Synopsis: You should be freaked out by Pope Cody watching you change. Instead, you find yourself drawn to the attention of your friend’s recently released brother from prison.
I’ve become so obsessed with pope it’s genuinely becoming a problem. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything smut-ish, so this is a little rusty. Sorry for any mistakes; I’m dyslexic. Hope you enjoy
Warnings: NSFW, voyeurism, strip teasing, nudity, sexual tension, pope creeping. No Y/N, Body descriptions are kept ambiguous with no gender-specific anatomy mentioned.
You’d gone to Deran’s room to change after swimming, knowing he wouldn’t mind. He was your friend, and it wasn’t unusual for you to be around the house.
You escaped there after swimming, leaving Deran outside with the others while you went to change. You were distracted, which was probably why you didn’t notice the door hadn’t closed properly behind you.
You were halfway through getting changed when that familiar feeling hit.
Pope’s presence.
Ever since he’d come back from prison, you’d started noticing him more. He had a way of appearing without warning, standing in doorways, sitting quietly across the room, always seeming to know where you were.
You’d caught him watching you before, but he never said anything.
He never explained why.
It wasn’t exactly fear, just the awareness that Pope was close.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Slowly, your eyes moved toward the mirror beside you.
And there he was.
Pope.
Standing just outside the doorway.
The small gap in the door had given him away.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Pope looked different when he realised you’d seen him. Not angry. Not defensive. Just caught. Like he’d been pulled out of his own thoughts and suddenly remembered there were rules he was supposed to follow.
You stared at his reflection, and he stared back.
The strangest part was that he didn’t look like someone trying to intimidate you.
He looked like someone who didn’t understand why he was there in the first place, like he’d been drawn to something familiar without knowing why.
Slowly you turned around to face him. You should be freaked out and angry, but instead you felt more thrilled.
You dropped the wet towel around you, revealing your swimwear clinging to your body.
Slowly, you ran your fingers up your body; Pope’s eyes widened at the scene unfolding in front of him.
Reaching the straps of your swimwear, pulling them down to reveal your chest, nipples hardening from the cool night air, goosebumps forming from the water dripping down your skin.
Pope's Adam's apple bobbing as he took a shuddering breath in, his eyes darkening but also pleading for more.
And who were you to deny him, pulling your swimwear down your torso all the way till it was bundled around your ankles.
You bent down, your head up, eyes not leaving Pope's gaze. Stepping out of your swimwear, slowly rising till you were up straight.
Pope rumbled a growl deep in his chest at your body fully bare for him, his hands clenched tightly at his side.
You stood in front of him, eyes locked toward each other, not saying a word, just in an intimate silence.
You kicked your wet swimwear toward him, pope looked down at it then back at you. He slowly crouched down, picking it up.
He stood back up straight, clutching your wet swimwear to his chest.
Pope stood there for a long moment, still holding onto the only proof that the moment had happened.
Neither of you said a word.
Finally, Pope looked away first. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew he had to.
His hand tightened slightly before he stepped back toward the hallway.
Closing the door softly behind him, somehow that was worse than if he’d said anything at all.
Because now you knew something you hadn’t before.
Pope Cody wasn’t just watching.
He was trying to understand why he couldn’t look away
Tags/warnings: f!reader, age gap (reader is 24, Brendon is mid-late 30s), inappropriate boss/employee relationship, high key perv!brendon, daddy kink, masturbation (m and f), fingering, hand job, angst, car crash, injury, comfort, fight/confessing feelings, dry humping, lil somno, oral (f receiving), protected piv sex
Summary: Your dynamic with Brendon is easy, comfortable, until one night everything changes and you're forced to deal with your feelings for each other.
a/n: something to get me out of this writing slump dear god
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.
"Daddy!"
The shrill of childish excitement lights up the surgery department in an instant, eyes and ears cutting through the sterile floor towards the sound, eager for a reaction from someone, anyone.
It's even more satisfying when Brendon Park, the Shark of orthopedics, stops mid sentence, turning swiftly to the sound, his blank expression curling into a gentle smile as he bends down to pick up the three year old in his gigantic arms.
"What're you doing here, guppy?" he teases. Brendon Park jokes, and glances get thrown between residents, interns and nurses alike.
Ah gossip, the great equalizer.
"Wanted to see you."
The little girl manhandles him, pulling and squeezing his cheeks like he's not a great white but rather a pliable flounder, reducing him to nothing more than a sucker for his kid.
"Oh yeah, where's—?"
"Jesus trouble, how do you run so fast?"
The way Brendon Park lights up for the second time practically blinds everyone. Oh this is definitely making the rumor mill rounds today. So long boring ten hour surgery to come.
"I didn't run!" the child huffs. "I ski...skiddered."
"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.
You roll your eyes at her antics, nodding your head towards her father, gracing him with a smile that makes everyone understand exactly why their big, mean, scary boss is acting the way he is.
The floor returns to its normal shuffle after that, one more second of inaction and the Shark would've definitely snapped.
"Hey," Brendon greets you, a little reserved, definitely surgical in nature.
"Hey Mr. Park," you beam and he instantly stills.
"How many times do I have to tell you," he starts to chide. "At least call me doctor Park."
You sigh out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes playfully as you instinctively step closer. He can smell the faint sweetness of your perfume, the spilled apple sauce on your shirt, the hint of laundry detergent on your fingers.
"I'm glad we caught you," you tell him. "We didn't know if you'd started on time today."
"Just about to go in."
You nod, clinical, like you're absorbing information and processing how you're going to get out of his hair in the next twenty seconds.
"Gotcha, well, you got what you wanted trouble," you hum, moving to grab the child in his arms.
She knows what's coming and so she throws herself onto her dad, tiny hands fisting the purple scrubs, cheek pressed tightly over his chest.
"No! I wanna stay with daddy."
Brendon opens his mouth to speak, to defuse the situation before the guilt eats him alive. But you're no sucker, unlike him.
"Really?" you frown. "You wanna stay with your daddy while he does his surgery instead of going to the park to get ice cream with me?"
In all honesty, he stopped listening to you the second the word daddy left your lips. He's certain his kid can feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast, rattling against this ribcage and threatening to burst out of his chest.
All he registers is the toddler flinging herself out of his loose embrace, almost face planting against the sterile floors and practically buzzing with excitement.
"Brendon?" you turn to him, smile turning into a frown quickly.
He springs back into reality when your hand lands over his forearm, light and grounding, like an anchor he didn't know he needed.
"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pretends, shifts out of your touch like he's already late for something that isn't even remotely time for. "I'll see you for dinner, okay guppy?"
But she doesn't care anymore.
"Okay! Bye dad."
Instead, she grabs your hand, demanding and pushy, and pulls you down the hall.
"Bye doctor Park," you tease. "See you later."
And just like that, calm and cold return to the surgery department, and Brendon Park snaps back into the sharpness that defines him.
It's late by the time he makes it home.
Too late, too tired, too...everything.
He sneaks into his own home like a teenager, light steps, a soft touch as he turns the key, even takes off his shoes by the door before he even makes it into the house.
It's not the first time either, not gonna be the last.
He shouldn't feel bad, this is what he pays you the big bucks for at the end of the day.
It's when he peeks into his daughter's room, catching the two of you snuggled together in her tiny bed, butterfly printed comforter covering her and not you, a book forgotten, Mr. Stuffles the rabbit on the floor that it hits him.
Hard.
He'd been miserable that first year after his girlfriend left him. They'd been planning a wedding, the baby being just another blessing in the string of goodness that they had been experiencing.
At least it had been to him.
It took her a year to leave, to finally crack under the pressure and run away. He didn't know how to be a dad alone, much less navigate co-parenting with the woman who had torn his heart out of his chest with her bare hands.
If it hadn't been for his mother, sisters and brothers, Brendon would not have made it through it.
But even they could only get him so far. He needed to go back to work, needed to find something to keep him going, needed...help. Professional help.
And that's when he'd found you.
Frank Langdon's occasional babysitter, full time student looking for a summer job while you got yourself situated for your master's program.
The little guppy was two at that point and Brendon simply couldn't be there for her all the time. So he poached you away from the ED doctor.
To say the dynamic had started out a little toxic would be...an understatement.
Once Brendon returned to the OR with full force, he fell hard into it, into the love and thrill and control that he could exert over his patients, his work, his process.
All the control he'd lost, the scared man that he had become—frantic and powerless—disappeared the second he got back in those scrubs.
And so did the loving and caring father that had put his kid first.
You ripped him a new one about eight days after first meeting him, a night like this, one where he came back home buzzing from a procedure well done, pupils dilated and ego through the roof.
She was young enough to not remember then, but she was definitely old enough to hold onto broken promises now, and that is what tugged at his heartstrings.
Now, tea parties and recitals were just as, if not more important than getting to do a risky procedure no one at PTMC had done before.
Of course, this time around he'd texted, let you know there had been a complication with the surgery. The shaky intern typing out the message practically stopped breathing every time Brendon asked him to erase everything and start from scratch.
They all thought it was cute how he wanted it to be perfect and gentle for his daughter, but the truth is, he needed it to be for you.
Brendon steps into the room softly, bending down to pick up the stuffy and placing it in between his kid's arms before he closes the picture book and sets it on the nightstand.
Neither of you startle at the movement, the soft glow from the salt lamp casting shadows that you knew were never meant to harm you.
It's only when Brendon places a hand over your shoulder, squeezing gently that you blink awake.
"Hi," you whisper, barely turning back to look at him.
"Hi," he smiles softly. "Are you comfy?"
You scoff out a laugh, soft enough not to wake up the kid but loud enough to make his smile grow twice the size.
"Let's get you to bed then," he places a hand under your neck then, pushing you up by supporting your back with his forearm while you tangle your hands around his other arm and pulling yourself into a sitting position.
Certain you're awake enough not to topple over, he leans over you and places a kiss to his kid's temple, watching her nose scrunch ever so slightly before settling back into comfortable sleep.
You smirk at his antics, using his body as leverage to get up to your feet, hands clumsily digging into the muscles of his back.
He groans lightly, old man that he is, and quickly retaliates, holding onto you so that you'll hoist him up with you.
"So heavy," you joke, straining to keep the two of you upright.
Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."
"Booo," you chuckle, making your way out of her room, Brendon's hands over your shoulders to steady you. "There's leftovers in the microwave if you want them."
He hums in acknowledgment, letting you go as you make it out to the hallway.
"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.
"I'll take advantage then."
He nods. "Yours is still busted?"
"Yeah, guy said earliest he could come is next week."
"Damn plumbers."
"Indeed."
He stares at you for a long second after the conversation settles.
He's...comfortable. Too comfortable with you.
The past year has been a whirlwind. One summer quickly turning into you deferring your master's program so you could finish out the year with them. Then one semester turned into two, into you moving in, into...this.
Don't get him wrong, Brendon knows where the two of you stand. It's not necessarily healthy, but it's innocent, it's professional, it's...just a pathetic crush, nothing more. A fantasy he'll never allow himself to indulge in.
And yet, he cannot stop himself every time his eyes fall on your lips, the plumpness calling to him, beckoning him forward, demanding attention, truth.
"Goodnight then," he manages, rough and exhausted, desperate yet...not enough. Never enough.
You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."
It's his own fault really, he should've knocked. But it's his house for fuck's sake, why should he?
So that's how he gets a complete eyeful of you taking a shower the next morning.
He got a late start which meant making breakfast, taking his guppy to school and then going to the gym, all before nine.
Unfortunately for him, earbuds in, distracted as all hell, he completely misses all the warning signs, the closed door, the steam, your clothes on the floor, the music blaring from the speaker.
He's certain he's dead and this is both heaven and hell simultaneously when he finally dares to look up and—
Jesus fucking Christ.
He should look away, he needs to look away...but he physically can't, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of skin visible through the condensation of the glass shower.
If only he would've reacted a second earlier...
You turn in slow motion, your reaction catching up late. You yelp, hands coming up to wrap around your chest, only aiding in pushing your boobs up further.
He instantly snaps into action, blush taking over every inch of his face and neck as he curses out a long string of apologies, blood pumping through his heart and his...yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of there.
"I'm sorry, so sorry," he stumbles out of the bathroom ungracefully, fast enough that he doesn't catch your own reaction, the way your chest constricts, the way your legs rub together.
Brendon manages to hurriedly hide in the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribcage, eyes wide and mind absolutely running a million miles an hour.
He needs to forget he ever saw that, needs to erase it from his brain...but his stupid erection won't let him.
The tent in his pants becomes painful the second he gives it attention, the flimsy material of his work out shorts just not helping his case at all. He needs to take care of this, needs to stop being such a weirdo before you come out.
So he rushes into your bathroom, locks the door like a sane human being does, and pulls himself out of his boxers methodically.
This isn't pleasurable, no, not at all, never. This is necessity. Emotionless, cold and surgical. He spits on his hand, wrapping it around himself without much preamble, thinking of nothing, searching for only one thing, release.
But he looks down at himself and his brain betrays him.
Imagine her on her knees.
"Fuck no."
How beautiful does she look, skin wet, hair stuck to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open?
"Shut the fuck up."
Her mouth would be so hot, come on, Brendon, give into her—
"Go away."
And yet he groans, the mere thought of you knowing what he's doing two doors away, the way you pushed up your chest, the need to paint it—paint you—white with his spend—
He's biting down on his other hand quickly after as he cums loudly, making sure to aim for the toilet while does.
You're no longer in the shower when he comes back out, your movements confined to your room. He doesn't have the courage to seek you out, so instead he just showers in silence.
The two of you don't interact at all before he's making his way into work.
You left his food prepped on the dining room table, disappearing out of the house the second you did to run some errands.
The tinge of shame and embarrassment linger deep in his bones all throughout the day, following him around like an unwanted shadow.
How would he even start to apologize? You have to talk about it, there's just no other way around it, but...how could he ever tell you it was a mistake when a part of him wanted nothing more than for it to happen again—to get a better look?
Since he made it to work late, he leaves even later. As he makes his way into his home, the same stillness from the night before greets him, only this time, it's heavy, like a breath that's been held in too long.
He goes through his routine quietly, dropping his bag by the door, checking in on his kid before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom.
But before he can make it, something catches his attention.
A breath. A gasp. A moan.
He freezes in front of your closed door, body going rigid with goosebumps, head turning almost robotically as his senses sharpen.
Your light is still on, peeking through the bottom slit of the door. Not uncommon, you like staying up to wait for him before you go to sleep.
No, what catches his attention is the distant...humming.
He steps forward, tentatively pressing his ear to the wood. It's not just a humming, it's vibrations, soft and steady.
Another shaky breath escapes you, louder than you would've liked, and you readjust the toy.
A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.
His cock twitches painfully against his underwear. Fuck this cannot be happening right now.
His head falls against your door, stabilizing, grounding. He can't, he will not—
Another moan from you. You're close.
Whatever resolve Brendon has snaps as he pulls himself out of his pants, hot, heavy and leaking.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers as he takes himself into his hand. He begins to pump quickly, the pace excruciating and borderline painful, but he doesn't care, he needs to—
"Brendon," you huff, a breathy moan curling around his name. "Please I'm—Motherfucker!" you curse through gritted teeth, the vibrations stopping abruptly.
Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.
Oh my god.
He can feel how frustrated you are, can hear how you shift uncomfortably over your sheets, can practically taste how wet you are as you toss the toy with a thump on the mattress next to you.
And Brendon doesn't think. Can't think, can't process a logical thought to save his life as he lifts his unoccupied hand and—
Knocks.
Says your name in that soft, saccharine voice of his that he uses when his child is throwing a tantrum.
Oh how he wishes he could see your face pale in horror at the knowledge of your boss being on the other side of the door.
"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.
You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.
"Mhmm."
"Can I come in?"
A broken sound leaves your chest, unprompted and definitely surprising you just as much as it does him.
"Um...no?"
He says your name again, stern and fatherly. He hears you moving around frantically, hiding all evidence of what you were just doing.
"Okay."
"Okay." A Cheshire smile curls at his lips, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through him as he tucks himself into his pants, the outline of his still rock hard dick on full display.
It's now or never.
He opens the door. You never seem to lock it, fucking adorable.
He has to physically hold himself back from pouncing on you as his eyes land on your heated cheeks, on your slightly tussled hair, on how you're gripping your comforter to save your life.
He shoots you a calming smile, boyish and embarrassed, as he steps into your room and closes the door behind him. Locking it.
He hears you gulp loudly as you notice his final movement.
"How was your day?" you barely manage to ask, your throat hoarse, your breathing broken.
He settles down on the bed by your feet, close enough to make your heart beat out of your throat, far away enough that he won't overwhelm you entirely.
"Good, good," he sighs, one hand tentatively inching closer and closer to you. "Lot of injuries today."
"I bet."
He smirks, a huff of a laugh cutting through the tension in the room.
"Listen—" he starts, looking up at you before continuing. You choke on your own breath, body becoming a statue with shame. "I'm sorry, I should've realized you were in the shower. It was very inappropriate of me and it will not happen again."
You let out a shaky breath, settling into the false sense of security, choosing to believe that he definitely did not hear you...yeah.
Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning like an idiot. God, you're just so adorable.
You nod, shifting forward, closer to him. "It's okay, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It was just...weird I guess."
You laugh, awkwardly, because what a silly predicament the two of you have found yourselves in, clearly.
Brendon doesn't follow your lead, not at all. He just keeps watching you, eyes darkening as he leans into you as well, his hand finally coming up to grab ahold of your foot over the comforter.
He squeezes enough to punctuate the moment, the tension, the heat. Your gaze snaps towards his hand, towards him, towards—
Your eyes widen without your consent as they land on his crotch, on the straining in his scrubs, on his still practically throbbing erection.
"Brendon," you exhale, confusion and desire blending together excruciatingly.
He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't start something you won't finish, sweetheart."
Your gaze meets his then. He looks like a caged animal, practically vibrating as he holds himself back.
Emboldened by your lust, by the pent up frustration left coiling in your lower stomach, you get up on your knees, letting the comforter fall around your waist, the slightest sliver of skin peeking through.
"Oh I intend to finish it," you whisper.
"Unlike your vibrator?"
That breaks the spell quickly, heat rushing up to your face, neck, back instantly.
"Oh my god, Brendon!" you smack his arm, falling back down on your heels.
He smiles dopily, his hand sliding up your thigh as your brain processes all this new information. Distracted, you don't even notice when he slides beneath the fabric. It's only when the backs of his fingers graze your dripping folds that your breathing hitches.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "You're so wet."
You whimper at the feather light contact, hips bucking towards his touch.
"Please," you're no longer thinking, finally. "I need...make me cum, Bren."
The smirk that adorns his face then, all self-righteous and proud, only gets you wetter.
"Is this what you need, baby?" he leans in, breath hot against your ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "Needed my fingers to get yourself to cum?"
You moan, hands coming up to grab a hold of him, nails digging into the toughness of his arms.
In response, Brendon presses his thumb over your clit, slowly moving the pad in torturous circles. You pull him closer, opening your legs so that he has better access.
"Tell me what you need," he commands. "Tell daddy how to make you feel good."
Oh your head is spinning. A tear falls down your cheek, frustration rocking you out of control.
"Need your fingers," you pant.
He grins against your skin. "You already have 'em."
You whine, patience wearing thin. Who would've ever thought, his good girl, so demanding.
"In me, please," you choke, swallowing the drool that has gathered in your mouth before continuing. "Please daddy."
It breaks him, his ring and middle finger thrusting into you in one swift movement as his thumb picks up the pace.
You instantly hide your face agains the crook of his neck, your breathy moan muffled against him as he hooks his fingers into you, curling them over and over again against you until your legs are shaking beneath him.
"That's it, baby, such a good girl for me."
You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.
"Help daddy out, baby, wanna—" he groans. "Wanna cum with you."
He slows down his movements, keeping you right on the edge between putty and alert.
You nod against him, timid hands grazing down his torso towards his pants. The second your hand slides under his waistband, a hiss escapes him, causing a shiver of praise to boost your ego.
You manage to pull him out, long and thick and hot and heavy against your palm, you can't help but salivate at the sight. You let your drool drip down on him, his hips jerking as the wetness lands over his sensitive tip.
You giggle, overly amused by his reactions, emboldened by how easy it is to tame the Shark with just a simple swipe of your hand over his leaking head.
"Fucking hell, baby," he groans, picking up his own pace in retaliation.
You pull back to look at him then, gazes locking in silent competition.
He looks completely disheveled, broken and almost...reverent. Gratification blooms in your stomach, your hand pumping his length in tandem with his own fingers inside of you, the pace causing the two of you to slowly start to unravel together.
Your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your body clenches around him, so close to the edge, so, so, so perfect—
"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"
He grunts, grabbing your hand and pulling it back up to his tip, urging you to focus your efforts there.
It takes him no time to catch up to you, his own body tensing in anticipation.
"C'mon baby," he implores. "Let go for me, cum with me."
A choked moan ripples through you as the coil snaps. Your legs quake, your vision blurs from pleasure, your hand stills over him as you feel his own release take over.
It's overwhelming to say the least, his hot moans heavy in your ear, his spend spurting onto your hand, painting his scrubs and your delicate skin, his warmth...oh my god he's so everywhere.
You can't think straight. Can't breathe right. Can't—
You groan as he removes his hand from inside of you, wetness running down your inner thighs as he does. Pleasure clouds your brain as you watch him bring his hand up to his mouth, his tongue lapping up your release, humming contently at the sweet taste.
Hunger flares in your belly as you do the same, lifting your hand up towards your mouth and sucking down on the spot covered by his cum.
You can feel the moan that ripples through him, his body tensing up with lust once more as he watches you.
"Fuck sweetheart, who would've thought..." he smirks, leaning down to smash his lips with your own, mouth desperately seeking to combine your tastes into one sloppy, searing kiss.
You oblige instantly, opening up for him to take whatever he pleases.
He pushes you down onto the mattress, his imposing body slotting itself perfectly in between your open thighs.
He's about to join you on the bed when you break the kiss.
"Outside clothes," you grumble, sleepy and spent.
It tugs at his heartstrings, his mouth curling into a loving smile as he strips down to his boxers before slipping back into bed with you, pulling your body to nestle snugly against his.
"I'm sorry, baby," he kisses your temple, watching you settle into sleep beside him, completely oblivious to how he licks and cleans your skin before finally allowing himself to succumb to the darkness.
You're woken up by laughter.
Soft and airy, like a gust of wind rustling outside your window.
Your curtains are still drawn, only slivers of light peeking through into your room, the warmth from outside starting to become overwhelming as you toss the comforter aside.
You sit up with a start, memories from the night before crashing through you like a downpour.
You almost, almost could've pretended it had all been a dream. Almost, if not for the stickiness lingering between your thighs, for the Brendon sized dip in your mattress that he left behind.
It's impossible not to feel his lingering presence in your bed, the way the sheets molded to accommodate him, the way his woodsy scent mixed with hospital antiseptic lingers on the cotton.
Fuck!
You're so close to spiraling, to having your chest cave in from the pressure of guilt, but then you hear it again.
That laugh, like a tug, a spark, a lifeline.
School, you're supposed to up to help with drop-off today.
You're quick to dress, pulling on your sleep shorts, hastily forgoing underwear because you simply aren't thinking straight.
It's late, too late to be thinking instead of moving.
You burst into the kitchen, ready to hastily put together breakfast and Brendon's lunch when—
"Noooooo!" the toddler screams at you from her high chair. "Go back!”
You frown at her, moving slowly around the kitchen island to catch her dad, sweatpants low on his hips, topless for added effect, just finishing up at the stove.
Behind him, a plate with a mountain of pancakes, and beside it, a tray, decked out with cut fruit, a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, even a cup with a little flower from the backyard.
He must see the flurry of emotions taking a hold of you, so he softens instantly.
"Morning," he steps forward slightly. "We were just coming to surprise you."
Your gaze snaps up to his, searching, panicked, overwhelmed and then...grateful.
Your cheeks heat up softly, not instantly, not rushed, just comfortable, safe, loved.
"I'm sorry bug," you lean over and plant a kiss on her head, unruly curls frizzy from sleep. "But now we can have breakfast together, yeah?"
She sighs, dramatically, before she turns to you, arms high up so that you'll pick her up.
You roll your eyes, obviously doing exactly what the princess wants.
You're about to walk out into the living room when you turn back to Brendon, the expression you manage to catch across his features just barely shy of adoration.
You've done this plenty of times before but it's never felt this...domestic. And you can't help how your stomach twists, how your heart blooms—you like this.
Breakfast continues on in that same way. Stolen glances, confusing feelings and an overly energetic toddler that get maple syrup over everything, especially her hair.
One rushed bath time later, you're putting her hair up into ponytail braids, her request, when his imposing frame slides up to lean against his daughter's open door, purple scrubs hugging his body deliciously.
"Ready to go, guppy?"
The kid nods, bashful, as she takes in the little hair clips in her hair, the beads from her ponytails.
"You look beautiful, trouble," you kiss her cheek and she responds by throwing herself around you, a hug so tight it melts you right into her.
"Thank you!"
"You're so welcome."
When she finally lets you go and runs towards her dad, you catch his stare through the mirror. It's...everything. Stormy, bright, hopeful, sorrowful, angry, pleading, you can't look away.
Later, he mouths. We'll talk.
You nod, shooting him a timid smile before he's being dragged out of the house.
Your brain is fuzzy for the next half hour, your movements slow and sluggish.
You focus on tidying up around the house, going through routine out of muscle memory. Cause the truth is, your mind is far away, stuck on the night before, on his lips, his fingers, his hot breath—
Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.
The postman comes through at the perfect time, envelopes snapping you out of inaction. You sort through them absentmindedly still—energy bill, invitation to the annual hospital gala, ortho research magazine, University of Pittsburg—
Your name.
His address.
Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.
Shaky fingers tear through the sticky adhesive, almost tearing the letter within its confines.
Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.
Final notice. Unable to push back start date another semester. Confirm attendance or forfeit spot. And then, a deadline.
Sink or swim.
Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.
It all crumbles instantly.
You've grown attached, complacent, lost yourself as you found a new place, comfortable, easy, simple. You love your life, you love how easy it is to not have to think, to just do, to soak up the joy and the tantrums and the late nights and...
Him.
He's your fucking boss for crying out loud! He can't...he doesn't...you live in his house, you eat his food, you take care of his kid.
How can you take his money and be with him romantically?
You're taking advantage of him, this is so wrong, how could you ever do that to him? To them? To yourself?
But if you leave...if you leave you lose everything you've grown attached to, everything that makes up who you are now, everything—everyone—you love.
This isn't fair. This isn't how it's supposed to go. How could you have been so stupid to—
Your phone blares, a reminder alarm goes off, effectively cutting off your spiraling but only making you even more panicked.
You're late for pick up.
You don't remember much, just that you're driving a little more on edge than you usually are. The lunch traffic is easing down, luckily, but it's just a reminder that you're late.
The school calls, you tell them you're on your way.
He texts, you ignore it.
The green light turns red after you cross—
And it all goes dark.
You're so out of it that your name doesn't sound real.
There's overlapping voices, bright lights, too many hands touching your sweaty skin.
You try to push them off, try to close your eyes for them to be pulled open, try to complain but your throat is so dry nothing remotely close to words spill out.
You know where you are before the nurses have a chance to ease your discomfort.
You can't be here. Nope, not here, bad place to be cause he's here.
You try to get up the second they transfer you into a bed, even manage to sit before Langdon's hands are pulling you back down against the pillow.
"No, nope, none of that," he chides.
"Frank—" your voice sounds so broken it scares you.
"You're okay, let us take care of you," he stares deep into your eyes, his baby blues reminding you of the exact person you're desperate to avoid. "Please."
Before you can continue protesting, they drug you. Yeah, not their finest moment, not yours either. Lorazepam, just enough to calm you down, to finish their exam.
You're lucid, you think, just...softer. It's only then that your body comes back to you, the weight of your bones, the exhaustion in your muscles.
You don't complain again, only answer questions when they're asked.
You're fast tracked to CT, nothing abnormal though you definitely have a concussion. Your body is littered with little cuts and bruises from impact, apparently a motorcyclist who decided to accelerate to sixty without thinking twice. He's being treated at Westbridge so you'll know more later.
Now...now you're just a guilty, crying mess, injuries wrapped, IV almost done, waiting for an ortho consult because everyone in the ED knows you.
But he's not here yet.
It's been hours and he hasn't shown his face.
Logically, you know why.
He had to go pick her up when you didn't know. He had to call out of work because you weren't reliable, he had to—
The curtain is drawn and a child's voice says your name.
You can't help but burst into tears again, desperately trying to hide away, to brace yourself for the impact that follows her around.
But it only makes her more afraid, more distressed, and it breaks your heart.
With your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face, you don't see him, but you hear him.
Hear how he steps into the room, how he refrains from speaking your name, how he pulls the curtain closed again, how he picks up his kid and settles down on the stool beside your bed.
And then you feel tiny, cold hands press over your cheeks, gently poking at you until you break, calling out your name over and over and over until he says it.
Low and soft, pleading.
You open your eyes, a fresh waterfall dripping onto her fingers, causing her to recoil adorably.
"Yucky," she shivers, wiping your tears on her father's shirt.
That gets a laugh out of you.
"There she is," Brendon's voice is heavy, like the emotional weight has solidified into his body and is crushing over his chest.
You finally look up at him then, relinquishing your fears and staring directly into the place you know is both salvation and ruin.
"Well hello baby shark," Dana's signature snark breaks the moment. "Y'wanna come with me and let the boring grownups talk? I got apple sauce and crayons."
Wow she's so easy to lure away it's a wonder she's still in one piece. Well...who wouldn't be, with a dad like that and a nanny who would kill anyone that even thought about breathing near her with wrong intentions.
She winks at you and shoots a stern look at Brendon before leaving the two of you alone.
He doesn't even let the room settle before he's pouncing, lips on yours simply to prove to himself that you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're still here.
You can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, can't—
He shushes you gently, warm hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the wetness as it falls.
You choke out a half-hearted laugh. "Not yucky?"
He smiles against your mouth, kissing you one last time before he pulls back to look at you.
"I was so worried," the confession is a mere whisper but it hangs thick in the room, suspended in a web of all the things you've both left unsaid. "When Dana called—" he chokes on a breath. "Fuck, sweetheart I almost—I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, I was resetting someone's fucking shoulder and..." he chuckles at the memory. "Almost made it worse."
"The great Brendon Park, almost ruined by one phone call," you try to joke, try to lighten the mood but...it's impossible. The way he stares at you, his gaze searing, his hands holding onto you as if he's afraid if he lets go you'll disappear—"Brendon."
"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, we should've—I should've—"
You shake your head as much as the concussion will allow, your hands coming up to lace with his own.
"It's my fault," you sob. "I wasn't thinking—I...I got scared."
His brow furrows but he doesn't prod, doesn't force you to speak. He just waits, patiently, like you've seen him do plenty times before with a snotty, emotionally confused toddler.
So you take a steadying breath, grab his hand tighter, and tell him everything. The letter, your panic attack, your uncertainty, your fears, your...hopefulness.
It doesn't matter that your brain doesn't feel comfortable baring your soul to him, your heart does. With each word, the clutches of doubt and panic ease off, your grip lightening until you're unashamedly fiddling with his fingers, tracing lazy patterns over his skin like he...like he belongs to you.
He sits with your confession for a while, a few seconds turning into a few minutes but he doesn't pull away, doesn't make you feel unwanted. So you don't panic either, you just trace his nails with your fingers over and over and over agains until—
He lifts your hand up to his mouth and places a soft kiss onto your knuckles.
"What do you wanna do, baby?"
Baby, like it's simple. Baby, like it's normal. Baby, like you're his.
You search his eyes for malice, for a truth that you desperately need to push on him so that you can focus on a broken heart and not the overwhelming reality of choice, of making it work.
But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.
Fucking girl dad ortho bros that are emotionally intelligent—they're the worst.
You sigh, honest and raw. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose you."
He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.
"I don't want to lose you either," he states, unflinching. "We can take this however you need, you can still live with us, you can..."
He trails off as he notices the hesitancy in your eyes.
"You don't want that?"
He doesn't say it maliciously, but it still sucker punches you all the same.
"I don't know...what about trouble? She's young but she's not stupid. I don't...I don't want her to think that I'm...that I don't love her because it's not the same—"
"She's a smart kid, she'll understand," he's too quick to catch your lie. "Now if you're afraid of things changing..." he catches your guilt flash through your eyes. "Then that's okay. We can go slow. We don't have to figure it all out right now."
You nod, accepting the easy way out.
One step at a time.
You can live with that.
Recovery is...boring as all hell.
The motorcycle guy lived, your insurance companies settled out of court, nothing to worry about according to Brendon who's been fussing over you for the past five days.
He's taken a temporary leave to nurse you back to health and "take care of his girls" as he put it, settling some stupid bet that the surgery department started a few days ago.
The little bug is practically glued to you, helping out her dad in whatever way she can, which isn't much, but it's always appreciated. She's even started reading you bedtime stories, but in truth she's just making things up as she points to the pictures.
At night, when she finally knocks herself out, Brendon settles into bed next to you, those first couple of days unable to get you into bed with him but finally, after much groaning and moaning, claiming he needed the extra room from his king for his back—which is a fucking lie since he always just sleeps tangled around you—he finally comes out victorious.
It's a Saturday when it happens.
No school, no early alarms, no nothing except his steady breathing, his safe embrace keeping you flush against his front, your leg straddled over his hip so that he can pull you in closer—
It's his own damn fault honestly.
You blink awake as a hardness pressed against your front. His heat pulls you in, your sleepy brain not thinking anything other than closer, warmer...so you roll your hips and a jolt of pleasure courses through you.
You're suddenly extremely aware of everything, frustration rearing its ugly head as memories flash from that night again.
You haven't touched yourself since then. Haven't wanted or been able to. But now, this morning you're just...very aware of how much you need it.
You roll your hips again, hoping to wake him up and have him take care of you. You can feel how much he needs it too, how much his body craves yours. If you can just—
"Baby," he groans against your temple, grip on you tightening, pulling you further into him. "What're you doing?"
You huff, desperate, sliding a hand in between your bodies and accidentally on purpose raking your nails along his length.
He hisses against your skin, question answered instantly as his eyes snap open.
"Oh sweetheart," he coos, merciful it seems. "Did you wake up needy, baby? Need me to take care of you?"
You nod, pathetically honestly, but you can’t care less.
He's got you sprawled under him in the blink of an eye, his mouth connecting with yours in a searing kiss before his lips begin to trail a path downward.
You're doing much better today. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises are starting to fade from purple to brown, movement doesn't make you dizzy, if anything, it makes you just the right amount of lightheaded.
You feel his touch everywhere. Feather light grazes over your abdomen, nails raking up towards your breasts under his obnoxiously soft cotton t-shirt.
He removes his mouth off you so he can pull the shirt off your body, the offending fabric getting tossed to the side as his mouth latches onto your nipple.
You arch into his mouth, strangled moans escaping before his hand comes up to slide his fingers inside. He presses them against your tongue and you instantly suck on them as he too continues his assault.
When he's finally satisfied, he trails lower, hot tongue licking down your stomach until he reaches your pubic bone. His hand slips out from between your lips so he can hold your legs open for him before settling his mouth over your panties, taking a deep breath in and relishing in the way your breathing hitches.
Fuck he's so beautiful like this.
"Thank you baby," he grins against you. Fuck did you say that out loud?
He doesn't let you think on it as his mouth opens up, wide and predatory, and bites down on your mound, his tongue pressing against your clothed clit, working it through the fabric.
"Bren—please, I need—" you pant, already delirious.
"What do you need baby, tell daddy what you need."
Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.
"Your mouth," you try, hoarse and needy. "Need your mouth."
He doesn't force you to beg, it's not the time for that. Instead, he shows you mercy, pulling your underwear to the side and diving right in.
His tongue is ravenous, licking a powerful stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning against your folds at the gathered wetness.
"So fucking good," he mumbles into your skin before his puffy lips latch onto your clit. He sucks and licks and pulls and tugs, all the while your body thrusts into his mouth. You almost hit him before his grip on your thighs tightens and he reminds you swiftly that he's much stronger than you.
You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to feel the sting, the faintness of copper lacing your taste buds. You know you have to be quiet but fuck do you want to scream.
"Bren fuck oh my god," you whimper, your hands threading through his soft waves, the lack of gel sending another shiver down your spine. No one else gets to see him like this.
He bites down on your clit then, pulling slightly before he slides down again, his nose perfectly hitting your bundle of nerves as his tongue and mouth fuck your entrance.
He feels you cumming before you even know what's happening, the coil in your abdomen snapping without even giving you a heads up. Your hands come up to muffle your screams while your body rocks, a tidal wave crashing through you as he does his best to hold you down, to work you through it.
He's gentle, diligent, devout almost as his mouth continues to kiss and lick and suck until you twitch from overstimulation. Only then does he detach himself from you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release.
You look at him with the most gleeful expression, so proud of yourself, of his smugness.
He settles in between your legs again, pulling them tight around his waist, just reveling in being able to hold you against his naked front.
You're so blissed out, grateful and happy, planting your lips over every inch of skin he'll let you. But you're greedy now, you need more, want more.
You press your front against the bulge in his sweats and he hisses.
"We don't have to—"
"I want to," you kiss him again, your lingering taste euphoric. "Please."
You don't need to tell him twice. He rolls over towards his bedside table instantly, pulling out a silver wrapper and discarding his pants in what feels like seconds.
You can't help but giggle, the boyish smile on his lips and the way his cheeks tinge pink quickly sending you into overdrive.
You need this man inside of you right now.
You watch in awe as he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling on the slick condom over his impressive length.
Yeah, he's perfect, and he's yours, there's not a shred of doubt in your mind. You don't know how everything will fall into place but you don't have to, because you'll figure it out together.
He settles in between your thighs again, his chest pressing down against yours, desperate to be as close to you as possible before he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly thrusts himself inside.
You're wet enough that with the lube, he slides right in, your ass flush with his thighs in a dizzying, all consuming instant. He's perfectly snug, fitting so perfectly inside of you that neither of you can help the moan of satisfaction that spills.
It quickly turns into a fit of laughter, easy and shy, like you're both making love instead of having sex. And that just feels right.
He kisses you softly, tentatively, letting you get used to him before he begins to move. But you're impatient, your hips rolling on their own as you seek some friction.
He groans into your mouth. "Fuck baby, trying to kill me."
You smirk against his kiss, cocky for exactly three seconds before he meets your movement with a thrust of his hips. With the air getting knocked out of your lungs, he begins to move, slow and unhurried, all the way out before he thrusts right back to the hilt.
You hold onto him like your life depends on it, pressing further into his skin, his warmth, his safety. You can't get enough of him, of the excitement of tomorrow, of the need that comes from wanting nothing more than to be close to him.
"Such a good girl for me," he praises into your ear. "Letting me take care of you, only complaining a couple times."
You huff out a laugh, remembering the first time he'd helped you to the bathroom and then waited imposingly on the other side of the door until you were done. He's lucky he never tried to get in with you otherwise you would've hit him.
His thrusts pick up the pace in response.
"Let me take care of you, baby," he pleads then. "Whatever you decide, let me help you, please."
You blink back tears, nodding against his cheek, nails digging into his chiseled back.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"
You don't get to finish as he groans, hoisting your bottom half off the bed as his mercifulness finally snaps.
He fucks into you like he needs to show you just how much your words affect him. The bed rattles, the mattress squeaks awkwardly but neither of you cares. You need this, need each other.
"Come on, pretty girl," he pants. "Cum with me, cum with daddy."
You're just as affected as him, your second peak slowly but surely sneaking up on you again as he sneaks a hand in between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb over your clit.
You clench around him and he hisses, leaning down to capture your lips with his in a searing kiss as warmth floods you both. Your moans get tangled in between hungry tongues and teeth, your bodies vibrate against each other in bursts of pleasure and care and...love.
You're unsure how long you're stuck there, in between real life and whatever the fuck you're feeling, but finally when your body pushes him out of you, he rolls over and goes into the bathroom.
You watch him through hazy eyes as he cleans himself up, his adonis like body always such a sight to gaze upon. He blushes crimson when he catches you watching him, the apex predator reduced to a blubbering mess by just one simple look.
But it's not simple, and you both know that.
Pride swells up in your chest as he runs a wet towel in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you over and over again before he finally deigns the day worthy enough to begin, or rather, three soft knocks on his bedroom door startle you back into reality.
"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"
You roll your eyes, sharing a glance with him that warms your heart.
Yeah, you're gonna be alright.
a/n: thank you to everyone that participated in the poll! hope this is to your satisfaction
dividers by @/enchanthings
summary: you sleep with jack for the first time and discover what it means to be loved gently
cw: smut (mdni, 18+), gentle sex, oral (f rec), referenced p in v, reader uses sex as a coping mechanism and has low self-esteem, light intoxication
wc: 3k
a/n: listen, I do not think that rough sex is necessarily a bad thing, but it can be. I don’t feel like expanding on this
now playing: Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby – Cigarettes After Sex
Jack can’t take his eyes off you. Not when you look the way you do right now: skin glowing, eyes sparkling, and a truly sincere smile on your face.
The wine bottle shared between the two of you stands at your feet as his hands snake around your waist, pulling you closer. He tastes the grapes on your tongue when his own slips between your parted lips, mapping out the inside of your mouth slowly. His palm wanders from your side to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him.
You only pull away when you start to get lightheaded—too little oxygen, too much love.
Love.
Neither one of you has said it yet. It’s much too early for that four-letter word, but the idea of it hangs over you as he kisses your cheek instead of your mouth to let you catch your breath.
Jack tilts his head to meet your gaze and smiles softly. His eyes drift over your face like he’s memorizing every inch. He’s close enough that he could count each individual lash if he wanted to.
When he lifts his hands to cup your face between his palms, you melt into his touch.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.
Your skin heats under his hands, blood rushing to your face. The timid smile on your face tugs at Jack’s heartstrings.
“So beautiful,” he repeats tenderly.
He means it.
You misinterpret it.
When you stand on your tiptoes to kiss him again, there’s more heat to it—the kind that leads to places you haven’t been to with him yet.
He keeps you steady, your face still held by him.
His lips fit against yours like two puzzle pieces.
The weight of him leads you towards the couch naturally. He doesn’t guide or force but simply leans in until you sink onto the cushions, him braced above you.
Your hand drifts down from his chest to his stomach. Through his shirt, you still feel the way his muscles flex under your touch.
He breaks the kiss to look at you, an almost dopey curve to his mouth.
“You’re ticklin’ me,” he mumbles.
“That’s on purpose,” you reply.
He grins, then catches your hands in his own.
“Is that so?” he whispers. “Anything else you want to confess?”
You let a few seconds pass, just for dramatic effect, before you nod.
“Yeah,” you mumble, “I’m also trying to take your shirt off right now.”
Jack chuckles softly.
“You don’t say,” he teases. “Any reason for that?”
You roll your eyes fondly.
“Take a guess.”
A gentle laugh spills from him, originating deep from his chest. You feel the vibration travel through him until it reaches your hand, too.
“I think I can help out with that.”
He grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up, then over his head. Your eyes are glued to every inch of sun-kissed skin that’s slowly exposed. For a moment, you hesitate before you reach out to rest your hand on his chest, feeling the heat radiating from him.
When you’ve had your fill of touching him—though you’re not sure you’ll ever get enough of him—you take off your own shirt. You had planned in advance and worn a black lace bralette, but you hadn’t told Jack, so you could trick him into thinking that you’re always this put together.
The matching panties waited for him under the skirt, which you were eager for him to pull off of you.
Jack can’t look away—and doesn’t want to. You’re surprised that for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re being ogled.
No, Jack admires.
His fingers drift over your breasts up to your neck, then rest on your face.
“Like I said,” he whispers. “Beautiful.”
Instead of answering, you lean in to kiss him again. As your lips press against his, you reach for his belt buckle and open it. Jack hums into your mouth, a small roll of his hips encouraging you.
He helps you take off his jeans. Jack talked to you about not wearing his prosthetic at home around you a few days ago, but right now, he still has it on. He seems a little nervous as his pants fall away, and you get a full glance at it for the first time.
You don’t mind at all.
The next barrier that falls is your skirt. Jack undoes the zipper at the side carefully, then slides the fabric down your legs. He makes a sound you can’t quite categorize when he sees the thin lace panties you picked out for tonight.
“Fuck,” he whispers, “How are you this perfect?”
Again, you forgo an answer with another kiss.
Jack notices. He cups your face, then pulls away a little just to look at you. His brows knit together slightly.
“Hey,” he mumbles.
You haven’t been together that long yet, but he knows you well enough to see that you don’t feel like talking about this right now.
Still, for a moment, he chews on his bottom lip in contemplation before he asks, “Wouldn’t you rather take this to the bedroom?”
You shrug softly.
“I don’t mind the couch. Whatever you want.”
The divot between his brows deepens.
“But I’m asking you what you want,” he counters. “If… if we’re doing this right now, I want you to be comfortable.”
“I am comfortable,” you reply.
He nods reluctantly.
“Alright,” he mumbles.
The next kiss feels a little different—not in a bad way, just more careful. Jack waits, lets you chase him instead of taking the lead. So you do.
You reach behind you to unfasten the clasps of your bra. As the lace falls away, Jack watches with amazement. He almost manages to throw in another compliment for you, but you don’t give him the chance.
You stand up from the couch and hook your fingers into your panties, then slowly slip them off.
Jack’s breath hitches. He leans into the back of the couch to watch as you step out of the fabric that fell to your ankles. This time, he truly stares.
When you step closer, he pulls you in by your hips until you’re seated on his lap. Your bare cunt brushes over the bulge in his boxers, causing both of you to moan.
You roll against him once, then twice, then kiss him again. The heat between the two of you is unbearable. You don’t understand why he hasn’t taken off his underpants yet and wonder if he maybe just needs a little bit more encouragement, so you grind down against him again.
Jack hisses at the contact, his fingers tightening on your sides.
“Fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
“Then let me help you,” you chuckle and reach for the waistband of his boxers.
He lifts his hips to help you slip them off—and you swallow hard when you see what you’re working with. The grey happy trail you’ve been eyeing since his shirt came off leads down to his thick cock. The size of the bulge makes more sense now. He’s veiny and flushed a dark red, almost a little purple at the tip.
“Jesus,” you whisper.
Jack chuckles, maybe even a little self-consciously so.
“Yeah, it’s um… it’s been a while for me,” he admits.
Your mouth falls open—you hadn’t expected that. A man with his looks, a doctor at that, too?
“Really?” you ask. “I mean… that’s okay. I don’t mind. Just… tell me what you like.”
He shrugs softly.
“I like you.”
His answer is so sappy that it makes you grin.
“Shut up. No, really, tell me what you like.”
Jack looks at you and pulls you closer again.
“I’m serious,” he mumbles. “I just want you, however you want. Why? What kinda stuff do the kids like these days?”
Your face warms a little.
“I don’t know,” you mumble. A total lie.
“We can try some stuff, you know?”
“Like what?” he asks. “You want me to tie you up?”
He chuckles like the idea is absurd to him.
“Would you want to tie me up?” you counter.
Jack’s brows furrow again.
“I don’t think that’s my thing,” he says quietly.
You nod slowly.
“What about…”
Saying it out loud feels, for lack of a better word, cringe, so you take his hand and place it on the base of your throat.
Jack doesn’t pull away immediately, but his fingers don’t wrap around your neck either. He looks up at you, his jaw set tightly.
Then he shakes his head and cups your face instead.
“I don’t think so,” he says softly. “How about… we just take things slow and figure it out as we go?”
When you nod, Jack kisses you, and it tastes like relief.
He surprises you when he switches positions with you—you’d have thought he would want you to stay on top.
Jack braces his weight on his forearms as he hovers above you, his face just inches away from you. Then he lowers his head, but his lips don’t meet yours—they trail down over your chest. His tongue swirls around your nipple, making you gasp as the sensation tingles through you.
He cups your other breast, squeezing and kneading the flesh gently, then places a kiss on the valley between your breasts before he descends further.
To your ribs… then your navel… then your hipbone.
Your breath stills completely when his fingers come to rest on your thighs. He doesn’t push them open yet.
“May I?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
He parts your legs gently, his eyes still focused on you until he lowers his head and—
Your world tilts a little.
When his tongue drags through your drenched slit, and Jack moans out loud, you arch towards him. He holds your hips in place, fingers digging into the flesh—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make you feel him.
“Fuck,” he gasps, “You taste so fucking good, baby.”
He flattens his tongue against your clit, licking upwards until you see stars.
“Jack-“ you moan, trying… you don’t know what you’re trying to say. Your fingers find purchase in his hair, tugging slightly at the grey curls.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, causing you to cry out in pleasure.
He laps at your cunt like a starved dog, and you can’t believe that “it’s been a while” for him, not when he’s eating you out like that.
“I—oh God,” you sigh dreamily.
Your legs quiver, your hips twitch—your entire body is shaking with pleasure.
“That’s it, baby,” Jack murmurs, his words muffled. “Fuck—please, just let me make you feel good.”
The sounds of your arousal mixing with his saliva are unholy—a wet overflow of moisture between your thighs. Jack seems to be right where he wants to be. He moans into your flesh, his hips bucking and pressing into the couch below like he is trying to alleviate the ache, the buildup of his own need.
When you come apart, he guides you through it, not stopping until your brain is overflowing with oxytocin and your thighs won’t stop shaking.
Both of you are panting when he comes up.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles devilishly.
“God… we’re so doing this again,” he declares softly.
You’re at a loss for words. You haven’t come like that ever. All you can do is nod and reach for him.
Jack plants his arms on either side of your head and kisses you deeply. You taste yourself on his tongue, the sweet, tangy flavor erupting in your mouth.
His leaking cock presses against your tummy as his lips graze yours.
You reach between you and stroke him, making him groan into your mouth.
“Jesus,” he mutters when he pulls away to look at you. “You—”
He thrusts into your hand instinctively, and you realize just how pent up he is.
“Your turn,” you whisper.
Jack tsks softly, half amused, half… something else.
He cups your face and kisses your jaw tenderly.
“Believe me, that was my turn,” he says lowly. “But if you want to keep going, I’m sure as hell not saying no.”
--
The bliss afterwards is indescribable. But it’s also foreign.
You still sense every press of his hands on your body without feeling tender, every brush of his lips without a single mark on your skin, and every thrust of his hips without that residual feeling of having been used.
Jack was nothing but gentle.
And god, it was incredible.
The sheets underneath you are crumpled and slightly damp with sweat and sex, but you don’t mind. Not when Jack’s arm is wrapped around you, your back pressing against his chest. He kisses the side of your neck where your pulse still flutters with excitement.
“You were incredible,” he whispers.
It must be so obvious that his words fluster you because he smirks when you hide your face in the sheets.
“Barely even did anything,” you mumble.
Jack makes a sound you can’t quite discern.
“Right,” he chuckles. “Except that thing where you got really tight when you were about to come again or—”
You whip around and press your hand over his mouth, your eyes wide and embarrassed.
“Jack,” you complain, half-serious, half-playful.
He kisses your palm and smiles.
“Hey, I’m just teasin’,” he retorts. “But I really meant it. It was really great for me.”
“Yeah, for me, too,” you mumble.
You’re not used to any kind of pillow talk, so the words feel thick, like they don’t quite want to leave your mouth.
Jack doesn’t seem to mind. He just pulls you closer against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head.
As the minutes pass, he tells you to go pee and promises more cuddles later on.
In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror. The haphazardly buttoned-up shirt you’re wearing belongs to Jack and falls to your mid-thigh. Your hair is a mess from how often he ran his hands through it. A few hickeys begin to gain color and paint your neck a soft purple.
You can’t help but smile.
“Hey, sweetheart?” Jack calls out. “Your phone keeps vibrating. I think someone really wants to talk to you!”
“Yeah, just a sec,” you reply.
When you return to his bedroom, Jack is sitting up, his brows drawn together slightly. Your phone is in his hand, the screen facing up.
“Sorry,” he says as he passes it to you. “I didn’t mean to spy on you or anything, just wanted to bring it to you.”
You take your phone and glance at the messages—and feel your face heat up.
“Oh.” Your laugh comes out stiff as you quickly shut off your phone. “Sorry, um—they’re joking, of course. Like, uh…”
Jack looks at you quietly, watching as you fumble nervously with the edge of your phone case. There was a light flush to his cheeks now, too.
“No, no, don’t worry, I shouldn’t have read it anyway, I just looked at it ‘cause it kept… vibrating,” he explains.
The awkward silence that follows feels detrimental.
You wonder if you should explain more, or if maybe stammering another apology would make it worse, but then Jack breaks the quiet first.
“Not to sound my age, but… I assume cracking means… uh… hooking up?”
You press your lips together uncomfortably.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “Like, um… yes.”
He nods once. Then he tilts his head to catch your eyes.
“It’s not the… nicest word, is it?” he asks.
“It’s just, like, a TikTok thing,” you answer.
“Hm,” is all he replies.
Then he takes your hand and guides you back onto the mattress. You meet his gaze hesitantly. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper, just like the furrow between his brows. He doesn’t seem angry, just serious.
“I… I kind of would prefer it if you didn’t think of what we just did as… “cracking”. It’s not the word I would use,” he says slowly.
“It’s just a word,” you mutter.
“Not to me,” he argues softly. “It’s… words have meanings. And cracking sounds like… like I’m doing something to you, not with you. I don’t mean to be… all old man and, like, police your language. But… I don’t want you to think of sex with me that way. Or… with anyone else for that matter, even though, ideally, I would like this to be a long-term thing.”
His hazel eyes don’t leave your face for even a single moment, and it’s almost overwhelming—if it weren’t for the sincerity in them.
“I’m sorry—" you begin, but Jack shushes you.
“No, sweetheart, I don’t- I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to be comfortable with me. I wanna make sure you… you feel respected by me,” he explains.
“I do,” you reply quickly. “Really. Like, no one else has ever… been this kind to me.”
Jack’s face falls.
“Oh, no, I mean, like… you’re a gentleman,” you elaborate.
He shakes his head softly.
“No, baby, I’m… this is… this is the bare minimum. Christ.”
Jack’s hands find yours, and he leans in to kiss your forehead. Then he wraps his arms around you.
“At the risk of sounding like your father, I think you kids need to put down your phones and go out in the real world.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
there is a very long, very nuanced conversation about the fine line between sexual liberation for women and brainrot porn (that honestly i doubt people on the internet could have in a mature way) and can i just say that i LOVE the approach you took with it????? i love soft, loving jack and how he doesn't judge reader but still draws his limits and they still find common ground and they both enjoy themselves thoroughly and i think it's so important for women (especially young women) to ask themselves if they enjoy the fast rough kinky sex because that's genuinely what they like or if it's because it's been imposed and indoctrinated that they need that to "be cool" or "be good in bed" or "be better" than the women who don't like it and urghhhhh please i could read a thousand more fics like this!!!!!!!!!!!!
Brendon had you in a very delicate space; just in between reaching your orgasm and teasing you. He’d been teasing you for the last— fuck knows how long.
it was hot at first, it always is…but you had a long day, and you desperately wanted release, you didn’t want to wait for it tonight. if he hadn’t been edging you, you could’ve came 4 times before this.
“Bren, please lemme have it..” you plea, nails digging into his hand since it was pinned above your head by just one of his, his other hand obviously busy orchestrating the fuck out of your clit, and he’d been deep in your guts since your (almost) third orgasm.
“jus’ be patient, sweetness, it’ll feel good—”
“Breeennnn-uh!” He continued rolling his hips, slow and deep, pressing all of his weight into that spongy spot and squishing you into the mattress, only to stay still just before your climax. and you lost it.
you let out a defeated whine, tears stinging behind your eyes. your orgasm has out of the room, out of the fucking country, at this point, you were too tired to do it again. “stop, Bren,”
Brendon looked up quickly, and double takes when he saw your face. “what’s wrong, baby?”
“i lost it..” you whine, tears clouding your vision now, it didn’t even feel good anymore. “i just wanna go bed,” and pushed against his hand. He looked down at you like you’d just told him you wanted a divorce, very distraught. He ruined it for you. “oh baby…sweetness, i’m so sorry..” Brendon cooed at you, kissing your cheek softly, freeing your wrists.
he pulled out slowly, ever so careful with you, his one hand smoothing up your belly to reassure you, but you were already curling into yourself and pulling away from him. “i’m sorry, sweetness, let me make it up to you, yeah?”
“no, i just wanna sleep—”
“y’don’t have to do anything, just lie back and relax, baby, i’ll give you it, as many as you want.” Brendon suggests, looking up at you from your stomach as he peppered kisses all over your shoulders, down your breasts and past your bellybutton. you whined, rolling over and giving in to him.
big hands cradled your thighs and sat them comfortably on his broad shoulders, he kissed down your inner thigh and looked up at you over your pretty pussy “m’sorry, baby, i didn’t know you needed it so bad..never would’ve made you wait like that,” he exhaled, remorse and guilt aching in his chest, “who am i to deny you this, hm?”
he ate your pussy like he was making out with it — how he ate it most days, really. sloppy, wet, loud, lapping up everything you give him and does it gratefully too. along with the influx to his ego whenever he makes you cum, whether your whining or screaming out, eating you out was an outlet, a pastime when somethings wound him up and he just wants all of you to reassure him; your warmth, your scent, your essence.
but this time it was about you, so he doubled down and focused on all those places that made your legs jolt and your breath catch. and annoyingly, when you did come after he had been teasing you, it was a big one. gone was the empty and dreadful feeling of losing your orgasm. all was left was your Brendon making sure you were satisfied.
They’ve been together for a lil, reader is experienced but vanilla. up to u how u on plot (i say they’ve done it a few times but reader never finishes) UNTIL now. idk how to write it… and u r so much better with words.
But like spicy af. I say dif positions until one works… I just need some freak nasty stuff.
special girl ༉‧₊˚.
pairing: andrew cody x f!reader
summary: andrew makes you cum.
content: +18 MDNI, established casual relationship, oral f!receiving clit stimulation, fingering, size difference, nipple sucking, secretly possessive!andrew, marking, dirty talk, sloppy makeouts, unprotected piv, multiple positions, intimacy, praise, down bad kinda awkward!andrew, begging, creampie, mention of alcohol consumption
note: god i need him so bad!!!!! this started off as me challenging myself to write a fic 1.5k words or less but it's yap city over here </3
wc: 3.1k
"never?"
it doesn't make sense to him. you're too pretty, too desirable.
andrew knows you've been with others both before and after him. the two of you have never been exclusive, but it's always been...different with you. has always meant more. has always felt as close to love as he's been allowed. an intimacy bordering on worship.
so when you make your confession, he almost doesn't believe it.
but there's so much sincerity in your eyes as you shake your head and say, "nope, never."
he moves just slightly from where he sits on the edge of his bed. you're laying on top of the sheets, head on his pillow, looking like you belong in it far more than andrew ever has. "so you just...what? ...fake it?"
a sound leaves you. not quite a laugh but something close. "not...exactly?" you pick at the tab on the can of your seltzer. "well, i guess sometimes, yeah. it depends on the person."
"and what about..." andrew shrugs, blinking. "what about with me?"
you purse your lips and your eyes narrow the smallest bit. "don't do that," you say.
"what? it's a reasonable question, isn't it?"
for a second, you say nothing. you just stare in that way you sometimes do, attention stuttering over his features. the shape of his mouth, the curl of his lashes, the freckle just above his left brow that you've claimed as your favorite.
"no," you admit softly. "i've never faked anything with you, andy."
"but you've still never finished, right?"
you shake your head in dismissal and set your drink on his nightstand. "it's not about just that, though. not with you."
his brows furrow, and he tries to understand but can't quite wrap his head around it. he wants to ask for clarification, but there's a part of him that fears the answer.
but you see it, even without a word spoken. you see him, the way you always do. the way you always have. "i just like being close to you," you explain. "you always make me feel...i dunno. special."
"you are special," he says. it's not meant as a compliment. rather just truth. but it makes you smile, and pope finds himself wanting to say it again.
he lifts his hand from where it sits at his side, not much more than a twitch, nearly reaching for you out of instinct. but then he puts it back down again, unsure of himself, unsure of...this.
the space between you feels precarious. a new layer of naked truth stripped bare. another curtain pulled back.
you notice, but you don't push.
andrew tries again, heart racing fast as he sets his palm on the inside of your knee. “we could…would you want to…to try?”
a smirk pulls at the corners of your pretty lips, glossy and strawberry flavored (andrew knew, because he paid for that lipgloss at the beauty store you dragged him to a month ago). “you wanna try and make me cum?”
he shrugs and strokes his thumb across the top of your thigh. “if you want. i mean, no pressure anything like that but…it just feels wrong. like, unfair or something.”
“you actually want to?” this time it is a laugh that escapes you. a pretty, heartwarming sound he’s adored for as long as he can remember. “like…here? now?”
craig and deran’s party thrums with life just outside pope’s bedroom door. you’d come here for a little bit of peace, some respite. only to make a confession that unsettled him more than the noise. “why not?”
“what if i, like…you know. can’t.”
a crease forms between andrew’s brows. “well you have before, right? like, by yourself?”
your smile grows. “uhm…yeah. yeah, i have. i mean i can, but what if i can’t today. like, here.”
“then we try again later,” he answers simply. and then quickly amends, “i mean if—if you want.”
for a moment, you sit in the quiet together. you’re considering, pope knows. weighing the offer. his thumb still rubs tiny circles into your thigh casually. it’s an intimate touch but not sexual in nature, not suggestive.
not until you nod and say, “okay, yeah. we can try.”
and then he moves his hand upwards, slowly snaking his fingers between your legs. he presses against your hip, pushing you onto your back, and feels the metallic button of your jeans.
pope nearly pops it open on instinct but forces himself to slow down. tells himself he needs to take his time with this.
so he slips his hand beneath your top instead, cracking a small smile when you squirm as his fingertips ghost over that ticklish spot just a few inches below your rib. he finds the swell of your breasts and massages gently over the fabric of your bra.
you lean forward just enough to pull your top up and over your head, discarding it on the floor at his feet.
andrew reaches around your side and unclasps your bra, albeit a little clumsily, before adding it to the growing pile of your clothes.
when you lay back down, he follows you. presses his soft lips against the corner of your mouth first, a quiet asking for permission.
you turn your head to kiss him fully, lips parting to let him inside. andrew has never really felt good at much, but kissing you, specifically—he feels confident in. he's had a fair bit of practice, and knows just how you like it. messy and a little frantic, a clashing of tongues and lips and teeth.
you moan into his mouth and it feels like a victory. andrew bites harshly at your bottom lip, but he's quick to soothe the ache with his tongue.
he crawls further onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and moves his lips just a little lower. laying wet, open mouthed kisses down the curve of your pretty neck, over both of your collarbones, and sucks a blooming bruise at the side of your breast. easily covered, but still a tangible claiming. a mark of his possession.
he laves his tongue over each of your nipples, licking and sucking until your spine bends off the mattress. and then he moves even lower, littering kisses down your abdomen, breathing the scent of your soft skin deep into his lungs.
only now does he allow himself to unbutton your jeans, pulling the zipper down with his teeth. you're wearing a pretty, blue pair of panties beneath, and he presses a chaste kiss to your pubic bone over the fabric.
"god, andrew," you say, kicking your sneakers off at the end of the bed. "i love when you touch me."
he pulls away just a little, enough to turn his eyes up at you. you look so beautiful from this angle, he thinks. eyes glassy and pupils dilated, breathing unevenly. "m'gonna need you to talk to me. tell me what feels good and what doesn't," he explains. and then for good measure adds, "and don't lie to me. i'll know if you lie."
you give him the prettiest smile and then nod. "yeah…yeah, okay."
he doesn't waste any more time, hooking his fingers around the waistband of your jeans and underwear and tugging them down your legs.
pope is already hard as stone, but the moment you're bared to him everything changes. you're so beautiful, and all he wants is to make you feel good.
he presses a gentle kiss to your clit first, pushing your thighs apart to spread you open. then he drags his tongue through the seam of your cunt, tasting all the sticky wetness he's created, unable to quiet the groan that rumbles through his chest.
you let out a dreamy sigh and your head falls back as your hands come to tug at the roots of his hair.
pope takes his time; there's no hurried movement to be found. he lets his tongue grow familiar with every hill and valley of the shape of you, the stubble of his day-old facial hair catching on the inside of your thighs.
when he sucks your clit into his mouth—no teeth, just all tongue and lips and softness—you gasp for air and he can't help the pride that wells in him.
his fingers flex around your thigh, a silent urge.
and like the special girl you are, you quickly say, "good. feels…s-so good. that's perfect."
he takes it a notch higher, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerve endings.
this time it's not a gasp you give him but a sultry, real moan. so pope stays there, circling your clit with his tongue, spelling his name and yours and hoping it does something in the cosmos to seal the two of you permanently together.
the crease between your brows is telling. he squeezes again, a little harder this time, and pulls away only long enough to order, "talk to me."
"can you—" he seals his lips around your clit again, drool and slick coating his chin. "oh god. can you…your fingers, too. can you—?"
pope untangles his limb from around yours, finding your opening with practiced precision. he carefully slides his index finger inside you, humming in response when the intensity of your moaning grows.
he adds his middle finger in beside the first. you're already so wet that he encounters no resistance, pretty pussy taking him greedily. andrew curls them inside you, feeling and pressing against different spots, different angles, until—
"fuck—jesus christ, don't—oh my god don't move just stay right there, please."
he wants to praise you, to comment on how good you're being for him, how perfect.
but pope does exactly as you ask instead—he stays right where he's at, fingers moving inside you, tongue circling your pulsing clit. he can feel the silky walls of your cunt constricting around him, squeezing tight and pulling him in deeper.
you're trying. chasing it. but he knows it needs to happen organically. knows that if you try too hard, you'll get in your head about it and never fall over the edge like he wants.
the words vibrate against your clit when he speaks. "stop thinking."
you let out a dramatic groan. "but i don't know if i can," you whine. "i'm so—hm—i'm so close, but…"
pope pulls away completely now, because though spoken in frustration, your words are still direction. and he heeds it like a dog called to heel. "let's try something else, then."
he leans back on his knees and pulls his shirt up and over the back of his head. he flushes beneath your acute attention, eyes unashamed as they drink up his bare chest.
andrew unbuckles his belt and starts to shove them down his hips. "do you have a favorite…way? something that feels the best."
"oh, uhm…from—from the back, i guess?"
"you guess?"
"well, that's what feels good for me but it usually means…"
you hesitate, embarrassment shining bright in your eyes.
pope urges, "means what?"
"people don't typically…last very long when we—"
andrew playfully clicks his tongue, grips you around your thighs, and wrenches you down the mattress. he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and says, "don't worry, i'll last. now turn over."
he says it with confidence because this is a task for him. and a man like andrew cody? he's thorough.
but that confidence wavers when you arch your back, hands extended beneath the pillow in front of you. the slope of your body is mouth watering. graceful and feminine and yet still so sultry and sinful.
and when he pulls his cock out, lines himself up at your entrance, and pushes in real slow?
he starts to get it.
it's almost too much. too good. you're so tight and wet around him and with his hands on the decadent curve of your ass and the sight of you laid out before him?
yeah.
he understands.
it doesn't take him long to find a good rhythm, thrusting his hips forward and burning himself deep. he settles on his knees , finding an angle that elicits a moan he likes. "how's that, hm? there?"
you nod with your face pressed against the pillow. the next instruction is a single word and spoken in a quiet exhale. "harder."
pope obliges. adds a little more force behind his hips, grunting low to fight off the blinding pleasure that threatens to coil up his spine. you feel so good. "touch yourself," he orders.
with a little effort, you wiggle your hand beneath you to find your clit and pope groans when he feels you clench around him the moment you do.
he watches with panting breath and sweat beading on the back of his freckled neck as the muscles in your shoulders move, working yourself up, being the perfect girl for him. the sight of you a feast of grandeur that he devours.
"oh, fuck—that's good. that's so good, andy, i—" a soft sound escapes from between your lips, the sweetest, most carnal moan.
pope knows you're close. he knows because he can feel it, the warm, silken walls of your cunt pulsing around his cock. your fingers keep circling your clit, pushing you just a little further towards the precipice of release.
but then—
"i need—oh my god—i need to kiss you. i won't be able to finish unless i kiss you, please—"
it nearly breaks him, in truth. the sight of your pretty pussy swallowing down his cock like it was made to take him while begging for something as innocent as a kiss.
no one has ever wanted him like that before. not like you do.
and it makes him feel…changed, almost. like he's been on one path his whole life and here you stand in the center of it, changing his course.
pope groans, the sound guttural, his hips stilling. he leans forward, chest to your back, and presses his mouth right between your shoulder blades. the small affection is slow and measured and intimate. he counts each of your panting breaths as the oxygen enters and leaves your lungs.
"hey," pope whispers, easing himself out of you. "c'mere." he gently tugs you upwards, offering the strength of his hands as support when you lean back on shaking legs. "turn around for me."
pope leans back on his knees and turns you so your position mirrors his, face to face. he just stays there for a moment, looking at you, into your pretty eyes, finding himself grateful for this night and this stupid party and that stupid song they played that you hate.
the energy that passes between you is…profound. honest and intimate and aware.
"you're so beautiful," he says, and he doesn't even mean to. it just slips out. "come here. come sit on my lap."
with a slow nod you say, "yeah. okay." you shift forward, anchoring yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders.
he supports you with one big hand on the small of your back, and uses the other to hold his cock steady while you sink onto him.
your moans are in perfect unison; a heavy, desperate sigh. when you roll your hips, andrew shakes his head and says, "no. let me."
he thrusts upwards, hard. stretching you open on his length, forehead pressed to yours.
"oh my—fuck, andrew that's—"
"touch yourself," he orders again. "and don't stop until you cum."
white spots cloud his vision the moment you do, feeling you tense up, tightening around him. he presses his forehead to yours and his nose brushes your cheek. each of your breaths become shallower, more ragged, ghosting across his lips and tasting of peppermint and the remnants of your raspberry seltzer. "kiss me," you say again.
he does. kisses you hard, tongue finding yours and claiming your mouth. he thrusts his hips up into you, swallowing your moans and and groaning low.
the thought crosses his mind, for just a second—that he might disappoint. because andrew cody realizes very suddenly that he might be in love with you, might have been in love with you for some time. and having you this close is enough to have his heart beating fast and his cock throbbing inside of you. he's not going to last.
he's not.
and then—
"don't stop," you whimper against his lips. "don't stop, don't stop, i'm gonna—oh god. god, fuck i'm gonna cum—"
"there you go. give it to me," andrew urges.
your nails dig hard into his shoulders. "cum with me. please, andrew—please, please—"
that white-hot coil around his spine snaps. you beg so prettily he can't hold it back, spilling his release deep inside you, sticky webs of cum right up against your cervix. he kisses you again, squeezing you tight against his chest. "you're so perfect," he whispers. "my perfect girl. did so good."
his cock quickly grows sensitive. but he doesn't stop moving below you until your muscles go slack and you collapse in his arms, face pressed into the crook of his neck.
you hum, the sound vibrating against his skin, lips wet with his saliva and yours. and then, so gentle and so quiet, you say, "thank you."
pope strokes his fingers over your spine, tracing each one of your vertebrae. he sets you down against the mattress, over the top of his wrinkled but still perfectly made comforter. he lays beside you, observing for a few moments. eventually, he admits, "i don't want you to see anyone else."
a smirk forms. "yeah? that right?"
"yeah." andrew's hand finds yours, fingers closing around your knuckles. "i figured…y'know. since we're making confessions tonight."
you laugh, the sound light and airy. but then silence settles and it feels…heavy. real. "okay," you say.
a crease forms between his brows. "okay?"
"i won't see anyone else."
carefully, almost experimentally, andrew leans forward. his mouth finds yours, lips moving like it's his first time kissing a woman.
he feels you smile and a moment later you ask, "does this make me your girl?"
and he thinks yeah. of course it does. you've been his girl far longer than he'd realized.
hiiii, is there anyway you could do a birthday one shot with pope cody? today is my birthdayyyy :3
Love, Andrew
pairing: andrew cody x fem!reader
summary: andrew makes sure you get everything you want for your birthday (and a little extra, too).
warnings: +18 MDNI, established relationship, feminine reader, pope cody who's bad at emotions, written by an acts of service connoisseur, birthday celebrations, semi-public sex, thigh grinding, fingering, praise, finger sucking, unprotected piv, creampie (but tbh the smut is pretty limited here like less than 250 words), not edited!
note: omfg the way i speed ran this trying to get it done today cause i didn't wanna be late felt so crazy but at the end of the day i am just a girl who aims to please!! happy birthday nonnie i hope this is everything you wanted and more!! (my second attempt at trying to write something 1k words or less lord have mercy.)
wc: 1.5k
andrew cody doesn't care much about his own birthday.
but yours…
he knows it's an important day to you, so he makes it important to everyone.
you always pick out a specific birthday outfit. sometimes you'll even buy a new top or a new skirt to wear.
and a few days prior to the event, andrew will sit on the edge of the bed, watching you try on this dress with those shoes or that skirt with that top.
when you finally settle on a combination, pope will find himself at one of those party supply stores and he'll choose streamers and decorations that match the colors of your outfit. glittering stars to hang from the ceiling and a coordinated roll of gift wrap to seal the one-too-many trinkets he'd picked up for you already.
he orders cupcakes from that bakery you love on the corner of fifth street and the lady behind the counter will give him a discount because she loves you nearly as much as he does.
she'll make your favorite flavors and use that fancy frosting and pope will taste test one when he picks them up, just to make sure they'd gotten it right.
the night before your birthday, he waits until you fall asleep beside him and leaves the house soundlessly. craig and deran will be waiting for him at the bar, decorations already ripped open and separated.
they don't start putting anything up until pope arrives, though. because it has to be just right, and they know from past experience that if it's not andrew will make them stay out all night fixing it.
craig is on a ladder, a roll of tape in his hands and a pile of cellophane stars tucked in his hoodie pocket. "here?"
"no, space them out more," pope directs. "not like that. further to the left. even spaces."
it takes a few tries to get it right, but he eventually does.
deran helps andrew twist streamers together and drape them over the doorways and the bar top. they hang a big banner by the entrance and set out confetti poppers on the booth tables.
they don't leave until it's perfect.
and the next morning, andrew makes you breakfast and brings it to you in bed. sticks a candle in a stack of syrupy pancakes and says, "make a wish, birthday girl."
and you'll giggle sweetly, close your eyes, and blow out the candle.
pope wants so desperately to know that you wished for, but he's too afraid to ask for fear of breaking the luck of your birthday secret.
he waits patiently while you get ready for the day, listening to your favorite songs on the speaker in the bathroom, brushing pretty eyeshadow across your lids and swiping a shiny gloss across your lips.
he takes you out to your favorite shops and makes sure you never reach for your card. and, you know—andrew isn't much of a shopper. he gets overwhelmed in those big apartment stores with their bright lights and the shitty music that plays too loud on the speakers.
but he lets you drag him into the dressing rooms and he gives his best opinions anyway (though, he's not very helpful, because pope thinks you look so good in everything you try on that by the time you're finished, his cock is half hard in his jeans).
and when it's time to check out he'll stand rigidly behind his buzzing little birthday girl, and stare over your shoulder at the clerk and ask about birthday freebies because you're too shy to do it yourself.
he takes you to lunch at your favorite spot afterwards and listens intently as you tell him how excited you are to try this new skincare product or to wear your new necklace.
and when it's late enough, he'll take you to deran's bar under the guise of a birthday drink. he'll text his brother when you're on your way, so by the time you walk through the door everyone is gathered around with confetti in hand to celebrate you.
the bar is filled with your favorite people and the cupcakes are set out beautifully and most importantly, there's a big smile stretched wide across your face.
and even though he has half a mind to knock craig upside the head for the star decoration that has fallen from the ceiling and onto the floor, he lets it go. lets himself exist in your sunshiny happiness instead.
you throw your arms around his neck and his cheeks turn a flaming shade of red when you kiss him in front of everyone.
the night is perfect. smooth. you unwrap the small stack of gifts and catch up with everyone who'd come to celebrate you. later in the night, deran raises a glass and gives out a free round of shots in your honor, and you sit in pope's lap on a bar stool while his brother talks about how good you are for him.
and pope agrees. you are good for him. the sweetest little thing that loves him with unfathomable devotion, even on the days he's not so sure he deserves it, giving freely the warmth he's chased all his life.
he in turn gives you his protection, his adoration, his own twisted up version of love. but it never feels like quite enough, because andrew cody would give you the world if he could.
he tries, though.
it's why he goes to department stores and sits in the dressing rooms with you. it's why he gives you every little thing you ask for, whether it be skincare or a new necklace or a perfectly decorated bar in celebration of you.
it's why, after you finish your second drink and lean in close, whispering to him about the last, final thing your want on your birthday, he follows you into the bar's bathroom and locks the door behind him.
it's why he kisses you hard and lets his hands wander down your back and over your ass, squeezing the supple flesh and thinking to himself just how lucky he is to be loved by a girl like you. he tastes the fruity mixed drink on your tongue and groans in delight at the taste.
it's why, when you rock your hips over his thigh, chasing that blessed friction, pope decides he'll give you what you want long before those pretty sounding pleas start to fall from your lips.
"touch me," you'll say. "please, andy i need it. need you."
and he'll answer, "m'yours. don't gotta beg me for it."
pope will hike your skirt up over your hips and pull your panties to the side and fuck you on his fingers first. one hand between your legs, the other around your jaw, his thumb pressing down hard under your tongue.
he'll make you cum just like that, just with his fingers and that intense eye contact he keeps because he thinks you look the prettiest like this; eyes all teary, pupils blown wide, drool at the corners of your mouth. all fucked out, all 'cause of him.
and when you ask him real sweet to bend you over the sink and fuck you, pope does. makes you look at yourself in the mirror and mutters praises in your ear. he reaches around your hip to circle your clit with his fingers and doesn't finish until he makes you cry out for him twice.
even though you'd tried to keep quiet, it's no secret what the two of you'd gotten up to behind the locked door. deran shakes his head and rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath about respecting the bar.
pope doesn't pay him any mind. just promises to help clean up everything tomorrow morning before the bar opens and takes a cupcake to go so you can have it at home.
and when you're cozied up in bed, smiling and laughing and recounting all the fun things you'd done all day and how much you'd enjoyed yourself, andrew pulls one final gift from the drawer in his nightstand.
it's a folded up piece of paper with a red silk ribbon wrapped around it. and even though inside there are only words, this gift means more. because it's everything andrew wishes he could say but struggles to.
he tells you, silently, between the pages, just how much you mean to him. how you've changed him on a fundamental level, how you'd given what was once a soulless, empty shell of a man a purpose. he talks about how grateful he is for your birth, how he thinks he might've been born seeking you. he promises to love you until the day he dies, after that, even.
it's beautiful and heartfelt and by the end of it there's a tremble in your hands and tears in your eyes.
at the very bottom of the letter, there are two words that hit you a little deeper. not said often enough, because he's never known quite how to say them. two words that settle someplace inside your chest that only he has ever held claim to.
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
summary: you're J's best friend but you hate his grandma and uncles. you hate going around to their place. but when pope takes you up on the offer to go surfing you realise that maybe he isn't as scary as you thought
content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! age gap, smurf, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), hidden relationship, light mention of ass play, no use of y/n
wc: 5k
notes: I'm only on season 2 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.
You hate going over to J's grandmother's house. When he first moved in after his mother died, your parents had banned you from going over there. He was your best friend, so he was more than welcome to hang out at yours after school. But your parents made you promise that you weren't to go over there. And you didn't argue with them. They didn't know you had already been. His uncles creeped you out. They got too close, got too touchy or got too, well, stare-y.
But when you left school and moved out to your own place by the beach, your parents couldn't tell you what to do. And J wanted you to come over - especially to the pool. You argued you could swim in the sea anytime you wanted. But Nicky was always over there as well and you couldn't leave her with those stupid boys. You didn't trust them. And you didn't trust his grandmother.
"How did you get two?" Craig always teases J when both you and Nicky are around.
You always make the same fuckin' face of disgust. You've known J since you two were in kindergarten. You couldn't imagine him as anything more than a brother. He spent a lot of time at yours when his mother was strung out.
You hate spending time at the Codys', but J is your best friend, and you'll do anything for him. Because you worry about him.
One morning you arrive at the house, hoping to catch J early so you two can go surfing. But the place is unusually quiet, and you are greeted not by your friend or his grandmother (thankfully), but by Andrew Cody. They all call him Pope.
Pope has been watching you since you first arrived at the house. He watches how you flinch at the loud noises, how you recoil from his brother's touches. Unlike his nephew's girlfriend, you don't giggle with Smurf. You get in and get out. But he likes watching you. He likes that you sometimes go and sit in J's (his) room when things get too noisy. That you just want to be away from it all.
You're far too sweet to be around him or his family. But he'd like to corrupt you.
"He's not here," he says simply as way of greeting as he stands in the doorway.
"Well do you want the coffee I got for him?" you ask as you hold up the cups you're holding. "I don't know what typa coffee you like but I don't want it t' go t' waste."
Pope's eyes soften immediately, "Do you need money?"
In the last few years, J has started saying shit like that to you. And you don't like it. You're putting yourself through college. You're working in a shitty bar. You don't wanna be like your mother. She never went to college, married your dad right away outta high school. She relied on him for everything. And while you weren't dating and would never date J, you didn't want to rely on him.
"No. I got money. But I don't wanna waste it," you respond before sighing. "Look. If J comes back tell him there's supposed to be a good swell today and I'll be at the beach."
Pope takes the coffee from your hand, his rough fingers brushing over your soft skin, making you shiver involuntarily.
"I can come," he tells you.
You blink in confusion. Pope is a man of few words. You're aware of this from the times you have spent in his presence. Sometimes he'll sit with you and watch TV when J is busy.
"To the beach," he clarifies.
"You surf?" you respond, taking a sip of your iced latte.
He gives you a half smile. A rare sight.
"I'm also from California," he responds simply.
"Okay, well, get your stuff. I don't wanna miss it," you say with a shy smile.
You can't believe that you're willingly spending one-on-one time with one of J's uncles. But all things considered, Pope isn't the worst. Yeah, he's a bit strange. But there's something...calming about him. Maybe it was the time you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to him carrying you to bed. You slightly panicked, but he just placed you down and walked away.
"We'll take my truck," he tells you as he comes back dressed in his wetsuit. He hasn't put it on fully, so he's naked from the waist up. You inhale sharply at the sight of his bulging muscles under his sun-kissed skin. You're not expecting the sight. And you're not expecting your body to react that way. You're not expecting your cheeks to heat up or the heat growing in your stomach.
"Lemme grab my things," you say when you finally catch yourself.
You grab your board and your suit from your car. You're going to change at the beach like you always do. You've never been alone with Pope before. Not like this. He's quiet, stoic, as you make the short trip to the beach. He doesn't play music in his car. He just drives.
"Lemme get changed, and I'll meet you out there," you say to him with a smile.
He shakes his head, "I'll wait."
You bite your lip as you wiggle out of your jean shorts and the crochet shirt you're wearing over your floral bikini top. You don't notice how Pope's eyes wander over your body. He takes you in, hazel eyes examining every inch of you. The way your skin glows under the hot Californian sun. He lets out a soft breath at the way your breasts bounce as you jump to get your wetsuit up.
"Will you zip me up?" you ask him, turning around to offer him access to you.
You both know that you're capable of zipping up your wetsuit alone. But Pope won't argue and gently brushes your hair away from your back, he moves it over your shoulder and then zips you up. He moves closer than necessary so he can inhale your sweet scent.
"Want me to do you?" you ask him nodding to his wetsuit.
Pope gives you that half smile again before shrugging into his wetsuit and turning around to let you zip him up. You brush your fingers up the soft skin of his back and you watch as the muscles ripple under your touch. You shouldn't be doing this. But you zip him up nonetheless and spend the morning in the surf with him. With a man literally old enough to be your father.
Soon it becomes your routine. You and Pope meet on the beach every Friday morning and spend hours surfing and talking. Sometimes Pope will come into the bar during your shift. He nurses a whiskey and tips you far too well. If he comes into the bar, he'll wait for your shift to end to walk you to your car. He's scary. And you don't mind having your little guard dog.
Then, you find him at the entrance of the bar every night as your shift ends. Just so he can walk you to your car. It's just across the parking lot but you like it. Sometimes he'll sit in your car with you and hear you rant about your shift.
"This is gonna be our last Friday surf," you tell him as he carries both of your boards to his car.
He looks so hurt, like a kicked puppy.
"I go back to college next week," you tell him as you shake the salt water out of your hair. He watches as the water droplets slide down the valley of your breasts. "We can try Saturdays instead? Or Sundays? Unless you're busy?"
"Never too busy for you," he says quickly.
You don't expect to meet Pope Cody on your doorstep on your first day of your senior year of college. This time he's holding a coffee, although it's clearly one he made at home as it's in a mug. You can't help but smile at him.
"I thought you might want a ride to school," he says as he looks at you over his sunglasses.
"And how am I meant t' get home?" you respond as you take a sip of the coffee he made you. Just how you like it.
"You call me and I'll come get'cha," he responds.
So this is how the first semester goes. Pope Cody is your personal chauffeur, your bodyguard and your surf partner. He's become a closer friend to you than J. And J notices. Finally. It just took the better part of the year.
J has started to notice that you don't mind coming over for parties anymore. But when you're there, you're more often than not with Pope. Pope will bring you over a drink. Pope will watch you as you speak to whatever girls have been stupid enough to come over. Pope will sit by you when you're sick of standing. And Pope will go inside with you when you get chilly or bored with his brothers being obnoxious.
And J doesn't like it. When the fuck did you become best friends with the scariest of his uncles?
You and Pope are whispering together in the kitchen. He's got new wax for his board and offers to do yours too. You nod, telling him to come around later that evening.
"What are you two talkin' about?" J asks with a little huff on his face.
"Surfin'," you respond with a shrug before you walk out to the pool.
"You screwin' her or something?" J hisses at his uncle.
Pope just looks at his nephew down his nose and walks away following you out to the pool with a towel for when you come out of the water. He's not going to rise to that. And he doesn't want J to know he has been fantasising about you since that first day on the beach. He doesn't want J or you to know that he's been watching you sleep for months. You should get better locks on your apartment door. You look so pretty when you sleep.
You also talk in your sleep. One night as he sits in the corner of your room, you start to whimper. He presumes you're having a nightmare until he hears you whimper his name. Not Pope, the monkier his family gave him. No, you whimper Andrew.
Oh, Andrew, yes! Please!
He had no choice but to grab a pair of your panties. Used panties. He inhales your scent before shoving them in his pocket. He breathes them in as soon as he gets to his own bedroom and jerks off into his hand. Thinking of the way you moaned his name in your sleep.
And he needs to figure out a way to hear it from you for real.
Since J has been an asshole, you've gotten more touchy with Pope. Not when Smurf is around though. You're not that stupid. At first, he's worried that you're doing it to make J jealous. But you'll hug Pope as greeting when he arrives at your apartment. No audience, just you and him. You brush your hand up his arm when he's in the kitchen making a drink while his brothers make noise by the pool. But his favourite thing is when you sit on the same lounger as him by the pool. You're not bold enough to climb into his lap. But you'll sit by him, offer to put sun cream on him. You always ask him to do your back and shoulders.
Sometimes after you settle yourself between the V of his thighs...only sometimes when his brothers aren't around you'll lie back on him. Relaxing against the hard muscle of his stomach.
These moments get added to Pope's fantasies when he's alone with his thoughts at night. The way you shudder under his touch, how soft your skin is. He knows each of your bikinis and he has his favourites. He loves how you wear your bright floral ones when you surf with him. But you go for softer colours when you're poolside with his family. His favourite is a white one that becomes almost sheer when you're in the water. But he doesn't like when his brothers are around to ogle you in it.
"Seriously," J asks you one night as you sit in Deran's bar. "What is going on with you and Pope?"
You look down at your glass and shrug, "You're always doing bullshit. We started surfing together. That's it."
"I heard he brings you to college too. And work?" J pushes.
"What? You got people spying on me? Should I call you Smurf?" you snap.
You don't need this third-degree bullshit. Not from J, who dragged you into this family.
"I even heard he stays over at your apartment," J continues.
"Yea, a few times. He's my friend, J. I don't need you to monitor everyone. Would you be this wound up if it were Craig or Derran?" you ask him.
"It's weird! He's my fuckin' uncle. He was in prison! He's dangerous!" J continues. "And he's old."
You throw your hands up and slam your drink down in one swallow.
"I don't need this bullshit, Joshua. You didn't give your girlfriend this sorta cross examination. Even after she started fuckin' your uncle," you hiss before you storm out.
You don't expect to walk into the wall of thick muscle that is Andrew Cody outside the bar. How did he know you were here? How did he know that you needed him?
"Hey, sugar, you okay?" he asks, steadying you by gripping your waist with his huge, rough hands. You can feel the heat radiating through the flimsy little skirt you wore out.
Pope wonders if you wore this for his nephew. Or some other shithead.
"I just needa go home," you finally answer him.
"Get in the truck," he tells you, firmly.
You just nod your head, the tone he uses goes straight to your core. You press your thighs together and get into his truck. He watches as your skirt rides up and he sees the sweet little floral panties you're wearing. They remind him of the bikinis you love. But seeing this is so much more intimate. Especially because he knows that you didn't mean for him to see it.
Pope is in two minds about going into the bar and beating the shit out of whoever has upset you and going straight to you. But when he sees your face, so open and needy in the truck waiting for him, he crumbles. He goes straight to you.
He drives you home, in silence once again. You're used to it. And you relish it. You needed the quiet. When he parks up, you turn to look at Andrew Cody. Really look at him. His eyes drop after a second of meeting your big eyes.
"Come in, Andrew," you whisper.
He doesn't need to be told twice. He follows you up to your apartment. He's been in your apartment before. By invitation as well as by his own volition. But tonight things are different. Maybe it's because everyone already presumes you're sleeping together. Maybe it's because you're sad and frustrated. Or maybe it's the tension, the touching, the longing glances over the past few months. But you lunge yourself at him. You kiss him hard and messy and desperate. And he kisses you back, tentatively at first but then he gets more desperate. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, you even taste blood as you both devour each other's mouths.
You pull away, "Fuck, Andrew. We shouldn't do this."
You're already so entangled in the Cody family. If you do this. If you cross this line, you'll become one. You know that if you let Pope have you, you'll be ruined. No one else will stand a chance.
"Baby," he growls, pulling you back into a kiss. And you just give in.
You pull at his shirt, needing to see him, needing to feel him against you. His hands are already under your skirt, palming at the flesh of your ass. The two of you are as desperate as each other. You're stumbling around your apartment. Clothes being thrown everywhere...even though Pope wants to fold everything in the back of his mind. But you're pulling him into your bedroom. You fall back onto your bed with his mouth over your breasts. You have no idea when you lost your bra. When Andrew had undressed you to just your floral panties.
You squirm under him as he bites over the swell of your breasts. He's leaving marks that he'll see the next time you go surfing. And he can't lie; he's getting off on the thought alone. You gasp as you feel him rip the fabric of your panties from your body. He lifts them to his face and inhales your sweet scent. A scent he's become addicted to. He grips your thighs and drags you up so you're balancing on your shoulders. He dives into your pussy like a man starved. And he is. He hasn't been dreaming about this for months. At his first taste of you, he cries out in pure desperation. You taste like fucking heaven. He doesn't want to muddy the experience with his fingers. He wants to drink you up. And you let him as he palms at the flesh of your thighs keeping you locked close to him.
You start to squirm harder against him as your orgasm starts to build. You've been dreaming about this moment for so long. But this is so much better than you could have imagined. You cum with a strangled cry, saying his name like a mantra.
Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.
He almost cums in his pants just at the way you moan his name like that. It's even sweeter than how he imagined it.
Pope has had issues getting hard in the past but ever since he started surfing with you, he's been hard enough to pound nails almost constantly.
"Wanna see you," you whisper as he lays you back on your bed. Your voice is still shaky from your orgasm; your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. But you're not done with him. Not a chance. Not when you've finally got him.
Andrew shucks his boxers off and your eyes go wide. You have no idea how he's going to fit inside you. He's huge.
"You okay, sugar?" he breathes, stroking your cheeks.
"You're really big," you confess. Sure, you've seen the print of him against his wetsuits, but you guessed there was fabric and water in the mix. But no...he's just...huge.
Andrew ducks his head shyly, "What? Those other boys were lacking?"
You blush bright red.
"Um...there were no other boys," you finally confess.
Pope's eyes go wide. He looks like the cat who's got the cream. He's going to be your first. He's gonna be the only person who has ever had you.
He kisses you now desperately. He grips the base of his cock, guiding the blunt head of his weeping cock to your entrance. He teases your clit first with his tip. You let out the sweetest little moans for him. And he's not even inside you yet. You're already panting and squirming for him. You're intoxicating, and he's already addicted to you.
Finally, he pushes into you. He has to squeeze his eyes shut at how tight you are. Pope has never been a gentle man. But he's being gentle for you. He'll always be gentle for you. When he finally bottoms out in you, your nails dig into his shoulders. They leave little half moons between his freckles.
"You're so tight, sugar," he breathes, his lips kissing over the shell of your ear.
You just nod, not sure you can form words. You're just so full of him. And when he starts rocking his hips you swear you see heaven. You've never felt this good in your life. Your body is on fire. His hands grip your hips and then slowly begin to explore the rest of your body. He grips your breasts, rough, pulling and flicking your nipples without rhythm. He then slides his hands down your arms, gripping your wrists and dragging them over your head. You both groan as he stretches your body out for him.
His thrusts get faster, harder, rougher. Andrew tried to be gentle, but fuck he needs to carve a path through you. He needs to make you his. No one else has had you and no one else will after he's finished with you. You're his. And only his.
"'m close, Andrew," you whine out as the headboard slams against the wall.
He's pumping in and out of you like a man possessed. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. It's animalistic. It's raw. It's fucking messy. And you cum without another warning. You scream out like a banshee as your orgasm rips through you.
Your pussy grips his cock like a vice and he has to stutter to a stop. He can't move you're so fucking tight, your cunt convulsing around his cock. And fuck, it's the prettiest fucking sight. Andrew presses his forehead against yours as you pull an orgasm from him. He fills you with thick, hot ropes of cum. The release feels like heaven. You swear it spurs on a third orgasm...or it could just be aftershocks from your last one. But it feels so good.
You lay tangled in each other's arms for what feels like hours. His cum seeps out of you and down your legs, cooling against your skin.
Finally, Pope gets up and grabs a wet cloth to clean you up.
"We can't tell Smurf," you say, at the same time as he says, "Smurf can't know."
At least you're on the same page. You both know that Smurf doesn't like it when her boys are distracted. She'll allow it for a time. But not for long. Especially if she sees their loyalty wavering. You're not stupid, you know she did something to Cath.
"Stay," you breathe, running your fingers through Andrew's auburn curls. You love the grey that's appeared by his temple, the greys that pepper his stubble.
You can't help but kiss over his chin and jaw. You give him a little nip as you do. This elicits a rare chuckle from Andrew 'Pope' Cody.
Your relationship with Andrew doesn't change much...bar the sex. The sex is incredible. Mind-blowing. You spend days in bed with him. You've started to wonder if you're a sex addict. Andrew soothes you, telling you this is very normal. Especially at the start of a relationship.
"Who are you fuckin'?" Craig finally asks you when he sees the hickies scattered over your body when he spots you on the beach one morning.
You've been smart, not flaunting your body over at the Cody house now that Andrew won't stop leaving marks on your skin. You can wear one-pieces, sporty ones that cover most of your chest if J invites you over to swim. Andrew gives you a knowing smirk when he sees your more modest swimwear. Knows that he's the reason.
But now you're in your bikini on the beach, not expecting to see anyone who might ask questions.
"Can't a girl have a lil privacy?" you ask putting your hands on your waist.
"Well no, because ever since I've known you, you've been like a nun or something," he responds as he shakes the seawater out of his hair.
"Just cos I won't sleep with you?" you respond with a roll of your eyes. "Cody boys aren't my type. Sorry, sweetheart!"
You give him a smile over your shoulder as you head back to your apartment.
Cody boys, no. Cody men, on the other hand? Well!
You were smart around the Cody house. You didn't change the way you had gotten closer to Pope. You didn't change how you would share a sun lounger with him. But Pope still acted like your touch freaked him out. He didn't soften into it like he did when you were alone.
You were careful. You were smart.
When you were alone in the kitchen or his bedroom or even just passing each other in the hallway, you couldn't help but press kisses to his jaw, he couldn't help but grip the soft flesh of your ass. Sometimes when you knew the house was empty, you would drop to your knees and take his heavy cock in your mouth. You loved making him feel good, making him feel powerful. You loved tasting him as he unloaded into your mouth. He always came so quickly when you got your mouth on him.
You just couldn't get caught.
Even if Andrew's brothers knew they'd soon tell Smurf. And then she would use that shit against you.
So you think you're being smart. Until you weren't.
J has invited you to a party. But he's distracted, playing stupid games with his uncles in the pool. Smurf is watching like an emperor in the Colosseum watching gladiators fight. She presides over the parties and everyone loves it. You have to contain your eyerolls behind the designer sunglasses Pope got you. No one notices when you go inside. No one except Pope, who, as always, has been watching you like a hawk. He finishes his beer before following you inside. He can't make it obvious.
You're hunting in the fridge for a soda. His eyes zero in on the curve of your ass. He places his hand on your waist and you jump before you realise who it is.
"Andrew," you breathe softly, turning to look at him.
"No one's watching, sugar," he whispers as he leans down to kiss you.
You smirk against his lips, stepping onto the boots he always wears to kiss him deeper. His hands palm at your ass, slipping under your bikini bottoms to grip the full globe of your ass. His thumb brushes lightly over your puckered hole.
"Andrew," you scold, pushing him away gently.
You giggle as you drop down to your knees, hidden by the kitchen island, and pull his cock from his swim shorts, taking him in your hot mouth. Andrew has to stay still as you work over his dick without being caught.
One thing leads to another and you're in his bedroom trying to stay quiet as he ploughs into you. He's got you on your hands and knees, on the floor because the bed is too noisy. You learn this when you try to ride him but the mattress springs are screeching. So you let the carpet burn into your flesh as Andrew fucks you. He's already made you cum twice on his face. He clamps a hand over your mouth when you cum, muffling your desperate cries of pleasure. He has to bite down on your shoulder to stop his grunts when he fills you with his cum.
Pope knows that you should get dressed and go back out to the party. But he gathers you in his arms and brings you to his bed.
"Just for a minute," you tell him, knowing that he loves post-sex cuddles. He's never been held, not really. And you intend to fix that. You cuddle him whenever you can. You'll always have you arms wrapped around him when you're alone.
What you don't expect is to wake up to the sun filtering in. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
"Andrew! Andrew!" you hiss, trying to wake him up. "Andrew fuckin' Cody!"
Smurf is always awake so fucking early. You have no intention of her finding the two of you. You pull your clothes back on. Swearing when you can't find your bikini top. You were only wearing a beach cover-up when Pope accosted you in the kitchen. So you can't just wander around like this. That's why you decide to grab one of Pope's black t-shirts. It doesn't hide the fact that you're not wearing a bra. But if you can get out of the house before you meet...
"Smurf!" you say as you walk outside. You thought you could sneak out the back. But of course, you can't.
"You stayed the night," she notes, her eyes dropping down to the fact you're clearly not wearing a bra and then to the carpet burn on your knees.
Interesting.
"Sorry I got a bit overwhelmed by the party and I musta passed out in J's room," you lie.
"In Pope's room," she points out. "And you're wearing Pope's shirt."
"Nothing gets by you, Smurf," you say with a smile. "I was wearing a cover-up and it just didn't seem appropriate in the light of day. Look, I should go. I have work."
Smurf immediately turns to the go to the bedroom but frowns when she finds the room empty. The bed has already been stripped. Oh what a smart girl.
"Pope?" she calls. She's aware that he didn't leave last night either.
Pope has put the bedsheets and some of his clothes in the wash. Everyone knows he's a clean freak. No one will bat an eye at him washing bedding that some girl slept in. Obviously without him.
"You didn't go home last night," she says when she finds him.
He just grunts, "I took a walk on the beach. Couldn't sleep. Came back this morning."
Smurf's eyes narrow. She doesn't like it when people lie to her. Especially not her eldest boy.
Pope makes sure for the next fortnight that he stays at Smurf's or his place. He still brings you to and from class, still surfs with you. Doesn't change that part of his routine. But he doesn't sleep over. He doesn't alert Smurf to you any more than he has to of how much you mean to him.
"This is my last semester of college," you tell him one afternoon as you lay on the couch. Your head is on his bare chest and he's playing with your hair.
"After that, there's nothing tying us to Oceanside. We could go anywhere," you remind him.
"What about-"
"Don't say her name," you whisper, kissing over his chest. "Your brothers can handle their own shit. They're grown men. You can start fresh."
"Where has good surfing?" he asks, then as he runs his fingers through your hair.
You smile and stretch up to kiss him.
"I think we can figure it out."
a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated
summary ⸝⸝ Jealousy is never flattering. But sometimes it's exactly what two stubborn people need.
warnings ⸝⸝ inappropriate workplace relationship, MDNI, implied age gap but reader’s age is not specified, insecure reader, jealousy (obviously!), bit of angst, mention of exes (noelle), explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, fingering, happy ending. No use of Y/N.
notes ⸝⸝ first serious Robby fic, amazing gif by my darling @bodeckerhedron 🥹 he looks so pretty there!! wanna smooch
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Robby left.
Every single time. Didn't matter if the shift had spit him out, be it one in the morning or two in the afternoon, soaked through with somebody else's blood or just bone tired from twelve hours — he got his fill of you and then he got up.
You used to think that was the safest part of it. No staying meant nothing left to lose. You'd actually said that out loud once, alone, brushing your teeth, like saying a thing into a bathroom mirror could make it sound convincing.
It wasn't safe. You're aware of that now, eleven months in, thinking about stuff you have no business thinking about at 2 AM. How many times he's actually said your name versus just grunted it into your collarbone like a reflex he doesn't have control over.
You weren't insecure. You were not someone who rereads texts looking for a tone that wasn't there. Not a tear was shed when you'd found out your college boyfriend had cheated on you. You just changed the locks and ate an entire rotisserie chicken by yourself in front of the TV and felt, weirdly, fine.
People used to call you unflappable. You liked being unflappable. It felt like a skill you'd built on purpose, brick by brick.
That went right out the window when it came to Robby. Now you're someone whose ribs go tight the second he so much as looks sideways at a woman he might actually like instead of just being decent to.
There's a difference, and your body grew an awful radar for telling those two things apart when it came to him. It happened sometime around month four and never really left.
The radar pinged when you were bored out of your mind, chewing on the end of a pen that might have once belonged to Whittaker.
He was at the nurses' station with Noelle. Her hand was close enough to his, on a chart neither of them was actually reading anymore.
He laughed. Head tipping back a little, eyes doing the crinkle thing, the laugh you maybe get twice on a generous month, handed over to somebody else like it was nothing but easy.
"Ouch." Santos appeared out of nowhere with an iPad on one arm, completely without the instinct most people have for reading a room, or she did but just didn't care. "That's rough. Watching your guy's ex flirt with him in broad daylight, front row seat and everything."
"He's not my guy."
"Sure." She wasn't even looking at you, eyes still on the iPad, chewing gum leisurely. "They dated. Robby and Noelle. Year and a half ago, give or take, before whatever you two have going on.” Her hands did a vague gesture spanning the two of you. “Mohan told me. Mohan doesn't lie about gossip. She lies about how much sleep she's getting but never gossip." Dropping the iPad on the rack, she actually looked at you, gum still going. "You good? You're holding the pen kinda tight there."
You put the pen down.
You didn't say anything to him for the rest of the shift, which felt like the mature call, right up until it didn't.
Somewhere around hour four, it started feeling a lot more like a slow leak behind your sternum that nobody else could see.
Robby texted you at eleven. You up?
Same two words he always sent, and you typed back yeah before your brain got a vote. Maturity apparently left you as you'd entered your building.
He showed up still smelling like the hospital underneath his cologne, antiseptic and something warmer you stopped being able to separate from the actual him months ago.
Chapped lips met yours in your doorway, like it was nothing but routine, and you let him. Even if Noelle's laugh was sitting in your chest, a fish bone you hadn't managed to cough up yet.
Hands went under shirts before you'd even cleared the hallway, clothes dropped on your living room floor, his shirt on the couch, yours over his.
You told yourself you weren't going to think about her. Genuinely tried, with his mouth dragging down your throat and his hand already working your pants open.
For maybe four minutes it actually worked, his teeth scraping just hard enough at your clavicle to scatter every thought that wasn't more, now, please.
Without conscious effort, you found yourself on your bed and his fingers inside you, curling at the exact angle he's had memorized since the first time.
Somewhere underneath all the noise your brain went and sabotaged you.
Did he do this with her too? Did her thighs shake like this under his hand? Did she get the real laugh in bed the same way she gets it at the desk?
"Where'd you go?"
You hadn't even noticed your hips had stopped moving until his did too, both of you stalled in a strange suspended quiet that only happens when somebody's head leaves the room without bothering to take the rest of them along.
"Nowhere." Nowhere good.
"You went somewhere." If it was any consolation, Robby didn't pull his fingers out. It unfortunately wasn't. They stilled there, full and aching, which felt a little something like cruelty. "Tell me."
"It's nothing. Keep going."
"Not until you tell me what it is." His thumb found your clit , barely moved, like he could multitask being patient and torturing you in the same breath. "What happened?"
A lie was loaded and ready, something about being tired, a bad case. But his fingers curled again, reaching deeper than it had any right to at this moment. Your whole body betrayed you with an arch and a moan that had no performance in it at all.
Right on the heel of the moan came the truth, ugly and completely unplanned. "I saw you with Noelle." Your voice trembled. "Laughing like that. And Santos told me you two used to date. I know I have zero claim to feeling anything about that, we never called this anything, but I felt sick. Standing there. And now you're —" you gestured to the situation, "— and I'm still thinking about her instead of you and I think that makes me fucking insane."
With the amount of hurry it took to stumble into the bedroom, neither of you had the slightest thought to turn on a light, not even the bedside lamp. So whatever his face did was between him and god, you remained oblivious to anything but his hands frozen in your cunt.
"That was a year and a half ago."
"I — I know. That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
"You — you laugh like that with her and you've never once laughed like that with me. Not one time, Robby. I— I just lie here every single time wondering if I'm just what you do because the real thing already happened with her and ended… and you haven't bothered looking for anything else since." You turned your face into the pillow, mortified at the sound of your own voice saying it out loud. "You leave every time. You don't even turn the light on so you don't wake me. But I'm always awake. I just lie there and pretend, so I don't have to watch it happen in real time."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't know that."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." He pulled his fingers almost to the edge, and pushed them right back into you without warning. You gasped at the sudden fullness of it, his voice dropping into a rougher tone than you'd heard from him before. "I laugh like that with her because there's nothing left. It's easy because none of it means a damn thing anymore. Because you're the one person I actually —"
You felt the sentence die in the air between you, felt your stomach drop through the mattress in the silence that followed. "Actually what?"
Without answering, Robby pulled his fingers free and lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressed against you, teasing, his body needing a job to do while his mouth caught up to whatever it was trying to say.
"Care about," he said finally, and pushed into you in one slide that knocked every other thought clean out of your head. "That's the word. Care about."
"Robby —"
"I've been leaving because I didn't know how to stay without telling you why I wanted to." His hips bottomed out and went still, both of you frozen there, joined, neither one pulling apart even though this conversation had clearly outgrown the bed it started in. "Didn't want to say it out loud. I'm fifty two. Buried more people than I can count and most days I couldn't tell you what I had for breakfast. Not exactly a catch."
"I don't care about any of that."
Hips stilling, he dropped his forehead to your temple, breath fanning the side of your neck, the slight tremble in him giving away how hard it was for him to stay perfectly still. "That's the part that scares me. I — That's the thing — I've been leaving so I wouldn't have to say."
"Say what?" Your own words were a breath lost in cold air.
"I love you."
Three words.
You'd built entire personality traits around not needing to hear stuff like that from men, had a whole bit you did with your friends about how love confessions were basically a review nobody asked for.
Flat on your back with this man's hips locked against yours, none of that seemed true, completely unable to produce a single clever thought about it. Even though you knew it lessen the burden of the thing that's been eating at you for months.
"You love me?" Buying time, the way your brain used to stall during viva in med school, repeating the question out loud while you scrambled for an answer.
"Yes."
You'd expected a nervous laughter to soften the landing, you'd even braced for it, but it didn't come.
"Was that why you left everytime?"
"If you say it like — yes. Yes, that was why."
That was so completely him, agreeing to a version of events instead of supplying his own, like the truth was easier to hand you secondhand than to actually build from scratch. If the two glasses of wine you'd had before he'd texted didn't make your chest loose, this definitely did.
He kissed you before you could ruin it with whatever your mouth was about to attempt. Slow at first, and then not slow, his hips finally moving again. You felt the difference in your bones. Heavier somehow, like he'd been holding something back this whole time and had only just now set it down.
You thought, stupidly, your mother's voice from years ago, some lecture about how men who can't say things outright will show you instead. You'd rolled your eyes at the time because it sounded like a fortune cookie. It didn't sound like a fortune cookie right now.
Then came Noelle again, all the other times where they could've been like this. Wondered if he'd said the same thing about someone else to her.
You knew it wasn't fair. He wasn't some monster gaslighting you into believing he's a good guy.
The thought evaporated with Robby's hand sliding up to rest against your throat, like he needed somewhere to put his hand. "Don't think about her," he said against your mouth. "Not while I'm inside you."
"Hard not to," you admitted, and immediately hated yourself a little for saying it out loud. It was ugly.
But his hips snapped forward right then, your honesty earning a reaction out of him he hadn't planned on giving.
"She never had me like this." His voice had gone rough. The headboard started its soft, steady complaint against the wall, the same sound you'd heard a hundred different times over the past few months, but none of them felt like this. "Never had me saying the things I'm saying to you right now."
You wanted to ask what things he'd told her specifically, still room left in your brain for petty curiosity. But when his mouth found your jaw, the question dissolved somewhere between your teeth.
"Every time you see her face," he went on, breath hot against your ear, "I want you remembering whose bed I keep coming back to."
Somewhere distant, you knew what he was doing. Saying with his hips what he couldn't get out standing up in a hallway with the lights on. You'd have called it sad on anyone else. But you'd thrown a whole tantrum over a laugh mere minutes ago, you didn't have an upper hand.
Even without being fair, your body had completely overruled whatever your brain was attempting to negotiate, as you clenched around him without meaning to.
The small, helpless noise that came out of you was something he clearly enjoyed. "There it is." You could hear the satisfaction crawling into his voice even through the strain of it. "You like hearing it."
"Say it again." No more point pretending it didn't matter.
"Yours." He bit down at the curve of your shoulder, enough for you to find the mark tomorrow. You'd find in the shower and touch it on purpose, the way you did with every other one he'd left over the months, a little private inventory of evidence of his body on yours. "You're the only one I want."
You broke as the words left him, his name tearing loose from your chest mid cry.
Robby cared enough to notice, but kept going right through your aftershocks with none of the restraint you'd gotten used to from him, the confession having used up the last of whatever discipline he usually operated on. "Look at me. Look at me when I —"
You forced your eyes open through the blur, to find his, even though every nerve in your body was begging you to just shut them and float. "I'm here."
He came with his mouth pressed to yours instead of buried in your neck the way he usually finished, a monumental leap.
Your name broke apart between his lips in pieces, hips jerking through it before his arms finally gave out and his whole weight dropped onto you.
Robby was careful even falling apart, catching his own weight at the last second so he didn't crush you completely.
Somewhere in the haze, you thought that there was probably an entire personality you could write about a man based solely on how he chose to fall on top of someone.
His mouth found your shoulder as he left open mouthed kisses all over it. You could hear both your heartbeats slowing down at slightly different speeds. It was oddly endearing how his stayed a little fast even after yours settled down.
You half expected the scramble even now. Pattern recognition came easy too you, part of your brain already listening for the rustle of him finding his jeans in the dark.
It didn't come though.
Robby's breathing evened out near you, one arm slung heavy over your stomach, settling in instead of lunging towards the exit.
You thought about asking what time it was. An old habit you didn't even fully understand the function of anymore — maybe to give him an easy excuse if he wanted one, maybe just to confirm he was choosing this on purpose and not simply losing track of the clock the way exhausted people do after a double shift.
"You're not leaving," you said eventually, voice muffled into his chest.
You felt him laugh, more breath than sound. "Said I wasn't going to."
"You say a lot of things."
His arm tightened slightly, pulling you closer in against him, his chin coming to rest against the top of your head. "Well, get used to this one."
You thought about Noelle, briefly, one last unwelcome flicker. You wondered if she ever got this, the staying part, the arm that didn't pull away, and decided, almost immediately, that you didn't actually care anymore, not the way you had three hours ago.
It felt less like jealousy now and more like a story that had already ended, one you'd just happened to read the last page of tonight.
"For the record," you said, "Santos has a big mouth."
"Santos has always had a big mouth." His hand was drawing idle shapes against your hip, only aimed at staying connected to you. "Glad she does, though. Wasn't sure I was ever gonna get around to saying it myself."
"You weren't?"
"Was planning on being a coward about it indefinitely." There was no real shame behind it, not really. "You kinda forced my hand."
"I had a mental breakdown over your ex. That's not forcing anyone's hand, that's just embarrassing."
"Didn't feel embarrassing though." His mouth pressed against your hair, brief, almost absent, like he wasn't even thinking about doing it.
You didn't have a comeback for that, which was rare for you. You let the silence sit there instead of filling it, listening to the quiet of your own bedroom at — what, one in the morning? Two? You genuinely didn't know anymore. Hadn't looked at a clock once since he walked through your door, actually, and it took you a second to even notice that about yourself.
SUMMARY Trying to avoid your hopeless crush has worked surprisingly well… until you accidentally send him a consult request.
IN WHICH Brendon Park proves that the hospital's most intimidating attending has every right to his god complex.
WARNINGS 18+, MDNI, explicit sexual content, workplace romance, attending/resident, awkward crush, reader is down bad, power imbalance, praise kink, size kink (even though reader is mentioned to be curvy a couple of times, park is huge and so is his dick 😮💨), pussy pronouns, oral (f rec), unprotected pnv, body worship, breast play, nipple stimulation, mild choking, slight dumbification, discussion of fractures for like two seconds, mentions of Robby and Whitaker, no use of y/n. partially proof read.
NOTES gif credits : @bodeckerhedron thank you for making it just for me 🙂↕️ (you’re supposed to say “yes, i did make it for you!”)
Colles is a distal radius fracture, usually treated conservatively with a cast. The x-ray above is NOT Colles. It was the only ones that remotely matched my colour scheme. And as usual, the image above does not depict reader, just for vibes.
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There's exactly one upside to being friends with someone in Ortho, even if all of them were just morons with a god complex.
Faster consults.
Peterson was the same as you. Same year, same matching cycle, equally sleep-deprived and increasingly philosophical about whether any of this was worth it — the answer was yes, obviously, but only at certain hours and in certain lighting.
He was Ortho and you were EM. The hospital's hierarchy made you equals, but if anyone asked you, you'd say he was doing a little better than you.
Officially he couldn't sign anything. Unofficially, he could tell you that you were right, and give you the right to say "seen by Ortho." Basically, an excuse wearing scrubs.
You keep Peterson on decent terms, he comes down earlier for consults. Everyone goes home.
Good networking, if you ever had to explain it out loud. Which you wouldn't, because there was one other reason, something that no one except you knew.
Peterson was the single most efficient way to get around a consult without having to see Park.
The problem wasn't that you didn't want to see Park. You wanted to see him, badly. It's just that, something happens when you do see him.
The brain that had passed med school, performed codes at asscrack hours, goes offline. You'd be a functioning person, and then Brendon Park would appear in your peripheral vision, and you'd be a nobody, standing with your mouth slightly open, aware that something was supposed to be happening somewhere and nothing beyond that.
You'd proven this spectacularly multiple times. The latest incident was a week ago. Park had come down for a consult, a MVC, called down to the ER by Robby himself.
You'd been so committed to not watching him, and guess what had happened?
You walked directly into his chest.
When asked about it, you'd learned to say "accidentally bumped into him."
But 'bumped' was underselling it honestly.
What happened was a whole body collision. Face-to-sternum. Your suture tray went in one direction. Everything on it — needle driver, forceps, the forever-in-shortage 3-0 ethilon — went everywhere else.
He'd caught your elbow for half a second, which to you, felt like years, everything playing out in slow motion. It was the kind of reflex one would use to steady a child. "Watch your step." His eyes did a quick pass over you, checking for any damage. "You good?"
You'd said something, that part you remember. For the life of you, you still couldn't figure out what exactly you'd said.
He didn't seem to mind anyway as he'd kept walking, not even throwing a glance over his shoulder. You on the other hand, were rooted to the ground, staring at his interscapular distance, a longing wife sending her husband out to war, a wistful look on your face.
Robby found you exactly like that. He brought you to your senses by snapping a glove at your shoulder, startling you. Without a single molecule of sympathy, he said, "stop drooling in my ER. And please pick those up."
You picked up the tray and it's discarded contents. What you couldn't pick up was your dignity, it had taken residence at the cold hard linoleum floor of the ER.
So yeah. Peterson. Earlier consults and a decent enough heart rate at all times.
That was why he got sent the text. 63 year old woman, fell on an outstretched hand in her driveway, arrived with pain and swelling at the distal radius, classical dinner fork deformity.
You got the X-ray. Classic Colles' — dorsal displacement, clean break. Needed Ortho eyes and a note in the chart and that was it.
You : Colles. You free?
You attached the X-rays, hit send and went back to your patient.
You didn't look at the screen.
You should have looked at the screen.
Forty-odd minutes later, Whitaker appeared at your elbow, looking pale. Well, paler than usual. "Why is Park down here?"
You looked up from your chart. "Sorry?"
"Shark." He lowered his voice, like the man could hear his own name from two rooms over. "I've checked the board twice. We only have one Ortho case and it's a Colles'." He frowned at his tablet like it had personally disappointed him. "He doesn't come down for a Colles'. He'd call every sleeping resident in the building before he personally came down here for a Colles'. Even if the systems didn't work, he'd make someone carry the films upstairs."
You followed his line of sight to see Park. Big mistake, your brain started bidding you goodbye. But you feigned indifference and continued your chart. "Maybe they're short upstairs."
Whitaker looked at you like you'd suggested maybe the defibrillator was decorative. "He's the attending. If they're short, he makes their lives miserable, he doesn't physically transport himself four floors down for a Colles' fracture."
"I don't know, Dennis. Probably came down for something else." You brushed him off, trying to block out the fact that Park was standing at a five metres distance and the traitorous organ inside your chest had already picked up on it.
Whitaker wandered off, probably to some hole where no one — no, Park — couldn't find him.
You continued for about one more minute. But then you remembered that Peterson hadn't texted you back.
He always texted back within ten minutes. That was the entire arrangement. The one rule. Immediate response. You knew he wasn't in the OR. There were no emergency cases in the morning, and as far as you knew, Monday wasn't elective OR day.
Peterson picked up sounding mildly surprised that you'd called instead of texted. No one called anyone anymore. "Hey. What's—"
"Did you get my text?"
"What — what text?"
The floor dropped out from under you.
"I'll call you back," you hung up before he'd finished his next word, your messages already open, thumb scrolling backward —
Dr. Park Ortho.
No, no, no. You'd texted him. You'd made him come down. God, if you still believed in her, was a cruel entity.
Park's name should not exist in your phone, a number you absolutely shouldn't have. You are not his resident, you are not even tangentially his responsibility, the only reason you have it at all is because you asked Peterson for it three months ago under the thin pretense of Robby asking for it. God knows why Peterson bought it, why the Chief of Emergency Medicine would need a measly resident to ask for the Ortho God's number, but he'd given it to you nonetheless. You just kept it there like a lottery ticket you knew wouldn't win.
Three images, sent at 2:23 PM.
Three? Shouldn't it be just two? X-ray wrist — AP and lateral.
Your thumb flied to the thread, and the first two photos were AP and lateral views.
The third though.
You almost dropped the phone. Almost being the keyword. Because you couldn't afford to drop it down the floor, what with the photo on display.
It's you.
The photo was taken three days ago. Having bought yourself an actual matching set for once, lace, dark red, you'd taken one picture. Just the one, for yourself. Like you take a picture of a meal you were proud of cooking. Same logic. You'd honestly forgotten all about it.
Until now.
Now Brendon Park had a photo of yourself in red lace intended for absolutely no one on this earth, with the caption 'Colles. You free?' underneath it like the universe's cruelest punchline.
Your options were limited. Transfer request, clearly. A sudden and urgent family emergency in another state, and you could continue your residency in some second rated hospital there. But, you liked working here.
You could disappear right now, walk out of this building and never come back, let your absence become the cautionary tale they told at department holiday parties for years. There was something almost freeing about that last one. But once again, you liked working here.
Also Robby would actually end you if you left mid-shift.
A throat being cleared brought you to the present. You looked up to see Park towering over you, shoulders so broad and perfect, you almost wanted to bury yourself in his chest and beg for forgiveness.
"Present the case, doctor."
"M-me?" You pointed at yourself with your free hand, like that one little duck from The Ugly Duckling, as though he'd asked you to march into battle, a bewildered look on your face. Like the medical degree you had held no value at all.
"You were the one who texted me, right?" He turned around and walked towards South 16, where the cause to all your problems peacefully existed, drinking orange juice.
Without any other choice, you followed him.
When you opened your mouth, you discovered that every word you'd ever known had evacuated your skull at once.
Park, for his part, did not rush you, looking at you with a sort of expression reserved for kids who threw tantrums, a somewhat 'go on, I'd like to see you try' look evident on his face.
"I, she's, it's a—" You looked down at the chart in your hands like it might volunteer to speak for you. It declined. "I-It's a wrist."
Transferring was the only option left for you now.
"Glad we covered that." Park deadpanned. "Walk me through it."
Okay, this was pushing it. There's no reason to walk him through a Colles'.
That only meant one thing. He was mad and wanted to kill you.
You were going to die in your own ER, of this, right here, in front of six witnesses. Whitaker was hovering at a respectful distance looking intensely curious.
Your pulse was audible. Well, at least to you.
Park stepped forward, barely an inch, and his voice dropped, his cologne invading your senses almost immediately. "I'd love nothing more right now than to have you dumb on my cock." It was conversational, almost bored, like he was commenting on traffic. "But you've got a patient in front of you, so how about you focus?"
Like he didn't do anything ridiculous like suggest you die a painful death at his dick, he slowly retreated, a smirk playing on his lips, composure perfectly normal.
You presented the case without making a fool of yourself any further than you already had. Mechanism of injury, dorsal angulation, neurovascular intact distally. Possibly because it was a play you knew well, watched and performed a thousand times, at a thousand other places, what with it being one of the most common fractures in the elderly.
Your mouth ran the whole program without having to consult the rest of you, while you sat somewhere a few feet outside your own body and watched him nod along and glance at the films on the tablet like the last ninety seconds had never happened.
"Closed reduction. I'll send a resident down." He spoke to the room, not you.
"Okay," you still responded, nodding your head for good measure.
He looked at you for one more beat, a look with nothing professional left in it whatsoever. "Wait for me. After your shift."
Before you caught up with what had happened, he was walking away, pausing once to nod at Robby — who was glancing between the two of you — and then he was gone up the elevator.
Once again, you stood at the middle of the ER, with your dignity at your feet.
Luckily, Robby did not materialise behind you, only Whitaker did. "What was that about?" His brow was furrowed like he was already constructing six different worst-case scenarios in his head.
"Nothing." You were already walking the other way, shaky legs and all.
"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?"
If only he knew.
The rest of your shift was something you survived rather than participated in. You sutured, discharged, charted, and your brain ran on a loop the entire time: dumb on my cock — wait for me — dumb on my cock, with occasional breaks to consider which state had affordable housing before promptly circling back to the cock thing.
By the time you clocked out you'd made and unmade about nine decisions. You spent an embarrassing amount of time in the locker room that you'd defend as getting yourself together and anyone else who'd watched would describe it as you reapplying your lip balm.
Park was leaning against his car in the parking lot when you got outside, scrolling on his phone. He looked up before you'd made it halfway across the lot.
Your legs begged for you to turn back, it's not too late to maybe live out your days in the hospital, like Whitaker did that one time.
Thanks or no thanks to your prefrontal cortex, you did not retreat back to the confines of your job, put one foot forward and reached Park. "You didn't have to wait outside." And, that that was the sentence your mouth had chosen, out of every sentence currently available in the English language.
"Wasn't standing in that lobby with Robby asking me forty questions about why I'm still in the building." He tilted his head toward the passenger side. "Get in."
With a nod reserved only for superiors, you got in.
Your bag sat in your lap and you kept fiddling with the zipper, which you were aware of but couldn't stop doing.
"You gonna be okay over there?" His eyes were still on the road, but head slightly tilted over to your side. "Or should I be worried?"
"I sent an attending a photo of myself in my underwear. Attached to a wrist X-ray. Asking him to come look at it." You stared straight ahead, unable to look at him. "Doing great."
That pulled something out of him, not quite a laugh, more of an exhale through the nose, amused despite his best efforts not to be. "Wasn't my least favorite outcome of the day. And wasn't that lingerie?"
"That's an extremely unprofessional thing to say to a resident, Dr Park."
"Wasn't talking to a resident." The statement ended with your name, with the same monotone you used to deliver his. He didn't elaborate any further, and you decided, wisely, not to push.
Against better judgment, you looked at the side of his face though. You didn't know someone could look this good clean shaven. He did not mind you looking at him. Or if he did, he didn't show.
"How'd you even know it was me?" you asked, mostly to fill the air. "You didn't have my number."
"Caller ID's a hell of a thing." He said it like that should have been obvious, which, you supposed, it was. "Been trying to find a reason to come down and see your face all shift. You handed me one."
Park the shark? Coming down to see you?
You did not have a comeback, nor did you need one.
You spent the rest of the drive looking very intently out the window, aware of him glancing over more than once, the anticipation of what's coming twisting your stomach in knots you'd rather not feel right then.
His place was not what you'd expected. A man cave you could've predicted, preferred even. But this was more … homely, telling you this perpetually grumpy guy that you've been pining after has a soft side.
There was a blanket actually balled up on the couch, when you hadn't expected a blanket at all.
A framed photo on the stairwell wall hung slightly crooked. You had the genuinely deranged thought that you wanted to fix it, like you lived here, like that was a thing you got to have an opinion about. You did not get to have an opinion about it. You'd known the man's address for nine minutes.
He dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, the single most domestic gesture you'd ever watched him make. You stood in the entryway feeling abruptly, stupidly out of place.
"Shower," he said, moving toward the hallway, not framing it as a suggestion. "You smell like the hospital."
You almost laughed at the bluntness of it. The fact that he wasn't bothering to pretend this was smooth or romantic, loosened a knot in your chest.
The last person you'd done anything like this with — a general surgery resident — hadn't cared what either of you smelled like. He'd had you on his bed in your hospital socks within four minutes of his front door closing. You remembered lying there afterward, painfully aware of the day's grime still on his sheets, wondering if that was simply what dating other doctors was always going to be like. Safe to say, you never called him back.
But, this was shaping up to be a different experience entirely.
Park pointed you toward the bathroom and went to shower himself.
You showered fast, mostly out of nerves, with a bodywash that smelled unreasonably good for something so utilitarian. When you came out wrapped in a towel, you could hear water running behind a different door somewhere down the hall. A folded gray t-shirt sat on the counter that hadn't been there before, soft form what looked like a hundred washes, a faded logo on the chest you didn't recognize and didn't try to.
You put it on. Nothing else. It seemed like an instruction that didn't need spelling out. Some reckless part of you was already curious to find out if you'd read it right.
Park came out of his own shower in grey sweatpants and nothing else. His chest was, well… there.
When he found you sitting on the edge of his bed, he stopped in his doorway just to look. Your knees were pressed together like that was somehow going to undo the last several hours.
"That's a good look on you." Which was interesting phrasing, from a man who looked like that.
"It's the only thing you gave me to wear." You crossed your arms in front of your chest, the t-shirt riding up with the movement, soft thighs delectable for him to look at.
"Take the compliment." He crossed the room slowly and stopped right in front of where you sat, close enough you had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.
He leaned down and kissed you before you could come up with anything of value, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, the other curving along your jaw.
You'd been kissed before. If anyone had asked you, you would describ them as fine. Only now, you were learning that 'fine' is not a word one should use to describe a kiss, this one rewriting every touch of lips you've ever had.
A sigh escaped into it without you meaning to, a soft, helpless little exhale that you heard yourself make and immediately regretted because it meant he heard it too.
He pulled back maybe an inch, mouth still close enough that you felt the warmth of the words. "That good, huh?"
Smug fucking bastard.
"Shut up."
He kissed you again, shorter this time, mouth crooked as it pressed against yours. "You sighed."
"People sigh."
"Not like that they don't." Calloused hands spanned your hips, warmth of it raising goosebumps across your skin even through the fabric, as he softly tugged at it. "Take this off."
"You gave it to me thirty seconds ago."
"And now I'm asking for it back." A faint and wicked smile crept into the corner of his mouth. "Take it off."
Your hands weren't entirely steady when you reached for the hem, more nerves than cold as you pulled the shirt up and over your head in one fast motion. Mainly because you didn't trust yourself to do it any slower, letting it drop somewhere on the floor between you.
The air hit your skin half a second later, followed quickly by the realization that you were now sitting on his bed with nothing on at all while he stood there covered from the waist down.
Reflex more than decision, your knees pressed together, automatic modesty your body apparently decided it needed. His eyes dropped immediately, mouth curving into a half smile.
Big, rough hands made contact with the softness in your thighs, rubbing up and down like he was calming your nerves, followed by a soft tap to your outer thigh. "Open up."
When you stared at him blankly, upstairs evacuating again, he crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, thumbs pressing slow circles into the inside of them. "Open up, baby. I want to see her."
You blinked at him. "H-her? Her who?"
Brendon laughed like you'd genuinely caught him off guard. "Your pussy, sweetheart. What'd you think I meant?"
Heat went straight through you, a different kind than the embarrassment, though the embarrassment hadn't entirely left the building either. The two emotions tangled tight together until you couldn't separate one from the other.
You let your knees fall open slowly, watching his face the whole time, needing to see what it did to him.
The sound that left him when he finally got a proper look at your core went straight back to it, slick gathering. "Fuck." His thumbs kept moving, working higher up your thighs. "Look at you."
Only a whimper slipped past your lips, unable to look at his eyes anymore, even if they weren't focused on yours, but an entirely different part of you.
He dragged one finger up the inside of your thigh, slow enough to border on cruel, stopping just shy of where you actually wanted him. "You're soaked, baby. All this from a wrist consult?"
"From you —" Your mouth caught up half a second too late, and you paused, pressing your lips together.
He looked up. "What was that?"
"N-nothing."
"Mm." His thumb made one more lazy circle over your skin and you realised he probably already knew. He sat back slightly as he studied you, fingers not yet reaching for the delicacy on display, content with only working you with his eyes now. "You know what I was thinking when I came down?"
You were not going to ask. You were absolutely not — "What?"
"I wanted to see how you looked. You always get this look." He tilted his head to look at you, hands still stationed at your thighs. "When you see me. You know that?"
"What?"
"That one." He nodded at your face, like it was helpfully demonstrating itself for him right now. Knowing you, it probably was. "Like your brain just took a long lunch and forgot to clock back in."
"I do not."
"You do. The lights go out." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee. "I've been curious what it looks like when I've actually got my hands on you."
"W-what?"
A parrot. You were more parrot than human, what with all the 'what's you were repeating.
"You're so clueless it's adorable." Clueless from his mouth wasn't any different, having heard it strug with a hundred other insults aimed at his residents. Adorable, on the other hand…
"Don't say adorable."
"Why not?"
"It — it means something different when you say it." You pointed at him, which from your current position — naked, with his hands on your thighs — was a spectacular show of nothing. You held it anyway. "I'm not adorable. I'm a competent —"
"Mhmm."
"— medical professional."
"Okay." You knew every version of his okay. Months of listening to him from across rooms while pretending very hard you hadn't been doing that, and the 'okay' he'd just used meant he'd already won and had no further interest in pursuing the argument.
The Peterson arrangement was there specifically to avoid this and here you were anyway, sitting on his bed, having been kissed and told you were adorable, like you were a squirrel.
"You're not actually agreeing with me, are you?"
Brendon's eyes fluttered close with a soft smile on his lips. Domesticated almost, looking every bit different from the hospital version of him, damp hair falling onto his face without the usual gel to hold it back.
Piercing eyes bore into yours, an intensity that was miles ahead of what you'd experienced before. The tough guy act he usually dons at work seemed to have revealed itself for what it truly was — an act. "Do you want me to agree with you, or eat you out?"
It was so casual, interrupting your flow of thoughts about how soft Park the Shark looked. A minute to organise your head and you were stuck on the "eat you out." Who even asked things liked that?
Brendon was waiting for you and looked like someone who would be comfortable with the wait. He was good at that actually, the waiting it out. Once had even Robby cave, you still weren't sure how that happened.
"W-what?"
"Focus, babygirl." Babygirl. That was new, that was nice. "Use your words. What do you want?"
You'd think ER doctors would be good with words. You talked dying people down from panic, talked families through the worst sentence of their lives, knew exactly how to phrase things to a scared kid in triage. Words were the whole job, basically.
Apparently that didn't transfer, and once again, this was proving to be an uncharted territory. A shark swimming around you in the ER, you can handle. That was shallow waters, and you had an upper hand, known turf. Whatever this was, you absolutely couldn't.
Trying to repeat that sentence was hard, you opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water, one the shark would very gladly devour, as you finally settled on, "yes."
"That's not what I asked, was it?"
"E-eat me out." Finally out of your mouth, heat crawling up your neck as his lips curved into an all knowing smirk, quickly vanished by your utterance of "Bren."
You had never called him that before. Even under your own sheets, with your hands between your thighs, you've fantasised and moaned 'Brendon', but this one had simply arrived. A new development, one that softened the shark's cutting bite.
"Good girl." Brendon praised, and it went straight to your cunt. "Such a good girl."
Shouldn't show all your cards the very first time you're together, you'd once decided long back, and had a stellar record of following it up until this point. With the way this night was going, you were pretty sure you'd be cardless by the end of it.
Before you could say anything, Brendon's mouth found your carotid, pressing soft kisses, and briefly — very briefly, for your disappointment — returned to your lips, a chaste kiss, a soft denial as you chased him.
As he continued marking you with featherlight kisses and gentle suction, you were becoming increasingly aware of the bulge in his pants.
There was this grey sweatpants theory your friend had told you about. Never had a reason to think about it before. You were thinking about it now.
Brendon's palms settled on the sides of your ribs. You must've been sleeping with pocket sized humans, because both of his hands seemed to span the whole of your torso, clearly big enough, having absolutely no problem showing it.
It wasn't like you hadn't noticed them before. You had, on numerous occasions, standing on the nurses' station while he picked up a severed limb to examine. But none of that actually showed you how large his hands were, and how it could make you look small in comparison.
His mouth was now warm at your clavicle, your sternum, until it reached one of your breasts. A sudden gasp from you, and you felt him smirk over your skin.
One of his hands left your hip to hold your other breast, palming it as he ravished this one with a particularly strong suction that made your toes curl.
Calloused fingers deftly played with your hardened nipple, and you yet again tried to stifle a moan.
Brendon pulled apart reluctantly, only to chastise you. "I wanna hear you. Don't hold back."
The next one came out loud as you nodded, the second his mouth closed back around your other nipple, tongue flicking against it while his hand kept working the first one between two fingers.
Your hips lifted off the bed on their own, looking for anything to grind against, and found nothing but air.
"Patience." He said it against your skin, not even looking up.
His trail of kisses lowered past your ribs, your stomach, the softest part of it you'd spent a considerable amount of time thinking about.
Brendon didn't seem to mind though, only pressing more open mouthed kisses, saliva streaking over bare skin, even sinking his teeth a few times, evidence of it you were sure to find the next day.
When his hands met your thighs, they spread them so wide, completely exposing you, even though his eyes made contact with yours once before looking back at your wet core, basically inviting him to taste.
Brendon's mouth descended to your cunt as his big hands kept your thighs open however he'd wanted. You squealed at the first touch of his tongue over your wetness, lips closing over your clit, while two of his fingers parted your slick folds with utmost care, the one contrasting his pull on the soft bud.
"You taste so good," his voice was muffled against your folds, the raspy tone almost had you coming right then, just from that.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it just right, his tongue taking the opportunity to delve into it, a high pitched moan — one that you didn't know you were capable of making — ripped past your lips.
The hands that were bunched at the sheets went straight to his hair, a tug that he seemed to enjoy as a groan vibrated through him.
His tongue worked slow circles around your clit while his fingers found a rhythm inside you, curling on every withdrawal, and your thighs started shaking against the sides of his head before you'd even seen it coming.
"Brendon —"
He hummed against you instead of answering, the vibration of it nearly enough on its own, and one of your hands left his hair to grab blindly at the sheet, twisting it into your fist like you needed somewhere else to put all of it.
He pulled back just enough to drag his eyes up your body. Chin wet and mouth shiny, as he reached for your hand — the one that had abandoned his hair — and manoeuvred it right back to where it was, encouraging you. "You can pull at me however you want."
Apparently he wasn't as attached to his hair as you'd thought.
With that, his mouth met your cunt again, a smirk right against your clit before gently sucking it between his lips.
The sound that tore through as you came wasn't one you were familiar with. Glad you weren't — it probably would've gotten you into trouble if this was your apartment.
When your thighs shook at the aftershocks and your fingers tugged at his hair with all their might, Brendon gentled his attack over your pussy, but kept nuzzling into you like he didn't want to stop.
He kissed his way back up. Your stomach, your sternum, your throat, and when he finally got to your mouth you tasted yourself on his tongue and didn't hate it the way you probably should have. "Gotta taste how sweet you are." It was said right against your lips.
A whimper left you in mock protest as you pushed at his chest with the heels of your hands.
"What? I'm not wrong." He kissed you one more time like he was trying to prove it. "You're sweet everywhere, you know that?"
"Stop it."
"Mouth." A soft peck to your lips, lingering there. He pulled back just far enough to watch your face catch up. "Neck." Shark teeth grazed the side of your throat gently, then again with more weight behind it, enough to make your breath catch. He stayed there a moment, mouthing slowly along your pulse.
"Clavicle." Of course the Orthopedician uses the anatomical term, instead of the romantic 'collarbone' you'd have gone for, but you weren't complaining, as his mouth pressed into the hollow of it.
His mouth found the space between your breasts next, a little towards the left, one kiss pressed right over your hammering heart, his breath warm and slow against your skin.
"Breasts." He took his time at your chest this time, mouth closing over one nipple while his thumb worked slow circles on the other, and you squirmed under him, fingers curling into the sheets, the whole idea of him making a point dissolving into the fact that he just wanted to.
His mouth dragged down over your ribs one at a time, like he was counting, his exhale warm the whole way down.
"Stomach." He said it against the soft give of you and pressed an open mouthed kiss into the part of yourself you were probably the most insecure about. But, insecurity didn't stand a chance against Brendon. He stayed there long enough that you squirmed again, and felt him smile against your skin like the squirming was exactly the reaction he'd been after.
The last one he skipped saying out loud. He looked up at you once, a darkness already sitting in his eyes. Every kiss before this was focused on this lips, but this one, his tongue came into action, flat and slow against you, and you understood, with sudden total clarity, that he'd meant every word.
This part wasn't about making you cum, as he immediately started making his way up, no, kissing his way up, at the same pace.
By the time he reached your mouth you'd pushed yourself up to meet him, sitting on shaking legs, hands sliding over his chest, his ribs, the muscle flanking his spine you'd spent months pretending not to notice.
When you dragged a thumb over his nipple out of pure curiosity, he jerked under your hand, a startled laugh breaking loose that didn't match the rest of the night at all.
"Did you just —" You did it again, intentional this time, grinning up at him.
"Don't." He caught your wrist before a third attempt, a boyishness flickering across his face. Evidence for later, blackmail for the next time he tried to act untouchable in front of everyone, dealt in private of course.
"You're ticklish."
"I'm not ticklish."
"Brendon Park." You said his full name like you were reading it off the board. "Attending Orthopedic surgeon. Ticklish."
"You're done." He caught both your wrists in one hand easily and pinned them gently to the side, just above your thigh. His other hand found your chest instead, thumb circling slowly over one nipple, watching your face the whole time. "That what you were trying to do?"
Your hands stayed pinned, no way to touch him back, and the lack of an outlet had your hips lifting off the bed before you'd decided to let them.
He let your wrists go, sitting back to look at you, a thought visibly surfacing behind his eyes. "You know people look at you, right?"
That came from absolutely nowhere, as you gawked at him, wondering who looked at you and where. "What?"
"At the hospital. People look at you."
"They do not."
"Night shift nurse. New surg intern." His eyes flicked toward the door like someone was about to walk through it. "Robby."
Robby couldn't possibly — "Robby looks at me to yell at me, those are very different things."
You crossed your arms on instinct, and the motion pushed your chest up, drawing attention to the soft flesh, drawing his attention.
He pressed you back into the mattress, mouth finding your nipple, tongue working slow circles while his hand kept the other one busy. "You'd know," he said between pulls, "if you weren't so busy ogling me."
"I don't ogle you." Your hands found his hair on their own, fingers soft against his scalp, betraying the indignation in your voice completely.
"Sure you don't."
"I don't." It came out breathier, not exactly your intended outcome.
"Yeah." Agreement, except you both knew it wasn't. He hooked an arm under you and shifted you higher up the bed. Easy, like you weighed nothing. Something about being moved effortlessly, like being tossed like a blanket, settled warm inside your chest.
Brendon kissed down your stomach again, on his way to sit up. When he finally shoved his sweatpants, you watched him do it without meaning to stare, except you were absolutely staring, probably with your mouth wide open.
He kicked them off the end of the bed and you got the full, unobstructed view of exactly what the grey sweatpants had been hiding.
"You're huge." The words left you without you having a say in it, hands immediately flying to clasp your mouth as if you can claw them back by sheer willpower.
"Yeah?" He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped slowly, watching you watch him do it. His hands pried yours from your mouth and wrapped your fingers around him in place of his own.
You barely managed to circle him, the size of him making your own hand look almost comical wrapped around it.
Brendon hissed through his teeth when you gave an experimental stroke, hips twitching forward into your grip like he hadn't expected it either.
He let you work him a few more times, watching your face more than what your hand was doing, before he pulled you off gently and laid himself down flat against your stomach instead, the full hot weight and length of him resting there like he was giving you a preview of what was coming. "See how huge, baby?"
A nod was all you could manage as you stared down at where he sat against your skin, leaking, a thin shine already smeared where he'd dragged himself there. The sight of him measured against your own body, against the soft of your stomach, made your mouth go dry all over again.
He tapped himself once against your stomach, a light thud right at your navel. "Say it again."
"No." Shaking your head, you wanted to disappear inside your own skin, the amount of attention lavished upon you almost overwhelming. The intensity of his stare alone made your knees feel like jelly.
Thank god he had you spread out on his bed. If not for that, you'd definitely have made a fool of yourself in front of him. Again.
"C'mon." He rocked his hips, dragging himself an inch across your stomach, sure of himself. It would've been obnoxious on anyone else, but he looked incredibly gorgeous and that only made your thighs press together. "I like hearing it."
"That's not — I wasn't complimenting you."
"Sure sounded like one." He braced a hand beside your head and pushed in slowly, the stretch of him pulling a gasp out of you before he'd even finished the thought. "Wanna see?"
It took you a second to get what he was offering, and you nodded. Brendon reached up, cupping the back of your skull, guiding your head up so you could watch where he was already halfway inside you, your walls stretched thin and shining around the sheer width of him, more than you'd thought your body had room for.
The sight was too much to take in directly, and your head dropped fully into his palm before he'd pushed in another inch, a laugh breaking out of him.
Watching your face now instead of where your bodies met, Brendon kept pushing in. Your walls clenched around him at every fraction of an inch, a stretch that bordered on too much before settling into something pleasuring.
"You good?" He asked breathless, jaw tight, hips frozen in place as he filled you to the brim.
"Uh-huh." Barely legible syllables were all you could muster.
"Words, baby."
"Move, Brendon."
The air left your lungs in one go as he pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, your spine coming off the mattress on its own.
Somewhere at the start of this, or the weeks leading up to this, you'd thought he'd be controlled and calm, not one word wasted. He somehow turned out to be the exact opposite but also the exact same.
It felt like you were being taken apart, one piece at a time, while he was also losing himself a little. You could tell by the way his jaw kept clenching, his breath stuttering against your ear like he hadn't planned on that part happening to him too.
His hand slid up from your hip to circle around your throat, more a question than a grip.
"That picture." It barely registered as language. You were somewhere past language by then, his cock and his hand at your throat only things you could process. "Who was that for?"
"What picture?" It wasn't that you were being difficult on purpose. When put in a position you've been mostly dreaming about for the past however many months, the only thing grabbing your attention was right in front of — no, inside — you.
The question floated somewhere above you like it belonged to a conversation happening in another room.
He laughed against your throat, and bit down right over your pulse, sharp enough to sting and soft enough to soothe a second later with his tongue.
On top of that, one of his hands found your nipple, twisting the peaked bud between two fingers, hips coming to a halt.
A half formed protest rushed out of you. "Wha — why'd you — why'd you stop?" Breathy and whiny, your hips tried to chase friction, trying to take whatever he'd stopped giving.
"Tell me, baby." Soft and merciless words in the same breath.
"I don't — don't know, Bren." Your hands found his shoulders, nails biting in without much intention behind it, just somewhere to put the desperation since he'd taken away everything else.
"Did I fuck you dumb, sweetheart?
You shook your head against the pillow, which wasn't even an answer to anything, more just a reflex, the kind of thing your body did now in place of words.
His hips a dead weight notched right where you needed them moving, he waited, patient, that felt almost cruel given the state he'd left the rest of you in.
Like a browser with a hundred tabs open, your mind buffered, going through each of them until it landed on … The Picture. Right. The wrist X-ray, the caption, the —
Oh.
Oh.
The realization was so slow and stupid, the way answers always showed up two minutes after you needed them in a viva. "No one," you somehow got the words out. "I — I took it. For me. Wanted to see how it looked."
Brendon went still processing that — stiller than he already was. "Yeah?" His mouth dragged along your jaw, and his cock dragged out of you, then he pushed in all the way deep into you, like the confession had unlocked something in him he'd been keeping on a leash. "You looked real good, babydoll."
Heat crawled up your neck that had nothing to do with the stretch of him or the slow drag he'd settled into, just the stupid, helpless pleasure of being told that.
Babydoll settled alongside sweetheart and babygirl, right in between them like it had always lived there, and it hit the same place good girl had, and you knew it was all over your face. Every card, every single one, face-up. He looked at you and saw all of them.
You knew and couldn't stop it. You preened. There wasn't a better word for it. Your whole chest just sat up and asked for more.
If he'd noticed, he didn't make a show of it. "Next time," he said, "you're wearing that. And I'm taking it off you myself."
Your cunt clenched around him at the word 'next', an involuntary thing. Of course, he'd felt it, a laugh coming out low and a little wicked against your collarbone. "Oh." His hips stuttered once, to test you or if he was that affected, you weren't sure. "She liked that."
You wanted to die. You wanted to die and also you wanted him to say it again, both feelings sitting side by side without bothering to fight each other for space.
He hooked his arm under your knee and dragged it higher over his thigh, opening you up wider underneath him.
The new angle had you gasping before you'd even processed the shift, his cock pressing somewhere new and unbearably deep.
"Fuck, you feel —" His jaw went tight, breath catching against your ear, and the sentence just died there, unfinished.
You felt a little fierceness in you sit up too, a little smug. He wasn't unaffected. Whatever this was doing to you, it was doing it to him too. That single broken half-sentence felt like a win.
Somewhere underneath the noise, you understood it now. The thing the nurses whispered about — the god complex of it all. You'd rolled your eyes at every Ortho guy who’s acted like they personally invented bone.
Now, you couldn't speak for the rest of them. You hadn't slept with all of them, for one, and didn't plan to start now.
So, the sample size you were working with was n=1, which was not statistically significant in the traditional sense, but you were convinced.
This one. This infuriating, occasionally tender man currently splitting you open — he'd earned whatever god complex he wanted to keep.
"Where do you want it?" His voice dropped, hips losing the rhythm he'd clinged to, like he was holding the last of his control together with both hands. "Tell me, baby."
"Inside." It came out before you could second-guess it. "Please, Bren. Inside."
"Fuck. Good girl." The praise went straight through you, the same way it had the first time. Except now it had nowhere left to land except your shaking core, your whole body drawing tight around the words and around him at the same time.
Brendon reached between you, two fingers finding your clit, and the combination of that and the angle and the low filthy murmur of 'want you' and 'need you' against your throat sent you over before you'd even braced for it, your whole body locking up around him, vision actually whiting out at the corners for a second.
He followed almost immediately after, a groan tearing out of him that didn't sound anything like the composed, deadpan voice you'd known, hips stuttering, before he stilled deep, spilling ropes into you, both of you breathing like you'd run somewhere.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, one hand smoothing the line of your hip.
You lay there underneath the weight of him thinking, distantly, that you'd never once associated gentle and Brendon Park before tonight and now you weren't sure you'd be able to separate them again.
Eventually he rolled to the side, pulling you with him against his chest, his hand now tracing slow lines up your spine.
"I should go," you said, even as your body did the exact opposite of going, settling deeper into him.
"Or," his mouth was against your neck, "you could stay."
"I'd be late." You'd already started counting the hours, and whether you had a fresh set of scrubs in your locker or if you'd have to do the walk of shame in yesterday's, whether anyone would actually notice or if you were just assuming the entire hospital revolved around tracking your sleep schedule the way you currently were.
"I'll write you a note." He said it with such a straight face, you almost believed there was a version of this where that worked. Brendon Park scrawling an excuse on a prescription pad and Robby just accepting it without asking a single follow-up question. The image alone nearly made you laugh into his chest.
You propped yourself up enough to glare at him, even though the effect was probably ruined by whatever state your hair was currently in. "First of all, I'm not five. I’m not going to school. Secondly, you're not my attending."
His hand found the back of your head before you'd finished the sentence, guiding you back down against his chest. "Robby's the only attending you take orders from, huh?"
"Well. He is my attending."
"Mm." For a man who'd had you twice in the last hour, he sounded almost petulant.
"Brendon. I'm in your bed." You tipped your head back to look at him, his mouth set in a soft frown, more like a pout. "You don’t have to be jealous of Robby."
"I'm not."
"You're jealous of Robby right now. Post-nut."
His nose scrunched up, and you immediately wanted to kiss it. "Don't — don't say post-nut."
A laugh cracked out of you, and not a cute one. "Park the Shark. Jealous. Of Robby." You dragged out the syllables, drawing it into a sing song taunt.
"Watch it."
You bit down on a smile and lost, mouth pressed flat against his chest where you figured he couldn't see it.
Apparently he could feel it though, his hand stilled mid-stroke. "You're hiding."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"You're smiling. I can feel it."
"Shut up, Brendon."
EXTRAS guess who was studying Ortho when this plot came to mind? Also final fic for a while, I’m going on a proper break this time 🙂↕️
I’m so fucking feral for Sammy Bryant. Thinking of calling him while he’s at work, asking if he wants to get lunch. And he just looks so goooood that you have to have a quickie in the back seat of his car before you can stand to let him go for a few hours. And you know damn well the moment he walks through that door after work you’re on him again.
HI MOOTIE! thank you for this i love this idea this is so cute! thought about this while i was at work right now actually teehee (im so sorry this took forever i still love you i promise)
thinking about sammy bryant coming sooo fast when you ride him in the backseat of his squad car >:)
*nasty smut below the cut teehee* ! mdni !
you were soooo turned on by his uniform. it gave him a sexy sense of authority that made you want him to order you around and cuff you. you were pawing at him all of lunch while saying, "you look so handsome sammy. I love you in uniform." it was your first time ever having lunch together so sammy didn't read into the compliments and warned you that eating together needed to be quick.
so eating had taken up the entire time, you huffed in annoyance when he said he had to drop you off. you just wanted him so badly. when he parked in your work lot, you couldn't help but kiss at his neck while trailing your hands down the buttons on his dark blue police shirt to cup the heavy bulge below his patrol duty belt. "baby- i told you i-i have to get back. i don't have time to- ooooh fuck- okay, okay."
you were both in the backseat not even a minute later after a bat of your lashes and a breathy "pleasseee." sammy's sitting upright and you're straddling him with your skirt hiked up. you start to rock yourself against his hard on and sigh in satisfaction as you run your hands all over him. sammy was panting already, face getting flushed as he says. "cmon honey- ah mmph- we have to be quick" his words have you pout.
quick? how can you be quick when you love your boyfriend and his big cock. and all you want is to spend some time riding it until you come?
sammy raises his brows and pats your hip where you hover over his hard, lonely dick. "cmon baby- seriously i have to get back." he's nodding at you as if you could ever understand.
he wants quick? fine. he'll get quick.
you lean in and kiss him slowly while your hands unbuckle his belt and freeing him from his briefs. you move your panties to the side and line him up with your poor, unprepared entrance. you press your lips to his then murmur, "okay sammy. i'll be fast. promise."
he groans as you sink down onto him, his hands start to gently caress your waist in that reassuring way they always do, as you take some time to adjust to his length. not today though.
you have barely bottomed out before youre rising up and slamming back down. his stomach caves in and he lurches forward in suprise. twin moans are ripped from you both as you start to ride him fervently. you wince at the stretch that burns tears behind your eyes. sammy groans at the tight squeeze now sliding on his dick.
already he's gasping and choking below you. "fuck-! oh god fuck- baby wait-" his jaw hangs slack while you're wearing a devilish smile. the car starts to shake from the force of your bounces on his thick cock. moans sound from you at how huge he feels inside of you, making your stomach flip and your skin sizzle.
do your thighs burn? sure. but is it worth it when it's not long at all before sammy's face screw shut in pleasure and hes twitching all over? absolutely.
your noises are just too sexy, your wet warmth is gripping him too fucking tight, and your pace almost floats him out of his body. his hold goes bruising on your waist, sweat pools at his hairline. "baby slow down- i wont last if you- mmhf wait- your g-gonna make me-" you lean back and plant your hands on his knees behind you, clenching as you circle your hips while you quickly move on him.
sammy's eyes roll back into his head. "w-wait wait fuck- 'm gonna come- ohfuck ohgod 'm gonna-" he jerks his hips upwards to meet you and in just two thrusts, he's coming. you shudder as you feel his hot release warm your insides. you bite back your smirk as you ride him through it. he's gasping and panting all surprised at the intensity of the orgasm you literally ripped from him. his thighs are shaking when he comes down, he sags back into the seat, arms dropping from you and laying loosely at his sides. you're fluttering around him still because you didn't finish, but you don't even care. hows that for quick baby?
"f-fuck- that was-" his eyes drift shut before shooting open. he looks behind you to the radio on his dashboard, looking at the time. his face goes beet red and his eyes widen "two minutes? jesus- i've never come that quick in my life." your mischievous grin has sammy laughing and shaking his head. "you're somethin' else baby."
"you said you wanted quick." you giggle as you move to slide off him and get out of the backseat when he shuffles into a laying position instead. you raise a brow at him. he grips your hips and yanks you to hover over his face. your squeak of surprise morphs to a soft moan when sammy shoves two fingers in your weepy hole, effectively keeping his cum deep inside you.
sammy looks almost vengeful as he says. "you got me off so quick we have more than enough time for your turn sweetheart. now you're gonna sit on my face till security comes to see what all the screamin' is about."
Park the shark with a scent kink is so valid. I also feel like period sex is definitely on the table with him
(Hey so this possessed me so much so that I wrote this at work the moment I saw the ask. I'm not the best at writing in second person yet so it's like, half me rambling and half an attempt at a fic, plus I wrote this on my night shift and cleaned it up half asleep so apologies for any spelling or grammar errors or if it's a little clunky. Anyway, pls enjoy this lil thought blurb that kinda got away from me in length)
Park may be a little ooc but also we only saw like 30 seconds of him sooooo is it really ooc if he isn't fully fleshed out? Also it isn't super gender specific another than referencing you've got a vagina, a period, and nipples.
Word count: 3k
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Same Time Next Month?
Imagine if the Park the Shark moniker came from his frat days in college (you can pry frat bro Park from my cold dead hands) and it got around that he didn’t gaf about blood and would still fuck/eat out someone on their period. Like he’s in med school, he’s gonna be an orthopedic surgeon, why tf would something like blood deter him?
If anything it was almost like he didn’t just “not mind” it, it was that Park craved it. He got off on it just as much as whoever’s legs he was between and thus Park the Shark was born, and he wore it like a badge of fucking honor the rest of the way through school.
Just from how strenuous and demanding orthopedic residency is maybe his sex life, and subsequently the moniker, gets pushed to the back of his mind until an old frat brother comes in and calls him Park the Shark in front of everyone and now the nickname is being whispered through the halls, following him like a shadow because hospital staff thought it was because he’s brutish, cold, and a total asshole. And yeah, he is those things, but the shark moniker had once been positive, a source of pride that fed his ego, it made him an outlier among his peers and made him popular with the ladies.
He had hook ups every now and again when he found the time during his later residency years, after carving out a place for himself among the PTMC staff, but found it brought more headache than pleasure to fuck where he worked- especially when he became an attending, so he gives up and forces himself to focus on work.
Of course until you, that is.
You, a new ED resident who captures his full attention by simply walking into a room and not taking any of his shit for a millisecond, not even batting an eye under the Shark's looming figure and icy glare. You return it with a glare of your own, your lip curled in anger as you snap at him to stand up straight if he's going to talk to you like that and fuck, he’s enamored. Park wants you carnally, almost desperately, and every time you roll your eyes at him or pop your gum in his face he gets hard enough to see stars. You’re infuriating— your competency is infuriating. It would be easier to get over it if you were just stupid but no. No you just had to be top of your class with a spine made of steel and you don’t give him a single inch where he usually takes a mile. The chase takes a while, longer than any other person he's pursued in his life. You’re not an easy one to wear down and you give him hell the entire way, but he’s not quick to give up until he’s got you to say yes to "just one date".
You get to find that you actually kinda like Brendon Park outside of the hospital when he's shed the shark persona, and one date turns into two, two into three, and three into a trip to HR to update your relationship status to make sure all your bases are covered.
The first time you get your period at his house not only is he
1. Prepared with anything you need (I like to think he’s got sisters who visit so he just keeps things stocked up. Big family Park the Shark my beloved)
2. Harder than fucking diamond the moment you gently push him back and, uncharacteristically shyly, tell him you can’t do anything because of said period, and he gets to watch your pretty mouth drop open in surprise when he just shrugs and says “it’s never stopped me before.”
Like… Bren what do you mean it’s never stopped you before???? Park blanks for a half second like “oh yeah, not everybody does that” and there’s no point in him being shy about it now so he just kisses you on the mouth, a smug little smirk on his face when he pulls away—
“I didn’t get called ‘the Shark’ in college for nothing, sweetheart”
And holy fuck if that doesn’t stay in your brain for the next month. He’s put the thought it your mind now, he’ll assure you through this period that it really doesn’t bother him at all and maybe you don’t do anything about it at first, but he can see the interest growing as the days pass.
Maybe it takes a little bit of time, a little research on your end because hey, period sex is kinda out of your wheelhouse but it’s not like it's unheard of and you’re not entirely against it, just apprehensive, curious even. (As someone who’s done it, I was a lil nervous at first too and did a stupid amount of research to calm down about it lmao)
Eventually you broach the topic with him, maybe a little embarrassed because yeah it’s a natural bodily function but it’s still a lil taboo and even if Park has said he doesn’t gaf about a little blood you still need a little reassurance that he’s actually ok with it. And so you do, and he assures you that it’s fine, he’s ok with it— more than ok with it really, ever since the first time he’d mentioned it it’s all he can think about. He doesn’t tell you he’s been craving it since then, but you can see he’s eager, he’s practically vibrating with want. So maybe he drops a few “hints” here and there. It’ll help alleviate cramps, it’ll feel good because of the heightened sensitivity, it could help increase libido (not that the two of you need that), it's incredibly intimate, etc.
I think Park is a little bit of a boundary pusher in the bedroom, like things he can see you’re teetering on trying he’s gonna try and nudge you. He's not pushy, never bullying you into things, he's just…suggestive.
“We can try it, and if you hate it we won’t do it again.”
If you give him a firm no he’ll respect it, sure he’s a little bummed but it’s not gonna ruin his entire day. Brendon Park loves you and respects you, so he’d never force you into anything that is a hard no even if it’s something he likes.
However, if you say yes? Sweet love, say less because he’s already set aside everything you’d need for it just in case.
It’s a common headcanon that Brendon Park fucks, but this? This takes it to a whole new level. He’s got you spread out on his bed, a towel under your hips— oh did you think it’d be a dark towel? Not a chance. Park’s set out the bright white towels so that he can see the mess he’s gonna make with you. Ambient lighting, but not so dark he can't see anything because he wants to see everything.
He’ll get you nice and relaxed, Park’s a lover boy after all and at the end of the day he never wants you to be uncomfortable, especially with something he’s doing. He takes his time laid on top of you, letting you control how long your make out lasts, taking his time undressing you and only parting to pull your shirt over your head with his quickly following suit. You stop his hands from taking off your underwear just yet, still a little apprehensive, a little nervous, but that’s fine with him so he just kisses you again and lets you wrap your arms around his neck. He loves the feeling of your hands on his body but especially on his back, the way you trail them up the back of his neck to run your nails through the hair at the base of his scalp makes him shiver and lean more into you, a groan bubbling up from deep in his chest.
When you give him the ok to move elsewhere, his lips and teeth are everywhere. Trailing down your neck and chest leaving bites and newly forming bruises in his wake, some you can’t even see but you know you’ll feel for a while after he's done.
He relishes in the noises you make when he gets his mouth on your already sensitive nipples, now more so that he’s given them a little attention. He sucks a bruise into your hip, leaves a bite on the inside of your thigh that makes you yelp, and just chuckles when your heel connects with his back as if to reprimand him.
We’ve established that I think Park’s got a scent kink and boy does this play into it. He looks up at you, raising his eyebrows as if to ask “this ok?”, and only moves when you give him an affirmative for him to slide your underwear down your legs.
It takes everything in him not to shove your soiled underwear against his nose and inhale like it’s a fucking drug— it is, in a way, because the moment the metallic scent of blood hits his nose he’s shaking, salivating, nearly panting like a dog when he throws your legs over his shoulders and— just once more looks back up at you to make sure you’re serious about this— and buries his face into your cunt the moment you give him the go ahead.
If you thought Brendon Park was a munch before, this was nothing in comparison.
He’s ravenous, eyes rolling back at the copper tang on his tongue as he eats you out like he’s been starving for it. And maybe he has been. It’s been years since someone’s let him do this to them.
Park’s bound to leave bruises from just how tightly he’s holding your thighs— now clamped around his ears like a vice with your nails digging into his scalp as you wail.
He’s groaning at the sounds you’re making, the sounds your sticky, wet cunt was making, and he gets a little lightheaded from how quickly all of the blood in his body makes a beeline south. He's still in his briefs and they're growing wetter by the second from the precum steadily leaking out with how desperately he's grinding against the bed, hips involuntarily searching for friction before he bullies a broad shoulder between your thighs forcing you to make room for him, gasping in a breath and sliding two fingers into your slick, messy heat curling them almost viciously just to hear that sound from before and you give it to him.
Your body arches off the bed so suddenly it was as if you’d been struck by lightning, his one arm pressing down against your hips the only thing tethering you to the bed as you let out another high, pitchy wail.
Park can’t take his eyes off of you, fuck you’re stunning. You’ve got a hand latched onto his arm, digging your nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood, and your other covering your eyes as you pant and moan and chant his name like a fucking prayer, unable to squirm away with his strong arm over your hips.
Mentally Park is patting his younger self on the back for finding a place with above average sound proofing because had you been doing this at your apartment, your nosy neighbor would’ve called the cops the moment he got his mouth on you.
God he feels fucking drunk. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen or maybe he really is drunk on your blood, either way he’s doing everything he knows you like to get you across the finish line.
Your hands find his hair again when you’re about to come, your breath quickening as you beg him not to stop, to keep going, to keep- keep- oh god Bren— Brendon!
He doesn’t stop, just eats you through it until your second orgasm is crashing into the aftershocks of the first making you shriek. You finally pull him away from you just as the third is ebbing into painful overstimulation territory, and make eye contact, his eyes half lidded but you can see his pupils are blown wide, the faintest hint of blue haloing them as he stares up at you from where he's still positioned between your legs and fuck if it isn’t erotic.
Half his face is covered in blood, it's smeared across his mouth and cheeks and a little ways up his nose, his sharp teeth glinting where the saliva on them catches the light as he heaves in ragged breaths, the parts of his face not covered by blood are still flushed red, his blush extending to his ears and down his neck where you know it's spread across his chest and shoulders— he looks as fucked out as you feel, and it’s so, so hot watching him fall apart from just how badly he wants you. He’s already tugging against your grip on his hair, eager to get his mouth back on you as if he can’t help but search out blood.
The sound Park makes when you pull him up by his hair to plant your lips on his is pathetic. It’s wanton and needy and he nearly comes on the spot when you lick into his mouth with a filthy moan at the taste of not only your wetness, but your own blood. Your faces slide against each other from the sheer amount of wetness on your skin. He moves over you, body nearly crushing you under his weight as his hips grind against the apex of your thighs but it's not quite the right spot— he's still got his briefs on and they're in his fucking way—
He didn't even notice your hands in his scramble to get his briefs off until you've got a hand around his shaft and he’s choking, gasping against your open mouth when you guide his cock to your folds. He bumps your clit making you jolt and mumbles out a quick “sorry, angel” before pushing in all the way.
God you’re slick and wet and so hot that the last of his self control snaps. Any other time he’d give you a second to adjust, a moment to breathe and get used to his size even after getting four fingers in you, but there’s blood in the water and he’s frenzied.
He holds you down by the backs of your thighs setting a relentless, punishing pace as he snaps his hips against yours, jackhammering like a virgin hellbent on sating his own selfish pleasure.
It’s electrifying and bordering on painful but it’s so so good—
You can’t even manage moans anymore, just broken little whimpers as you grip the pillow underneath your head, your face wet with tears, the blood already drying around your mouth— you look so fucking filthy and he loves it. He loves you.
Park plants a hand next to your waist and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder to change the angle, grinding his cock into you at a slower pace to yank himself from the edge he'd been hurtling towards. Sure, you've come 3 times, but he can feel one more creeping up on you by the way your walls flutter around his length. You throw your head back in a wordless scream when his thumb rubs circles around your clit, aborted, broken little sounds escaping your exposed throat as you tremble violently, Park speeding up his thrusts just as you topple over the edge so he's right behind you.
His vision darkens at the edges, a high pitched ringing in his ears as his orgasm crashes into him like a freight train nearly knocking the wind out of him. For a man who's spent a good majority of his life in the gym, and spends a current majority of his time outside of work fucking you in just about every place you'll let him, it's a rare sight to see him genuinely out of breath.
The first sound to come back to him is your pitiful sniffles and your attempts to calm your own racing heart by taking in deep, shaky breaths. He moves the two of you onto your sides, his arms wrapped securely around your waist with yours around his shoulders, not an inch of space between the two of you. A shiver runs down his spine when he feels the faintest brush of your nails at the back of his head, he rubs a hand up and down your back as he presses his lips against your exposed shoulder. Park slowly makes his way up your neck and over your jaw, kissing the spot under your left eye where he always does before he kisses your lips. You're too tired to anything more and he's not about to start anything, just needing you close as you both come down from your highs.
Exhaustion weighs him down and he knows that the two of you should get up and in the shower because if you don't he'll hear it from the moment you wake up that you're still covered in dried blood, spit, and cum, and you'll make it his problem. (He's right where he wants to be)
Try as he may, Park still dozes off for just a moment, only coming to because you're kissing his face gently and slowly, your hand scratching over the back of his head and for a second he thinks you're crying again. He gets it, Park wasn't lying when he said it was intimate and he moves your head back to wipe your tears except you're not really crying anymore, instead you're chuckling quietly to yourself.
"What are you laughing at?" Brendon mumurs, his curious gaze sweeping over your face as you chuckled while tears dripped down your face. The headboard had been hitting the wall pretty hard but he was still sure that you hadn't bumped your head somehow, even if you bumped it against the headboard it was tufted leather on the side facing the bed so you shouldn't have gotten a head injury—
"So," you pause, your voice pulling him out of his slight spiral about a possible head injury, your pretty eyes roaming over his face and down to his chest where dried blood is smudged on the side of his neck and collarbone, your fingers gently brushing against some of it making it flake away before your eyes trail back up to meet his through your thick lashes, a teasing grin spreading across your lips as you lean your head onto the pillow he's half on. "Same time next month?"
He blinks, not fully registering what you've said until your teeth are digging into your lower lip in an attempt to hold back your giggles, a grin stretching across his face as he leans in to kiss you, swallowing down your giggles before pulling back and gently nudging your nose with his own.
"Yeah sweetheart, same time next month."
(oh my god that was so much longer than I meant it to be. I started my period and apparently this was exactly what my brain wanted to focus on. Anyways happy birthday to me I'm gonna go take a nap, k love you bye 💖🌕🪼)
Jack brings younger reader (in my head she’s a nurse that Jack works with and that’s how they met) around his army friends for a pool party/BBQ. They’re all giving him shit for being with someone younger (like mid-late 20s) but they’re all secretly jealous of him having a pretty young thing dote on him and care for him. They flirt with her and then when they see her in a bikini they all tease Jack saying things like “you sure you know how to handle that??” and he gets possessive and maybe a little spicy !!!! 😌
— ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ☀︎ º⋆˙
→ warnings: jack abbot x younger!fem!reader, 1.5k wc, fluff, sexual language + but only small smut, nicknames [sweetheart, doll], hickeys and bite marks, protective + possessive!jack, accidentally wrote jack’s friends [who I was too lazy to name] as being a little rude/creepy when flirting. I couldn't think of a diff way to do it.
→ a/n: didnt proofread as always, guys send me more jack requests please!! or other pitt character requests!
“Sweetheart you have nothing to worry about, the guys are gonna love ya’ i know it” Jack coos at you as his large hands cup your face, his thumbs rubbing at your soft cheeks. You were nervous to meet Jack’s old army buddies, the guys he served alongside, it was easier ‘meeting’ his other friends as his girlfriend. They were just your co-workers, technically whom you’ve briefly interacted with before getting with Jack. Working alongside Jack as a night-shift nurse helped the two of you grow closer, it helped that Jack thought you were the prettiest thing to grace this earth as well.
“If you say so” you mumble out, as Jack is practically smushing your cheeks together now with a slight cocky smirk on his face. You were still just a little nervous, your co-workers didn't care much about yours and Jack's age gap, I mean Robby and Dennis flirt in front of the whole hospital for gods sake and Whittaker’s about half his age. You didn't know or have any clue to how his older friends would react to seeing how young you were.
Jack had been prepping the grill in the backyard for the little get-together BBQ he was throwing to introduce you to his buddies. He was a little excited, he knows they’ll rib him about how young you are but he just loves showing off his girl.
“Atta girl, now go change doll and cover up huh?” He plants his hands on your waist and spins you around towards the door back inside, patting you on the ass to get you moving. You had padded outside in nothing but your little tank top, no bra, and flowy sleep shorts. You had woken up without Jack in the bed and immediately went out to look for him, with a sad lost puppy look on your face.
You squeal lightly at the pat on the ass but head inside to change.
Slipping on a light weight sundress, deciding if you are gonna tan or swim later you’ll run inside to change. You do your hair in the way you like so it’s out of your face and put on light makeup. You’re tempted to go ask Jack to rub your sunscreen on for you but you can hear the door bell ringing meaning his army buddies have arrived. Quickly dosing yourself in sun protection you take a deep breath and hurry outside towards the sounds of men talking to meet everyone.
“Ahh there’s my girl, c’mere sweetheart” he beckons you over with a slight wave of his hand and a small smile on his face, you're quick to bounce over to his side.
Jack’s arm wraps his arm around your back, his hand landing on your hip to nestle you even closer to him.
You can watch as each of his army friends' eyes widen slightly, looking you up and down briefly before attempting to school their expression, one after the other introducing himself to you. You shift a little uncomfortably on your feet causing Jack to run soothing circles on your hip as you hold conversation with the three men in front of you. Everything from that moment on runs pretty smoothly, you don’t really know what you were so nervous for, his friends are very pleasant albeit a little forward with their borderline flirty comments and ribbing on Jack. You merely smile and giggle a little at some comments.
Jack however is a tad irritated with all the flirting, he doesn't care that they make stupid comments on how Jack is probably old enough to be your dad, or how does an old man like him keep up with you, he expected those. He didn’t so much anticipate the comments like how you're so pretty, why are with him, that if Jack isn’t treatin’ you right one of them can, they’d be able to keep up with you. He is slowly losing his patience.
Luckily the teasing dies down a little as the guys lounge by the pool and chat about more mundane things like work and upcoming holidays. That is until you decide it’s really sunny and while starting on the BBQ that you want to tan a little, you stand up from where you were sitting poolside and bounce over to Jack. He looks at you a little questioningly before you peck him on the nose, a big smile on your face. “Gonna head inside to change real quick baby, wanna tan a bit” you tell him, you know you don’t have to but you also know how protective Jack is, he sort of likes keeping tabs on you. He nods but before you can spin and pop inside, he is wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you to him. The small surprised squeal that leaves your lips is muffled against his as he kisses you fervently. Your fingers tangle in his curls at the back of his head and pressing yourself closer, easily forgetting about your company and apparent audience.
“Let the girl breathe a little bit Jack, jeez” “Yeah man she isn’t going anywhere” “Don’t let the food burn now” yells all coming one after the other from the peanut gallery causing you to break away, an embarrassed smile crossing your face but a cocky smirk on Jack’s. Reluctantly pulling away from Jack you head inside to change into a bathing suit.
As you are stripping out of your clothes, you caught sight of your body in the large full length mirror in his bedroom. There were a few hickies that littered your chest as well your inner thighs, you even had a bite mark or two, one being dead square on your ass cheek courtesy of a Mr Jack Abbot who loved marking your body. You debate for a second whether to wear a one piece that would possibly cover them up as best as it could or you can wear the bikini you intended to wear today and flaunt them.
With a sneaky smile on your face as you decide on the ladder.
As you head back outside a barrage of wolf whistles greets you, it causes Jack’s irritation to build once again however it fades a bit when his eyes catch sight of you and the little reminders of last night that decorate your body on display. “Hey Jackie boy, are you sure you know how to handle all that?” being yelled across the way nearly sends Jack's eye twitching, he’s beginning to regret bringing his divorced army friends around you. He’s about to speak up and end their behavior when you beat him to it.
“You guys have watched Jackie boy” you nod at the man who is still stood frozen staring at you and deliberating on the risk of killing his friends currently, you however say the nickname with an affection lacing it that does nothing to help the ache growing under his shorts. “Do surgery in the field right? He has veryyy capable hands” you drag your words in a faux teasing voice. Your comment is met with some “clearly” yells in reference to the marks and more whistles and whoops before they die down into a laughter. You make your way over to Jack, finally his hands finding your waist immediately as if he is magnetized to you. Everything that isn’t the woman in front of him is muted for Jack as he stares into your eyes, a fire light behind them. “Was startin’ to think i should just bend ya’ over the patio table and fuck you in front of em’ maybe then they’d stop flirting with my girl” he whispers as he pulls you closer, his eyes tracing the purple and red splotches on your chest. Jack’s words spend a spark down your spine and an ache that sits in the pit of your stomach, you lightly squeeze your thighs together. His eagle eyes for sure don’t miss it, a bigger smirk growing on his face as his fingers play with the strings of your bikini bottoms.
Now Jack is definitely not a teenager anymore obviously so giving his girlfriend hickies would probably be considered childish but it seemed to be quite effective. “Think my handiwork speaks for itself, was that your plan doll?” he questions with a certainty in his voice as if he already knows the answer. Growing shy under his gaze you murmur out under your breath — "Maybeee, had to let them know you take very good care of me”
Ohh does Jack plan to take extra good special care of his girl that night.
A small twisted part of his brain wishes his friends got to hear just how good so they’d never question it again. Your moans and cries fill the bedroom, your back to Jack’s chest as the two of you lay on your sides. His cock repeatedly hitting that spot deep inside you that leaves you a twitching mewling mess arching away from him, “Too much baby- too full! fuck!” you moan and try to reach behind you and push at Jack but he is quick to grab your arm. pinning it down behind your back by pressing his chest even closer to your back, his hips smacking harder against your ass as he speeds up. One hand coming around your body to rub at your throbbing clit and the other sneaking under your body up to grab lightly at your neck. Not choking you hard but putting enough pressure to make your head go cloudy.
“Not done with you yet sweetheart”
→ a/n: i had an idea how i wanted this to go than i paused writing it, lost the idea and my flow so i dont know how i feel about this wanted it.
Clueless!John (also jealous!John) doesn't realise that he's your boyfriend
You weren't sure how exactly it had started. One day you were just hanging out with the ER attending who could always crack a joke when you needed it, the next you were waking up in his bed, tangled with his limbs, his body pressed closely to yours as his warmth kept you company. It's Wednesday night so you two had gone to your favorite dive bar during their usual matchmaking event where they tried to form new couples amongst their clientele, an event with the cheapest beer prices in all of Pittsburgh.
John always seemed to press himself to your left side when people circled around. By the end of the night, tired, tipsy and horny, you had ended up back at his place as usual, riding him until the sunlight started pouring, his strong hands grasping your hips like his life depended on it. And when the morning light hit your glistening body, John could not tear his eyes away, not when you looked like the sun itself.
He had known since the second time you two hung out that he wanted more than whatever was between you. You slid in perfectly within his life.
Also a night crawler, though in the paeds department, you'd first met during a consult, and he had noticed your smile, the way you brought energy and positivity when you arrived. You then had met again at Dunkin the very same day, both wanting your sugary coffees. What were two meetings in one day turned into meeting every day as you'd meet up for some food before your shifts started.
"Turn it off...." You grumbled as the strident alarm of John's phone went off. It was time to get up, time to get ready for the day, actually night ahead. The sun had started leaving, plunging the room into purples and blues, but you were both used to it by now.
John let out an exaggerated groan, detangling himself from you just tough to turn his alarm off before pushing himself back in his previous position.
"Hello, gorgeous."
Lips ghosted your neck and your shoulders as you sighed in content. What a great way to wake up.
By now the routine was organised to the very second. You'd take your shower first, sometimes with John, while he usually made boring black coffee and whatever breakfast foods he had laying around. This time it was yogurt and bananas. Then it was his turn to take a shower and you ran his laundry and dryer before you both headed to work, usually with John driving as he knew which backroads to take to get to the Dunkin closes to work the fastest.
And then you'd both hug, lingering for a few seconds until you each went to your respective floors, him in the depths of the Pitt, you to the children's level. Really, it was two worlds apart.
Which is why John couldn't understand why today you were leaning against the nurse station, smiling up at Jack Abbot who seemed to go on and on about a story that the younger ER attending couldn't hear. Jack's movements were large, energetic, and you were laughing. Not the polite laughter you reserved for everyone, but the genuine one, the one that made your shoulders shake and eyes tear up. The one only he could usually get out of you.
And then your hand went to Jack's arm, gripping him for stability as you threw your head back for more giggles to escape. And John couldn't have that. So of course he stalked up, unintentionally but with intention, pushing you a bit back as he took his place between you and Robby.
"What are you two laughing about?" It took John all his self control to not let some sourness spill into his tone.
"Dr. Abbot was just telling me about his travels when he had been younger, apparently he had been chased off a field by an angry cow in Scotland." Your tone was light and warm which slightly calmed John's overthinking, but it still wasn't enough.
"I guess you'll have to be careful when you go there with your boyfriend." Jack's tone was teasing. And John couldn't breathe. Because really... he was dumb.
He didn't notice the way Jack's eyes flickered lightly towards him, or the way you had stepped closer to him, seeking his presence. He only heard the sentence, and felt his heart shatter. And clearly he did not manage to hide his emotions as your eyebrows furrowed, arms wrapping around him as he stumbled lightly. He broke free of your embrace, pretexting the need to check up on a patient just to actually take a break outside, breath shortened, head swirling with thoughts.
He hadn't known you had a boyfriend, what did that make him? Your side guy? Were you cheating on your boyfriend with him? Maybe you were in one of those open relationships. He couldn't understand how you had gotten a boyfriend when you spent almost everyday together.
In all the time you two knew each other radio silence had not happened. Not even when John was hiking the Everest base camp, he'd still manage to find some internet to send you his pictures and a little email. But as you were waiting in the hospital lobby, ready to leave for some well deserved rest, John was not answering any of your messages. Not through SMS, not through insta, not even on snapchat. And that meant that something was wrong, especially so when once you went back down to the Pitt, the day crew had let you know that John had already left an hour ago.
So of course, you drove to John's apartment, using his spare keys that he'd given to you to open his door after knocking and receiving no answer in return.
"John?" Your voice rang out until you heard the shower running. You grabbed his laundry basket also filled with some of your things as you started folding everything, a habit you had developed as you hated doing the dishes but loved laundry while John hated the complete opposite.
Looking around the apartment it was clear that you spent a lot of time here, your clothes were in his hamper, your vitamins littered his cabinets, he even had a fridge magnet picturing your last year's family reunion with your aunts, uncles, cousins, and he wasn't even there. It was the same at your place, his extra switch was connected to your T.V, he had his own little section of your wardrobe, and for some reason his mom's workout equipment was in your extra bedroom since his downstairs neighbours had complained once about Mrs. Shen dropping a weight when she had come to visit.
You were snuggling into his couch, an episode of B99 playing when John appeared, sculpted chest and bottoms wrapped in one of your fluffy white towels he had stolen a few months ago. You wanted to run your hands on his wet body, feel his pale skin on you but his face clearly showed that something was on his mind. And unfortunately for you, John wasn't one to talk about his emotions much.
"What are you doing here?" He spoke out, eyes barely stopping on your figure before he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a smoothie.
"What do you mean what am I doing here? You didn't reply to my texts, didn't even come to see me after our shifts. Is everything okay?" His pace stuttered before he continued what he set up to do.
"Everything is perfectly fine." You got up from your spot, following the man as you leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching him throw blueberries into the blender alongside his usual protein shake ingredients.
"Don't lie." His eyes flickered to your face. "John tell me what's wrong." He looked straight at you before turning the blender on, the loud noise drowning out your demand. "John." He mimed not hearing anything and that's when you lost your cool.
Stalking to the kitchen island you pushed him aside as you unplugged the blender. You turned around quickly and gulped as he was now cornering you against the counter, looking down with his deep brown eyes staring into yours.
"I don't think your boyfriend would accept you spending so much time with me... and my bed." He wanted to sound teasing, but John just ended up sounding completely and utterly bitter. "What were you planning on doing? Just using me until your boyfriend realised it? I don't want to help someone cheat on their boyfriend, I'm not that type of gu-"
Your lips were on his in an instant as your arched into his body, droplets of his shower transferred onto you as one of your hands pulled his head down to meet you, the other going down to settle on his abs. He hated himself for it but he simply could not deny you, not when you smelled so good, felt so good against him. So with a groan he pulled you onto the counter top, slotting himself between your two legs.
"I-I can't, not when you're not mine." He groaned, turning his head away though you left little kisses on his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. Light feathery pecks that made him sigh from relaxation.
"John Shen, you are a very stupid man." His eyebrows furrowed as he turned his face back to you. "You might be the stupidest man I know."
"What-"
"You're my boyfriend you idiot."
You wished you could have recorded his reaction because it truly gave you whiplash. His confusion had turned to questioning, to realisation, to the sheepish expression he now bore, pale face flushed, eyes flickering from your face to somewhere else as he realised that he was indeed, quite stupid.
"B-But, you told Jack-"
"We were literally talking about going on vacation to Europe together last week John. You even said that you wanted to see cute highland cows."
"Ah... yes, yes I did..." John wanted to slap himself, so of course he did it earning an amused eyeroll from you. "I just... we never had a talk about us."
You circled your legs around his waist pulling him closer as his breath hitched from the closeness.
"John Shen, will you be my boyfriend?"
He replied by smashing his lips on yours, grounding his hips into your core until you were a moaning mess from needing friction, needing love, needing him.
Summary: Brendon loses a patient. You give him back control in the only way you know how.
WC: 6,447
Warnings: established relationship; angst; hurt/comfort; unprotected piv (jfc wrap it before you tap it); d/s dynamics; bdsm, but like, vanilla bdsm?; oral (m receiving); fingering (f receiving); overstimulation kind of; unhealthy coping mechanisms? idk; use of a sex toy; seriously, use a condom
A/N: set six-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); you can’t tell me Park is OOC because man was on the screen for half a second; technically part of the “Closet Gremlin” universe but can be read as a standalone
Masterlist
—————————————————
Brendon doesn’t get home until eleven.
You’re curled on the couch under the fluffy shark-patterned blanket you’d gotten him for his birthday (he’d told you it was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, then proceeded to use it basically every day since), and the TV is playing some Netflix romcom you don’t really care about. He’d texted you somewhere around six telling you there was a trauma incoming and to not wait up for him, which meant you’d of course waited up for him.
In the year the two of you’ve been together, you’ve learned that there’s no way to predict how trauma cases will impact him. There are days he comes home like nothing happened, days he comes home even more smug than usual. Then there are the days where he loses a patient or the outcome isn’t what he was hoping for, but he’s typically quick to make peace with it. He’s calculating, pragmatic. He knows when the odds are unfavorable and doesn’t dwell when they beat him.
Then there are days like today.
Days when you know something has gone wrong the moment he steps inside the house. He’s not particularly talkative as a baseline, but usually he’ll at least call a greeting. Today there’s nothing but stony silence. The only sounds are the slight shuffle of him taking off his shoes and the click of the closet opening so he can hang up his coat. When he finally steps out of the mudroom and into the den, he does barely more than nod at you before disappearing upstairs.
You’re not upset. You might have been, once upon a time, but you know him well enough by now to know this is just how he copes. He’ll probably take a shower, eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy, then curl around you in bed like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But he’ll hold you, and you’ll let him, and that’ll be enough for both you.
You sit quietly for a moment, expecting to hear the shower come on, and are startled when he instead comes back down the stairs wearing training shorts and an old t-shirt.
“Bren?” you question softly.
He pauses. His spine is rigid, his jaw tense, and you can see the weight of every life he’s ever held resting on his shoulders in that moment. Something heartbreakingly vulnerable flashes in his eyes so quickly you almost miss it, before he hides it behind iron walls.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
Then he disappears into the basement. A few moments later, the sound of weights clanking together floats up the stairs.
Your heart squeezes, but you don’t follow him. You know he needs to work through whatever it is on his own. Instead, you turn the volume on the TV up to give him some privacy and busy yourself with cleaning.
You grab his bag from where he’d dropped it in the mudroom and unpack it — putting the food he didn’t eat back in the kitchen and plugging in his laptop to charge. You wash the few dishes in the sink by hand and then spend some time prepping lunches for both of you for the following day. Then you go upstairs and throw his dirty scrubs in the wash along with a few other things. Really, there’s not enough laundry to warrant a load, but you need something to occupy you. No matter what he said, you won’t be able to sleep knowing how upset he is.
Eventually, the load finishes, and you put it in the dryer. Then that finishes, too, and Brendon is still in the basement. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearing 1:00 AM. You bite your lip. You’re exhausted, so you can only imagine how tired he must be. He’d been out the door by five that morning, and you know he’d had no break between his regular shift and the emergency trauma. You also know he hadn’t eaten much throughout the day, if his mostly untouched lunch was anything to go by.
You start folding laundry while glancing at the clock every five seconds. You want to give him his space, but you’re also getting increasingly worried. You’re not quite sure where the line is between letting him process and leaving him to suffer alone. Eventually though, when you’ve reorganized your nightstand twice, when the hour hand is closer to the two than the one, you decide you should at least check on him.
You pad softly down the stairs to the first floor and then pause at the doorway to the basement. You can no longer hear weights shifting around down there. In fact, it’s eerily silent aside from the low hum of the TV, and you feel a frisson of nerves as you descend the dimly lit stairs.
“Bren?”
He’s sitting on the FID bench facing the wall of mirrors. Several dumbbells are discarded at his feet. Sweat stains his shirt and his brow, and he’s still breathing heavily from whatever set he just finished. He’s still apart from the rising and falling of his chest though, his eyes fixed unseeingly on one of the heavy rubber mats lining the floor. He doesn’t even move when you say his name, and you’re not sure if it’s because he can’t hear you or because he doesn’t have the energy to respond.
The two of you exist in silence for a long moment, and you know he won’t break it unless you do. Carefully, like you’re afraid any sudden movements will make things worse, you cross to the mini-fridge on the back wall. You grab a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap as you walk back across the room to stand next to him.
“You should drink something,” you say softly, holding it out to him.
He might not want to talk about anything, but you can at least take care of him physically. Or you can try. He doesn’t take the water, and you only hold it out for a second longer before recapping it and setting it at his feet. Worry grips your chest like a fist.
“Do you-”
“You should go.”
You freeze. Your first reaction is hurt, which you quickly shove as far down as you can — this is about him, not you. Then comes the instinctual urge to obey. If he wants you to go, then you will. But just as your body is about to turn and move on its own, your mind catches up.
“You said I should go,” you venture carefully. “Does that mean you want me to?”
He doesn’t say anything, which tells you more than if he had.
Feeling steadier now than you did a second ago, you go to round the bench and stand in front of him, only for his hand to shoot out and keep you from coming closer.
“You can’t be around me right now,” he reiterates tightly.
“Because of me? Or because of you?”
His gaze snaps up to you then, and you inhale sharply at what you see there. Fury, bright and sharp, cuts through you like a blade. Right alongside it is grief so raw it’s almost anger in itself. There are other emotions buried there, too — frustration, self-loathing, hopelessness — so many that he looks like he’s drowning in them.
“Careful,” he says lowly.
Your heart stutters nervously, but you don’t back down.
“If you want me to leave, I will, but don’t tell me to go because you think you’re protecting me.”
His jaw tightens, and he stands. Towering over you like he’s trying to intimidate you. It works and it doesn’t. Your body responds the way it always does when he’s this close — your heart rate picks up, your breathing goes uneven, and awareness prickles across your skin. But you’re not scared of him. You don’t think you ever could be.
“You want to be soft right now,” he grits out, teeth bared. “You want to be sweet and gentle until everything’s better.”
You shake your head slowly.
“I want to be whatever you need me to be,” you tell him.
Wrong answer, or right one. You don’t know. All you do know is he makes a low, mean sound, and takes a predatory step towards you. You instinctively back up. The backs of your knees hit the bench, and you drop down on it with a graceless oof. Now it’s your turn to sit while he stands over you.
“You have no idea what I need right now,” he snarls.
Realization hits you so fast you feel dizzy, then ridiculous for not realizing sooner. The way he’s practically vibrating in his skin. The way he’s been down here punishing his body for nearly three hours. The way he seems to want you close and also want you as far away as possible.
He feels out of control.
He’s not just angry, he’s not just grieving. He’s spiraling. Tough cases always challenge his need for control, but he’s also pragmatic enough that he usually bounces back quickly. Whatever control he felt he lost with this trauma, he can’t get it back. He’s been trying to — down here alone, for hours — but it’s clearly not working.
He must see the realization in your face, because his expression shutters further, and he makes a low warning sound in his throat.
“Don’t,” he grits.
You don’t say anything, just reach out slowly and grab one of his hands. It flexes almost spastically in yours, but he doesn’t pull away. At least until you bring it to your mouth and brush a soft kiss across his knuckles. Then he tries to jerk it back, but you won’t let him.
“I can’t be gentle right now,” he scrapes out.
“I don’t need you to be gentle.”
He growls in frustration and crowds even closer.
“You don’t get it, I don’t trust myself around you.”
Your heart breaks, even as determination solidifies in your mind. Slowly, slowly enough that he can pull away if he really wants to, you lift his hand to your neck. His fingers twitch as you wrap them carefully around your throat, and his breath punches out of him like you struck him.
“I trust you,” you whisper.
A brief pause—
And then he’s moving. He spits out a curse and then he’s hauling you to your feet. His mouth crashes into yours, and it’s all teeth and anger wrapped in desperation. The awareness that’s been humming under your skin since he got home morphs into arousal from one breath to the next. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shirt as you do your best to keep up with his relentless pace.
“Brave fucking girl,” he hisses against your mouth.
You whimper in response, concerned, relieved, and turned on all in equal measure. He kisses you like he’s punishing you. He kisses you like he can burn out his anger through your body, and you kiss him back like you want it. You do, you think, when he yanks your head back so his lips can find your jaw. You want whatever he wants, want to be whatever he needs.
He worries a bruise onto your neck, more teeth than lips. It’s petty, mean. It makes your cunt clench around nothing. You tilt your head further back to give him more access, and he rumbles a low sound of approval.
“So eager for me,” he mutters against your skin.
You nod frantically — you are, you always are.
You tug at his shoulders to bring his mouth back to yours. He allows it, indulgent. One hand is still buried in your hair, while the other bands like steel around your waist, and it presses you as close to him as possible and then closer still. He seems content for a moment, letting you guide the kiss, at least until he nips sharply at your lip and slides his hand back to your throat. It tightens just enough to make you work harder for every breath, and the feeling goes through you like lightning.
“Hmm, you like it when I get to decide if you breathe?” he asks.
Your only response is a whimper, and his eyes flash dangerously. You feel dazed, floaty, and he’s barely touched you yet. The same thought must cross his mind, because his grip loosens for a second, and the hand at your throat reaches up to brush a strand of hair back from your face.
“I mean it,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “I don’t know how to be gentle right now.”
You hear him fighting to keep his voice calm, to truly give you the out if you want it, and that more than anything makes your decision for you. He might not trust himself, but you do. You know he won’t hurt you.
Slowly, keeping your eyes locked with his, you sink to your knees.
Something complicated crosses his face. Longing and vulnerability mixed with love so deep it’s pain. He looks at you like you’re tearing him apart and remaking him at the same time, like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. His hand, steady enough to piece bodies back together, shakes as it reaches out to touch your face. His thumb brushes reverently over your cheek.
“Brave girl,” he whispers again.
Then all the softness disappears behind steel. You watch him physically piece his armor back together— his breath evening, his shoulders straightening. His eyes glint like ice, and the hand on your cheek grabs your chin and forces you to look up. You stare at him, feeling small and exposed.
“Clothes off.”
The words are quiet, but there’s no doubt they’re an order.
Your breath hitches, but your hands move to obey without thought. They grab them hem of your sweater and pull it off. Next comes your bra, and you blush a little when you drop it on top of the sweater. He’s seen you naked a thousand times before, but there’s something about it that feels especially vulnerable when you’re on your knees like this. You start to get up, so you can take off your shorts, but his voice stops you.
“I didn’t say you could stand.”
A shock of heat lances through you and goes straight to your cunt. You make a small sound, somewhere between a squeak and a whimper, and stare up at him with wide eyes. He stares unblinkingly back. Hands unsteady now, you hook your thumbs under the waistband of your sleep shorts and panties and start tugging them down. It’s awkward and uncomfortable and mildly embarrassing trying to wiggle out of them while still kneeling. You have to contort and do a sort of shuffle to get them off, but you finally manage it.
Now naked, you look up at him and wait for whatever comes next. The air in the basement is cooler than the rest of the house, and you feel your nipples start to pebble. The subdued lighting that usually feels soothing now feels too bright, too revealing. The only sound is the quiet hum of the fridge, which makes you hyper aware of your own breathing.
Part of you is uncomfortable, itching to move, to say something — anything to break this silent standoff. It doesn’t matter how safe you feel with him, the stark power imbalance between the two of you — you naked and kneeling, him clothed and towering over you — never fails to tug at something soft and unprotected within you. You force yourself to remain still though. As strong as the urge to retreat is, the need to obey is stronger.
“Eyes closed,”he says at last, and you comply gratefully. “Stay here.”
You’re startled when you hear him disappear up the stairs, but you obey and stay still. You think you hear him continue to the stairs to the second floor, but you can’t be sure. Then there’s nothing. Alone, waiting, the anticipation feels sharper. The rubber mat under your knees feels slightly too firm, and the air feels slightly too cold. Your legs are starting to cramp. Time passes oddly while you wait, and you’re relieved when you hear him coming back down.
Anticipation runs down your spine like a physical touch when you hear him come to a stop somewhere behind you. Your eyes are still closed, and you have no idea what he’s doing or if he’s even looking at you. The uncertainty, the feeling of being completely at his mercy, makes your thighs clench together. The action makes you suddenly aware of how wet you are, and an involuntary sound escapes your throat.
One of his hands comes to rest briefly on your head at the sound, grounding, then vanishes.
“Hands.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but you know what he means. Carefully, you stretch your hands behind you. He moves, looping something around your wrists and securing them at the small of your back. You test the bindings once — snug enough they won’t slip off, but loose enough you could get out of them without much effort. They’re more symbolic than anything, but they still make your cunt pulse.
Next he slips something over your eyes. You open them on instinct, but aside from a vague haze of light, you can’t see anything through the fabric. Now truly unable to see and with your hands bound, your awareness of everything else around you skyrockets. You can feel the heat of his body behind you, hear the measured rhythm of his breathing. He trails a hand lightly down one of your arms, barely anything, and it sets off fireworks in your body.
He stands, and you feel more than hear him walk around you. He stops in front of you, one hand coming to rest on your face. You feel his fingers press against your lips, and you open obediently.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Your cunt clenches around nothing again. You suck lightly on his fingers, wishing it was his cock instead, and feel yourself getting steadily wetter. Your breasts feel heavy, your nipples tight, and you want him to touch you so badly it’s nearly pain.
“Good girl,” he repeats, then draws his fingers out. “Open.”
You do and are rewarded with the slide of his cock over your tongue. You make a grateful sound that would have been embarrassing if your brain was functioning. Instead, all you care about is the weight of him in your mouth and the low hiss he lets out when you start sucking.
“So eager to have my cock in your mouth,” he mocks.
You hum in agreement, lost in the taste of sweat and skin and the slightly bitter flavor of pre-come.
He lets you play for a while, his hand resting lightly on the back of your head. You alternate between sucking the flared head, tongue flicking the slit until his hips twitch, and sinking down further until your jaw aches. His fingers card through your hair, misleadingly gentle, and you think then that you could stay like this forever. Your knees ache, and your shoulders are starting to protest, but all that matters is this. Him, his taste, the sounds he makes. You’re actively clenching your thighs together now, trying to get any friction on your clit. He lets out a mean laugh when he notices, but he doesn’t stop you.
You know his patience won’t last though, and you’re proved correct when his grip suddenly tightens.
“I’m going to fuck your pretty throat now,” he says darkly.
You make a sound that might be agreement, might be a plea, and then his hips snap forward sharply. You nearly gag around the intrusion — too much, too fast — but you force yourself to breathe through it. He hums in approval, and you fairly whine.
He sets a slow rhythm, steadily fucking his way deeper with every thrust. His hand at the back of your head holds you in place, and you moan at the feeling of him bullying his way into your throat. You gag around him a couple times, spit sliding down your chin and tears pricking your eyes. He doesn’t stop. He knows if you really wanted out, you would slip the loose bindings and tap his thigh. But you don’t, and he mutters filthy encouragement as he slides even deeper.
“So fucking pretty like this-”
“Feels so good-”
“Fuck, baby, just like that.”
By the time you’ve finally taken all of him, you’re shaking, hips grinding down against nothing. Your jaw aches and you can feel the tears on your cheeks, but all you want is more. You make a desperate sound, and he groans in response, before slowly drawing back. A pause, then he returns with a harsh snap of his hips, and you’re whining. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you relish it. You want him everywhere, stamped on your body inside and out.
His breath punches out of him harshly as he fucks your face, and for a brief second you think you could come like this. Untouched, just the taste and feel of him and the sound of his voice spewing filth.
“My perfect girl, take- ah, take my cock so fucking well.”
You swallow around him, and his hips spasm.
“Shit, don’t-. Baby-, fucking Christ.”
You know he’s getting close. He’s spending longer down your throat with each thrust, grinding your nose against his pelvis. His breathing goes ragged, and his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain. Sure enough, one, two thrusts later and he’s yanking you off his cock with a curse.
You hear the obscene slide of his fist over his spit-soaked cock, and then you feel the first splash of come hit your cheek. He grunts as he fucks his fist, painting your face and chest. You moan at the feeling.
“Fuck, you did so well,” he says when he’s finally spent.
You preen under his praise.
“You think you deserve a reward?”
“Please.”
You sound wrecked, desperate, but you don’t care. Your body is hot, your skin too tight, and you want his hands on you more than you want your next breath.
He makes you wait for a minute.
He moves away from you, and you hear a rustle of cloth. You think he’s wiping his hands off, but you can’t be sure. Then he’s coming back over to you, and you’re nearly squirming in anticipation when he lowers himself behind you. His chest touches your back, and you feel his legs on either side of yours. It can’t be comfortable for him, but he doesn’t seem concerned.
“Spread your legs,” he tells you.
You do, ignoring the way your knees protest the movement. Now that you’re not focused on his cock, you’re fiercely aware of how long you’ve been kneeling. He doesn’t tell you to get up though, and any discomfort vanishes a moment later when his arms come around you and then his fingers are running through your folds. Your hips jerk forward.
“Oh, sweetheart. Did you get this wet just sucking my cock?”
You don’t answer right away, too focused on the feeling of finally, finally being touched. But his fingers stop when you stay silent, and you cry out in protest.
“Answer me, baby.”
“Yes,” you gasp.
“Yes, what?”
Even after everything he’s already done to you, even with his come drying on your face, saying the words makes your cheeks burn.
“Yes, sucking your cock made me this wet.”
“Good girl.”
And then he shoves two fingers inside you without warning, and you nearly fall over. There’s no build up, no ease in. Just his fingers crooking in a practiced motion and rubbing relentlessly at the spot that makes you see stars. You moan, high and helpless. Your head drops back against his shoulder, and your hips move gracelessly as you chase his fingers. His thumb eventually moves to swipe against your clit, one brief moment of fire-tipped pleasure. Then his hand is withdrawing, and you nearly sob.
“Bren,” you cry pathetically.
He body pulls away from yours, but before you can protest, you feel something else moving between your legs. Not his fingers-
“Oh,” you gasp.
It’s a dildo. Not as thick as his cock, but definitely thicker than his fingers. Your walls clamp down around the intrusion. He fucks you shallowly with it, teasing more than anything, but you’re grateful for anything after waiting for so long. It’s more than enough to get you there, and your hips are starting to stutter when he says-
“No coming, baby.”
He actually laughs at your cry of distress.
“Don’t you want to be good for me?” he asks.
That alone almost makes you come.
Your cunt spasms around the dildo, and everything in your body pulls tight. Yes, you want to be good for him, it’s all you want right now. Sometimes you think it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You garble out some version of that and preen at his murmured approval.
“Spread your legs a little more-, just like that. Sink a bit lower-”
You obey, not quite knowing what he’s trying to do yet, when you feel something against your clit and it clicks. Oh. You know exactly which dildo he’s using now. The dark purple one with the rabbit attachment at the base, which means-
The vibrator switches on, and you make a sound like you’re dying.
“Hmm, feel good?”
You’re nodding, babbling, something.
“Now be a good girl and keep that in for me.”
He stands then, and while part of your mourns the loss of his warmth behind you, most of you is too focused on the incessant buzzing against your clit to care. It feels like it’s been years since he first kissed you, and you’ve moved past arousal into physical distress. You try to focus on something else, anything else. Your attention turns to your legs, which are cramping badly now, and your knees, which are aching as they dig into the ground. It doesn’t work though — you still feel like you’re a breath away from coming.
That’s when you hear it.
A scraping sound, followed by the click of weights hitting each other. A few footfalls hitting the floor, then the same sound again. Your brain short-circuits. He’s working out. You’re kneeling bound and blindfolded, his come drying on your skin and a vibrator shoved up your pussy, and he’s working out. He must see the understanding dawn on your face, because he huffs out a laugh.
“Focus, baby.”
It takes a moment for your brain to come back online, even longer to notice the dildo is slipping out of you. You’d started rising up on your knees without realizing it, until only the tip is left inside of you. Startled, you drop back down without thought, only to yelp when the movement slams the rabbit into your clit.
Another laugh, meaner this time, and then he goes back to his workout.
Time ceases to matter. You can’t see anything, and your attempt to count the seconds that go by lasts approximately ninety seconds before you give up. The only thing you have to mark the passing of time is the rhythmic sound of him breathing his way through every rep, punctuated by longer pauses between sets.
The base of the dildo perches precariously on the ground, held upright only because it’s inside of you. When you sink all the way down, it rests snugly inside of you, but it also pushes the rabbit directly against your clit. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough at the same time — almost numbing after so long, but still just one wrong twitch away from making you come. But every time you rise up to get away from it, the dildo threatens to fall out. You can only lift a couple inches without it slipping, and the awkward half-kneel makes your already-trembling thighs scream after only a minute.
You can’t stay pressed against the vibrator without coming, and you can’t get away from it without the dildo falling out. Either way, you’re going to disobey him. The thought fills you with dread, and you fight to be good, cycling between both agonizing positions. You don’t know how long passes like that. Your body is on fire, but your mind is full of static, the only clear thought you have: be good. You repeat it in your head until it’s all you know, all you are.
You start drifting, experiencing things through a haze, like they’re happening to someone else. The need to come is still there, but it’s not as urgent anymore. It’s been muted by distance. You’re somewhere else, floating and far away and-
A hand lands on top of your head and you come crashing back into your body.
Sensation comes back, ten times sharper than before, and your body convulses as you fight the sharp, stabbing need to come. You make an agonized noise. You’re sweating, trembling, and you’re so wet you can feel it dripping out of you. Every nerve ending is on fire, your legs feel like they’re going to collapse even though you’re already kneeling, and you need to come, you-
“Shh, breathe, sweetheart.”
You gasp out a breath.
“That’s it. Focus on me.”
He starts taking deep, even breaths, and you fight to mimic him. Slowly, the frantic energy in you eases into something manageable. His hand stays on you the whole time. It’s not gentle, not rough, but it grounds you enough that you’re able to settle all the way back into your body.
“Good girl, I’m going to turn this off now okay?”
His fingers tap lightly at the vibrator, forcing a whine out of you. But you nod, and he murmurs more praise. The buzzing switches off, followed by him removing the dildo altogether, and you don’t know whether to sob in relief or to wail at the loss.
“Fuck, baby, you made such a mess. Are you sure you didn’t come without permission?”
You shake your head frantically. No, you were good. You’re always good. Panic wells up in you, and you garble out a protest. You wouldn’t do that, you-
“I believe you, sweetheart. Always so perfect for me.”
You wilt in relief.
“Next is your wrists, okay?”
He waits until you nod before slipping the bindings off. Your shoulders scream in protest when you bring your arms back in front of you. His hands are there immediately though, rubbing carefully to help you through the worst of it. And even though it hurts, even though your knees ache and the muscles in your legs feel like they’re on fire, you still moan at the feel of his hands on you. Your body is caught somewhere between overstimulated and touch-starved, and you arch into his touch even though it’s painful.
“Alright, sweetheart, hands and knees. Do you think you can do that for me?”
You honestly don’t know if your limbs can hold you up anymore, but you try. You’d do anything he asked you at this point. Anything if he’ll finally let you come. You place your hands on the floor in front of you and lean some of your weight on them. Encouraged when they don’t give out right away, you shift slowly forward until you’re properly on all fours. You’re shaking, but you don’t fall.
“Doing so well, my perfect girl.”
The praise washes over you like a physical touch, and your pussy spasms weakly.
“Listened so well; I’m going to fuck you now, okay?”
You’re beyond words a this point, but you make a desperate sound of agreement and arch your back as best you can. He makes an appreciative noise at the sight. One hand finds your hip, the other running down the length of your spine, and you feel all of it like you’ve touched a live wire. Then he’s moving behind you, positioning himself, and the noise you make when you feel the head of his cock against your swollen pussy is feral.
“So fucking wet,” he says, dragging the tip through your folds.
And then he slams into you in one, harsh thrust, and you choke on a scream.
He sets a brutal rhythm immediately, his hands bruising your hips to hold you in place. The respite you got when he took the dildo out vanishes, and you’re suddenly back to teetering on the edge of coming. His cock is so much thicker than the dildo, so much longer — you can feel him in your throat. You can feel every ridge, every vein as he fucks you like he’s trying to mold you to the shape of him.
“Shit,” he snarls when a particularly rough thrust makes you clench around him. “This perfect-, ah, perfect fucking pussy.”
His shifts slightly behind you, and you wail at the change in angle. Every thrust sends lightning down your spine, pleasure so sharp in hurts. Your arms shake, then give out, and you collapse forward onto the floor. He doesn’t pause though, just tightens his grip on your hips until you know you’ll wake up with his fingerprints on your skin. The thought makes you moan.
“That’s it, baby, taking my cock so well. Like it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”
Your breath is coming out in pathetic little moans every time he buries himself inside of you, but you try to respond, try to say yes. The only thing you manage is an incoherent approximation of his name.
“My smart girl, so cock drunk you can’t speak.”
You don’t know which part of that sentence affects you more. Either would suffice to ruin you, and you feel your wetness start to drip down your thigh. You’re so wet you can hear your cunt trying to suck him back in every time he withdraws. The sound is loud, obscene in the small room, but you don’t care. You want more. Want him closer, harder, more.
Like he can hear your thoughts, he hooks one arm around you and reaches between your legs. He thumbs your clit lightly, barely a touch, but you clamp down so hard you nearly force him out.
“Jesus fucking-, hngg, fuck, fuck.”
His hips stutter, the first crack in his iron control. He keeps rubbing your clit though, and you know without a doubt that if he doesn’t stop, you’re going to come.
“P-please,” you gasp. “Bren, please. Please let me c-come. I-, ah, I need to come.”
“Sweetheart-”
“Please.”
You’re outright crying now. Crying, begging, willing to do anything if he’ll let you come. It’s not a matter of willpower anymore, it’s a matter of survival. Your body has been denied for so long that you’re either going to come or pass out.
“Shit, alright. You’ve been so good for me, baby, you can come.”
He delivers a particularly brutal thrust and pinches your clit, and you detonate.
Lightning explodes through you. Your body spasms with it, your hands scrabbling for purchase against the floor. Pleasure so intense it’s agony forces a sob out of your mouth. It’s too much, and you feel like you’re going to break under the pressure of it, but you can’t escape. His hands are still pinning you in place, and you’re too weak to move, so all you can do is lay there as it tears you apart.
Dimly, you’re aware of him coming, too. His hips stutter, then slam forward one more time before he’s twitching inside of you. He holds you through it, spewing a litany of curses and praise, but it’s like you’re hearing from underwater. You’re still coming, drenching his cock with it. Every time you think it’s over, another wave hits you, and your vision actually greys out for a second.
When you finally settle back into your body, you feel hollowed out. Everything is too much, too sensitive. Your breath is coming in broken gasps, your legs are shaking, and you can’t stop crying.
When he pulls out, it’s relief and loss all at once. You make a distressed noise, but quiet when he scoops you up into his arms. He sits on the ground and settles you in his lap, and you immediately burrow as close to him as humanly possible.
“Shh,” he soothes. “You did so well, sweetheart, I’m so proud of you.”
The words are like a balm to your ragged nerves.
“Listened so well, my perfect girl.”
You’re an absolute mess — a mixture of both your releases dripping from between your legs and tears mixing with the remnants of dried come on your cheeks. He ignores all of it, cradling you close. For a while, there’s only the sound of him murmuring reassurances in your ear, only the feeling of being totally surrounded and safe. He doesn’t rush you, and eventually you calm enough to accept the bottle of water he holds to your lips.
“Can I take off the blindfold?” he asks once you finish drinking.
You nod.
The overheads in the gym are dimmed all the way down, but you still wince at the first stab of light. You have to blink several times to adjust, and the first thing your eyes settle on is the reflection of you and Brendon in the mirror. You look about as wrecked as you feel, and though he looks similarly exhausted, you can immediately tell that the simmering anger from earlier has cooled. His pelagic eyes are calm as they stare back at you, his hand steady as it cards through your hair.
“You with me?” he asks softly.
You hum in agreement, and he huffs a laugh.
“Words, sweetheart.”
A weak spark of arousal runs through your body.
“‘m with you,” you mumble.
Silence falls, and you close your eyes again. You know the two of you will eventually have to get up — he’ll take you upstairs and help you take a shower before wrapping you in the fluffiest towel you own. He’ll make you drink more water and force you to eat something sad and beige and protein-heavy. Then the two of you will climb into bed, and he’ll curl around you like you’re the only soft thing in a world full of edges. He might talk to you, he might not. But for now, he’s holding you, the world has settled, and that’s enough for both of you.
Summary: PTMC’s new head of vascular surgery takes a liking to you. Brendon is pissed the fuck off unamused with this development.
WC: 3,546
Warnings: mild smut, like they don’t reaallllly bang on screen, but I used the word “cock” twice so interpret that as you will; Brendon and his stabby agenda
A/N: can read as a standalone, but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); I love this emotionally-constipated sweetie pie
Masterlist
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There’s something surreal about dating Brendon Park.
It’s been weeks since he first kissed you. Weeks since the night he called you his and then slept wrapped around you in his bed. It might as well have all happened yesterday though, because every time he touches you still feels like a novelty. How one man can be so emotionally constipated and yet so physically affectionate, you’ll never know.
Like now, when he’s kissing you senseless against the side of your car, right after telling you that you park like shit. Impossible man. You don’t mind it though — he’s there in all the ways that matter. Judging your protein intake and shoving water in your hand every five seconds. Listening to your two thousandth edit of your dissertation abstract without protest. Buying you your oat milk matcha lattes even if he says they’re stupid.
You like to think you take care of him, too. You get him sweet treats he insists he doesn’t like but then refuses to share with you. When he has a particularly busy day, you sneak snacks into his bag, because you know he won’t bother wasting time going to get food. And after long surgeries, when he says he’s fine and scowls at you to leave him alone, you’ll help him rub the knots out of his shoulders while he pretends he hates it.
A sharp nip at your mouth brings you back to the present.
“You’re distracted,” he says, half-amused, half-annoyed.
“Seems like a skill problem on your part,” you snipe back, flustered.
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips, and you immediately regret your words. Of course he’s not insulted. Of course he sees them as some kind of a challenge. You’re starting to understand why people call him Park the Shark, because the look he gives you is downright predatory.
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
You try wiggling out of his arms and fail spectacularly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did the-, the thing.”
“Smiling?”
“Yes. Smiling. That. It’s not your natural state. It signals danger.”
The smile widens.
“You’re lucky we have that early meeting. Otherwise you’d be paying for your skill comment.”
And you must be spending too much time around him, because instead of blushing and shrinking, you meet his eyes and say-
“Promise?”
The two of you are almost late to said meeting.
Which, for you, isn’t that unheard of, but you see Brendon get some weird looks from a couple of the residents and Dr. Lee. He responds to all of them with a curled lip and icy glare, and everyone looks away quickly. You hide a smile from where you stand across the room.
Besides Wilts — who Brendon had assured you will say nothing if she values her life — no one at PTMC knows the two of you are together. Some people in the ED suspect probably, and Patty and her smug smile definitely know, but no one has any proof. The two of you had decided only days after that first kiss to keep things quiet. At least for now.
You’d had a meeting with Dr. Nayar — the director of the CMU/PTMC research collaborative — that Monday, and he’d let slip that PTMC would soon be looking for a new head for its Operational Research and Development Department. The not-so-accidental lapse had been a not-so-subtle suggestion that you apply for the position when it posted, and you’d left that meeting and immediately called one of your cohort members to freak out. Then when Brendon had finished surgery two hours later, you’d done the exact same thing with him.
The position is exactly what you’ve been looking for — a role focusing on research and technical processes, but directly attached to a clinical institution. Even better, it’s at PTMC, where you’ve built the majority of your adaptive patient flow model. You already know the hospital, know the key players and know how things operate. Even better better, Brendon is here. It’s way too soon to be making any decisions based on your month-and-some-change old relationship, but him being here is certainly a bonus.
The two of you had discussed it that night over Thai takeout. Nothing was guaranteed — Nayar’s words had been a tip, not a promise — but you also know that he wouldn’t have told you about the job unless he’d heard some hint that the hospital wanted your research. Brendon had listened to your explanation and agreed. But in between harassing you to eat your chicken, not just the noodles, and being insufferably smug on your behalf, he’d quietly reminded you that your relationship could have ramifications if you decided to apply.
“It’s going to be a competitive process. You can’t give them any reason to think you didn’t earn the position on your own.”
Which would probably make dating the hospital’s star orthopedic surgeon a no-no. He has nothing to do with your dissertation or your research, but you know that won’t make a difference if someone is looking for a reason not to hire you. Or if someone is looking for a way to make themselves look like a better candidate.
The reminder is pragmatic, necessary. But it still knocks you off-kilter. You sit across from him, picking at your noodles and feeling upset about possibly having to hide your relationship because of a possible job that you might possibly apply to. It’s absolutely ridiculous and yet still enough to ruin your appetite.
The longer you stew on your thoughts, the worse it gets. He’s older, successful, makes stupid money and looks like an action movie hero. You’re a grad student with grad student-money and anxiety. You’re not shallow enough to think those differences make you worth any less, but that doesn’t mean jack to your overactive doom-spiral. Of course no one can know you’re together. Of course-
“What,” Brendon asks when you’re silent for too long.
You make a noncommittal noise and avoid eye contact. He mutters something that’s probably not very nice, and then stands from his chair and rounds the island. You’re expecting him to be upset with your inanity, annoyed at the very least, and you’re shocked when he spins you around, plants both hands on the counter behind you, and bends down to kiss you.
It’s not the soft kisses he gave you in the ED and right after. It’s also not the absolutely filthy kiss he gave you this morning before the two of you headed into the hospital. This is somewhere in between, slow and purposeful but not intended to lead to something else. You melt into it like you always do, arms sliding around his neck and fingers finding the shorter hairs at his nape.
“Ridiculous girl,” he huffs against your lips.
“I-“
“You know that day you brought me coffee? You were wearing that blue dress with the bow.”
Another kiss, this one deeper.
“I wanted to bend you over the charge desk and fuck you right there. That’s still on the table if you want it, but I figure we should at least wait until you have your job offer first.”
You smile now at the memory. Only Brendon could turn something so indelicate-sounding into a reassurance. It had worked though, and you’re content to keep things between the two of you for now. Even if it means you have to stand across the room from him and pretend you don’t know why his usually perfectly-styled hair is slightly less perfect this morning.
You’re observing the surgical department this week and the next. It’s one of the last departments you have to cover before you finish the field part of your research, and then all you’ll have left is finalizing your model and completing your manuscript. You were here yesterday, too, and you’ll admit that you like seeing Brendon in his element. He’s at his snappiest and snarliest here, and it does something unprofessional to your libido.
“Alright people, settle down.”
Dr. Konomori, the Chief of Surgery, raises her voice to be heard over the early-morning chatter, and the noise eventually subsides. She’s a fierce Japanese woman in her late fifties who barely tops five foot, but she commands attention in a way men twice her size don’t.
“We all have cases to get to, so I’ll make this short. I’m sure you all know this is Dr. Ramirez’s last week with us before heading to Atlanta-“
A couple of good-natured boos sound from the crowd, but Konomori doesn’t blink.
“-so I’m here to introduce our new head of vascular, Dr. Everett Edwards. He comes to us from the Cleveland Clinic, but he’s a Pittsburgh native, so welcome back Dr. Edwards.”
A round of applause, surprisingly boisterous given the early hour, breaks out. You crane your head around the pair of residents in front of you. You know most of the speciality heads by now, but there are dozens of other attendings and residents that you’ve never met, so you’re not quite sure who you’re looking for. Then a man you’ve never seen steps up next to Dr. Konomori, and you actually let out a disbelieving snort.
Everett Edwards is quite possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Raven hair, amber eyes bright enough you can see them from halfway across the room, and a blindingly white smile. He’s disturbingly attractive. Like uncanny valley levels of attractive. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Brendon’s towering frame, but you can still tell the guy is built, even under his navy surgical scrubs and his white coat.
You’re legitimately calculating the odds that he’s some sort of robot or genetically engineered plant, when those amber eyes meet yours. It’s like looking at the freaking sun. You slow blink, trying to process the mutant demigod looking at you, and his smile widens. It goes from polite-charming to zeroed-in-charming, and you feel it like a slap across the face. Konomori then tells everyone to get back to work, and you’re relieved for all of three seconds before Edwards actually starts walking towards you.
You register several things when he stops in front of you. One, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Two, he smells like expensive cologne, something sharp that makes your nose twitch. And three, if looks could kill, he would be long-dead. Because Brendon catches sight of the two of you from where he’s standing by the charge desk, and the blue in his eyes goes positively arctic.
“Hi, you must be Y/n Y/l/n.”
Even his stupid voice is attractive.
“Um, yes, hi?”
Your gaze is pulled from Brendon’s attempt at first-degree murder back to the man in front of you.
“Everett Edwards, nice to meet you. Dr. Konomori told me a bit about your research here and that you’ll be with us for the next few days.”
He holds out his hand, and you shake it like it’s a snake waiting to bite you.
“I will-. Yes, Dr. Edwards, I-”
“Everett, please. I’ll be doing a lot of observation this week before Dr. Ramirez leaves, so we’ll likely run into each other quite a bit. Dr. Edwards just sounds pretentious.”
He gives you another megawatt grin, this one conspiratorial and intimate. Twenty-year-old you would probably have combusted on the spot. Current you isn’t immune to the charm, but you’re not nearly as impressed by it as you would have been once upon a time. He might be the sun given form — all bright and golden and warm — but you prefer the cool. Oceans and ice and blue so sharp it steals your breath.
“Right, well. Everett. I have to get over to OR five, but it was nice to meet you.”
You give him your most professional smile and basically bolt away from him. It’s done with absolutely no grace and probably isn’t the most polite thing you could do, but you don’t care. You can feel his amusement following you down the hall. You head towards the surgical suites and are about to pull out your phone to text Brendon when an arm hooks around your waist and drags you sideways.
“What-“
You catch a flash of burning cerulean before Brendon’s mouth is on yours. Your back meets something solid, and then he’s pressed against you from shoulder to hip. His hands fist your hair to angle your head how he wants, and he kisses you harshly, all tongue and teeth. Lightning shoots through you.
“Bren,” you gasp when he lets you breathe. “What are you doing?”
A quick glance around tells you he’d pulled you into an on-call room, and anyone could walk in at any time.
“Asshole’s been here five seconds,” he mutters in response, scowling.
“What?”
“The Ken doll eye-fucking you. Doesn’t even have a permanent parking pass yet, and he’s already trying to take things that aren’t his.”
Understanding dawns like a lightbulb.
“Are you jealous?”
A slow, delighted smile spreads across your face, and he fairly growls at you.
“No, and don’t look at me like that.”
“Brendon. He shook my hand and said nice to meet you.”
“Stop looking so fucking smug.”
“Stop being jealous.”
“I’m not jealous you nutcase . I’m pissed off that he’s flirting with you in front of the whole fucking department, while I have to pretend I don’t know what you sound like coming on my cock.”
Now it’s his turn to smirk while your face flames.
“We’re at work,” you hiss.
“Which part of I would happily fuck you in the middle of reception was unclear to you?”
Insufferable man.
But he’s your insufferable man, and you smile despite yourself. Sighing, you stretch up on your toes to kiss him again. He puts up a token resistance for approximately two seconds, then relents and makes a low sound against your mouth. Your hum in contentment and wiggle as close to him as possible.
“It’s not about me,” you say when you pull back a while later.
You place one hand on his chest and rub your fingers lightly against the fabric of his scrubs.
“He’s just a flirt. He’ll figure out pretty quickly I’m not interested and start wooing someone else.”
He scowls and presses a kiss to your jaw.
“He fucking better.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Turns out Everett Edwards is much more patient than you gave him credit for.
It’s now the following Friday, and he’s spent the last two weeks charming the pants off every person in the department. At least two nurses and one of the plastics attendings have already shot their shot with him, and everyone else seems close on their heels. Everyone except Brendon, who is one twitch away from physical violence, and you.
Edwards is charismatic, you’ll give him that. He’s smart, well-spoken, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the only person in the world. He’s quick with a smile or a joke, and he isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself either. That’s what makes him so likable, you think. He doesn’t pretend false modesty, but he also doesn’t take himself too seriously.
He’s also admirably, irritatingly, persistent.
The Tuesday you met him, he’d followed you to the observation room of OR five. You’d been there to study technical procedures — anything that could improve efficiency and accuracy and reduce margin of error — and had only a basic grasp of what was actually happening medically. Edwards had been all too happy to camp out next to you and explain the spring-mediated cranioplasty.
Wednesday, he’d brought doughnuts for everyone and had saved one for the genius trying to make our lives more efficient.
On Friday, he’d found you observing another surgery and had complimented your work ethic with alarming sincerity.
Then this Monday, he’d caught you before rounds and had invited you to watch him perform a carotid endarterectomy. For the model he’d said with a wink.
By Wednesday, Brendon was ready to chew through drywall.
“I’m going to stab him with an eleven blade,” he grumbles against your hair.
The two of you are lying in his bed, clothes scattered somewhere on the floor and sheets tangled around bare legs. He’s on his back with you half-draped across his chest. One of his arms is hooked around your waist, and his fingers are gentle as they card through the ends of your hair despite the irritation in his voice.
“Dramatic,” you tease.
You shift so you can see him, arms braced on his chest. The sight of him — naked, flushed, softer than anyone else knows he can be — steals your breath momentarily. You can’t help but bend down to kiss him.
“You know I’m not interested,” you say when you pull back.
He scowls like you just spit on his mother’s grave.
“Of course I know that. I just don’t know why you haven’t told him to fuck off yet.”
“I-“
His large hands grab your hips and yank you up until you’re sitting on his lap. You gasp when the movement drags your bare cunt over his cock. He’s already half-hard again, and he smirks when your hips twitch down involuntarily. You’re still sensitive from him being inside of you not long ago, and you have no idea how he can possibly be ready for another round so soon.
“Cut it out you heathen,” you hiss. “I was going to say that I can’t tell him off, because he hasn’t done anything yet.”
It’s true. Edwards hasn’t given you any gifts, hasn’t paid you any non-professional compliments, hasn’t made any physical advances. He hasn’t done anything that could be considered inappropriate. He’s just…attentive.
Brendon is thoroughly unimpressed by your logic, and he retaliates by rolling his hips up against yours. It punches an embarrassing noise out of you.
“Aren’t you all about planning and being prepared for things?” he asks as he drags his rapidly hardening cock directly against your clit. “Tell him to fuck off proactively.”
“I can’t-, ah. He’s not doing anything you caveman.”
“He’s pebbling.“
“What?”
You actually yelp when he sits up abruptly and rolls the two of you over. He’s annoyingly agile for someone his size.
“Pebbling. He’s bringing you pebbles like a fucking penguin, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with an osteotome.”
Whatever response you would have given disappears when he slides into you with one, deep thrust. You make a choked noise and reach immediately to brace your hands on his chest. He groans, low and filthy, and hikes one of your legs up on his hip. The new angle makes your head spin.
“You’re mine, imp.”
Needless to say, Brendon is less than thrilled when Edwards approaches you now. You’re standing at the charge desk, scribbling in the margins of your notebook, while Brendon stands on the opposite side taking to Patty. Edwards slides up next to you with his normal Crest-commercial grin firmly in place, looking flawless despite the ungodly hour. One thing you definitely will not miss about observing surgery is their ridiculous start times.
“Hey, doc,” he greets.
“Not a doctor yet,” you reply automatically.
“Why, you planning on failing your defense?”
Your jaw drops.
“Of course not! And don’t put bad vibes out in the universe. What is wrong with you?”
He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“See? You’re going to pass, and you’ll be Dr. Y/l/n in no time.”
You smile despite yourself.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.“
“Anytime. Speaking of which, are you going to research gala Sunday?”
It takes you a second to process the rapid shift in topics.
“Um, yes? How-, are you invited?”
The CMU/PTMC research collaborative was hosting its yearly gala to attract sponsors. The goal was to showcase some of their joint projects and emphasize the potential for both medical progress as well as financial growth. You’re not a fan of the latter, but you know it’s inevitable in the medical-industrial complex. All current grad students are expected to attend, and you’ve been waffling between excitement at a chance to dress up and dread over prolonged forced-socialization.
“Alumni have a standing invitation,” he answers with a wink.
You can’t help it. You risk a glance over at Brendon and wince when you see the stormy expression on his face. Even if you two weren’t keeping things on the down low right now, he’s on call this weekend. The hotel hosting the gala is just outside the twenty minute call radius, and he wouldn’t have been able to attend with you regardless.
“I’ll see you there?” Edwards asks, oblivious to your silent stare-off.
Well now your choices are lie or send Brendon into the stratosphere.
Brendon will be fine.
“Yes,” you answer. “I’m actually doing one of the lightning talks.”
Edwards’ face lights up.
“That’s amazing! I look forward to hearing it; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
He keeps talking, something about a friend who’s also giving a talk and another friend who something something. You don’t hear him. You’re too busy looking at Brendon, who meets your gaze with his lip curled just enough to mean danger.
summary: andrew cody has never been a man who smiles, not until you started waking him up by littering kisses onto every freckle on his face.
wc: 1.3k words
warnings: brief allusion to sex, just fluff basically
a/n: i was listening to olivia's new album and honeybee is so, so andrew coded. my baby just needed someone to love him. that's the fic. divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: honeybee by olivia rodrigo
For the first time in a very long time, Andrew Cody is dreaming.
The constant thrum in his head, the constant awareness that follows him even into unconsciousness, that thing that has spent years keeping him alive, all of it sits muted and distant for a few precious hours. Not gone entirely. It never really leaves him; it lives beneath his skin the same way his heartbeat does, a permanent thing, woven into him. But tonight it is quiet enough that he can ignore it.
And so he doesn’t dream often, no, but tonight he did.
Soft flashes of what transpired the night before, your face below him, looking up with reverence. Fingers threaded in hair as he pulsed gently inside you. The feeling of your soft fingers wiping his tears away as he finally stopped fighting the warmth rushing through him.
Comfort. Safety. Things Andrew has spent most of his life circling without ever quite touching.
When his body finally stirs into consciousness, he doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he feels.
Under the soft heat of the morning, something warm pressed against his side. Soft, familiar. It’s your body tucked against him, an arm draped around his waist, a leg over his, your face resting in the crook of his neck.
He can feel your soft breaths on his skin.
In, out. In, out.
He counts each one, eyes still closed.
One, two. One, two.
He isn't entirely sure how much time passes. A minute. Ten. Maybe more.
The rhythm settles somewhere deep beneath him, in that place where, over these last few months, something soft and molten has taken residence in his chest, unfurling beneath his ribs, spreading to heart. Finding solace there.
Andrew does not consider himself to be a man that smiles, that shows happiness through the muscles on face very often, not that he used to feel much of the emotion in the first place. Happiness was something that was something fragile, something transactional, something that could disappear the second he looked directly at it.
But now, he feels it. That flutter of joy he rarely ever felt with Julia, then momentarily with Cath, with Lena. And it’s brought on, by you.
The woman who lies tucked against him, trusting, her body pressed into his.
The course of the past few months has brought about stolen smiles, hidden beneath a soft snort, or pressed into your lips, smiling against your mouth.
He remembers your voice, the first time he'd let the muscles in his face soften, let them hold that gentle upturn.
“You’re so, so pretty Andrew.”
He'd fluttered his lashes, looking down, a pink hue spreading across his cheeks. Blushing.
Now, smiling is that much easier. Natural. The way it always seems to be around you.
Slowly, Andrew shifts closer, just enough that he can feel more of your warmth. He inhales the scent of your hair, of your skin. Pockets of intimacy he only allows himself when your eyes are closed.
Andrew closes his eyes and rests, lets your breathing guide him into that soft space between sleeping and being awake, that quiet place where warmth glows steadily beneath his chest.
In, out. In, out.
You feel his chest rising and falling under you, his breathing even, as you open your eyes. Seeing the peace on his face. The permanent tension that usually sits across his shoulders has disappeared, his jaw relaxed, mouth slightly parted.
You feel it bloom in your chest, love, swelling and beating. This man, who's spent every waking moment surrounded by violence and pain, is allowing you to rest against him, an arm wrapped protectively around you even in his sleep.
Carefully, you lift your head, brush a curl from his head.
Then, unable to help yourself, you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his temple.
Then the creases near his eyes.
Across his cheek.
His jaw.
You detangle yourself from his arms, shifting yourself over him, one hand resting on the bed beside him, hovering over his face. The other remains in his curls, thumb brushing gently against his temple.
His nose scrunches slightly, brows furrowing.
You smile, pressing a kiss in that crease.
His eyes finally begin to flicker open, tinged with sleepiness, the sort that's rested, calm.
They find yours immediately, your face hovering over his, close.
The furrow disappears, lips tilting up. Both his broad palms come up to encase your waist.
"What're you doin'?" he asks, voice gravelly and rough with sleep.
You grin wider.
"Counting your freckles.”
His eyes widen, morphing into that puppy-eyed confusion you adore. Your heart aches softly at the fact that he has never been privy to such mundane intimacy.
"Yeah?"
You nod.
"You have so many. They’re so pretty, Andrew."
And there it is again, that word only you seem to use to describe him with. Pretty.
A faint blush creeps across his face, pinkening the apples of his cheeks.
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to."
The simplicity of the answer catches him off guard, loosens something tight in his chest. You say it as though it's obvious. As though spending your morning sprawled over him, counting freckles and pressing kisses into his skin, is the easiest choice in the world.
The hand buried in his curls moves gently, slow circles against his scalp. His eyes flutter. He lets out something resembling a whimper.
"How many?" he asks quietly.
"Hmm." You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe a hundred."
His eyes drop down to your mouth, his palms gripping your waist tighter.
"Think there's more than that.”
The words come out soft, shy. Hesitant. Still unfamiliar with this kind of intimacy even after all these months. But you've learned him. You've learned the language beneath his words, the way he hides meanings behind mundane words and questions, things he wants but struggles to ask for.
And right now what he wants is obvious.
So, you lean down and kiss his forehead again.
Then his cheeks.
His nose.
The corners of his mouth.
Your hand trails down to cup his jaw.
Immediately Andrew leans into it, nuzzling deeper into your palm, eyes staying on yours. He exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh.
Your heart aches, the good kind.
"My Andrew," you murmur, the words slipping out softly.
Andrew goes still. His lips press together tightly the way they do when he feels too much, that burst of something uncontrollable inside his chest. Too much. Usually anger, or jealousy, or grief.
For the first time, he allows himself to recognise it for what it is. Adoration.
He’s never been anyone’s before, not in the way you call him yours.
He's been Pope - the man who's Smurf’s son, his brothers' older brother, Julia's twin. Pieces of himself given away his entire life, bound by blood or circumstance.
But this is different. This is the first time somebody has come along and chosen him. Chosen him to be theirs.
Out of everybody in the world, you looked at Andrew, at his bruised hands, his scars, at everything broken and battered inside him, and said mine.
The realisation settles warmly inside his chest, in that space only you occupy, spreading until he can feel it beneath every rib, in his heart.
He tilts his head up, bringing a hand to the back of your head and guiding you closer, until your mouth is hovering just above his.
“Yeah?” he whispers. "Yours?"
You smile softly.
“Yeah, Andrew. Mine.”
Then he kisses you, a slow press of his lips against yours, lazy and unhurried, but filled with all the tenderness he can't make his mouth utter aloud.
You sigh into his mouth. He smiles into your lips.
And for the first time in his life, Andrew finds that he doesn't mind belonging to someone at all.
i have so many thoughts about little scenarios like this with andrew (i refuse to call him pope #sorry) and while i'm jobless and done with uni i may write a few based off songs from you seem so pretty for a girl in love, a little series of sorts perchance. #watchthisspace and give me ideas thank you
