you. "Dungeons and coffins and moats?"
You blink. "Did—Did you just quote Twilight?"
He grins before cupping your face between his hands and kissing you. "I'll give you a tour," he whispers against your lips.
He's very organized, which is to be expected, given how meticulous and detail-oriented he is. But the one thing—above any other—which you couldn't stop staring at, was a ratty old teddy bear sitting high on a shelf in his bedroom.
"My mom made it for me when I was a kid," he'd said while retrieving a t-shirt and checkered pajama pants from his dresser. "Found it in her house after she passed. I couldn't bear to part with it."
He'd shook his head without mirth. "No, I didn't intend for that to be a pun."
Padding over to him, you'd wound your arms around his waist while gazing up at the adorable children's toy. Would he like for you to sew an eye back onto it? No. That would've been for her and her alone to do. He's perfect just as he is, you deem.
"I think it's sweet. There's nothing wrong with holding onto mementos. Postcards, clothes, books, photos, toys." You shrugged. "They're important."
He cleared his throat while sinking a slightly trembling hand into your hair. "My only regret is her not getting to meet you," he said thickly.
Reaching up, you brushed a tear from his cheek. "I still can one day. If you'd like to take me to where she's buried, we'll get her her favorite flowers. Then have lunch with her and talk."
He buried his face in your shoulder then, and began to sob.
After preparing the both of you plates of fancy seafood pasta, coupled with glasses of red wine, Brendon rests his head in your lap as you each watch a movie from his couch together. Goodfellas is an excellent film, in your opinion, but all it really serves to do is make you hungry for more pasta.
Once the credits are rolling, he switches off the flatscreen before leading you into the bedroom and shutting the door behind the two of you.
You quietly pant as Brendon kisses your right inner thigh before switching to the other side and sucking against the supple skin found there.
He's been at it for the better part of an hour—letting his hands roam your naked body and his tongue your salivating mouth before sinking his head between your legs. Only, he refuses to show any amount of attention to your throbbing clit.
He's got you so wet that it's dripping on to his smooth, navy-blue sheets which smell of something dark and spicy, but every time you lift your hips and quietly whimper "please", he chuckles and blows against your sensitive bundle before mumbling "not yet" and licking at your pubic mound.
Clenching the tangled sheets beneath you, Brendon plants wet kisses from the bend of your knee all the way to the crook of your thigh. Spreading your slick labia apart with his index and middle finger, he gently blows against your swollen clit with a concentrated stream of air, which causes your back to arch and hips to buck in response.
"Always so needy," he rumbles from the foot of the bed.
You press the heels of your palms against damp lashes.
Swiping a finger through your folds just to tease you, you release a quiet sob. "Please. Please just put something inside of me."
He shakes his head, though you can barely make him out in the dark. "You're not calling the shots here, are you?"
You pout. "No."
"Didn't think so."
He lifts your left leg over his shoulder before peppering kisses down the length of it.
You curl your toes as he gets closer to your cunt, then deflate when he drops your limb back onto the mattress.
Planting two fingers between your folds, his eyes flit to you. "This what you want? Hm?"
You nod excitedly. "Yes! Yes, please."
He hums thoughtfully. "Well, if you insist," he says mockingly.
You just know he's about to piss you off even more with whatever he's about to do.
Sinking his middle finger inside of you, Brendon appreciates how your pulsating walls squeeze repeatedly around it—but he knows it's something else which they're frantic for.
You wiggle your hips. "Can you finger me?"
He doesn't move the digit—just leaves it lodged inside of you. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I would." He glances up to you. "But I don't," he spits.
Tangling your fingers in your hair, you throw your head back and begin to sob. "I can't take much more."
He sinks a second digit inside. "You'll take whatever I tell you to until I've had my fill."
Feeling your walls clench, your own body gives away just how much you enjoy the filthy things he says to you.
Completely hopeless that you'll get to orgasm tonight, you break into a full on weeping fit.
He sighs in relief at the sound. "There she is. That's my good girl," he drawls heatedly.
With painstaking slowness, he begins to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. "God you're making such a mess," he murmurs. "Getting it all over the sheets."
"Sorry," you whimper.
And then he smacks your pussy. "Quiet."
You bite your lower lip to obey.
This isn't the first time you two have been intimate, but it is the first time it's been in his house—his bed, specifically. As such, he feels wholly in control here. A safe word was decided long ago, however: hammerhead. Completely ridiculous, but better than nothing at all.
As he eases his fingers in and out of your wet heat, the sounds it makes fill the silence which surrounds you. It's humiliating, really.
You spread your legs impossibly wider.
Pulling his fingers out, you start crying again. "Oh, God—"
"What did I just say?" he barks.
You shut your mouth again.
You hear the shifting of clothes—thank God, he's finally undressing and ready to give you what you've been after the whole time—and then the bed dips on either side of you. Resting back on his haunches and straddling your thighs, Brendon works at his cock with a closed fist, breathing heavily as he circles the tip with his thumb.
"This what you wanted?" he questions.
"Yes, please," you sigh.
Manuevering himself to the side, he grips both of your knees and plants your feet before spreading your legs apart. "You don't move unless you're told to."
"Yes, sir," you whisper.
Climbing atop you, he swipes the head of his weeping cock against your slick entrance, which he's made more than ready to take him.
"Wait," you say while half sitting up. Leaning back on your elbows, you study him. "You didn't put on a condom."
"I don't do condoms," he replies matter-of-factly.
Your eyes widen in horror. "Wha—How many women have you had unprotected sex with, then? We...we used them at my place."
"None."
Your brows furrow.
You're so very perplexed.
Squeezing one of your breasts with his free hand, he explains. "I told myself that if I ever brought a woman home, I wouldn't allow anything to stand between us. Including a cheap fucking piece of rubber."
You lay back again. "How many have you brought here?" you inquire quietly.
Easing between your walls without warning, he groans. "This would be a first."
Knocking your legs apart with his knee, he circles his hips before bottoming out against your cunt.
Prodding gently against your belly, you can feel the tip of his cock.
Oh, dear God, this is heavenly...
"But, what..." You swallow thickly. "Um..."
You can't formulate a thought with him now rocking his hips rhythmically against your own.
"Will you pull out?" you ask.
"No."
Your eyes flutter closed. "Birth control doesn't always—"
He licks your lips. "Guess there's a conversation we'll need to have in the morning, then."
You slide your fingers into his hair. "Oh, yeah?"
His cock twitches at the breathless way you say that. "You wanna be a mother, don't you?"
You cup his cheek. "Someday."
"Might as well start trying now," he grunts before gripping your hips to begin pounding away.
˚ ༘✶ ⋆｡˚ ⁀➷hello everyone, this is the wallpaper of my laptop for this month, u can use it too. am pretty sure august is going to be a good month for everyone.
if i wrote a Ben Solo x OC work, would anyone read it?
I’m writing this story set during in an alternate universe purely for my own enjoyment but I want to see if anyone would be interested in reading it. Its a period piece but with a “modern take”? I am bad at describing. I will work on that haha. The inspiration is taken from the show “Reign” on the CW. Think lots of pretty dresses, arranged marriage, angst, and slow (but not really) burn.
Please feel free to like, reblog, or comment if you are interested! I am thinking about unloading it on here, AO3, and wattpad.
areudirty
janainaart
annaxmalina
stormborns
izzy806
romaincrisis
