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warnings/notes: nothing beyond canon. This is for my 9k celebration.
wc: 1k
You did not expect The Lawyer to show up at your door at 3 am one summer night, his book in tow and a smile on his face. “We have a proposition for you,” he’d said in lieu of a greeting.
You stepped back to allow him entrance. What else could you do? You were from one of the lesser families, but you still knew who he was. You just had no idea what he could possibly want with you.
So, the two of you sat and he explained in great detail. Mr. Le Bail and The Lawyer were both prohibited from interfering directly with the families as long as they adhered to their contracts. They were unable to ensure their choice took the high seat. It was how it had been for hundreds of years.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t push. Direct. Influence.
A satanic ritual here, a discrete murder there and within the year you were engaged to Alex Le Domas instead of the man you loved. And Titus was furious. Worse, he was hurt. You could only hope he’d forgive you in the end once he realized what you’d done for him.
The wedding came and went, your side of the aisle empty as you’d sent no invitations. There was no one you needed to witness this event. You smiled, laughed and charmed your way through the reception.
And then came the game. Maybe you would have felt worse about what was to come if they had warned you in any measure. But they hadn’t. They’d let you walk in blind, not realizing you already knew everything. And why wouldn’t they? It would only make it easier for them if you were unprepared.
You let them have their pomp and circumstance. The pre-game ritual that was unnecessarily drawn out. Finally, you drew the card you’d already prepared for. “Oh, hide and seek is my favorite. How much of a head start do I get?”
You headed to the room where you’d stashed a bag earlier. Once you’d put on more appropriate footwear, and armed yourself, you began to systematically destroy the Le Domas family. It was far easier than it should have been. Of course, you had been trained by Titus in anticipation of you becoming his bride.
They got in more hits than you cared for, but you made it to dawn. Pushing open the curtains as Alex pleaded for his life. “It wasn’t personal Alex. You were simply a means to an end. Goodbye.”
You cringed when he exploded covering you in blood. Gross but effective. Le Bail appeared in the chair at the head of the table with a smile and a nod. You moved through the house making sure the fire would catch offering the perfect cover for the disappearance of the Le Domas family.
You left the house, wondering how long it would take someone to respond to the fire. Your steps stuttered as you descended the steps to find The Lawyer and Titus waiting for you at the bottom.
Titus’ expression was blank, hands clasped in front of him and eyes hidden behind dark glasses. You felt his gaze move over you, even if you didn’t see it. “You survived.”
“Of course.”
“Are you injured?”
You shifted your attention to The Lawyer who appeared to be endlessly entertained by the circumstances. “Why is he here?”
When he simply smiled your attention snapped back to Titus. “Why are you here?”
“To escort you to the estate. And to make sure the cover story is in place.” He took a step closer. “The question I have is how The Lawyer knew how this would end when he summoned me in the middle of the night.”
You looked between the two men, settling on The Lawyer. He smirked and gave you a small nod before retreating to the car. “You may reveal to Mr. Danforth whatever you wish, as long as he plays along.”
So, you told him everything. From The Lawyer showing up at your door to the plan to marry Alex and survive the game to the ring being in play. Even with the sunglasses, you could see the changing emotions on Titus’ face and you knew he believed you. How could it be anything but the truth after all?
“You didn’t love him?”
You snorted. “Absolutely not.”
He hummed and took a step forward. “And me? Do you love me?”
“Never stopped.”
Another step. “Did you fuck him?”
Your nose curled in distaste. “Satan, no. Convinced him I wanted to wait until we were married. Made it easy to convince him to agree to a quick wedding.”
The corner of his lips curled up as he closed the remaining distance between you, his hands finding your face to hold it as he looked at you. You reached up and took off his sunglasses, wanting to see the hazel eyes you’d missed so much.
“There’s only one problem with your plan, sweetheart.” He leaned in, face inches from yours. “In order to claim the seat, I have to kill you.” The words were hissed in anger and annoyance.
“Really, Titus. Do you think so little of me?” His features softened as he realized there was another step, another secret he didn’t know. He couldn’t bear to lose you, not again. “When’s the last time you read the rules?”
He pursed his lips. “Never. To be fair, I never expected a bride to survive.”
“According to the fine print, should I marry into one of the families before time expires, my spouse would hold the high seat.”
His gaze was frantic as he looked for any sign you were lying. You simply smiled, enjoying the feeling of his touch on your skin. You’d missed it. “So, by the time all this is over, I’ll hold the seat and you’ll be mine?”
“I’ve always been yours, Titus. I just had to take a little detour to make sure you had everything you desired.”
He kissed you then, deep and slow as the fire burned the Le Domas legacy to ash behind you.
Warnings: heavy angst, MDNI!!! Domestic violence, physical abuse, graphic descriptions of injuries, internal bleeding, blood. Please read with care. It explores the reality of being blind to violence out of fear and survival.
Summary: Working the night shift at The Pitt is hard enough without carrying the weight of a violent secret. Jack Abbot has been watching his best resident slowly fade for months until a desperate attempt to leave her abuser turns into a fight for her life.
This isn't a standalone.
— Grey clouds Fic: 1. hidden bruises | 2. take me home | 3. to be okay | 4. out of breath | 5. a new kind of love
Jack was leaning against the central nursing station when he saw you. You were at the far end of the corridor, tucked into the shadow of a supply cart, thinking you were out of sight.
You weren't.
Jack watched as you pressed the phone to your ear, your knuckles white as bone. Even from twenty feet away, he could see the slight tremor in your shoulders. Your voice didn't carry but the frantic pacing did. It was the movement of someone trying to find a solution that wasn't there.
"Again?"
Jack didn't turn his head. He knew Lena’s voice without looking. The head nurse stood beside him, her eyes fixed on the same spot.
"Third time this shift," Jack muttered, his thumb tracing the rim of his jaw. "She’s been on that call for ten minutes. If the paramedics roll in with a code right now, she’s not going to be in the headspace to lead it."
"It’s not just the phone calls, Jack," Lena said softly, her voice heavy with sadness. "Look at her wrists."
Jack straightened up. He’d noticed the long sleeves you wore, the way you winced when you reached a high shelf and the heavy layer of make up that didn't quite hide the yellowish purple smudge blooming along your jawline.
He waited until you hung up, until you leaned your forehead against the cold metal of the supply cart and took a shallow breath. When you finally stepped back, rubbing your eyes until they were bloodshot and glassy, he intercepted you.
"Abbot," you croaked, your voice thin and brittle. You didn't look at him. You looked at his chest, at his ID badge, anywhere but his eyes. "Sorry. I was just checking on... a personal matter."
"A personal matter that has you screaming and unfocused at 3 a.m," Jack’s tone wasn't kind. "You’re late on your rounds. You missed the handoff on the MVA in Bed 4."
"I’m sorry. It won't happen again."
"It’s already happened again," Jack countered. He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "You’re a resident at one of the busiest trauma centers in the city. You can't afford to be compromised. You’re shaking and trailing three steps behind the rhythm of this floor."
You finally looked up and the raw exhaustion in your gaze made him flinch internally. "I'm just tired, Dr. Abbot. The night shifts are catching up to me."
"Don't lie to me," he said, the words landing like lead. "I see the bruises. I see the way you jump every time your phone vibrates on the counter. This isn't tired."
You stepped back, your posture suddenly defensive, arms crossing over your chest to hide the very signs he’d pointed out. "You don't know what you're talking about. You’re my attending, Jack. Not my therapist. If my work is subpar, write me up. Otherwise, leave it alone."
Jack watched you walk away. He saw Shen emerge from a patient room, catching your eye for a split second. Shen didn't say anything, but the look of pity he shot toward you was enough to confirm that everyone knew.
Everyone saw the cracks.
Jack stayed at the station. He wanted to reach out, to pull you into an office and demand the truth, to offer a way out. But as he watched you disappear into the shadows of the hallway, he realized the most agonizing part of the ER: you couldn't treat a patient who refused to admit they were bleeding.
He picked up the phone to page the next intake, his heart hardening while realizing he was watching his best resident slowly vanish, one night shift at a time.
_
Jack was just arriving at ER when he heard the slammed car door.
It wasn’t the sound of someone arriving; it was the sound of an exclamation point. Jack saw you. You were backing away, your hands up in a defensive posture, your scrubs already darkening with rain. Following you was a man whose voice cut through the sound of the rain, low with a terrifying rage.
"I told you to leave it alone!" you cried out, your voice cracking. "I’m late, I have to go—"
"You don't go anywhere until I'm finished," the man snarled.
Jack stopped ten feet away, his hand tightening around his bag. He saw the moment the man lunged. It wasn't a punch; it was a swift grab. He seized your upper arm, his fingers digging into the soft tissue with enough force to jerk your entire body toward him. You let out a choked gasp of pain, your heels skidding on the wet asphalt.
"Let go," you whispered, your eyes darting toward the ER entrance in a panic. "Please, someone will see."
"Let them look, you're being a bitch," he hissed, pulling you closer until your faces were inches apart.
"That's enough."
Jack’s voice wasn't loud but it was precise. He stepped out of the shadows, he didn't look at you, he kept his eyes locked on the man’s hand, still clamped around your arm.
The boyfriend looked up, eyes narrowing. "Back off, pal. This is private."
"It stopped being private the second you touched her on hospital property," Jack said, stepping into the man's personal space. "Let her go. Now."
"Jack, please," you stammered, your face pale and glistening with rain. "It’s fine, we’re just—"
"It isn't fine," Jack snapped, his eyes finally flickering to yours for a fraction of a second. "I’m Dr. Jack Abbot. I run this ER. And if you don't take your hand off my resident in the next three seconds, I’m calling hospital security. They’re already standing thirty feet behind those glass doors. Want to find out how fast they move?"
The man’s jaw worked, his eyes darting to the security desk visible through the lobby windows. He loosened his grip, giving your arm a final sharp shove before stepping back.
"She's all yours, Doc," the man spat. He pointed a finger at you, a silent promise of a conversation to be finished later, before climbing back into the car and peeling away.
The silence that followed was heavy. You stood there, your head bowed, your breath coming in ragged hitches. You reached up to rub your arm, your fingers hovering over where his grip had been.
Jack didn't offer a hand. He didn't offer a hug. He knew you’d break if he did.
"Get inside," he said, his voice low and tight. "Go to the breakroom. Take all the time you need before starting your shift."
"Jack, I—"
"Not here," he cut you off, his heart hammering against his ribs in a mix of fury and fear. He looked at the red marks already blooming on your skin, matching the older, fading bruises he'd spotted weeks ago. "We have a shift to run. But don't think for one second that we’re going back to pretending I don't see this."
He walked past you toward the sliding doors, leaving you standing in the rain, the cold reality of the night finally stripped of all its excuses.
_
The sun was beginning to bleed over the Pittsburgh skyline as the night shift finally drew to a close. The high adrenaline had faded, replaced by a heavy ache of exhaustion.
Jack stood by the lockers, his jacket already on, watching you. You were moving with a frantic energy, you were vibrating with the need to disappear before he could corner you.
"Day shift is here," Jack said, his voice echoing in the nearly empty hallway. "Go home."
You flinched but didn't turn around. "I just need to finish the notes on the cardiac arrest in Bed 2. I don't want to leave Robby with a mess."
"He already took the handoff. He told you to go home ten minutes ago." Jack walked over, stopping just far enough away that you wouldn't feel crowded. "And we need to talk about what happened."
You finally turned, and for a second, Jack was struck by the mask you had donned. It was a perfect, practiced smile, the kind used for difficult patients. "Oh, Abbot, honestly. It was just a silly argument. Tensions were high because I was running late. You know how it is."
"I know what a violent grip looks like," Jack said. "I saw his face. I saw yours. That wasn't a silly argument, and those marks on your arm aren't from a misunderstanding."
"He's just... he’s under a lot of pressure lately," you said quickly, the words tumbling out as if you had rehearsed them in your head a thousand times. "His job is stressful, and I’ve been pulling so many doubles here... he just misses me. He gets frustrated. It’s actually kind of sweet, if you think about it. He just wants me home."
Jack felt a cold chill run down his spine. Hearing you rationalize the bruises made his stomach churn. "Sweet? He shoved you in the rain, in front of your place of work. That’s not love. That’s some abusive bullshit."
"You’re overreacting," you laughed. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture that inadvertently revealed the darkening thumbprint on your jaw. "You see the worst of humanity every day in here, Jack. You’ve lost your perspective. We’re fine. We’re going to talk it out today, have a nice breakfast, and it’ll be like it never happened."
"But it did happen. And it’s going to happen again." Jack stepped closer, his eyes searching yours, pleading for a flicker of the logical resident he knew was in there. "Look at me. You’re a doctor. If a woman came into this ER with those same marks and told you that story, what would you tell her?"
You went rigid.
"I’d tell her to mind her own business," you snapped, your voice trembling. "I’m not a patient, Jack. I’m your resident."
You grabbed your bag and shouldered past him, your stride quick and desperate.
"I can't help you if you won't let me," Jack called after you.
You didn't stop. You didn't look back. You just pushed through the doors, heading straight toward the exit.
Jack watched you walk away, a silent witness to a tragedy he couldn't stop, feeling the crushing weight of the thing medical school prepared him for: the patients you can’t save because they don’t want to be found.
_
The silence of the ER was shattered by the frantic sound of shoes against the floor.
Jack was just clipping his pager to his belt when he heard the collective gasp from the triage desk. He turned and his world stopped.
You were stumbling through the sliding doors, one hand pressed uselessly against your ribs. Your blue scrubs were no blue; it was dark red. One eye was swollen shut, a deep gash splitting the eyebrow, and your lip was torn so badly you couldn't even call out for help.
"Help—" The word died in a wet wheeze as blood came out your mouth.
"Need a doctor here!" Dr. Langdon’s voice cutted through the shock of the room.
Jack dropped his coffee. He didn't remember running, but suddenly he was there, catching you just as your knees buckled. The weight of you was terrifying: limp, cold and smelling of iron.
"I’ve got you, I’ve got you," Jack muttered, his hands shaking as he tried to find a pulse in your neck. His brain was screaming Trauma. Grade 3 hemorrhage. Probable flail chest. But his heart was just screaming your name.
"J-Jack, he.. he" you whispered through a mouthful of blood. Your one open eye, glassy and unfocused, searched his. "I... I tried-"
"Don't talk." Jack commanded, his voice breaking. He looked up, his expression was primal fury. "Let's get her to Trauma 1! Now! Dana, I need two units of O-neg!"
As the team lifted you onto the trauma bed, a suffocating silence fell over the staff.
They weren't just treating a patient; they were treating one of their own.
"Get those scrubs off her! Carefully!" Jack roared, his voice cracking like a whip.
Dana’s shears moved with practiced speed, the blades gliding through the fabric you’d worn just yesterday. As the blue material fell away, the room seemed to go cold. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't mottled in shades of plum and yellow. Defensive wounds lined your forearm, fingernail gouges and deep bruises where he’d pinned you down.
"Pressure! I need pressure on the abdominal bleed!" Jack commanded, his gloved hands pressing firmly against your midsection. He felt the sickening pulse of arterial spray against his palms. "She’s tachycardic. Heart rate 140 and climbing. BP is 70 over 40. We’re losing the window."
"Jack, I can't get a line," a nurse called out, her voice rising in panic. "Her veins are collapsed."
"Go intraosseous!" Jack didn't look up. He couldn't. If he looked at your face, at the blood bubbling at the corner of your mouth, he would lose his mind. He had to stay in the anatomy. He had to see you as a series of leaks to be plugged, not the woman who liked her bagels burnt or the resident who always forgot her stethoscope on the charging station. "Drill the tibia! Now!"
The whine of the IO drill filled the room, a mechanical scream that felt like it was drilling directly into Jack's skull.
"I’m in!"
"Start the MTP," Jack ordered. "Give her the first cooler. Stay ahead of the coagulopathy."
Suddenly, your body buckled. A wet cough forced a spray of bright red blood onto Jack’s face shield. The monitor let out a long, continuous, high-pitched wail.
"She's flatlining! V-fib!"
"Start compressions!" Jack screamed.
Langdon stepped up and began the rhythmic task of pumping your heart for you. Every time his hands came down on your chest, the sound of your fractured ribs grating together echoed in the small room.
"Charge to 200," Jack commanded, grabbing the paddles. His hands were slick with your blood, making the handles hard to grip. "Clear!"
Your body jolted under the current.
"Nothing. Still in V-fib. Again! Clear!"
Jack watched your head loll to the side with the force of the shock. He saw the earring you were wearing—a small, silver stud he'd gift you last christmas.
*Don’t you dare,* he thought, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. *Don't you dare leave me here.*
"Come on, sweetheart," he whispered, the word lost under the noise of the suction and the barking orders. "Come back to us."
On the third shock, a jagged rhythm appeared on the monitor. It was weak but it was a rhythm.
"We have ROSC," Frank breathed, wiping sweat from his brow with a bloodied sleeve. "She’s not stable. Abbot, look at the ultrasound."
Jack looked at the screen. Your abdomen was filling with fluid, internal bleeding that no amount of pressure could stop.
"She needs an OR. Make the call," Jack said. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, his voice a low, fierce growl that bypassed the professional and went straight to the personal. "You listen to me. We are taking you up. You stay away from the light. Do you hear me? Do not dare to leave us."
Jack didn't let go of the bedrail. He ran alongside you.
The elevator doors slid shut as the last thing the staff in the ER saw was Dr. Abbot’s back, standing over your broken form, terrified that if he blinked, the darkness you’d been living in would finally claim you.
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A/N: I cannot stress enough how much spoilers for Ready or Not 2: Here I Come this has. Like to the point I'm putting the description and tags under the cut! Please be aware I lift entire surprise plot points of the movie for this! Couldn't stop thinking about this while sitting in the theater!! GO SEE THE MOVIE IT IS SO GOOD!!!
this thing is 15k words.
AO3 Link if that's your preference
Summary: You survived your wedding only to be hunted by the most powerful families in the world. The monster awoken in you intrigued Titus Danforth, who would do anything to have The High Seat and you as his as well. Thankfully, a hidden rule might make that all possible.
Tags: violence, blood, descriptions of bodily injury but i don't think i made it too bad, morally gray!reader, horny for violence reader and titus, slightly OOC Titus for the sake of sicko romance, slightly OOC ursula, the tiniest hint of weird sister/mother things with Titus (like so small i dont think you'll notice), SMUT!, BLOOD KINK!, BITING!, SLAPPING!, ROUGH SEX!, unprotected sex and they don't even talk about it he just does that :), multiple positions, light choking, like not even choking, they are crazy for each other, slightly subby Titus for like a second
Part Two: A Solstice Sacrifice
Part Three: The Debut
Little Bite One: Spend. His. Money.
Part Four: Mating Rituals
Little Bite Two: The NightmarePart Five: A Danforth Wedding Tradition
Little Bite Three: The Twins, 2000
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is not how the day after your dream wedding was supposed to go.
You’re supposed to be in first class on a plane to some remote Le Domas family home in the countryside of France. You’re supposed to be sipping wine and giggling with your new husband as you both conspire to find a way to sneak into the bathroom together to join the mile high club.
You’re not supposed to be fighting for your life for the second night in a row, as Satan worshipping rich assholes hunt you for sport and their place on the top of the food chain of the whole goddamn world.
But as you kick in the face of the man in the gold mask and knock several of his teeth out, as a guttural scream rips from your throat, as you shove him into a high powered industrial wash machine, as you listen to his desperate screams as he drowns and is cooked from the steam, you can’t help but feel, for the second night in a row, more alive than you’ve ever felt in your life.
+
When he first watched the footage of your ill-fated wedding night, Titus Danforth saw something in you.
The way you choked your new sister-in-law, taking her to her knees, the way you crashed a car and rolled it before beating the Le Domas’s trusted servant to a pulp, the way you took out the matriarch with the very game box that had damned you. It was monstrous, it was raw, it was bloody.
You had a look in your eyes after killing Mrs. Le Domas, wide and black and...hungry. Titus knew that look well. He’d seen it in the mirror many times.
It was a look he hadn’t seen on anyone else, not even his own sister, his twin. Why now? Why her? Why would Mr. Le Bail present him with someone whose soul so clearly aligns with his own, just to have her be the one they must hunt and destroy? Hadn’t he been faithful?
Ursula had clicked her tongue when the final video ended; you laughing as your husband exploded in a mess of blood and guts. “She’s fierce.”
Titus had nodded, jaw tight. “She’s smart...she’s a fighter.”
“It’s a shame.”
Something heavy formed in the pit of his stomach. A lock of rage and need and anger forming like a tumor in his body, weighing him down. His heart grew to a painful size in his chest, the beating of it thumping in his ears. His breath came out in tiny, rushed bursts through his lips. Sweat formed on his brow.
His sister knew that look. The festering smoldering embers of Titus yearning for something, and knowing there was nothing he could do to have it. It was a look he’d given their father many times through their lives. “Titus...”
“I want her.”
His voice was a rough mumble, rocks stuck in his throat that threatened to cascade down in a landslide of a scream.
“You can’t have her. The By-Laws have been triggered, we have to fight for our seat. This is father’s final wish. Your needs cannot—”
“I have never needed—” he stopped himself, taking in a deep breath, eyes closed. “I want to keep her. She’s...”
“You’ve never met this girl, my dear brother.”
“And yet I know everything I need to.”
+
When you were sitting in the main room of the Danforth Lodge as The Lawyer explained the rules of your second night of torment, gag over your mouth, still bloodied wedding dress itching on your skin, you did your best to take in every word.
It was simple.
Survive the night of human hunting until sunrise again, and you were free to go. Whichever hunter from the High Families managed to kill you, would win the High Seat. The hunters are not allowed to kill each other, not even by accident. If none of them were able to catch you and wear Mr. Le Bail’s ring at the end of the night, he would be very unhappy. You assumed the fate of your in-laws is what awaited these people as well.
As the rules were being explained, you took a mental survey of the room. Only a few people looked like they could be real threats to you, so if you found a way to mow through the strong ones, you could easily hide from the idiots. Though, a voice that had been awoken last night was begging you to just end them all, in whatever sick way was available to you.
You studied each of their faces, engraining them on imaginary wanted posters in your mind, eyes moving across the room, until you settled on...him.
The man sitting in the middle table, next to the woman who had greeted you when your blindfold was first removed here. Titus and Ursula Danforth. The twins. And Titus wasn’t looking at the lawyer as he went over the oh-so-important and sacred rules. No, he was looking directly at you.
At first you noticed how handsome he was. Significantly older than you, but with a ruggedness that drew you in. His hair was silver, soft looking curls, there were slight wrinkles around his eyes, and silver stubble on the lower half of his face. But what really started the race of your heart, what made you suck in a deep breath even through the gag in your mouth, were his eyes. Dark, hazel eyes bore into yours, and instead of holding the smugness and envy of everyone else in the room, his were filled with...sadness?
That couldn’t be right. He was here to kill you, just like all of them. He has no reason to be sad.
But.
That’s the only way to read his expression. While his lips were twitched up in a smirk, the smile didn’t reach those eyes at all. He kept contact with you deeply, like he was trying to search into your eyes and into your very soul. Like he was trying to find something in there. No. Like he’d already found it. The sadness was from the knowledge he was going to lose it.
When it was time for the game to begin, you didn’t even flinch. You were exhausted, you were frustrated, but you were determined to win again. You’d come this far.
A needle was presented with some sort of drug that would knock you out so you could be taken to a secret location on the grounds. Before the Lawyer’s assistant could even lift a finger, Titus was on his feet.
“I’ll do it,” he’d said.
The low tone of his voice rumbled in your ears, sent a shiver up your spine. Not fear. A thrill of excitement.
The heavy contact between your eyes remained the entire time he walked up to you. You even tilted up your face to look at him as he grabbed the needle.
He brought it to your neck, and leaned down to whisper in your ear, in a voice that felt gentler than you’d have thought him capable, “It’s going to be me that gets you.”
It should have sounded like a threat. It was a threat. He was going to kill you. That’s what he was saying to you.
But.
In the promise of his words, something underneath felt like more.
You watched as his face faded from your vision as everything had gone black.
+
It’s been hours since you’d been let loose on the golf course. You had two kills under your belt, and had only suffered a cut to your hand and some shrapnel in your arm from an explosion that you hadn’t caused.
The first kill was easy enough, and the next person to join the hunt from his family hadn’t bothered to show up. The other ones you saw looked like idiots anyway, it would have been almost boring to have to fight them.
Your second had been particularly fun. The father of your former husband’s ex fiancé. You’d managed to trick him into shooting himself with his own gun. And that new small, sick part of you was thrilled at the idea that the annoying, bitchy girl you had stolen Alex from was going to be joining the field.
You had run into Titus and Ursula a few times, but instead of trying to fight them off, upon seeing Titus again, you both froze at the sight. Ursula yelled something at him, and tried to shoot you, but she missed and you ran. He let you. You didn’t want to fight them. You were happy you didn’t have to.
The thrill of the chase filled Titus like a drug in his veins, and he tried to ignore the fact that this chase was to end in your death, and not with you shoved against a brick wall, melting in his hands as they ripped at your clothes, his mouth latched onto every inch of your blood covered skin he could get.
His head wasn’t in this game, even though he knew he had no choice but to win.
Your next opportunity to run or kill comes when you are hiding out in the dancehall of the Danforth Casino. The sophisticated Chinese woman, who you’d noticed looked utterly bored by the explanation of the rules, has cornered you, holding you back with a sword pointing to your throat.
“You need to listen to me!” she yells desperately. “I don’t want to kill you! I don’t want to do this! But there is a loophole to this whole game!”
Your eyes, which have been darting around the room looking for an escape, stop their manic wandering. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I had my lawyers scour the By-Laws of the High Seat, and they found that if you, the winner of your High Family’s game, were to willingly join another, then that family would automatically gain the High Seat, and have complete control of everything. You wouldn’t need to die.”
“I just need to marry another one of you people?”
She nods her head frantically. “I-I know it’s not ideal. But what choice do you have? I can offer that chance to you. M-My son is an idiot, but you can just marry him, give me all the power, and live life however you please.”
“Give you all the power?” you ask, but more as a quiet question to yourself.
Maybe it would be worth it to just give up on the fighting and the running and just...settle. Maybe giving yourself to this other family, selling your soul to live would be easier than all of this.
Suddenly an image flashes in your mind. If you can just marry your way out of this, if you can just pick one of the litter to tie yourself to, to sell your soul for, and to win all of the power in the world for...
The image your mind constructs is of the man staring sad and longingly at you in the lodge. The man who has probably trained his whole life for this, letting you run away in the woods.
Why can’t you have Titus Danforth?
No. That’s crazy. It doesn’t matter what you think you saw in his eyes, or if you think he let you go in those woods. They have gathered to kill you. He is here to hunt you. You’re going to leave tonight a widow, and nothing else.
The woman has been rambling on as you think, saying something about how she would be better than everyone else with this power. You don’t care. You don’t want her son. You don’t want to settle.
You let out a piercing scream, as you run at her, hands aiming for her sword. Her eyes go wide as you manage to catch it and rip it away from her.
+
“Is that fucking true?” Titus spits into his phone.
Ursula is pacing angrily, grumbling to herself about the incompetence of the rule writers.
They’d been watching you on cameras in their effort to catch you, and heard the whole conversation over the security microphones.
On the other end of Titus’s cell is the Lawyer, who responds in his eerily jaunty voice, “Yes. Technically as the catalyst of the vacancy, if she were to join a High Council Family willingly, in other words marry into them instead, well then there would be no Spousal vacancy, and therefore no need to fight for the High Seat.”
“So if I—” Titus’s voice catches, sounding just a little too hopeful. “If she married into our family, we would keep our seat?”
“Yes, Mr. Danforth, precisely.”
“FUCK!” Titus yells, angrily ending the call and slamming his phone repeatedly onto the nearest counter. “All this fucking time wasted! She got fucking hurt again! And I could have just—"
“Titus, stop it!” Ursula yells, grabbing his arm in a strong grip to stop his violent movement. “This is a good thing! You wanted her, right? Well congrats my darling brother, if we can get to her, then maybe you can actually have her!”
His breath comes out in heavy huffs, eyes wild and angry. But he nods, slowing himself at her words. He can have what he wants, what his black heart is telling him he needs. He just has to catch her.
“We have to save her. We have to get to her before—"
“Wait a second, Ti,” Ursula cautions, letting go of his arm. “If I let you do this—"
“Let me?”
“I could still kill her.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I don’t want to, not now, so don’t make me,” Ursula hisses. “If I let you do this, if we can convince her to marry you, then I need you to promise right now, on Le Bail’s name, that you will share that power with me, as Father intended.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about trust, dear brother, it’s about making sure we keep our words. I will swear it too. On Mr. Le Bail’s name, if the Bride joins our family and we hold the High Seat, I will share that power with you, Titus.”
His jaw clenches. “On Mr. Le Bail’s name, I swear it.”
+
You manage to slam the hilt of the sword into the woman’s face, the crack of her nose breaking makes a sick satisfaction fill your blood. You smile maniacally and laugh as she falls back, still doing her best to hold the sword.
“What is wrong with you? You stupid fucking bitch! I’m offering you a way out!” She screams as she spits a spray of her blood into your face.
You shake it off, fighting for control over her weapon. You’re just about to finally rip the sword from her grasp, when the double doors of the hall slam open, and Alex’s ex stands in the opening. She lets out a scream as she sees you, and your eyes go wide as the sound of gunshots fills the room.
You and the other woman manage to dart out of the way, as the Ex runs towards you, fire and zero control in her eyes. An opportunity is about to open up, that twisted part of you begins to smile as you realize you can hit two birds with one stone. You yank the older woman around, and just as the Ex reaches you both, you slam both your hands holding the sword into her.
The Ex chokes, blood coughing out of her mouth as she shakes and falls to the ground, sword sticking straight up.
“What have you do—” the woman is cut off by the explosion of her body, raining blood and guts all over you for probably the dozenth time this weekend.
With a cough, you wipe the blood from your face, matter of factly blinking and shrugging.
That’s four people down. Only the dummies and the Danforths left.
The Danforths.
You shake yourself out of those ridiculous, wishful thinking ideas again, and make a mad dash to the door, out to the dark of the night again.
+
“Thank fuck she got out!” Titus exclaims, a swell of pride in his belly as he watches the security footage on his phone. His now chosen future bride is clever and vicious. His pants start to tighten at the thought of it.
“Yes but she’s going for the woods again! She could get away and then we get nothing but death!” Ursula urges. She’s speeding as fast as she can on their golf cart in the direction of your approximate location. “She’s heading north, when we get to the tree-line, you go get her, and I’ll make sure no other hunters follow. I’ll send them on a goose-chase away from you.”
Titus nods.
When reach their destination, before he can jump out and chase after you, Ursula grabs him one last time. “Hold on!” She reaches down to her right hand and pulls off one of the pieces of jewelry. A silver ring with a purple gem, sitting in a crescent moon frame. “It was mother’s. If you’re going to propose, you might as well do it right.”
He snatches it from her, laying a quick kiss on her cheek as a thank you, and runs into the woods.
+
It’s dark other than the faint glow from the Danforth property, and the light of the moon above you, but just past the trees you can see the stone fence of the property line. Your feet are heavy but they carry you as fast as they can go to your freedom.
It’s going to be over soon, the only way you can make sense for it to.
As you approach the wall, you slow down, head darting back and forth as you try to find some way to climb over it.
In the silence since you’ve stopped, the only sound is your stilted breathing and the wind blowing through the leaves.
And a crack of twigs behind you.
You gasp, turning with wide eyes as the imposing silhouette of Titus Danforth emerges from the trees. He looks like he’s glowing with the orange property lights coming from behind. Your first instinct is to find the beauty in it. Your second is to remember what his purpose here is.
He approaches slowly, and as your back hits the stone wall, you notice that he hasn’t brought his weapon. Maybe he dropped it in his haste. Maybe he finds it more pleasurable to kill you with his bare hands. You know you certainly did when it had been your chance to snuff out a life.
“You look like a lost little lamb,” Titus says, voice once again softer than you’d expected.
“Like a lamb to the slaughter, you mean?” You snarl at him.
He lets out a short laugh. “Hmm. You’re funny. You don’t sound scared.”
“I’m too angry to be scared.”
“Oh yeah? What’s got you so angry?”
You roll your eyes. “Other than the obvious multiple attempts on my life? Well, I thought I found the love of my life, and then it turns out he was a secret Satan worshipper whose family tried to kill me.” As you speak, one of your hands starts to feel around for any fallen branches that might be strong enough to play the role of a weapon. “And then when I needed him the most, when I stood up for myself and killed his psycho bitch mother, he turned on me. As though any of this is my fault!”
“That sounds awful, but you’re not the first to meet this fate,” Titus says casually, hands going into his pockets. His right hand feels around for the ring, as he searches for the words to make his offer. But it’s so fun to play with you. You’re tough, you’re truly not scared of him, you’re up to this challenge. All things that make him want you more. “You know, my sister and I watched the whole thing. We were given the security footage of your wedding night. I saw everything you did to those moron Le Domas’s, even the mother. Tell me about that kill.”
Your hand manages to grip onto something strong, but the words of his confession and question hit you just as you get a good grip on it. “What?”
“When you killed the Le Domas mother, what did it feel like?” Titus asks again, taking a step closer, voice dropping an octave.
You can feel your heart start to beat in your ears, the memory of her kill flooding into you. It felt powerful. It felt enriching. It felt...good. Too good. And he saw it. He saw all of it. Your most violent acts. Your thighs squeeze together, and you know he sees it by the way his eyes flash to them and widen just slightly. Your chest heaves, as he licks his lips, and you don’t know what this is. The moment nor this feeling. But you know you can’t just stand here and wait for it to be a trap.
“How about I show you?” You bark out as you swing the heavy stick towards him.
A look of excited shock comes over him as Titus dodges your swing, and then again as you swing the stick back the other way. He has this wild smile on his face, like he’s inviting you to try again, to actually hit him. He wants to see how far you’ll go, how deep you’ll fall into violence.
But he’s not fighting back. He doesn’t want to hurt you.
You throw the stick as hard as you can at him, then rush forward to try to take him to the ground. Your much smaller body only manages to push him back a couple steps, but you take a swing with your fist at his face instead. The first one misses, but the second lands with a loud thud right on his mouth.
“Ahh!” He grunts as the hit rocks him, but when he turns back to you, the slightest bit of blood trickling from his mouth, he only looks more pleased.
You try to get him again, but he manages to catch your arms, twisting you so you’re turned around, back to his chest, with your arms subdued between your bodies. You twist and jerk and turn and struggle, whimpering and screaming to get out, eyes laser focused on a path to run towards, all the while he’s trying to say something to you.
“Hold on, little lamb, you don’t have to do this,” Titus insists. “I know about the loophole!”
That stops you in your tracks. A shaky breath escapes from your lips. He knows? He knows about the marriage clause? He’s not attacking you, he didn’t bring a weapon to this fight, and he knows...
“What about it?” You ask, just the slightest bit of hope in your tone.
Titus tilts his face into your hair, taking a long inhale of your scent. The faintest bit of whatever’s left of the expensive perfume Alex Le Domas had bought you, mixed with the blood of your kills.
“Marry me.”
The request is so soft, it’s almost inaudible. You gasp, body beginning to warm from your chest and shake. “W-what?”
“Marry me, Lamb,” Titus says again, with more authority this time. “Be my bride, be my wife, end this whole game, and I will literally give you the world.”
You swallow a lump, shaking your head. “Y-You just want that High Seat. H-How do I know you won’t do this and then lock me in some dungeon, or...or...kill me later.”
“I do want that seat, I will not lie to you,” Titus says, then suddenly turns you in his arms, gripping you tightly by the shoulders, looking down at you with a newfound intensity. “But I want you. I don’t need you to tell me how those kills felt, because I know. I know the surge of power and control, the sick delight in ending someone before they can do the same to you. You liked it. You liked how it felt, didn’t you?”
Unconsciously, you begin to nod. Your mouth drops open, and your eyes flutter at his words, at the sound of his voice, you can feel it everywhere. You can feel the heat and the wetness between your thighs, and you forget to be ashamed about it.
“Yeah. I know. I can see it in you. That’s what I want. That strength, that hunger, I feel it too. My sister and I are meant to rule this whole world, and I need someone by my side who has that strength, your beauty, your hunger for blood, your ruthlessness,” Titus purrs, pulling you closer to him. His hands slip down from your shoulders, as he feels your body start to give in to the arousal caused by his words. He slides them around to the small of your back, fingertips pressing into the blood-soaked fabric of your torn and desecrated wedding dress.
“I-I don’t know...”
“Beautiful little lamb doesn’t know her own strength. I see the monster in your heart and it looks like mine.” Titus brings one of his hands up to your cheek, where a tear has fallen. He wipes it away, and hopefully with the last of your shame for who you truly are. His perfect soulmate. “Be mine, and you’ll never have to do this again. You’ll never have to give up your power again. You'll never have to feel unsafe again.”
The arousal fully takes you over, and your eyes shut as they roll back in your head for just a moment. When Alex proposed, he did it deceitfully. He didn’t ever want to reveal the true nature of his family, and then he cast you out once he saw yours. Power was never in his offer. True love apparently never was either.
When your eyes open again, they look upon Titus Danforth with only one determination.
You surge forward, capturing his lips in a brutal, biting kiss. The taste of his blood fills your senses, metallic and addicting, you reach your long out to lick it from his chin, before connecting into a kiss again.
He welcomes it, moaning into your mouth, as your arms wrap tightly around each other. He loses himself in the kiss, swallowing all your breaths and whimpers, backing you into the stone wall, lifting you just slightly, so his hips can rut against your core.
You can feel how hard he is under his pants, and you moan at the feeling, at the fantasy of pulling them down and letting him fuck you out here like this, make you his under the moonlight.
“Yes,” you moan, both from the feeling of his strong body against you, and as your answer to the proposal. “Yes, Titus, I’ll marry you. I want that, I want everything.”
“I’ll give you the whole fucking world,” Titus pants into your mouth, rolling his hips to get any kind of friction.
It’s been so long since he’s been intimate. He’s got his select hook ups, women to satisfy his needs and gratify him, but true intimacy is not something he invites into his life often. But here under your touch, the feeling of your lips, he can’t get enough. He’s been starved for more than blood.
But there isn’t much time left in the night. If you’re not married by sunrise, this will all have been for nothing.
So regretfully, reluctantly, he tears himself away from you. You let out a needy whine at the loss of his heat, and he watches as your body contracts and shakes from the arousal.
“Oh my sweet lamb,” Titus coos, taking pity on you. He reaches back into his pocket to finally pull out his mother’s ring. His heart swells with pride at the excited gasp you let out when he slips it onto your finger. “We can’t give in to that now. We have to make it official, we have to win the game.”
The glow from the property looks like fires in your eyes, as you break into a genuine, bright, happy smile for the first time since you said your first set of vows to Alex Le Domas.
+
The drive back to the Lodge is filled with an undercurrent of buzzing tension between you and Titus, as Ursula chatters the whole way there about how excited she is.
“Don’t get me wrong, it was very fun watching you rip everyone apart, those other families have been so fucking annoying, but I prefer the glamor of a wedding over a hunt any day,” she rattles on, delightfully unaware of you and Titus mostly ignoring her in the back.
They aren’t worried about staying quiet, as most of the other eligible hunters are dead, and the ones who are left know they could never stand a chance at winning a fight against the Danforth Twins.
Once back at the Lodge, the Lawyer approves of the new plan, and begins calling upon extended family members of the High Council, as well as lower families under Mr. Le Bail’s contract, to attend the ceremony. It won’t be as grand or as long as your first wedding, only a few hours until sunset and all that, but Titus and Ursula assured you it will be twice as romantic.
Ursula takes you up to one of the guest quarters, and passes you to the care of servants. “I have the perfect dress for a Dark Wedding you can borrow! Well, you can have it, actually, I have a feeling I’m not going to want it back after you and Titus are done...doing whatever weird shit you’re going to do later.”
She leaves with a cackling laugh, as the group of servants help you strip out of your blood covered clothes. Your shoes are sent downstairs for cleaning, they start to toss your tights and your underwear into the lit fireplace, but you stop them before they can throw your dress into the flames.
“Wait! I-I want to keep that,” you say, earning a raised brow from the girl holding the dress. You shrug. Maybe it’s silly, but that dress...it was meant to represent your happily ever after, the end to your life of living paycheck to paycheck in loneliness, the start of having a real family. But now...as much as the sight of it should sicken you, it represents your ability to survive, your resilience. “It has sentimental value.”
She simply nods and drapes the dress over the back of one of the Victorian chairs.
Your bare feet patter into the bathroom across the cold, dark tile, to the gold, footed bath that waits on the other end. The servants help you step into the warm water and turn on the overhead faucet. Water rains down on you, as servants begin to clean away the blood and grime from the last two days. Lavender and Gardenia scents fill your nose, and you hum pleasurably as for the first time since your rehearsal dinner, you feel your body completely relax.
After your bath the servants dry you off, massage lotion onto every inch of your skin, as well as healing salves onto your wounds, and fix up your hair and makeup, while you sit in a white robe made of the softest material that has ever graced your skin. Underneath of which you’re adorned in a black lace and satin lingerie set, which is probably more expensive than any underwear you’ve ever owned combined.
It’s not long until Ursula returns, wearing a long black strapless dress, with a garment bag in one hand and a large hatbox in the other, shooing the servants out of the room for your privacy. Her smile grows as she sniffs around the room, eyes widening when she realizes the sweet smell is coming from you.
“Well, that certainly is an improvement!” She chirps, tossing the box on the bed and clapping her hands excitedly after you take the garment bag. “You smell like Mother’s garden, no doubt Titus’s choice.”
“Thank you?”
“Oh, trust me, it’s a very good thing. We don’t have many memories of Mother, she died when we were so young, but her garden at the Rhode Island estate has been kept up to her standards and preferences by our groundskeeper all this time. Father...” Ursula’s voice trails off as the smile falls from just her eyes for a moment. But after a quick twitch of her neck, it reaches her eyes once more. “Well, I’d like to keep it that way.”
“I don’t think I’ll have any say over how to upkeep your family’s home,” you say.
“It’s your family home now too, Little Dove,” Ursula reminds you.
A small breath gets caught in your throat. “I-I’ve never had...”
As your voice fades, Ursula’s ever present smirk turns down into something more sincere. “A family home? A family?”
You nod, giving her a shrug. “I haven’t lived the easiest life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, this weekend has been the worst of it, but...I guess that’s why I got through. I always just...get through it all, no matter what, by any means necessary.”
“You fight.”
I win. Is the thought that crosses your mind and...it’s so much more direct of a voice than you’re used to. What is this thing that has emerged from the darkest recesses of your heart?
“I do what I need,” You say instead, stepping behind a partition to change. “It will be nice to, um, just do what I want.”
“Oh, and you will.”
As you change, Ursula starts to pace around the room, fingers running over the dark wood of the molding on the walls. She clicks her teeth nervously, eyes darting to the door, before she locks it. “That actually brings me to something important I wanted to talk to you about. Before the ceremony and all that.”
“Okay,” you say nervously, shoulders tightening from the change in her tone.
“It’s my brother, you see. I love him very much, we’ve been together our whole lives, but he’s...he’s not the kindest of men,” she starts to explain, approaching the partition so she can lower her voice. “You don’t have anything to worry about, trust me when I say I have never seen him react to any woman the way he did the first time he saw you. No, see...he can be quite the violent man. He wasn’t allowed to release that side tonight, but after you officially join the family, you’ll learn everything. You’ll be able to watch footage of past rituals, if you wanted.”
A sick thrill shoots up your spine at the idea. He was holding back today, only got to see you at your most monstrous, and the thought that there could be footage of him. Your hands start to shake as they pull the dress up your body.
What kind of sounds does he make when he lands a killing blow? What does the flex of his arms look like when he swings a heavy weapon at his prey? How handsome is he covered in someone else’s blood, chest heaving, looking down at them like a bug he’s about to squish...
“Anyway,” Ursula continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. “The reason I’m bringing all this up is because, well, I want you and I to be a team, of sorts. Truthfully, I will admit I was a little worried about the whole ‘running the world with my psycho brother’ thing. Don’t get me wrong, I do love him, but I’ve had to reign him in our whole lives. Now with you...I think that job will be much easier.”
“You want me to help you control him?” You asks suspiciously. A tightness forms in your chest. You don’t want to control this man who has just seen you at your own least controlled and loved it. He wants to save you, even after seeing your darkest of tendencies. How could you turn on him and not love him the same in return?
“No! No it’s not about control!” Ursula says, frustration in her tone. Her fingers grip at her temples, as she lets out a ragged sigh. “It’s the opposite, really. I don’t want to have to keep him in check anymore, but now that we have you, I don’t think we’ll have to. You’ll give him some light in his life, someone to care about do the right thing for, without having to be told to.
We are about to control everything, have the most power in the world, do you have any idea what that means? Tides will rise and fall at our whims, wars will begin and end at our words. Titus...well, before you, I thought he could use this power to possibly just destroy the world, which would be so boring and pointless.”
You brush down the fabric of the black dress, pulling it into place around your body, as you let out a sigh. When you step back around the partition, Ursula’s hand falls from her face, and her jaw drops.
“Wow, you clean up very good,” she says as her eyes rake down your body.
The black wedding gown fits you perfectly, long bell sleeves and mermaid tail making you look like some sort of demonic beauty from an old painting. You get a look at yourself in the long mirror at the other end of the room, and you know all at once that this is so much better than the white lacy thing you’d worn yesterday. You feel yourself stand up straighter, hold yourself higher. This is right. This is your true self.
Ursula has the lightest tears pricking the corners of her eyes, as she takes your hands in hers, thumb tapping her mother’s ring that sits fitting perfectly on your left hand.
“How do you want me to help with Titus then? Just when I can be free, I have to live my life only for him?” You ask expectantly.
“Live your life for yourself, but don’t be afraid of him. Show him what the point of all this is, what happiness truly is. He sees something in you, and I think I'm starting to understand as well. That ruthlessness I saw from you on the field? Fuck, even I was kind of into it. I have never seen him give a shit for anyone outside our family like I have seen him care for you tonight.
He was distraught at the idea that we would have to kill you, and when that loophole was revealed, I saw a fire ignite in him I have never seen before. I truly don’t think anything will quell the brutality that he has in his soul, but maybe you can help me direct it. You're getting a piece of this power too. Embrace it.”
You’re taken aback by her words. You barely know this man. You don’t know him at all really, but from what she describes...you know you feel that way too. He has seen inside your soul and loved it, and with the tiniest glimpses of his, you know you could love him as well. This is the life meant for you. Everything before, all the hurt and the pain and the loneliness, the drifting through aimlessly, all the questioning of it all has been answered by him. With this offer of joining and creating the most powerful family in the world.
“I can do that, I want to... I want to be happy, for once. And Titus...” You squeeze her hands tight, biting your lip to hold in your smile. “I think we can make each other very happy.”
“Good,” Ursula says with a satisfied smile. “Here,” she reaches behind her neck to unlatch the silver pentagram pendant that sits there. “You need something borrowed.” She steps into your space, nose to your cheek as she secures the clasp around your own neck, before settling her hands on your shoulders in a tight hug. “I always wanted a sister. Between Titus and Father, it’s been difficult being the only woman at the top of the family. You and I are going to make a great team.”
You give her a kiss on the cheek as a thank you, as she finally lifts the lid of the hatbox. Your eyes widen as she lifts a black crown, encrusted with red jewels, and attached to a long black veil. The final piece to complete your ceremonial ensemble.
The time for the Dark Wedding has come.
+
Ursula leads you down to the basement of the Lodge, where floor to ceiling dark wood doors, engraved with a giant pentagram, are opened by two servants in dark purple robes, the hoods covering their faces. You’re lead down a stone stairwell, into a dark Chamber, lit with orange fire on pilons carved into the shape of goat heads.
The witnesses, members of other families, are all in their own purple robes with hidden faces, but you can still feel their eyes on you as you walk past. You can feel the envy radiating from them. Some want to kill you for their own seat on the High Council, some want to steal you away to marry you themselves. Several of the women wish it was them who would be called Titus Danforth’s Bride. But they knew there was nothing they could do when you and Titus had Mr. Le Bail’s blessing.
You had won the game. At last.
At the other end, sits a lavish alter complete with a statue of Mr. Le Bail hanging from above, goat head motifs carved into the stonework of the wall, and an alter table covered in books, black candles, and several ceremonial supplies. The Lawyer stands behind the table in an ornate black gown, wearing a smile and a horned headdress.
In his hands is the contract book the Hunters had to sign. The book of rules Mr. Le Bail set forth for his rituals and games. He gives you a nod as you descend toward him.
Next to him is Titus, who sucks in a breath, eyes soft and needy at the sight of you.
“You’re beautiful, Little Lamb,” he says in a low voice.
He’s in dark layered clothes, a gray ascot around his neck, and black hunter’s boots, with his hands crossed in front of him. His mouth drops open, eyes wide, chest visibly rising and falling as his eyes never leave the deep, penetrating stare into yours.
You feel your heart beat speed up, you imagine the sound of it echoing off the walls. Your tongue darts out to lick at your bottom lip, and that’s the only moment that Titus’s eyes linger to anywhere else.
Ursula guides you up the steps of the alter, taking her place behind you as, the Lawyer hands you and Titus matching silver bands. The Lawyer instructs you both to put them on each other, then takes your left hand in his.
“We gather here under the light of the full moon, surrounded by the fires provided by Mr. Le Bail, so join these two souls in eternal connection.”
He brings your hand close to him, and with a sharp, black blade he etches a small cut on the lower part of your palm. Your eyes stay on Titus who looks on with delight as you don’t even flinch. A few droplets or your blood are spilled into an ornate gold goblet, and the Lawyer directs you to keep your hand out as he repeats the action with Titus’s left hand.
One the blood is mixed in the goblet, the Lawyer brings your hands together, matching the wounds so your blood joins his, and you hiss at the touch. Not at the pain, no. There is no pain.
You hiss from the sudden electric spark that bursts out as your soul is connected to his. Your lips drop open, your eyes flutter, and Titus gently jerks you closer to him as his fingers intertwine with yours.
The Lawyer wraps a black silk scarf around both of your hands and ties it off, keeping you two locked together, before picking the goblet up and holding it above you with both his hands.
“Do you swear on Satan’s name to take Mr. Titus Chester Danforth to be yours, through fires of hell in this life and the next?”
“I swear.” You say without hesitation, your voice barely yours, distant and echoing as your eyes hood over, and you feel Titus tug you ever closer, until your breath mixes with his. “I promise to be yours.”
You watch his lips twitch up in a smile, almost like a little boy who opened the one singular present he wanted on his birthday. Has he been dreaming of you? Have you been his wish since before he knew you were waiting?
“Do you swear on Satan’s name to take the former Mrs. Le Domas to be yours, through the fires of hell in this life and the next?”
A needy squeal escapes your mouth as you are suddenly jerked forward, hard, so your body is met right up against the hard muscle of Titus’s. He towers over, looking down with a hunger he knows is finally going to be sated. His lips are hairs away from yours as he says his vows. “I swear. I will never let another person touch you, harm you. I will never let your power be taken again. I swear to give you the world. All of it.”
The Lawyer hands you both a matching set of black and gold pens and opens Mr. Le Bail’s book to an empty page. You watch as flames appear on the paper, writing out your contract to both Le Bail and the Danforth family. You feel a stinging in your hand as you bring the pen down to the page, a moment of hesitation.
You’re about to sell your soul. For all the power over the world. For a marriage to a man who sort of scares you but thrills you more than anyone you’ve ever met in your life.
But what even was your life before, anyway? Lonely, poor, an upbringing of abuse, no sense of a real family or home? You can have everything. You will have everything.
You sign the page. Titus signs immediately after, with much less hesitation. None, actually.
“By the all mighty powers of Satan, Lucifer, Mr. Le Bail, you two are now one. The Danforth Family is therefore restored to the High Seat, to be shared by you three.”
A surprised smirk flashes over Titus’s face. It doesn’t even fall when the Lawyer hands Mr. Le Bail’s gold ring to Ursula, who slips it onto her middle finger with a pleased expression.
You hadn’t been expecting that. Of course the twins would share as they are both head of the family, but you...of course. You’re the matriarch of the Danforths. If heirs to the family are to be made, they would come through you. In giving yourself to Titus, to the contract of Mr. Le Bail, you have gained all the power of the world.
“You may kiss your Bride. Hail Satan!”
Titus surges forward, capturing your lips in his with a deep moan, as the other families chant in celebration of your dark union. His grip on your hand tightens, as his other one slips around your back, sliding down to the curve of your ass. You whimper into the kiss, biting at his bottom lip, as your own hand goes to the back of his neck, tugging roughly at the little curls of his hair.
The sound of Ursula’s excited clapping breaks you from your stupor, reminding you both of your audience. In truth, Titus would take you right now, tear your clothes into shreds and fuck you on the alter right in front of everyone and Mr. Le Bail himself.
He and Ursula never thought they would marry. It all seemed too complicated with the deadly rituals involved. Why get attached to someone outside the family when they may have to hunt them? When they had each other anyway? Father always emphasized the importance of keeping power in their family’s hands.
But now Titus has you. Truly has you. You belong to him and he belongs to you as well.
His hunger has only grown. His need to show you what a good husband he can be, how you have given this power to the right man, to the right family. He wants to take you in every way, show you what true pleasure can be. Erase any memory you have of that stupid Le Domas boy who couldn’t find the wits to see what value you hold. Who was afraid of the monster you have inside.
Titus has no desire to tame that monster. He wants to free her.
You breathe into each other’s mouths as the kiss is finally broken, and he turns triumphantly to the witnesses.
“Hail Satan!”
The chants continue, as Ursula giggles behind you. “Awe, you two are so cute. And kind of gross. But I’m happy for you!”
“I’m happy for all of us,” you say, taking one of her hands in yours.
The Lawyer unwraps you and Titus from the silk, and offers the scarf to Titus, who takes it with a slight wink your direction. You can only imagine the dirty plans he has for that later. You want to know. You wish you could read into his mind and see everything he wants from you, to show you all over your most depraved fantasies as well.
Titus leans down, placing a kiss just under your ear, the scratching of his stubble sends a tingle of excitement through your skin. “Are you ready, Little Lamb?”
You don’t trust your voice to not give away to everyone just how needy and desperate you are for him, though that kiss might have been evidence enough. You bite your lip and nod as your response, and allow him to whisk you away.
+
Your journey to Titus’s quarters on the top floor is buzzing with promise and arousal. You can feel yourself dripping between your thighs as he pushes you up against the wall of the elevator, and you lean up expecting a kiss, but are met with his hand to your throat instead.
The way your eyes light up is like you’ve passed some test with him. He isn’t squeezing or anything, just holding you there with a strong hand around your neck. His breath is hot on yours, lips just out of reach for a kiss, his eyes blown out dark but hooded. You can see him holding back, can feel it in the tension of his body up against yours.
His free hand trails down between your bodies, petting down the soft fabric of your wedding dressing over your belly, then between your legs. Your breath hitches, then releases in a soft moan as he presses two fingers forward, and even through two layers of fabric he can feel how wet you are. His face breaks into a smile
“This new, or have I left you like this since the woods, my little Lamb?” His voice is rough, a deep, sexy tone filled with teasing.
“S-since the woods,” you say honestly. Why lie? When you know you’re about to get exactly what you want?
“Fuck,” Titus groans. “What a terrible man I am, leaving my sweet girl in this state for all this time.”
You let out a breathless laugh, reaching between your bodies to grip at the hard bulge you’ve felt against your leg. “And what a terrible wife I am to have left you like this.”
He grunts, pushing his hips into your hand, curving his fingers up at the same time, and catching your whine into his mouth.
The elevator dings, interrupting the heat of the moment.
His hand leaves your neck and before you know it, you’ve been swept up in his strong arms, as he carries you to the bedroom. You laugh, peppering kisses all over the side of his face, and once you’re through the threshold, you squirm out of his grasp, grabbing at him anywhere you can to take him to the bed. You yelp as the backs of your knees hit the end, sending you toppling backwards on the soft mattress. You ruck your dress up to let him step between your legs, but he stops you once it reaches your waist.
“Don’t rush, my lamb, don’t rush,” Titus says with an amused laugh, kneeling with one leg on the bed. “We can go slow. We have forever now, and you...you’ve been through a lot in two days.”
“Fuck that,” you scoff, scratching your hands up his chest. “Last night, well the other night, after the wedding with Alex, I was expecting to get fucked good. And instead, I got almost killed. A lot. Now I’m a newly wed again, and I won’t have this wedding night unsatisfied again.”
Titus’s brow raises, Amusing. His fingers brush into your hair, gentle at first, until they grip tight and pull your head back, exposing your neck to him. “You want to get fucked good?”
“Yes.” Your voice is desperate, broken, filled with a desire you’re pretty sure you’re experiencing for the first time. Your nails dig into his jacket, fuck all these stupid layers, and you shove it down his shoulders. You rip through his clothes, delighting at the sounds of seams tearing, tossing fabric every which way until you’ve got him in nothing but his pants, finally giving you a view of his strong body.
He’s built exactly as you thought, all toned muscle and thick arms, light skin littered with freckles like stars in the night sky. He’s beautiful. You want to bite him all over, latch your teeth to every part of his chest until the indents never leave, until you’ve scarred him as your own. You want him to do the same to you.
He pulls you back into another biting kiss, his sharp teeth latch onto your bottom lip, you moan at the feeling of the skin breaking, and the metallic sourness of your blood fills your mouth. Titus groans, sucking on your lip to drink it, as his hands slide up your back, to the clasp on your dress. It catches, and he lets out a frustrated sound halfway between and grunt and a whine, as he starts to tear the dress apart.
“Mmm!” you whine, pulling back from the kiss, lips red and swollen and eyes wet, your eyeliner and mascara starting to run. You’re filthy already, and Titus meets your look with an animalistic grin. But you simply pout. “Don’t ruin the dress, Ti.”
“I can buy you ten more exactly like it, it’s in my fucking way.”
“You’re not ruining this one,” you spit back. He doesn’t get it, but you know you have the old wedding dress, stained with a dozen people’s blood, waiting in your room. Maybe you’ll put them both on display in wherever it is you’re going to live now, as a shrine to your power, your win of both games. “It has sentimental value to me now.”
Before he has the chance to argue again, you use your strength to lock your legs around him, and force him around on his back on the bed. You sit up straight, straddling his lap, and you can feel his dick twitch even through his pants below you. His chest rises with a deep breath, wild smile breaking out on his face, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
“Fuck, you’re so strong, that’s the girl I saw out there,” Titus says in amazement.
You look down proudly. No man you’ve ever been with has looked at you like this, spoken of you like this, like you’re something sacred, something to be worshipped. Hell, you’re not even the same person any of those stupid boys dealt with. Something awoke in you over this weekend, something can never be sent to slumber again.
“Do not ruin my wedding dress, Mr. Danforth.”
His lips purse together, holding down a smirk, and he looks up at you through his brow, impatiently, boyishly...bratty. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Danforth.”
The name excites you more than you thought it would.
You reach up behind your back, finding the clasp of your dress, and your nimble fingers are able to easily break it open. You grin as you watch Titus’s mouth fall open. He looks simply parched. There’s something very arousing about having such a powerful and dangerous man hungry and desperate beneath you.
“Help me with the zipper? Gently.” You ask with a pout. He gives a subtle nod to his head, sitting up straight as his hands find their way to your back, sliding the zipper down slowly.
Titus groans at the sight of your tits nearly spilling out of the satin bra, and he can feel the drool start to form under his tongue. He wants to bite them, he wants to suck on your nipples while you bounce on his cock.
You shimmy the sleeves of the dress down off your arms, and then direct his hands to pull the dress up off of your body, before you carefully toss the dress to a chaise off to the side.
“You’re so beautiful,” Titus says, almost unconsciously, voice soft and breathless as his eyes wander over the view of your body. His fingertips trace over your skin where dark bruises and healing cuts are littered. The evidence of your ability to survive, proof that you are the woman worthy of Titus Danforth, of the whole world. Still, it bothers Titus to see such damage done to his bride. “If I could kill them all over again for doing this to you, I would.”
“Careful, this one,” You warn in a playful tone, pointing to a light scratch on your rib, “was caused by your sister.”
Titus cringes. “Well, it will never happen again, not by our hands.”
You pout. “But what if I want you to mark me up?”
His eyes snap up to yours, hips jerking up unexpectedly. “Lamb...”
“What?” You whine. “What if I want you to scratch me, and bite me, and mark me as yours?”
He doesn’t give you a chance to continue, before you know it, you’re the one on your back again, with Titus kissing and licking his way down your body, over every remnant of your fights. He bites his way through your bra, sharp teeth ripping it in half, and you gasp, cunt aching at the show of desperation. The sound he lets out at the sight of your bare breasts, can only be described as devastatingly hungry.
He licks his lips before latching onto your left breast, sucking on your nipple, biting it lightly, pulling needy whimpers from your lips. When he pinches the other one between his fingers, you release a high pitched moan, and you can feel a spike of heat between your legs, juices drip on your thighs.
“Oh fuck, Titus,” you whimper, one hand flying to grip onto his curls, the other slamming on the bed, fingers twisting in the soft sheet, doing anything to find purchase to ground you.
He moans around you, and your back arches up into him as he tugs your nipple with his teeth before releasing, only to repeat the same actions on your other one. He’d stay here all night if he wasn’t so desperate to fuck you, to devour you in every way.
His hand dips between your legs when he feels them start to shake, slipping into the lace panties, and he groans into your skin at the wetness he finds. It coats his fingers, already dripping through your panties and practically pooling on the bed.
It takes him a second to rip your panties to pieces, unwrapping his prize.
“There she is,” he mumbles, voice filled with awe.
“Titus,” you groan, sitting up on your elbows. “You said you were going to fuck me.”
And he loves your impatience, your petulance. You’re so much like him.
Titus doesn’t quicken his actions, though, he’s not ready to get rid of that frustrated fire in your eyes. He doesn’t feel like it. Instead he slinks down the bed, grabbing you roughly by the ankles to yank your body down with him. He laughs at the small yelp you let out, at the widening of your eyes at his show of strength, and then throws your legs donw to grab your wrists instead.
“You think you’re going to tell me what to do?” His voice isn’t as playful as before.
But he’s not met with fear from you, exactly as he expected. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You look up at him with even more hunger and determination than before. When he releases your wrists, you make quick work of his pants, nipping and biting at his lower stomach, humming into his skin.
He helps you strip him of the last of his layers, and your heart skips when you finally get the full look at him, at his thick cock that’s already leaking at the tip. Your pussy clenches, your nails scratch hard down his strong thighs, digging into the skin enough to leave angry red lines, and you kind of want to run them down again, cut him open, lick up his blood on your way to his cock.
But he tips you up with two fingers under your chin, waiting until you look into his eyes again before he wraps that hand around your jaw. He brushes his thumb over the cut on your lip, then dips it into your mouth. Your pupils are blown black as you suck on him, wishing it was his cock filling your throat instead.
“I’m not a gentle man.”
“Good.” And you hardly recognize your own voice, wanton and syrupy and needy. You’ve only just learned how much you love when it isn’t gentle, when you’re pushed to the limits of your body. You need him to make you feel that way again. “Don’t be gentle. Take me, Titus, like in the woods. I know you were holding back. Fuck me like you want to, like I’m yours.”
“You are fucking mine,” he snarls, shoving your head back, then follows it up by quickly turning you onto your stomach.
He crawls over your body, kicking your legs apart, and pushing down on your lower back until you’re arched beautifully for him, ass in the air, pussy dripping and clenching from the emptiness.
There’s fresh scabs on your back, from where you’d scratched it open on the metal gate as you’d tried to escape the Le Domas property in your first wedding. Titus’s hand covers them completely, and you moan in a combination of pain and pleasure as he grips you hard enough to leave a bruise. The shape his hand covers the marks caused by others, he’ll reshape every wound into a mark of love from him
“Please,” you whine, voice muffled slightly by the sheet. “Please, Titus, just fu—ahh!”
He cuts you off with the rough slamming of his cock inside, every inch filling you instantly, until you feel his hips against you. “What was that, Baby?”
You don’t have it in you to snark back to him, not when you finally feel so full. All you can respond with is a stilted, broken scream into the bed, as Titus pulls out and then fucks back in, slow rough strokes that take your breath away.
But that won’t do for Titus, he wants to hear you, wants to know how good he makes you feel. As he starts to fuck you harder, quicken his pace, he grabs you by the back of your head, turning so your cheek is pressed to the bed instead, and every sound you make echoes around the room.
“That’s it, little Lamb, let me hear you,” Titus groans. His fingers rake down your back, over every bruise, as he fucks you at a brutal pace.
All you can do is scream, eyes running with tears, body on a sweet, delicious fire, as you allow yourself to be used, to just feel, everything.
With one hand, Titus grabs your arms and twists them behind your back locking you in, completely at his mercy. With the other he reaches between your legs, rubbing at your clit. “Tell me how much you like it.”
“Fuck,” you whine, the new angle it creates on your body sending bolts of pleasure up your spine. You still don’t really know what’s come over you, what thing has woken inside you, what insatiable hungry envelopes your very soul, but you feel in this moment that Titus is the only one who could ever feed it. “Fucking, love it.”
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling, can feel it in the tone of his voice when he responds, “Yeah, that’s fucking right. Tell me.”
He rubs circles on your clit, leans down to kiss up your spine, settling on your shoulder where his teeth bite down, hard, the skin breaking as you moan. He licks at the wound, sucking on it until a red and angry mark is left.
“Love the way your cock feels,” you whimper, “Feel so fucking full. Feel...oh fuck I’m gonna—"
Your legs start to shake, vision blurring as ultimate pleasure over takes you, and with a shout of his name, you’re coming, cunt clenching down on his cock as he fucks you through it. Your shouts turn into light grunts, Titus doesn’t let up for a second, as wave after wave of your orgasm rushes through your body.
For a moment, you think you might pass out, only his voice comes in close to your ear, anchoring you to reality. “That’s it Little Lamb, give in to me.”
The warmth of his body leaves as you start to come back to yourself, and he sits up, fingers leaving your overstimulated clit to grab your ass instead. His eyes dart down, watching where his cock enters your body, mesmerized by his own movements.
He’s distracted, you can tell, studying the way you feel inside, how your pussy welcomes him, warm and wet, fitting him like a glove. Has he ever had it this good?
You start to struggle against his grip, and finally manage to get your arms out of his grasp, and you twist your torso, grabbing him by the chin to pull him into a snarling kiss. You want to show him you can fuck him good too, you can free all the tension from his body with pleasure.
Your hand comes down on his cheek in a crackling slap! and the shock of it sends him reeling. He pulls out, falling back with a wild smile, mouth red from your blood, and your body shivers with glee. You go to hit him again, but he catches you, pulling you towards him, mouth latching onto your neck. You let him kiss you there, suck another mark into your skin over one left by someone else, but when he goes to move again, you scratch down his chest.
The nails finally break the skin and he groans at the feeling, puffing out his chest for you to do it again. He’s just as much yours as you are his, after all.
“Yeah, Baby, mark me up.” Titus pants, an adorable pink blush crawls up his skin.
But you have other plans. You slap him again, giggling at the petulant smile he gives you. Instead of scratching him up, like he so clearly wants, you use all of your strength to shove his body down on the bed.
He looks absolutely delighted when you climb on his lap, and he reaches up to grab you, but you fight to press his wrists to the bed. His hips jerk up, cock leaking out, your strength driving him wild. This is what he wanted, this is who he imagined watching the footage of you besting your would-be murderers.
“Stay,” you command, voice low and dark, as you release his wrists.
The expression on his face as he willfully does what he’s told, as you sink down onto his cock again, can only be described as animalistic, devoted.
You whimper as you sink down, until you’re all the way on his lap, and the tow of you moan in unison. You test a roll of your hips, gasping at the feeling, pressing your hands onto Titus’s strong chest for balance.
“Touch me,” you request in a whisper, starting a slow pace.
Titus doesn’t need to be told twice, hands flying to your hips as he plants his feet, meeting your every movement. He grunts at each upward thrust of his hips, eyes darting between yours and the slight bounce of your tits. There’s already hickeys forming around your nipples, and he licks his lips at the thought of making more.
All he wants is more, wants his hands everywhere, his mouth and his tongue and his teeth, wants to devour you. A small part of him wants to tear up every shrine in the Danforth homes to rebuild them all to you.
“Love the way your hands feel,” You whimper, guiding those very hands to grab your breasts, as you roll your hips down onto his cock. “So strong, so rough, wish I could see what you can really do with them. Wish you were allowed to kill those fuckers out in the game today.”
“Believe me, fuck,” Titus groans, snapping his hips up into you. “I would have torn them apart to get to you. Would have ripped their limbs off and bathed in their blood to get to you.”
“Fuck,” your body speeds up, pussy clenching at the thought. Your mind races and your voice is breathless as you moan out, “I want to see it. I want to see you feral and brutal. Fuck, Titus, wanna see you fight for me.”
He rears up at your words, bringing your chest to his face as you bounce on his cock. “I’d kill a hundred people for you, my baby.”
You rake your fingers through his hair, whimpering when his mouth finds your nipple again, and you hiss when he bites down. You claw at his back, and you know the skin is breaking at the way Titus hisses into your skin. You kiss his temple, down his cheek, and then dip your tongue into his mouth.
And there’s a moment, the two of you breathing deep into each other’s mouths, eyes blown dark and wide and staring deeply into each other’s souls, where everything fades away. It’s nothing but heat and fire and blood and you feel...powerful. You feel valued. You feel loved.
Titus licks up from your chest to your neck, the trail of his tongue leaving goosebumps in its path. “I’d burn this whole world down for you.”
You suck in a breath, body going still. Those words more than anything, with the real power behind them, should terrify you. They should be the final straw to break you out of this trance, to stop all this and fucking run.
But you kiss Titus instead, moaning and whimpering into his mouth, holding him tight and close, as your bodies mold into one. He flips you over, back landing on the bed, and he pushes your legs practically up to your ears.
Everything from there is a blur of biting and licking and screaming. He leaves angry marks all over your neck and your chest, while you bite and scratch him all over in return. Your cries of pleasure echo through the halls of the Lodge, probably keeping up every single person who dared to stay the night. Your throat is filled with a scratchy pain from the screams, but there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
Titus’s hand roughly grasps your face, keeping your eyes on him as he fucks you harder. “Wanna come again, little lamb?”
“Yes, please,” you cry out, body contracting, back arching.
And he cracks a satisfied grin at just how lost in it you are. But Titus knows he hasn’t got much more hold left in him, it’s taken everything in him to hold it out this long. He reaches his hand down between your legs, fucking your harder as he rubs your clit, swallowing every whimper and moan you release into his mouth.
“Come on, baby,” Titus grunts, losing his rhythm. “Come for me. Give me what I want.”
Your vision whites out again, hands gripping hard to his biceps, leaving moon shaped indents into his pink skin. “Titus—”
“Yeah,” Titus pants into your mouth, hand slipping to wrap around your throat, pride and pleasure swelling in his belly when you clench around his cock. “Yeah.”
With one final scream, your body convulses, juices spurting from your pussy as your second orgasm of the night rips through you, heightening every touch that remains from your husband. Your eyes roll back until they shut, tears prickling the edges.
“Fuck, that’s it, that’s what I fucking want,” Titus moans. He can’t stop the loud, whiny chants that escape from his mouth as he fucks you through it. “Gonna come, little lamb, gonna make you mine.”
He braces himself with one hand on the bed, as he suddenly pulls out, crying out your name as he jerks his cock, moaning as he finally lets himself come, thick ropes of spunk decorating your tummy, marking you for the final time.
The whole world slows down for a moment, only the sounds of your breaths filling your ears. When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking down at you the same as he has all day, like you are the answer to every prayer he’s sold his soul for.
Titus leans down, placing an almost too gentle kiss to your cheek. “Told you I’d be the one to get you.”
Tears flow down your cheeks, tracks circling around the sleepy, giddy smile you’re left with. You feel absolutely spent, almost floating away, every part of you that was marked by Titus’s teeth and hands and tongue is glowing.
He’s still holding himself above you with one hand firmly on the bed, bicep flexed from the effort of strength, and he looks just as fucked out as you. His gaze glides down your body, taking inventory of every place he made you his.
“Titus,” you finally whine, wanting his full attention back. Your voice is raw, throat sore from the screaming. “That was—"
“Shh,” he hushes, finally letting himself fall to the side, resting on his elbow, while his fingers ghost over your skin. “I know, Baby, but take it easy for me.”
You hum and nod, curling up into his side. You feel him turn away for a moment, and look up to see him on his phone, expression impatient and stern.
“Run a bath, hot but not scorching, same things you used before, and I better not see any of you in there. Set it up then get the fuck out. Thank you.”
You raise a brow. “What was that?”
“Wanna take care of you, but don’t wanna be disturbed. They don’t get to see my new wife like this,” Titus says, and at first you think he’s playing, but the look in his eye says he means business. He’s not sharing any part of you with anyone tonight.
“You’re so considerate,” you say, sitting up to give him a kiss. “I don’t think I’ve ever been fucked that good.”
His lips press into a proud smirk. “Well, get used to it, Little Lamb. I don’t ever do anything halfway.”
It’s not long until he gets the notification that your bath is ready, and he carries you all the way across the hall to the lavish bathroom, even fancier than the one you’d been bathed in before your wedding.
He carefully places you down in the water, in bathtub that might as well be called a mini pool, and grabs the same soaps and salves that had been used to clean away your wounds earlier. His rough, calloused hands, that had held you down and gripped you so hard they left heavier bruises, were miraculously gentle as they wiped you down.
You’re both quiet as he cleans you, stripping away any final remnants of injuries you’d acquired from the others, leaving only memories of the ones he’d left in pleasure. You almost wonder how this man, who touches you like some precious treasure, can do such brutal things. You can’t wait to see how.
As he finishes up your care, and takes you back to bed, the final lingering thought on your mind, as you fall asleep in his arms, is that this brute, this dangerous, violent man, is all yours.
+
You can’t think of the last time you had a full service breakfast in bed.
Actually, no, you’ve never had this.
Just as you were waking up, nude body covered in bruises and scratch marks and love bites, hidden mostly by the black silk sheet of Titus’s bed, a row of servants trailed in with silver serving carts of just about every classic breakfast food you could imagine.
The smell is what stirs you, and you hum as you rub the sleep from your eyes, smiling up at Titus who is already sitting up against the headboard. His body is mostly on display, modesty only barely covered by the corner of the sheet, but he’s got a leg propped up, elbow resting on his knee, and he’s lighting a cigar as he directs the servants where to leave everything.
“Good morning, Mrs. Danforth,” Titus muses, tapping the ashes off the end of the cigar into a crystal plate sitting on his bedside table.
“Good morning, Mr. Danforth,” you smile sleepily up at him, left hand crawling up his chest.
The sheet slips off your body, so more of your bare back shows to the last servant still on his way out of the room, and Titus’s smile falls into a scowl when he catches the servant’s eyes rake up and down your bare skin. “Leave.”
The servant’s eyes widen in fear, and they scurry quickly out of the room, shutting the door behind them. You chuckle, tapping your fingers over the still angry bite marks on Titus’s neck. “You know, I’m pretty sure everyone in the whole compound heard us last night—well, this morning.”
“Fine with me,” Titus says triumphantly, then echoes his words from last night. “But that doesn’t mean they get to see it.”
“You’re a very jealous man, aren’t you?” You ask, settling up next to him, peppering kisses to his neck and cheek. “Don’t like it when others play with your toys?”
He blows out the smoke of the cigar away from you, smirking. “You’re not a toy, Little Lamb.”
“Don’t you forget it,” you hum. You plant a quick, chaste kiss to his lips, before rolling over to survey your many breakfast options. “Wow, it’s so fancy, it’s like I’m at a hotel.”
“It is a hotel, my dear,” Titus chuckles, but he’s not teasing or patronizing you, no, he’s showing off.
“Oh right,” you say with a shrug, settling on a piece of toast with strawberry jam to start with.
Titus’s eyes watch the way the jam runs down your chin, and how your tongue licks it up, a chill running through him as it reminds him of your blood filled kisses from last night.
“So, where should we go tonight?” He asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he grunts, stamping out the cigar on the plate, and scooting down the bed to join you, to take back some of your body heat again. “We’re newly weds,” he starts, pressing soft kisses to the back of your shoulder. “And as unconventional as our matrimony may be, we still get a honeymoon, don’t we?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Titus clicks his tongue. “No, no, no, this is about what you want. We can go anywhere you wish, and we can honeymoon for as long as you like. Let Ursula handle the exchange of power, that’s the boring part anyway.”
A giddy smile forms on your face. “Well, I was looking forward to the Le Domas ancestral home in France that Alex was going to take me to. And I believe it is legally mine now.”
“Little Lamb, even if it wasn’t yours, I would make it.”
“Hmm,” you smile, licking some of the jam off your spoon before meeting his lips in a kiss. “There is something else...Alex had promised we’d join the mile high club on our way there. I know you just said you’re not much into public sex...”
“Actually, I said I don’t want people to see you,” Titus retorts, licking the little bit of jam that had trickled onto your chin. “So, thank the devil you now own several private jets, I think that wish can be fulfilled.”
Your cunt pulses at the thought, thighs twitching and rubbing together. The fact that only days ago, the idea of you on a private jet, sipping champagne and getting fucked out of your mind by some hot, rich older man would have just been a fantasy. Now it’s your whole itinerary for the evening.
“I’m so glad I chose you,” you muse, running your fingers into his soft, silver hair. Not just for the riches, but the freedom. The ability to do whatever you want, be whatever you truly are, and have a man who is obsessed with you for it.
“As am I,” Titus says, as though he can read your mind. Giving you the world isn’t a metaphor for him, after all.
“I’m so glad I won that stupid Hide and Seek game. There was one second, when Alex had me on the alter table, about to sacrifice me, when I thought, fuck, I should just give up,” you confess. “But then something just...something was roaring inside me, telling me I can’t let them win. I had to make it, I’d come so close. And even after all the shit last night, you make it so fucking worth it.”
A small muscle in Titus’s cheek twitches, and his smile drops into a frown. He had seen on the security footage that it was indeed Alex Le Domas who was the final one to try to sacrifice you, and you’d fought back like hell to win. What an idiot, that stupid boy was. But his mistake is now Titus’s triumph.
Yet still, there is a pit in Titus’s stomach that hasn’t been resolved. He’s known inside and out the rules of the Le Domas’s Hide and Seek his whole life. He knows the ins and outs of every High Council Family’s rituals, his father made sure of it. Titus and Ursula trained from early childhood to be winners of any violent game they were put in, especially their own.
It’s part of the reason he and Ursula never committed to serious relationships, and put all their focus into keeping the family strong as it is, as their birthright as twins.
But looking at you, entering this new state of being, finding your true self because of another High Family’s failing, and yet still in the dark of this world you now rule. Titus doesn’t like complicated, he doesn’t want to twist you in a web. He wants to respect the person whose soul aligns with his. Whose monster wants to embrace his. The one person who could love all of him and his demons. He cannot lie to you. He wants to worship you.
“There was another way for you to win your game with the Le Domas’s.”
“What?” Your fingers stilling where they’ve been twisting into his short curls.
Titus clears his throat. “Your husband could have chosen you, just like tonight when we chose each other.”
“But...” your mind starts to race. “But I thought if I lived they would all die, even him?”
“Well,” Titus takes your hand in his, kissing your palm, lips touching the place the Lawyer had cut, the place where your blood mixed with his. “Mr. Le Bail likes loyalty, that’s why he plays these games with the families under his power. But loves contracts. Marriage is a contract.”
You can feel your heartbeat skip as realization dawns on you. All that trouble. All that death. And your heartbreak at the hands of Alex Le Domas...
“If your husband had chosen to honor his contract to you, if he had chosen to help you and save you, then at sunrise, he could have sacrificed the head of his family, his father, and with you, become the new head of the Le Domas family under the contract of Mr. Le Bail. One reason Ursula and I never married is to avoid that. If we chose to save our spouse, we’d have to sacrifice Father, or each other. We couldn’t bare it.”
You shake your head in disbelief, breaths coming out ragged. “M-Maybe he didn’t know that.”
“Maybe not,” Titus says in a voice that isn’t completely reassuring. “But he gave up trying to save you. He gave up his loyalty to you, the one he had chosen, the one he signed a contract with. And so at sunrise the offer was never given by Mr. Le Bail. You could have even killed Alex and married that brother that helped you instead. Didn’t you notice Mr. Le Bail didn’t do anything to him when that brother helped you get away?”
“H-How do you know all of this?” you ask.
“We all have our rituals, my Lamb,” Titus shrugs. “Every family has their way of welcoming new members. The Danforths are duelers and gamblers. When you marry into our family, you pick a card from a special deck, and if you pull a number, then you simply are welcomed into the ranks. But if you pull a face card, you must fight a corresponding Head Family member to the death. My father represented the King, my mother before her death was the Queen, a spot now taken by Ursula, and I am the Jack.”
“I’m assuming the times this has happened, they’ve pulled your card more than anyone else?” You ask, licking your lips at the thought.
“Yes well, when I was younger they pulled the King almost every time, but yes, since I’ve become a man, the times a face card has been pulled, it has been mine,” he explains with a smile that is a mixture of amusement and pride.
“Fuck, I wanna see that,” you say hungrily. “Ursula said there is footage.”
“Oh yes, we keep all the security footage of our rituals,” Titus smirks. “You want to watch me duel to the death? Want to see how strong your husband is? How ruthless? How brutal?”
Your eyes flutter shut, heat sparking in your belly as your pussy pulses. “Yes. Fuck I want to see that so fucking bad. You’ve gotten to see my monster, I want to see yours.”
You connect your lips to his in a kiss, breathy and hard and desperate. You open to allow Titus’s tongue to lick into you, to deepen the kiss, but after a moment you pull back for air and another question.
“How often does this happen? Like, how many people are in the Danforth family?”
Titus chuckles breathlessly. “My father was the oldest of seven boys and four girls, and after my father won the High Seat, they all signed their souls to follow him. And they all had way more children than him, and then most of those children have had children. It’s come up quite a bit. Mr. Le Bail probably enjoys trying to thin out our herd.”
“So it’s probably going to happen again, then? This ritual?”
“Most likely,” Titus says with a shrug. “There’s a Danforth wedding every couple of years.”
“And so then, since your father is dead, and we’re married, does that make you the King? And so would I be the Queen now? Or is Ursula still the Queen, and I’m, like, the Jack? How will we kno—"
“You are my Queen,” Titus grunts, forceful and stern. His hands come to your cheeks, holding you steady. “The rest we will let the Lawyer figure out, and he can tell us when the time comes. But I am the King. And you are my Queen, little lamb. No matter what.”
You smile into the kiss this time, as Titus pushes your body back down the on the bed, using his legs to shove yours open to make room for him. A spike of pain elicits the smallest squeak as you feel Titus’s teeth reopen the bite wound on your mouth. It only spurs you on. Your hand trails down his bare chest, but before it can reach its destination, you have a terrible realization, and push him back.
“Wait. We just got married. Don’t tell me that means I’m going to have to pull a card and do this all over again.”
“No, Little Lamb,” Titus assures you, chuckling. He raises your left hand, kissing over the rings he’d placed on your finger last night, and looks down at you with a darkness, a deep adoration, in his eyes. He wipes the new blood droplets from your lip with his thumb, sucking the dark liquid into his mouth like a nectar from the gods. “The contract is reset. No more games to play. You’ve already won.”
FIN.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: welllllllllllllllll I cannot believe i let that get as long and lore heavy as i did!!! the last little bit does incorporate a personal theory of how Le Bail's game worked in the first movie, a theory that i think can still hold with the added lore from the second! loved coming up with the Danforth marriage ritual because they didn't say what it was in the movie and im so curious!!! also got to make a Titus is Jack joke that possibly only amuses me and that's okay :)
anyway reblog and lemme know if you enjoyed! idk if i'll do another long fic but perhaps tiny little spurts of scenes from this world if you ask nicely :)
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CW: canon typical violence and gore, explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: "enemies" to lovers, jealous!Titus, reader is just as bad as Titus, pet names (Titus calls reader bunny), murder, hunting, violence, getting turned on by murder, reader getting tied up, bondage, sex toys, edging, orgasm denial, lil bloody, unprotected piv sex, biting, claiming, possessiveness, ownership, breeding kink
Summary: Titus fucking despises you. That is until he notices a huge ass rock on your finger.
a/n: Titus Danforth I love you so much
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 OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
Titus doesn’t hate you.
No, that would be an insult to hatred itself.
Titus loathes you.
Absolutely despises you.
Every time one of his stupid cousins has the misfortune of getting married and they’re forced to play gracious hosts for a weekend, you’re somehow always here.
Right next to him.
And Ursula, who gets pleasure from making his life miserable even more than she hates having to play nice with their father’s business partner’s daughter, feeds right into it, having taken you under her wing almost instantly.
His dislike of you started a few years ago. Your father had been adamant to keep you as far away from their family business as long as possible, but when you finally graduated from college, he decided it was time to practically throw you right into the slaughter.
Literally.
It had been a wedding, as you’d established in your pattern moving forward. One of the Danforth cousins, twice removed or some shit. It didn’t matter. If they had Danforth blood, they needed to come to the estate and get married under the watchful eye of the family, foregoing any semblance of games and going straight for the hunt.
Titus watched you diligently as they explained the rules to the groom, some finance guy from Westchester that had moved to the city and now pretended to work at Wall Street.
His father didn’t approve of the union but unfortunately couldn’t do so out loud so Titus had already been ordered to put an end to him.
No, what had captivated him had been you, this new addition to their inner circle, their family affairs.
You who didn’t flinch. Who didn’t react at all. Who simply listened as the Lawyer, the most powerful man in the whole world, told a human being that he was about to be hunted for sport, and you didn’t even falter in your breathing.
You were too calm. Even if your father had coached you beforehand, there would’ve still been a reaction, a missed breath, a thick glob of spit to swallow.
But there was nothing.
It intrigued him.
He was even more surprised when your father pushed you to join the hunt and Titus’s own accepted.
What the actual fuck?
Your gaze turned to his then, as if you could read his mind, and the faintest smile curled the side of your mouth upward.
Titus spent the next six hours making every single mistake imaginable. He couldn’t get you out of his head. Couldn’t understand why his brain had become so useless.
This is what he did. Where he excelled. So why the fuck were you the only thing he could think about?
After losing the groom to the woods next to the golf course, Titus was forced to go on foot, following the faint smell of blood through the thicket, the graze he had inflicted earlier soaking the earth.
He would bleed out soon, definitely. But he was still alive.
Titus was close, so close to his kill.
And then he heard it, the unmistakable scream of pain from the spineless motherfucker followed by the sharp impact of a spear going through skin and cracking bone followed by eerie silence.
By the time Titus reacted, you were retracting the weapon from the groom’s lifeless corpse.
He should’ve allowed himself to be turned on by the sight. You, blood splattered all over your purple dress and your supple skin, eyes almost covered in darkness, panting deliciously—
But he didn’t.
All he saw was red.
You had taken his kill from him.
“Oops,” you said as you spotted him. “Better luck next time, I guess.”
Rage filled his entire body. You conniving little—
He blinks away the memory as his eyes narrow on your hand.
Why the fuck was there a rock on your finger?
At first he’s stunned by the size of it.
It’s too big, practically swallowing your finger whole in its attempt to display grandioseness but honestly it’s plain gaudy.
You deserve a classic ring. Vintage. One of a kind.
He would’ve never gotten you that monstrosity—
Why the fuck does he care so much?
What you do with your life is not his business. Better yet, if you’re finally off the market his father might stop trying to get the two of you to marry now.
This is a good thing.
A great thing.
So why the hell can’t he muster up a victorious smile?
Your father makes his way across the room towards Titus, whiskey in hand and an almost boisterous, cocky smirk on his lips.
He’s proud, egotistical, showing off the fish you managed to catch. But try as he might, Titus doesn’t recognize the doofus, which means, in the grand scheme of things, he’s a nobody really.
Definitely not deserving of you.
“Titus!” Your father slams his hand over his shoulder, squeezing too hard as he turns him around to face you and the most egregious man he has ever seen in his life.
He’s new money handsome, that overindulgence in filler, veneers and designer labels with logos that immediately give him away. He’s in his thirties, appropriate for you, more than Titus would ever be really, definitely works in tech since his hands are soft and manicured as the two of them shake hands while your father introduces him.
He almost looks out of place here, in Titus’s house, his home…your home too if he’s being honest. And you…you look right at place. Always walking perfection, a clever disguise to mask the darkness brewing within your sheep’s clothing.
Tonight you look especially radiant, rejuvenated. Your cheeks tinted with a gaudy amount of blush that highlights just how much you’re playing up your new role.
Titus fucking hates it.
Hates that your fiancé has taken your father’s introduction as an invitation to start running his mouth about some stupid, insignificant business venture, hates that you brought him here when you know these nights are sacred for his family, hates that he hasn’t let you speak a single word, so wrapped up in his own ego that he’s fully cutting you out of the conversation, hates that this is the loser you chose to spend the rest of your life with and he’s now going to have to endure him—
Your father laughs, reacts beside him but Titus simply cannot give a fuck.
It’s only when one of the waiters comes back into the ball room and rings a bell to get everyone’s attention back that you spring back to life, grabbing a hold of your fiancé’s arm and leading him away from the group, retreating upstairs.
You won’t be joining him in the festivities?
He’s never known you to hide from a hunt before.
You’ve literally made it a point to taunt him before each and every single one.
The two of you keep a scoreboard for fuck’s sake.
You’re currently tied. Tonight was supposed to be—
His sister meets you halfway up and leads you to his father’s study, it strikes him — you’re going to see his father and ask for his blessing.
Something constricts around Titus’s heart.
No, that cannot be. He cannot have feelings for you. That would be absurd.
He scowls at the thought, feet practically glued to the carpet beneath him as the rest of his family gets ready to initiate another poor fucker into their family.
That night Titus hunts like a man unhinged.
He doesn’t hold back.
Doesn’t falter.
Doesn’t make a single mistake.
Instead he quickly and skillfully finds his cousin’s formerly alive, now very dead new husband, shooting him in between his eyes because who the fuck cares.
No, there’s no use in savoring this unless you’re right there next to him. No thrill in the game anymore. No worthy opponent to fight against, to fill his heart with exhilaration, to give him a reason to be brutal.
He’s winning now. Up by one. But the success tastes bitter on his tongue.
By the time he returns to the house, a mere hour later, you’re in the family room, laughing at something Ursula said before he walks in.
“Oh Titus!” His sister greets. “Back so soon?”
He simply grunts, making his way to the bar and pouring himself another glass.
Ursula rolls her eyes. “Such a grump. You should be celebrating! Join us, congratulate her on the engagement.”
Titus doesn’t move, he simply turns to face you, eyes searing into yours.
“Congratulations,” he spits through gritted teeth.
“Thank you Titus,” you smile brightly at him, picture perfect happiness. “Can’t wait to see you at the wedding.”
That lights a fire under Titus’s ass.
Oh?
Oh.
He takes another sip of his drink, eyes shining brightly.
Yeah, he’ll definitely see you at your wedding alright.
It’s a few months later when the date finally arrives and Titus cannot contain his excitement.
He’s practically vibrating all the way through the ceremony.
You wear white.
A fucking disgusting color if he’s honest. But you still look incredibly beautiful, even if you look nothing like yourself.
Your hair has been slicked back into a low bun, your makeup is overwhelming and just that dress…whoever picked it has the worst taste of anyone Titus has ever had the misfortune of knowing.
His gaze bores into yours all throughout the ceremony and he knows you’re actively ignoring him by the way your body keeps drifting towards him subconsciously, only snapping back to face your fiancé when you realize you’re doing it again.
He smirks to himself before visibly flinching to look elsewhere as the officiant tells the two of you to kiss. He knows you do as the people around him, most definitely his family cheer and holler like a bunch of animals.
Ursula has to grab a hold of his arm before he springs to his feet, disdain already making him even more eager for the night’s coming festivities.
But it seems like he’s just being tortured. Wound up even tighter as you disappear into his home right after the ceremony, lover boy somehow not eager enough to follow you up and ravage you right then and there.
Titus honestly doesn’t mean to go looking for you.
In all honesty, it’s mostly because the Lawyer is taking too goddamn long to commence the hunt that he stalks upstairs after telling his staff to not let anyone, not even the groom, to come looking for you.
He understands why you’ve hidden yourself away the second he slides into your suite.
You’ve showered.
Taken off the mask.
You look like yourself again.
The woman Titus lo—
“Why do you want me to kill him?”
Your gaze finally snaps up to see him in the corner of your vanity mirror.
“Does it matter?” You try to play it cool. “You’re going to do it regardless.”
Titus smirks. He is, you know he is.
“Could’ve asked me to do it months ago.”
Now it’s your time to grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Titus stalks forward, standing right behind you now, his large, warm hands coming up to press into your shoulders, sliding closer to your neck with each movement.
“You didn’t have to marry him.”
“I did.”
Titus’s brows scrunch in confusion as he leans down to place a kiss where your neck meets your back.
“Could’ve had my lawyers bury him for you.”
You hum at the gesture. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He growls against your skin, teeth nipping now, unkind.
“I’m starting to think you just like to see me angry.”
You let out a breathy moan as his tongue soothes the barely there bite that he left behind.
“Among other things.”
That makes him bite down for real, leaving a bright and throbbing mark on your exposed skin.
“’s that all you wanted, bunny?” He groans in your ear. “For me to get jealous and kill the bastard?”
You let your head drop back against the crook of his neck.
“That and inherit his family’s fortune without having to lose a bunch of money fighting for it in court over the next decade.”
Titus groans. He’s been played, and played really well he might add.
“And my father?”
“Thrilled,” you turn your head so your lips brush against his jaw. “He couldn’t believe it was my idea.”
You plant a feather light kiss against his skin, watching intently as his eyes close in the purest display of pleasure you’ve ever seen from him.
“I don’t like being used as a pawn.”
He sounds angry but you know he isn’t.
A little embarrassed, maybe.
A little turned on, definitely.
But never angry.
You shrug. “There was no ring on my finger.”
That makes him turn his face towards yours, his lips ghosting over your own cruelly.
His gaze lowers to your mouth, watches how it quivers slightly.
Now he’s pissed.
You should’ve known better.
And the fact that you didn’t believe you were spoken for made the rage burn hotly in his stomach.
“Give it to me.”
You do as he says, never breaking eye contact as you slide both bands off your finger and hand him the weighty diamond. Your fingers brush his deliberately as you place it in his waiting palm.
“Fucking disgusting taste,” he sneers, pocketing the ring.
He opens his mouth to keep going, to finally tell you all the horrible things that he’s been thinking about doing to your husband when the unmistakable sound of the bell rings out across the cottage.
Titus almost begins to vibrate from pleasure once more and your eyes light up instantly at his reaction.
He’s always known you both derived a deeply carnal satisfaction from this ritual, but to see it up close and personal for a completely different, intimate reason almost makes him cum in his pants.
So instead he smirks, a Cheshire grin that has you practically melting into him.
“Would you like to watch, bunny?”
You’re sitting on Titus’s bed, back pressed against the headboard, arms tied up to either end while your legs are sprayed open, ankles restrained equally by soft, red silk.
He’s left you naked, your nipples perky from the cold air and the way he’d nipped at them with his teeth before forcing himself to walk away.
With one earbud secured to your ear and three different monitors in front of you displaying every single camera angle from the property, you’re practically salivating, the slick between your legs only dripping further into the silk sheets as anticipation builds.
But it’s the buzzing from the vibrator he’s left perfectly placed so it barely makes contact with your clit that’s destroying you.
You can hear Titus’s ragged breathing in your ear. It’s making you dizzy, your heart racing so fast as you watch him move through his property, pickaxe in hand.
You’ve always loved the family heirloom, the design being both regal and deadly. You also know how much it weighs, how much strength it takes to wield, and watching Titus’s arms tighten, the veins practically popping out from beneath his skin as he holds the instrument steady is only making you hornier.
“Titus,” you whine, legs thrashing against your restraints once more.
“What’s wrong, bunny?” He asks, condescendingly, the angle of the camera changing so that you can now see him straight on.
“Need you, please.”
He chuckles darkly, staring directly at you. Even in black and white he just looks delicious.
“You wanted this,” he chastises. “So be a good girl and wait for me to clean up your mess.”
You wail, tears already threatening to spill as you try to maneuver your body to catch even a hint of that comforting buzz against your aching bud.
“And so help me Satan, if you even think about cumming without my permission I will not let you find release until we’re married.”
You moan loudly, using what little you have to taunt him.
You watch him stop for a second, stiffen and shiver, shaking off the little restraint you know he’s desperately trying to hold onto.
He lets out a darkened belly laugh, hands gripping the leather handle tightly before he’s back on the move.
“Don’t worry, bunny,” he pants. “I won’t be gone too long.”
You whine again, the buzzing only getting louder and louder as you finally find a position that works.
“Or maybe I might,” he stops, crouching down to check out the way the grass has been flattened, the marks that your husband has definitely left behind. “I’d like to take my time with him, maybe beat him up a little before I watch the life dim from his eyes. He deserves it after all and you definitely deserve to get a little pent up before I have my way with you, teach you a lesson in trying to be a big girl and make choices without consulting me first.”
“Titus—” you’re losing it, half delirious from pleasure, half terrified of what it’ll mean for you to not allow yourself to come undone before he comes back to you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I just wanted to make you proud please.”
Oh he’s going to cave so hard.
You watch him get back on the move as you continue to babble mindless words into his ear, your cries becoming swallowed by the thick, velvet curtains of his room.
A branch snaps in the distance and both of you suddenly become quiet, predators sniffing the smallest shift in the air.
Pleasure courses through you as your heart hammers, the thrill of what’s to come making you even dizzier than the humming happening against your aching clit.
You shift forward, pushing the head away from you in the process, no longer concerned with something as pitiful as physical pleasure. No, you’re now craving something else. Something carnal and raw.
“How would you like me to do it, bunny?” He asks lowly.
You gulp loudly, saliva pooling your mouth as you’ve started to salivate. He shivers in satisfaction at your reaction. Satan, he can already taste just how wet you are everywhere, your desire intensifying because of your mutual bloodlust.
“Snap his legs,” you drool. “Break his bones, then smash his skull in.”
Titus’s cock twitches in his pants at the visual.
“Whatever my wife wants, she will get.”
You moan loudly in his ear and he takes it as his calling grace to pounce.
He dashes across the entrance to the forest and the lazy excuse of a husband you’ve married dashes out of his hiding hole like a terrified deer.
Someone’s already gotten him first, he’s bleeding from his right side, not enough to kill him or even have him bleeding out, but enough to make him angry he wasn’t the first one to draw blood.
You strain against your restraints, the silk stretching as you pull with all your might to get closer to the screens. Your eyes are glazed over, pupils dilated so much your eyes practically look black.
You hear your husband wailing a string of profanities that drip fear and patheticness.
Titus gains on him easily enough, nipping at his heels just to taunt him before he throws his body against his legs, bringing the man to the cold ground beneath.
The struggle is quick but not painless. Titus manages to pin his legs and arms to the side, the steel of his pickaxe handle pressed against his exposed throat to choke him, but your husband clearly doesn’t want to die as he thrashes against Titus’s hold, punching him square in the jaw, drawing a little blood.
You gasp, the silk burning your wrist as you snap it off the bedpost. Your hands shake as you desperately try to untie the rest of your body.
Titus can hear you distress, the rage in his belly burning hotter as he snaps back to the man beneath him.
How dare he make you feel this way?
Fucking weak, pathetic excuse of a man.
His fist connects with flesh, unrestrained and feral.
Blood splatters across his face and chest as the man beneath him slowly becomes limp. And yet he doesn’t stop, he just keeps going until the man becomes faceless and Titus has wiped his memory off the mortal plane.
You don’t even hear the door open, all your efforts on the final knot around your left ankle.
Titus watches you struggle. Watches how the fabric has left marks on your supple skin. Watches how your brow is creased in concentration, how your tongue pokes out of your mouth, how your cheeks are streaked with tears.
That’s what pushes him to move.
The heavy pickaxe slips from his grip and lands against the fur rug, the noise finally snapping you out of your haze.
Your gaze snaps towards him, relief flooding your face instantly.
“Ti—” a sob wrecks through you and he loses whatever composure he thought he’d have coming in here.
He dashes across the room to you, doesn’t even think about the blood covering his entire body as he scoops you up in his arms and holds you close to his body, your warmth instantly warming his stoned muscles.
You waste no time wrapping your arms around his neck, hands possessively bringing his face towards your own, nails digging into the creases on his neck.
Your lips are ravenous, desperately clashing against his own to make sure he’s real. He returns the sentiment tenfold, his own grip digging into you like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll simply disappear.
It’s only when your tongue slips into his mouth, your saliva mixing with the tangy iron that your hips move on their own volition, rolling and grinding over his crotch.
He moans into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, a warning as much as an encouragement. He thrusts up to meet your movements, one hand slipping off your hip to undo his pants.
He doesn’t wait, he simply can’t. He just lines himself up with your entrance and breaches.
You scream into his mouth at the intrusion. It’s a tight fit even as wet as you currently are, but it’s what you desperately need.
He’s real. He’s here. He’s alive. He’s okay.
You’ve never once worried about him during a hunt. You know he can handle his own, he’s been trained for this his entire life after all. But tonight? Something snapped deep inside of you that made you realize he’s not immortal. He’s flesh and blood and he too can bleed.
“I was so scared—” you whine into his mouth. “Couldn’t even think about…”
Your thoughts disappear the second he rolls his hips up into you.
“No.” He growls against your lips. “I’m here now, bunny. I will never leave you, ever. Do you understand me?”
A runaway tear slips down your cheek then, the saltiness of it landing against his tongue. His chest thunders again as he licks up the streak. He picks up a steady pace, grueling and thorough, making sure to make you feel every single inch of him with each thrust.
He’s buried so far inside of you you can feel him bulge against your lower abdomen.
Determined to erase every single thought from your brain that isn’t his name and the feeling of absolute pleasure, his pace picks up, demanding you to submit to him, to let yourself melt into his dominance.
He pins you down on the bed, exactly how he had your husband minutes earlier, only this time he’s determined to gift you life over death, to fill you up to the brim, to force your families into a shotgun wedding before you start to show.
“Ti—” you sob, clinging to him like your life depends on it because it does.
“You’re mine, always have been,” he grunts, hot against your ear. “You belong to me, and I will make sure to remind you every single day of the rest of our lives.”
He accentuates his threat with a sharp thrust of his hips, his tip snapping against your cervix meanly.
You yelp, body instinctively shifting away from him to ease the contact but he’s having none of it. He pulls you back flush against him, his grip on your hips bruising.
“Say it,” he spits through gritted teeth. “Say you belong to me.”
Your mouth hangs open but no words come out.
So he stops, sheathing himself inside of you painfully.
“Fuck, Ti! I’m yours, I’m only yours, I’m sorry!”
He smirks against your cheek. “Good fucking girl.”
His hips begin to move again, slow and restrained, focusing on your pleasure now.
Your body relaxes under him, your hands allowing themselves to roam the expanse of his back, his shoulders, his biceps affectionately.
He shivers, a perfect pink tinting the apples of his cheeks as he leans down to capture your lips in his once more.
You smile dopily into the kiss, a little giggle escaping, snapping his eyes open to look at you.
“Whatever is so funny, bunny?”
You shake your head, the smile only becoming brighter.
“’s just funny that the—” you pant. “The great Titus Danforth is so easily undone by a little missionary and some physical touch.”
“Oh yeah?”
Fuck you should not have said anything.
In response he lies down over your chest, his body pressing down on yours to cage it underneath himself.
You whimper at the new angle, his hips picking up speed as he now nips at your neck, leaving a crime scene of bites and bruises in his wake.
Your legs open up further, heels digging into the swell of his ass, encouraging him forward, deeper.
“Look at you,” he groans. “Unravelling from a little missionary and physical contact.”
You moan loudly, pulling him further in you.
“Gonna fill you up now, bunny,” he threatens. “Gonna claim this pussy as mine and you’ll never even think about another man ever again. You’ll be so addicted to your husband’s cock you’ll be begging me to knock you up over and over and over again.”
You nod against his temple, desperate and needy, opening up for him like he’s the only path to salvation.
Your mind goes blank as it becomes consumed by pleasure. Nothing else matters. Only him and you, and the slapping of his skin against yours, the way you tighten around him, urging him to fill you up, to make you his.
And then he bites down on your shoulder and the band tightening in your belly snaps, leaving you breathless. Your legs shake uncontrollably, your tummy tightens as white bursts against your eyelids and all you can do is thank him like a prayer.
He falls off the ledge the second your walls clench around him and hold him captive. His hot release paints your insides with ease, spurt and spurt pouring from him like this is the only place he’s ever meant to put it.
He groans into your skin, tongue lapping at the indents his teeth have left behind, cleaning up the droplets of blood that he’s pulled from you.
You go limp in his arms, your beating heart the only indication that you’re still there with him. He kisses every inch of skin he has access to, reverent and humble, praying at the altar of you.
He manages to shed his clothes without having to pull out of you, a true show of his skills coming in handy. He feels you relax further into him as his skin makes contact with yours and his heart swells at the reaction.
He goes to move you further up the bed, to get you both comfortable as you come down from your high but your leg is still tied to the bed. He curses at his past self for not being more careful and pulls the hidden tab like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done, the knot comes undone swiftly.
With your leg free, you wrap them both around his waist, settling happily against his hard chest, fingers absentmindedly counting the freckles on his arm.
Your eyes meet his and you smile, not a single wrinkle of concern, of confusion, of doubt.
“All mine,” you hum contently.
“All yours," he kisses your nose. "My wife."
"My husband."
And it’s just that easy, your fate sealed like it was always meant to be.
Now idea for Pope. This one isn’t as intricate, but he just cannot grasp the concept of reader’s kid (like maybe 1-2 when they first get together) loving him. He’s always a little stiff when the little guy just walks up and plops himself in Andrew’s lap with a book and just points at it. Or the one time they’re both with him and the baby, instead of falling asleep in reader’s arms like always, he crawls over to Andrew and not only curls up, but also drags his arm over (literally crying over this one rn)
(I’m gonna be honest, this was was literally sitting with me all night because I was so excited to start this one.)
Fatherly hurdles (Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x Reader)
(Warnings: child inaccuracies)
(Thank you 🫛 for the suggestion! I appreciate it!)
———————————————————————————
You weren’t sure what Pope saw in you when you two first met, you weren’t sure anyone wanted to date someone with a one year old. The two of you had met when you were a bar tender at a dive bar. But for some reason when he first asked you out and you explained gently you had a one year old little boy named Charlie, he didn’t mind.
“Listen, Pope I appreciate the offer for dinner.” You explained, “I just.. I’m a single mom and I don’t wanna drag you into that.”
“I have a niece I’ve been around kids. I don’t wanna replace the kids father, I wanna be there for both of you.” He explained, moving to cup your face. “Besides, I don’t think a dinner date has too much commitment. If I freak you out, then you never have to see me again.”
You smacked his chest lightly and laughed, “If anything, I don’t wanna freak you out. I can be a little weird sometimes.”
“You won’t freak me out.” He said quietly, “Believe me.”
“Then dinner sounds lovely.” You said, “You know when to pick me up.”
“I do.” He said with a soft smile.
And just like that? The rest was history. What was initially dinner then turned into meet ups at his place because you weren’t ready to introduce your kid to him yet. Then one night after sex while you were cuddled up to him, he whispered something that shocked you.
“Can I meet Charlie soon?”
You looked up at him, clearly confused.
“You wanna meet my son?” You asked, with a laugh and he nodded.
“Yea. I mean it’s been like what, three months? Don’t you want me to meet him?” He asked, “Unless you don’t like me enough to meet him.”
“No, I do.” You promised, “It’s just.. I don’t wanna scare you off. I don’t expect you to be like a parent to him.”
“May I ask what happened to his dad?” He asked quietly.
“Nothing, he’s still around. He doesn’t see Charlie that much and is consistently late on child support. But we make do.” You explained.
“Asshole.” Pope snapped, “Sorry, I won’t curse in front of Charlie.”
“Thanks.” You said and leaned up and kissed him, “He’s gonna love you.”
———————————————————————————
The first time you introduced Charlie to Pope was at the park by the beach. When you started to walk up with Charlie in your arms, you noticed Pope holding a stuffed bear.
“I didn’t know what his favorite animal was.” Pope admitted as he walked up.
“That’s okay. We are currently in a Winnie the Pooh phase.” You said as Charlie looked around to at the playground. He quietly babbled to himself and then his eyes locked onto the teddy bear.
“Hi Charlie.” Pope said, “I brought you this.” Pope gently gave him the bear.
Charlie took it and giggled, rubbing his face on it.
“Charlie can you say hi?” You asked and Charlie tucked his face back into your neck.
“Sorry, he’s shy.” You said, “Pope’s a good friend of mamas.”
Pope shifted nervously, “I-I can go.” He admitted and you shook your head.
“He’s just gotta warm up.” You explained, “He loves the swing.”
You led Pope to an empty swing and gently set your son down in the swing. He held onto his new bear and giggled to himself.
“Just gently push him.” You explained, doing it once to show Pope.
Pope watched you nervously, “What if he falls?”
“He’s in a bucket seat. He won’t fall.” You assured, “Just be gentle.”
Pope gently pushed the swing and Charlie squealed with excitement. Pope smiled to himself, “Are you having fun Charlie?” He asked and Charlie squealed again.
After some time on the swing, you noticed Charlie started to get restless.
“Pope are you okay with getting wet?” You asked, “He really likes the splash pad.”
“I’m okay with that.” He said as you took Charlie out of his swing.
“Can you hold him while I put the bear in the car? I don’t wanna lose it.” You explained and you noticed Pope tense up.
“What if he starts to cry?” Pope asked nervously, “Then what?”
“Pope honey, you can comfort him. He’ll be okay, he’s more nosey than anything.” You explained, “Just kinda walk around with him.”
Pope nodded and held out his arms as you gently placed Charlie in his arms. Charlie looked up at Pope, clearly confused.
“Yea yea, I’m not your mama.” Pope mumbled as you headed back to the car.
Charlie just babbled to himself as he held him, not even noticing you were gone.
“I heard your dad’s an asshole.” Pope mumbled and Charlie continued to babble, paying no mind to Pope. “I don’t wanna replace your dad. I just want to love you and your mom.”
Charlie finally realized he was talking and quieted down.
“See, I didn’t have a dad growing up. You and I are kinda the same like that. Except, my dad died. Your dad is.. well we don’t know.” Pope explained, “I’m not gonna ever try to replace your daddy though. You can just call me Pope.”
Charlie went back babbling and reached for his face, “Ow, okay.” Pope said, trying to move his hands.
You soon came back over, trying not to laugh. “Charlie no thank you!” You said and Charlie’s head turned and he squealed. He reached for you and you took him from Pope.
“I see he didn’t cry. See? You were fine!” You said and headed to the splash pad, “He likes you already.”
———————————————————————————
Not long after that, you moved in with Pope since he had more space and actually owned a house. He had painted Charlie’s room a beautiful shade of blue and had set it all up for him perfectly.
“Thank you for fitting us into your life.” You whispered as you side hugged him. He kissed your head and wrapped an arm around you.
“Thanks for letting me in.” He said, watching Charlie toddle around the room. Charlie still carried around the bear Pope had got him. “Ope!” Charlie said, looking right at Pope.
“He wants you.” You said, nudging him.
Charlie started to whine and put up his arms and Pope nervously picked him up.
“Ope!” Charlie repeated, pointing toward the bookshelf.
“Book?” Pope asked, grabbing a book. Charlie rested his head on Pope’s shoulder, sucking on his binky as he did.
You smiled, “I’m gonna go make dinner, okay?” You whispered and Pope gave you the ‘Don’t leave me. This makes me uncomfortable.’ You shook your head, smiling. “You got this. He clearly wants to be in your presence.”
Pope nodded and settled him and Charlie into the recliner. You quietly left the room, just as Pope began to read.
You were so lucky to find a man like Pope.
———————————————————————————
Later that night, you were asleep in bed cuddling with Pope. It was quiet until your son woke up. You quietly sat up, when you felt an arm stop you. “Want me to get him?” Pope asked, half asleep.
“No I got him.” You whispered and Pope shook his head.
“If he asks for you, I’ll get you.” Pope whispered, “You need your sleep.”
“Thanks baby.” You mumbled and Pope pressed a kiss to your head.
He headed into the hallway and heard Charlie’s wails get louder.
“Little man, why are we awake?” Pope mumbled and when he opened the door, he saw Charlie standing in the middle of the room sobbing.
You had insisted on Charlie transitioning to a toddler bed after you had caught Charlie climbing out of his crib.
He was still adjusting to it and tonight was one of those nights where he was just overly upset.
“Come on, let’s get teddy and go back to bed.” Pope mumbled, ushering Charlie back to bed.
Charlie climbed back into bed and started to cry again, hugging his teddy bear. Pope started the white noise machine again and the night light.
“He’s not gonna learn to sleep on his own if we stay in there with him.” You echoed in his mind.
Fuck that, he’d deal with it in the morning.
Pope got on the floor and settled next to Charlie in the toddler bed. Charlie immediately snuggled into Pope, quieting his cries.
“Oh your mama isn’t gonna be too happy.” Pope whispered, rubbing Charlie’s back softly, “But that’s okay, I’ll handle her mad at me.”
Pope looked up at the ceiling remembering when Smurf would just let them cry it out. Thinking back, he didn’t even really have a bad or a room of his own. Not until he was like 12.
“I’m gonna do right by you Charlie.” He whispered, soon falling asleep.
Soon morning came and you woke up realizing your bed was empty. You checked the alarm clock.
5:30 a.m.
Huh, Pope didn’t normally go in until 9, so where was he?
You quietly grabbed your phone and got up. You headed to Charlie’s room to see Pope fast asleep with Charlie tucked into his side. You quickly took a photo and then put your phone away. Charlie heard you and woke up, sitting up a bit.
He blinked and grabbed his teddy bear, climbing over Pope. He came to stand by you and put his arms up, clearly needing some mama time. You bent down and picked him up. “Did you convince Ope to sleep with you? Even though mama specifically told him not to.” You whispered, rubbing his back.
Charlie rested his head on your shoulder as you carried him out of the room, leaving Pope to sleep.
“Ope Ope Ope.” Charlie mumbled to himself as you carried him to the kitchen.
“Ope Ope Ope.” You mumbled back, “Do you want some cereal?”
“O’s!” He said excitedly.
“Can you be a good boy and sit with mama on the couch and eat them?” You whispered and he nodded.
You adjusted your grip on your son as you started the coffee maker. As you waited, you made Charlie a bowl of Fruit Loops. Charlie stayed quiet in your arms as you made his breakfast.
“Then after O’s how about we have banana?” You asked.
“Nana.” He answered softly.
Soon the two of you were on the couch, Charlie sitting beside you eating his cereal while you drank your coffee. You put on Bluey for him to watch and he was mesmerized.
“Think we’ll keep Ope?” You asked, half expecting your son not to answer.
“Ope?” He asked, looking around for him.
“Ope sleeping. Ope night night.” You said and Charlie let out a sigh, going back to his cereal.
“Jeez kid, I’m the one who pushed you out.” You mumbled with a laugh.
Your phone buzzed beside you and you checked it
1 new message.
Baby Daddy Micheal
‘Heard you are seeing a new man. We need to meet, I don’t feel comfortable about him being around my son.’
You quickly sent a response back,
‘Micheal when was the last time you even saw Charlie? Also how old is Charlie?’
Baby Daddy Micheal
‘He’s like 3.’
You sighed and sent back a text,
‘Dumbass, he’s almost 2. He turns 2 next week.’
Baby Daddy Micheal
‘I would know this if you let me see my son.’
You rubbed a hand over your face and sighed,
‘Listen, come see him today. But meet me at a public park. Be there at 2pm’
Baby Daddy Micheal
‘Deal. If your lil boyfriend shows up, it’s on sight.’
You ignored the text and looked over at Charlie, “Do you wanna see daddy today Charlie?”
Charlie cocked his head at you confused, like he didn’t know who you were talking about. He instead crawled over and cuddled up to you.
You shifted him and he rested on your chest, his head on your shoulder. You rubbed his back and hummed softly to yourself.
Soon you heard foot steps behind you and a yawn, Pope was up.
“Listen, I already know you didn’t want to stay in there with him. But he was crying and he still didn’t stop when I put him to bed.” Pope started.
“I’m not mad.” You said softly, “He was crying and you wanted to fix it.”
“We can continue to work on it. I just know you were tired.” He whispered, “Want a refill on coffee?”
“Yes please.” You whispered and he quietly went to make you another cup. You gently rub Charlie’s back and close your own eyes.
Soon Pope came back over and kissed your head. He moved around and sat on the couch next to you.
“So um.. I wanna chat about something.” You whispered, “And I don’t want you to get angry or upset.”
“I’ll try.” He said, watching you, “Is it about us?”
“No.. Charlie’s father messaged me today asking to see Charlie today but doesn’t want you coming.” You explained.
“Too bad, I’m coming.” Pope said, “I don’t trust that jackass alone with him. I don’t care if he wants a fight or whatever, I’ll take his ass to the ground.”
“Pope..” You warned, “That is still Charlie’s father.”
“Don’t pull that shit.” Pope whispered, “and in no way am I trying to claim to be his father either. But look around? I painted his room, put together his crib, bought his toys, and so much more. Where is his child support check? I’ll stop going when he pays the fuck up.”
You sighed, “Listen, I don’t wanna cause unnecessary drama in front of my kid.”
“Then take him to court or tell him if he doesn’t pay up, then he can say bye to Charlie.” Pope whispered, “I am not letting him get his hopes up because he thinks he’s gonna see his daddy today. Also, does he even know that’s his daddy?”
“I-I actually don’t know he’s gonna recognize him.” You admitted as Charlie started to wake up. He rubbed his face into your shoulder and noticed Pope was now next to you.
“Ope.” Charlie whispered, sitting up from where he was napping, “Hi Ope.”
“Hi Charlie.” Pope said, clearly trying to calm himself down.
It was like Charlie noticed and tried to go sit over on his lap.
“Hey, I don’t think Pope wants cuddles right now.” You explained softly, “Can we give Ope space?”
Charlie fought against his mother and started to whimper.
“H-He can come sit on my lap, only if he wants.” Pope explained, trying to ignore how he kept making a fists with his fingers.
“You look like you are about to have a come apart.” You explained.
“I just don’t understand. Why does he want me? He’s in your lap at the moment and he’s sobbing about not being in mine.” Pope tried to explain, his hands shaking.
You let go of Charlie and he immediately crawled into Pope’s lap.
“Ope!” He said excitedly, pointing towards the books.
“Go pick one out.” Pope said and Charlie slid off of him and toddled to his books. He found a book he wanted to read ‘Biscuit in the garden.’
“Come on, come bring it to me.” Pope said and without warning, Charlie threw the book at him.
“Charlie no!” You gasped, trying so hard not to laugh, “Not nice. That was not nice. You need to apologize.”
Charlie waddled over and kissed his knee, “Sorry Ope.” He said and Pope weakly smiled.
“It’s okay buddy. I forgive you.” Pope said as Charlie tried to climb up on him. He bent down and picked him up, setting him on his lap.
“Alright buddy, I’ll read Biscuit in the garden to you.” Pope said, “Then we’ll get ready for the day.”
———————————————————————————
Soon the three of you were headed to the park and the entire time Charlie sang in the car.
“Thank you for this.” You said, squeezing his hand and Pope smiled.
“Anything for you two.” Pope promised and kissed your hand, “I wanted to ask, when was the last time he saw Charlie?”
“Not since he was nine months old.” You said with a sigh, “Charlie’s not gonna even recognize him.”
“If he doesn’t, then we leave.” He explained, “If Charlie doesn’t wanna be there, he doesn’t have to.”
You nod nervously as he pulled the truck into the parking lot.
“I’ll be in the car, if he doesn’t show up in 10 then we leave.” Pope explained and you nod.
“Got it.” You said and pecked his lips. You got out and headed to get Charlie out of his car seat.
“Play Ope?” Charlie asked and Pope sighed.
“Maybe in a bit.” Pope promised, “You are gonna go see dad.”
“Dada?” Charlie asked, confused.
“Come on.” You whispered and Charlie whined, reaching for Pope again. Pope sighed and motioned for you to move away from the door.
You stepped aside and Pope got out of the car. He gently took Charlie out of your arms and Charlie hugged him tightly.
“Charlie listen to your mama, okay?” He whispered, “How about after this, we go get a slushie okay?”
You gave Pope a look and he shrugged.
“Hey slushies fix all the problems in the world.” Pope said, “Maybe we can even mix the flavors.”
Charlie giggled and Pope was obviously trying not to cry. You quickly took Charlie from his arms and Charlie waved to him. Pope waved back and got back into the truck.
“Come on buddy, let’s go see dad.” You mumbled, setting Charlie down so he could walk around a little. Charlie headed toward the toddler playground, right towards the sandbox area. You found a little bench so you could watch him and wait for your ex.
10 minutes passed and Pope came over to sit beside you. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.
“I just wanted him to feel love by both parents.” You admitted, “And I hate his own father doesn’t want any part of his life.”
“My dad died before I was born.” Pope explained, “I never had that father figure in my life. All I knew and breathed was Smurf. But I told myself as I got older, no kid of mine was going to grow up how I did. I was going to be present, no matter what.”
You wiped your eyes and nodded, “But I don’t want you to feel obligated to us. Like you can’t leave because you are scared of hurting his feelings.”
“Hey, I don’t feel that way.” Pope said, “I love you and I consider Charlie my son. Neither of you can get rid of me that easily. I want to play that father figure in his life if you’ll let me.”
“I want you to.” You said, “You have no idea how much I appreciate you.”
He smiled and went to kiss you when Charlie called out,
“Ope! Play! Ope play!”
“That’s my cue, do you think he’ll ever call me dad?” Pope asked and you nodded.
“Give it time.” You said with a smile as you watched Pope go play with Charlie.
———————————————————————————
It was the morning of Charlie’s birthday and you felt absolutely terrible. You woke up in the morning feeling nauseous and just throwing up. “Just keep an eye on him for me please?” You asked as you hurled into the toilet.
“Got it babe.” He said, “I’ll get you a water soon.”
You heard him leave and Charlie start to squeal as he was chased down the hallway. You got up and quickly closed the door.
God you wanted it to be a mistake. Vomiting and a missed period? You knew.
You knew this would happen too. You and Pope were using protection.. fifty percent of the time. The last time, you weren’t. Neither of you were thinking and neither of you thought about what could happen. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to make Pope a dad, you just wanted more time with him.
You grabbed a test from the closet and took it. You could hear Pope playing with Charlie outside and smiled to yourself. Maybe this wasn’t so bad.
You waited for the test to turn and Pope quietly knocked. He stepped in before you could stop him, “I brought you water and Charlie wants you to get better soon…” He looked over and saw the test, “Are you pregnant?”
“I might be.” You admitted, “I’m so sorry, we weren’t careful.”
“Hey, don’t apologize. I know we weren’t careful. Whatever the outcome is, I wanna face it with you and Charlie.” He said, getting on his knees. He took your hands into his, “One day at a time.”
“One day at a time.” You whispered, “Wait, where’s Charlie?”
“I put together a ball pit pool thing in his room, he’s going nuts in it right now.” Pope said with a laugh.
Right on cue, your son squealed from the other room.
“You are a good man Pope Cody.” You whispered, “A really good man.”
No he wasn’t, in his head he wasn’t. He was a man who went to prison over a bank robbery gone wrong. Blood was permanently on his hands and he had demons trailing him every step of the way.
You could feel his tears stain your thighs but you didn’t say a word. You just gently run your hands through his hair and look over at the test that’s face down.
“I think it’s time.” You whispered, gently pat his head.
“What if I fuck up this kid? What if they hate me?” He whispered.
“Does Charlie hate you?” You asked softly, “Because I think he adores you with every ounce of his little body.”
“He doesn’t know everything.” He whispered, sniffling.
“He doesn’t have to and neither will our next child.” You promised, “I’ll take every secret of yours to the grave.”
He nodded and lifted his head, “I’m finally ready.”
He stood up first and then you followed suite. You turned over the test and your eyes grew wide.
Two lines and a positive symbol.
“You’re pregnant… with my child. Pope whispered and cupped your face.
You nod and laugh, completely speechless. He pulls you into a hug and smiled, rubbing your back.
“Hug time!” Charlie called out, coming into the bathroom.
Pope laughed and picked him up with ease, “Hug time buddy, that’s right!”
You kiss your son’s cheek, “Happy birthday honey.” Your eyes catch his and in a silent agreement you two decide to have this discussion a little later into your pregnancy.
For now? The three of you hugged in the bathroom, just enjoying the moment.
———————————————————————————
Soon it was Charlie’s second birthday party and you had decided to throw his birthday party in the back yard of Pope’s house. He had asked if he could invite one of his brothers and you happily accepted. You were in the pool with Charlie as he splashed around in his floatie. Pope meanwhile grilled burgers and watched you two.
The party wasn’t big, just you, him, and a couple of your old co workers who knew you. People started to come in and Charlie was excited to see people again.
A man walked in through the gate and tensed up, holding a case of beer.
“Jesus Deran, I told you it was a birthday party.” Pope called out, “Not a party.”
“Okay well that’s the same thing in my mind!” Deran said and walked over to him, “Who’s birthday are we celebrating?” He asked lowly.
“Oh my son Charlie turned two today.” He said and Deran froze.
“That’s your kid?” He asked lowly, “But what about your mental stuff man? Who would have a kid with you?”
“My bonus kid.” Pope snapped through gritted teeth, “And for your information, my girlfriend is pregnant with my child and yes she knows. I’m in therapy for it.”
Deran held up his hands, “okay okay, I hear you man. Good for you.”
“Hey babe, can you get Charlie out of the pool? I want him to meet someone.” Pope said, flipping a burger.
You got out with Charlie and Charlie immediately ran over to Pope, “Ope Ope! Up!” Charlie said, arms up. Pope stepped away from the grill and picked Charlie up.
“Charlie, this is Deran. Deran’s my brother.” Pope explained, “Deran this is Charlie, my um.. my son.”
“Nice to meet you Charlie, I heard it’s your birthday.” Deran said with a smile, “I gave your dad 100 bucks to buy you any toy, so take him up on that deal.”
“What do we say?” Pope whispered.
“Dank you.” Charlie said with a shy smile.
“You are welcome buddy.” Deran said with a smile.
Soon it was time for cake and you sat at the table with Charlie on your lap. A small simple cake meant only for Charlie sat in front of the two of you. Pope recorded it on his phone while you lit the candles.
“Ope! I want daddy Ope!” Charlie said, looking for him.
“You heard the kid Pope, he wants his daddy.” Deran said, taking Pope’s phone out of his hand.
“I don’t wanna ruin the moment.” Pope said nervously, “I-I mean..”
“Pope, Charlie’s gonna have a fit. Come sit down.” You said and soon Pope sat next to you and Charlie.
Charlie moved so he was on both laps and stared at the candle as everyone sang happy birthday.
You leaned your head on Pope’s shoulder and watched your little boy soon blow out his candles. Pope gently moved the candle out of the way so he could eat his cake.
“Have a bite.” You encouraged and Charlie dug his fingers in.
“Daddy eat?” He asked, holding a bit of cake up in his hand.
The old pope wouldn’t have even put himself in this situation. He wouldn’t have ate cake off of a kids hand. But for Charlie? He’d do anything. So he took a small bite out of his son’s cake. Charlie beamed at him and giggled.
“Thank you baby.” You whispered as Charlie went back to devouring his cake.
Summary: After transferring to the Pitt in the middle of your fellowship, you manage to impress PTMC's meanest surgeon with your bubbly confidence, leading to you both catching feelings.
Tags/Notes: fluffy fluff, silly trope time, idiots in love, grumpy/sunshine, misunderstanding trope, kiss cam trope, getting together, cutesy feminine reader, kind of an airhead outside of medicine, also described as short sorry tall baddies, praise kink, oral (m), fingering (f), size kink, piv, riding/cowgirl, mini hitachi, doggy style, headlock during sex uwu, biting, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, creampie, D/s if you squint, aftercare
Content: medical (and hockey) inaccuracies out the wazoo, canon-typical
A/N: that mean doctor has bewitched me and i actually had so much fucking fun writing this fic
Word Count: 14.2k
While you finish preparing your patient presentation for the incoming orthopedic surgeon consult on the case you’ve been working all day, Dennis Whitaker, who’s been assisting you, groans under his breath as he catches an imposing figure approaching. “Fuck, our consult’s the Shark.”
“Of course it is.” Shen, who’s been in the corner half-supervising you since he completely trusts your work as a fellow, tells Whitaker, “This kind of damage? He eats up cases like this. The Shark’s never gonna let someone else-”
You turn to both of them, hold up a hand to shut them up, and ask, “Who?”
“Dr. Brendon Park,” Shen explains like he’s telling you about an upcoming horror movie. “He’s the head orthopedic surgeon.”
“Haven’t met him yet,” you reply. Drawbacks of circumstances forcing you to change hospitals in the middle of your fellowship; you don’t know the whole team like you did back in your residency. With a final few glances through your day’s meticulous work, you wrinkle your brows and check, “I thought Torres was head of orthopedic surgery.”
“No, she’s the nice orthopedic surgeon. The Shark only deigns to come to what he calls ‘the butcher shop’ for juicy cases.” Shen shakes his head and says, “I’m gonna dip before he gets down here. I’ll grab Robby to supervise.”
“You’re leaving? Why?”
“Park can actually stand Robby.” Shen shrugs and tosses his gloves in the trash. “I made the mistake of suggesting an amputation when it was possible to salvage a limb and the Shark’s always down my throat when we work together now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three years.” Shen pushes the door open and says before heading over to the hub to grab Robby, “That thing you’ve heard about sharks having three-second memories? Not accurate. PTMC’s Shark never forgets. Don’t fuck up your first impression.”
Your wide eyes turn to Whitaker. “Well, that was comforting.”
Jesse, who’s been supporting you on and off when you needed more hands than just Whitaker’s, tries to offer, “Park’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, because you’re a nurse,” Whitaker replies. “He likes nurses. Respects them. It’s other doctors he thinks are stupid.”
You screw up your face with confidence and nod sharply. “Then I won’t be stupid.”
“Good luck with that,” a deep, clear voice says behind you. You turn and nearly bump into the center of a very broad chest. Very broad. With matching biceps and traps threatening at the fabric of his blue scrubs. He’s easily a whole head taller than you. And his face. Oh. Good face. Lots of masculine, rugged angles. It’s not that the ED is lacking in arm candy, but most of the doctors down here aren’t so…biteable. You’re fighting not to ogle as his voice draws your eyes back up to his mouth. Which is a nice mouth. Under a nice nose. And a heavy brow with pretty blue eyes so sharp you feel a little light-headed under their intensity. “You’re new.”
Robby slips into the room behind him and hugs the wall, posture much straighter than you’ve seen. He doesn’t look scared the way Whitaker does, but there’s a clear expectation about what the interaction’s going to be: Efficient, intense, clear. Robby says bluntly, “New fellow. Recent relocation.”
Park’s eyes narrow, taking in your pink shoelaces, perfectly applied makeup (including shimmery gloss) despite being elbows deep in the shift, and the pastel-heart-patterned long sleeve beneath your scrubs. “We haven’t met.”
You take one quick, deep breath and remind yourself there’s no reason to be scared. You don’t play hospital politics like the residents. You’re a fellow, a real goddamn doctor. This is your case. Your save. You’ve got it. So you introduce yourself with a friendly smile and explain, “I started here last month. Just haven’t had a big sexy skeletal trauma to dangle in front of you until today.”
Park cracks what almost appears to be a smirk. Committing your name and your pretty face to memory, he says, “Welcome to the team, pipsqueak. Try not to butcher any bones and we’ll get along fine.”
“No problem.” You bounce slightly on your feet. “Shall we get started here?”
His chin cocks slightly to one side. You’re not shrinking. Not bashful. You’re smiling. That’s rare. He doesn’t mind. Arms crossed over that massive chest, he orders, eyes sweeping the room, “Tell me what we’ve got.”
Whitaker looks to Robby. Robby looks to you. You nod and list off, “Mr. Jacob Westman, thirty-seven-year-old green energy tower technician, brought in by ambulance after falling from an electrical tower. Freak accident. Alert and responsive on arrival but no sensation in lower extremities. Lead doctor on the case – that’s me; I’ve been point for Mr. Westman all day – chose to sedate for pain management and stabilization once significant spinal injuries were identified. The most severe salvageable damage is in the cervical and thoracic, but I don’t necessarily agree with the interpretation from the ortho radiologist that-” Robby clears his throat to stop you there. Sheepishly, you finish, “Vitals are within safe range for operation to correct cervical and thoracic fractures and dislocations."
Robby offers, “So essentially, the approach is-”
“Hold on.” Park looks up from the chart and focuses squarely on you. “What did the radiologist say? Why did you stop there?”
You glance over at Robby, who’s shaking his head with pleading eyes. But it’s your case. You’re the one who gave up your lunch break to pore over the imaging. So you let your eyes rove back to Dr. Park’s and tell him firmly, “Your radiologist feels that the lumbar injuries causing Mr. Westman’s paralysis are completely inoperable through traditional methods. I was advised to defer to his opinion.”
Brows furrowed, he eyes you seriously. Almost…amused. Like he’s watching a puppy try a new trick. “What’s your opinion, doctor?”
Behind Park, you see Whitaker shake his head and grimace like you’ve just signed your own death certificate. Even Jesse is gripping his clipboard a little more tightly.
“I suggested that, even though it may be riskier, a series of nerve grafts and transfers could return the patient’s ability to walk.” Your voice lowers a bit and you try not to let your wobbly ‘bleeding heart baby doctor’ voice come out. “Mr. Westman is a highly-trained, highly-educated specialist in a type of engineering only a handful of people in the country can do. Work that’s absolutely critical for the development of renewable energy sources. When I was going over everything with his wife, Jenna, she told me that he loves his job more than life itself. That he would risk everything to regain use of his legs.” You swallow hard and pinch back tears. It’s something that always annoys you; whenever you really, really care about something, you start to cry. Eyes averted, you wrap up, “I know that the kind of procedure I’m suggesting would be much longer and much riskier on several levels and that it’s not at all my place to-”
Park shakes his head and cuts you off, “Show me the scans.”
You quickly brush past him to the nearby screen and blow up the images.
Dr. Park lets out a low whistle as he flips through the X-Rays, head tilted slightly as he gives the scans his full attention. He asks you a handful of questions and you answer them as best you can, all the eyes in the room burning the back of your head. You watch the wheels turning behind Park’s eyes; this is his passion, his favorite thing, his reason to wake up. You love seeing people in that state where all they’re thinking about is what they do best.
Finally, he turns to you and says, “I don’t care what your title at this hospital is. If a goddamn janitor can propose a valid surgical approach for an ‘inoperable’ injury, I want to hear it. Complex spinal reconstruction with multiple fusions, laminectomy, discectomy…fuck, ‘just-about-everything-ectomy.’ Plus nerve transfer. Now that’s sexy. I like it.” Before Robby can thank him for taking over, Park looks you up and down – just a little slow to be completely professional – and asks, “Pipsqueak, you wanna assist?”
You stand up straighter and turn your attention to Robby with wide, hopeful eyes. Looking nothing short of shocked, he nods and does a ‘sure, why not?’ type of gesture. You give a big, adorable grin and say, “Yeah, that would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to see autograft harvesting and transfer firsthand.”
Whitaker shakes his head and mutters, “Freak.”
“Go to the bathroom, eat a snack, and scrub for OR three,” Park tells you, ignoring everyone else. As you nod eagerly and excuse yourself, he slaps Robby on the back hard enough to make him stagger and mutters, “Congrats, Mike, you finally matched a competent fellow.”
Dumbfounded, Robby just says, “Ah, thanks.”
Coming out of the surgery thirteen hours later, you’re glowing like you haven’t been awake for thirty-four hours in a row. Following tight on his heels, you’re practically skipping as you beam, “Dr. Park, that was so amazing. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“You’re good,” he says simply, walking through the halls of the surgical wing like he owns the place. “Great calls like that deserve great rewards. Would’ve given you a gold star sticker, but I’m not as soft as Robinavitch.”
“I wish Robby gave out stickers,” you reply wistfully. “That might actually convince me to stay here after my fellowship is up.”
You’re about to say something else when Park turns around and puts one baseball-glove-sized hand on your shoulder. “Unless you want to see my dick on our first day working together, you should probably stay on that side of this particular door.”
You startle backwards as you realize he’s pushing into the men’s room. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry; I sometimes kinda space out when I’m excited.”
Park lets out a laugh. An honest-to-god laugh.
He has a handsome smile.
Even though your face is now about a thousand degrees, you still nibble your lower lip, grin, and call through the door, “By the way, it’s technically our second day working together since that was an overnight surgery.”
Park’s amused, loud voice hollers back, “Go home and get some sleep, pipsqueak.”
When you clock in for your next shift two days later, Dana waves you over right after you’re done putting your things away. She says, “There’s something in your mailbox, if you’d believe it.”
“Really?” You worry a hangnail on your thumb. “Don’t tell me I’m getting served or something.”
“You? Come on, you’re Miss Bedside Manner USA.” She nods over to the doctor’s lounge and explains, “It’s from ortho. Something about that surgery you sat in on last week.”
“Huh, okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
You scurry off to your mailbox, which you’ve only even looked at once, the day you started. They’re a relic from the days of fax machines and printers. Inside your cubby is a blank, hospital-issue envelope. Upper left corner: Brendon Park, MD, FAAOS. In the middle, in his scratchy handwriting: Pipsqueak. With your lips pursed in curiosity, you rip the top of the envelope and remove the contents.
Inside a folded piece of notebook paper, there’s a card-sized sticker sheet with eight big, cutesy stickers on it. A happy sun, baby ducks, a strawberry, a stuffed bunny. All things sweet and girly. The theme is white, baby pink, sky blue, and light yellow, the same colors as the heart-patterned shirt you’d been wearing under your scrubs. In between the big stickers, a few pastel stars serve as filler.
With a little squeal, you unfold the note and read. Couldn’t find one with a gold star. Close enough. Good job. Happy you’re here.
Underneath, he’s drawn a tiny shark in lieu of a signature.
You melt – just a little.
Riding the elevator up after your lunch break, it’s kind of embarrassing how much your heart is pounding. You’re really not supposed to be doing this. It’s a total violation of protocol – not the sort that would get you in real HR trouble, but definitely the kind that could permanently piss someone off.
But you do it anyway. You gently knock on Dr. Park’s door after checking with the ortho receptionist that he’s in. He makes a sort of grunting sound that you interpret as ‘yes, what?’ Pushing the door open just enough to slip into the opening, you say, “Hi, Dr. Park. Robby asked me to page ortho down for a follow-up on the Westman case, but I thought it would be nice to ask you directly so that they could have consistency of-” When Park doesn’t even look at you, eyes staring intently at the file on his computer, you shrink into the doorway and shake your head. “Sorry; that’s silly. I’ll get back downstairs and send a page like I should’ve to stop annoying you.”
His eyes flick to yours for half a second. His eyebrows go together almost imperceptibly. “You’re not annoying me.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You bite your lower lip and stare at your shoes for a moment. Purple sneakers today, Park notices. Matching the lavender polka dots on your long sleeves. “So, yeah, if you have time today to come down and check his repeat images with me, that would be really amazing. I’m working until six, so no rush. No pressure. I know you’re really busy. And I can definitely just ask Torres if you-”
“I’ll do it,” he interrupts urgently. “Don’t ask Torres. Or anyone else. I’ve got it.” Then he adds, hasty, “Patient outcomes improve when they have a consistent care team. You’re right about that. You can come get me about Mr. Westman whenever you need to.”
At that, you absolutely beam. His eyes go to your lips. Your cupid’s bow and the way it stretches when you smile. A pretty smile, he thinks. Really pretty. You glow, “Okay, perfect, I will. Thank you.”
You linger for a second, one hand on the doorknob as you debate whether or not to say something. He hasn’t returned to his computer screen, eyes just roaming around the room and occasionally spending a second on you, so you take it as an invitation.
“I also wanted to, um, to say thanks for the stickers, by the way.” You lift your water bottle and show him the doodle-style pink star you’d picked out to grace it among your collection. “I really like them.”
“Good.” He’s tempted to lie, say it was someone else’s idea, act like he found them somewhere in the hospital, but he can’t when he’s looking at your delighted schoolgirl smile. “Saw them at Target and thought of you. It was nice to work with someone so…competent.” You swear there’s a slight blush in his cheeks, but it must be a trick of the light. It must be. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’ll come down to see you- for Mr. Westman’s follow-up in an hour, alright? I have to finish this report and my dyslexia’s fucking killing me today.”
Physically unable to stop yourself from being helpful, you offer, “I could type it up for you, if you want.”
“I didn’t mean to tell you that,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have this disarming thing about you. It’s jarring.”
“Um, thanks?” You tilt your head like a puppy. “Are you not supposed to talk about it or something?”
He shrugs, definitely blushing now and pretending not to be, and replies, “People hear their doctor has a learning disability and get a little antsy. So if you don’t mind, keep that to yourself.”
“No problem, Dr. Park, I’m the picture of discretion,” you assure him seriously. But then you keep spilling out, “But, y’know, I actually read this study from the Royal College of Surgeons that showed people with dyslexia make better surgeons than their peers because of their well-developed spatial reasoning skills, attention to detail, and problem-solving ability – not to mention the resilience and creativity that inherently come from- Aaaand I’m word vomiting. Shoot. Sorry. It’s- it’s chronic, my word vomit. I see a specialist.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Do you now?”
“Yup. My likelihood of remission is incredibly low. Lifelong struggle, really.” You swallow hard and tell him gently, “Um, I had this undergrad student I tutored. He was in biology – pre-med – but he didn’t think he could do it because he was dyslexic. So I did a bunch of research and presented it to him. I’m not, like, one of those cool photographic memory people who remember every study on earth or something.”
“People with photographic memories freak me out,” he says with a chuckle. You wonder if you’re the only person in the ED who’s heard him laugh. More than once, even. Then he says something that actually does manage to shock you: “I’d love the help, if you have time.”
“Yay!” You do this little bouncing thing that makes his head spin. “I’m still on my lunch, so I have a few minutes.”
Voice sounding almost protective, he checks, “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, of course. But I get bored if I don’t have anything to do after my leftovers.” You scooch around his desk and slide between him and the computer, your perky ass directly in his face. With your fingers hovering over his keyboard, you lilt, “Alright, big man, what are we writing?”
It takes Park fifteen seconds to recalibrate, ten of those seconds spent memorizing the way he can see the outline of your tiny thong when you lean forward slightly, the fabric of your scrubs taut over your ass. Then he hastily stands up and puts himself behind the chair, his nosy dick safe from being seen, and says, “Why don’t you take my spot? You’ll be more comfortable.”
You shrug and sit down, throwing your head way back to look up at him with perfect, sweet blowjob eyes. “Whatever you say, Shark.”
The next time Park’s in the ED, his crush on you is completely and totally solidified. It’s horrifying, the way the feeling swirls around his stomach and makes his cheeks hot. It’s not a feeling that’s ever dared encounter him in the workplace and, honestly, not in a hell of a long time outside of it, either.
It’s because you’ve got Ogilvie backed up against a wall, your pointed finger in the center of his chest. He’s a head taller than you, even slouching, but you’re dwarfing him with your energy. Park’s never seen you so brutally animated, eyebrows knitted together and posture perfectly straight. He lingers a bit too close, hugging the corner so he can listen and watch.
Ogilvie’s hands are up in the air, waving, frustrated. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was-”
“Oh my god, how many times do I have to tell you to shut up and listen to me?” With your feet planted firmly in your white sneakers with red laces and your arms crossed in your cherry-printed sleeves, you go on, “I get that I’m a woman. I get that I’m short and cute and girly. I get that you think you’re god’s gift to medicine.”
“I don’t think I’m-”
“I wasn’t done. I get that you struggle to respect me. Idiotic men often do. But let me make one thing abundantly clear: You are a slug of a man-child, James. You leave a trail of slime behind yourself in the form of problems everyone else needs to clean up, you hide whenever things get hard, and you need to blot the oil from your T-zone so you’re less shiny. And invest in a frizz-control shampoo.” While Park stifles a snorting laugh, you go on with the most pointed, cruel voice he’s ever heard from a woman so painfully adorable, “If you ever speak to me like that again, you will envy the corpses you practice on. All you will do clinically is change infected necrotic dressings and disimpact bowels and every other moment of your day will be dedicated to administrative scut so monotonous it makes your vision blurry. I will ask to have you on my service every day just so I can torture you until you question your entire career path. Do we have an understanding?”
Ogilvie is too stunned to speak for thirty seconds straight. Then he swallows and stammers out, “Yes, doctor. I- I understand.”
You nod tightly and add, “I’d like an apology now.”
“I’m sorry,” he says right away. It sounds more afraid than earnest, but that’ll get the job done. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.”
“Good. I forgive you.” Then you give him a warm, friendly smile and a pat on the head that you have to rock up onto your toes to execute fully. “Now let’s get back to Mrs. Andrews so you can get another lumbar puncture under your belt before your next evaluation, alright?”
Ogilvie manages to get out, “Thanks,” before you turn around and lead him back to the ED. He looks like a scolded toddler, lip pouted and cheeks red, while you have that familiar unshakeable pep in your step.
And Brendon Park is smitten.
The next week, as you’re sending off a list of prescriptions, you hear Langdon’s voice from the other side of the ED. “Sharkbait, get over here!”
You turn toward Langdon and point at yourself. “Me?”
His eyes are big and begging. “Yeah, c’mon, I need you.”
“I have work to do, Frank.”
“Please?” He clasps his hands in front of his chest like a prayer. “Park’s going to kill me when he sees the state of these ribs.”
Exasperated, you cut back, “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re Sharkbait,” he replies, mimicking your expression. “When you’re in the room, he’s less of a dick.”
Several craving any time with Brendon, you roll your eyes and stomp over, telling him, “I’ll give you five minutes. Get me up to speed.”
He runs through the patient history with you while you gently palpate the chest.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe as you feel the myriad of fractures all over the ribcage and sternum. “LUCAS?”
“On an elderly osteoporosis patient. Dumbass firefighter meatheads.” He shakes his head and mutters, “It’s basically a bag of bone soup in there.”
“Sounds promising,” Park announces, always knowing when to cut into a conversation. When he sees you, he sighs in relief, “Pipsqueak, thank god you’re on this, too. I don’t have the patience for dealing with Ken on my own today.”
As Langdon talks to Park with you just sort of standing there as an emotion diffuser, Santos and Whitaker watch in wonder from the hub.
Trinity, whose last interaction with the Shark ended with him saying she should switch to a career with no skeletons involved, scoffs and murmurs, “Why hasn’t he ripped her head off? She’s brand new; she doesn’t know how to placate him.”
“Her aura powers are unknown to us,” Whitaker mutters back. “She has some kind of sorcery ability incomprehensible to the masses.”
“I mean, she has nice tits,” Trinity reasons. “She’s smart. Made some good calls in front of him.”
Whitaker argues, “Baran’s brilliant and has great tits. He called her an imbecile last week.”
Amused, Trinity raises her eyebrows. “You think Dr. Al-Hashimi has great tits?”
“Not the point.” A minute later, Park leaves the room with a smile in your direction. You swish over to the hub to grab a new chart and Dennis asks, “What’s the deal with you and the Shark?”
Humming gently, you ask him absently, “What do you mean?”
Trinity cuts in to reply for them both, “Well, I mean, he likes you. Are you two fucking?”
Your eyes startle wide at the idea – tantalizing but impossibly far away. Park is so wildly out of your league you can barely entertain the thought. “What? No! Of course not. Brendon’s not as bad as you guys think. You just have to get to know him.”
Trinity mouths to Whitaker, Brendon?
Whitaker shrugs, baffled, and then muses as the three of you watch Park head toward the OR, “I didn’t realize that was a possibility.”
You chuckle and tease, “Maybe try being a better doctor next time?”
“Brutal, Sharkbait. Brutal.”
That weekend, the Pittsburgh Penguins hosts its annual Medical Worker Appreciation Night. Because Dana’s been nominated as a spotlighted nurse, the hospital sprung for discounted tickets in the name of staff morale.
Robby shepherds you and the other newer ED staff who’d gotten their hands on a ticket down to the PTMC section. When he checks seats, pointing everyone in the right direction, he frowns at yours. “Kid, do you wanna trade spots with me?”
Your brows furrow. “What? Why?”
“Look.”
Your eyes follow Robby’s pointing chin. At the end of the long row, Park’s perched on the edge of his seat, staring down the players doing warmups. He’s wearing a black Penguins hoodie, a black Penguins hat, and a pair of jeans that his meaty thighs battle for dominance with. You’ve never seen him outside of scrubs and it’s becoming a problem very quickly. You shrug and tell Robby, “I don’t mind.”
“You sure?”
“We get along great, actually.”
“That explains the new nickname,” he chuckles under his breath. “I figured it was because you’re a sacrificial lamb.”
Park catches your eyes and waves you over, his lips flirting with the concept of a smile. He can’t bear to say it out loud, can barely even tolerate the thought in his own head, but he’d looked over the seating chart on the HR receptionist’s computer and basically threatened Ogilvie’s life to switch with him (and then swore him to secrecy on similar conditions).
You plop down next to him and nudge him in the bicep. “Hi, Bren, I didn’t think you came to things like this.”
Bren. Nobody’s used a nickname besides ‘Shark’ for him in decades. He shrugs like his heart rate isn’t picking up at the way your arm has to touch his because of how broad he is. “It’s hockey.”
“It’s team bonding,” you tease. “You hate bonding. And teams that aren’t sports.”
“But I like free Pens tickets,” he replies simply. Then he notices your outfit. You’re wearing pants, at least – leggings, because fuck him, he figures – but your arms are agonizingly bare from the elbows down, your yellow tee not doing much to protect your skin. He frowns and asks, “Did you bring a jacket or something? You’re gonna freeze to death in here.”
You shake your head. “It’s not that cold; I’ll be okay.”
“Give it a period.”
“I’m not on my- Oh. They’re called periods in hockey?”
Biting back a mean joke because of your sweet, innocent eyes, he says, “Yeah. Periods. Three twenty-minute periods with intermissions between.
“You’re gonna have to explain everything to me,” you say as you stare at the different parts of the stadium. “I’m not from a hockey town.”
“I don’t mind,” he admits after a second. He adds carefully, “I never get to talk hockey outside of work.”
“No gym buddies to gab with?”
“No gym buddies,” he confirms.
“That’s shocking, considering the biceps of it all.” And the pecs you would honestly motorboat. And the big veiny hands. And the thick thighs you could bounce on for hours. You swallow hard, thankful you don’t have a dick to give away your thoughts. “Are you one of those douchey guys who puts in his AirPods and focuses on his form in the mirror? Oh my god, do you film yourself so you can make sure you-”
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he laughs, raising his hands in defeat. “You’ve got me pegged, sweetheart. I have to be strong because I crack femurs all day. And you have to focus on form if you want to get strong and don’t want to get hurt.”
“So no time for gym buddies.” You lilt, sweet and easy, “Maybe you can show me some time. I could use a little more muscle and a little less-”
“No, you definitely don’t need ‘less’ anything,” he protests way too quickly as his mouth goes dry. He can barely tolerate the sight of you in leggings this close to him; he’d burst a blood vessel if you were in bike shorts and a sports bra like his brain immediately supplies. With his neck going splotchy pink, he course corrects, “Lifting isn’t about losing weight or visible muscle. It’s about building practical strength.”
And your body is fucking perfect. If you wanted to change it out of insecurity, he’d drop to his knees and kiss your feet until you realized you shouldn’t change a thing. Your thighs are just the right thickness, your ass downright juicy, your stomach spectacularly soft, your breasts-
Park sucks in a sharp, deep breath and shakes out the thoughts. “I’m gonna grab something to eat before the game starts. Can I get you anything?”
After a second of thinking, you ask sweetly, “Do they have cheese fries?”
“They have every disgusting, greasy sports food you could ever want,” he confirms. “I’ll be right back with some goodies.”
You occupy yourself by playing social butterfly, introducing yourself to everyone you haven’t had a chance to meet yet. When Park returns, he takes a second to admire you running around spreading your sunshine. Then you return to his side and squeal when you see a mountain of loaded cheese fries that make your mouth water in the best way.
Before sitting down to share them with you, Park shoves a folded garment into your arms. “Put this on. I won’t be able to focus on the game if you’re shivering next to me the whole time.”
“Aw, Bren, thank you.” Your voice borders on a whimper as you unfold the classic lacer pullover, black with yellow and tan bars around the lower hem and arms, the iconic penguin himself at the center of the chest. “Just let me know how much I owe you for it – at least for half.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shut up; it’s a gift.”
“Okay, thank you so much, that’s so sweet, but the suggestion to shut up is incredibly offensive given I disclosed my word vomit diagnosis to you,” you reply seriously, glaring at him.
Park clutches his chest and tells you, “I apologize for making light of your vulnerability with me.”
“I forgive you because of the cheese fries.” You examine the back of the thick, cozy hoodie and observe, “Crosby. Is he your favorite? Or just the cheapest sweater?”
Park smirks (it’s the most expensive sweater) and replies, “Sid the Kid. Best player Pittsburgh’s ever had. Best player in the league, if you ask anyone with a brain. Rumor has it he’s retiring soon; I think that’ll be my first true heartbreak.”
You balk at the idea. “You’ve never had your heart broken? I get my heart broken ten times a month.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You go on that many dates?”
“No, no, no, no dates,” you quickly reply. Too quickly. A little desperately. “But it breaks my heart when I see sad puppy commercials or old people eating alone at restaurants or trailers for romantic dramas at the movies. One time I cried because I could only find one of my favorite socks. I tried and I tried but the second one was just…gone. I couldn’t look at the single one without getting so sad it was hard to-”
“Team introduction’s starting, then the national anthem,” he interrupts gently. Reluctantly. Like he’s actually invested in your rambling. “Put a lid on the word vomit for ten minutes and I’m all yours for a full sock eulogy.”
You giggle and salute as the whole stadium stands. “Yes, sir.”
He rolls his shoulders and pretends that doesn’t go straight to his dick. When you cheer extra loud for Sidney Crosby as he skates to center, jumping a tiny bit like your smile is too big to hold in your body, Park damn near swoons. He wants to sling his arm around your waist and pull you into him, to kiss the top of your head, to, fuck, put you on his shoulders and parade you around or something. He can’t even name everything he wants to do with and to and for you. It’s agony.
Once the game starts, Park takes care to make sure you understand what’s going on. “That’s Ovechkin. You’re gonna see one hell of a game. He’s Crosby’s biggest rival.”
“So we hate him,” you reply obediently. “Got it.”
He smiles at you and confirms, “Yeah, we hate him. Mostly because he’s really fucking good.”
You nudge him with your shoulder and tease, “That’s why people hate you, so it’s good company.”
He barks out a laugh. “Is that why?”
“That or because you never show off that handsome smile.”
With a pout, he counters, “I smile plenty.”
“He said, frowning.”
“I’ll smile when the Pens win,” he promises.
But, despite his best efforts, he does, actually, get caught smiling before the end of the game. In a big, obnoxious way. After the end of the second period, with the game tied 1-1, you watch the kiss cam flying around the arena with dopey heart eyes so precious Brendon can’t rip his eyes away from you. It’s too cute of an expression not to memorize.
You don’t notice he’s staring, too wrapped up in loving to see people in love, until his face lights up the big screen. You’re so shocked that you don’t process just how bright and intent his eyes are, his lips soft and slightly upturned, everything about his expression and posture screaming ‘god, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’ It’s the kind of expression kiss cam operators gravitate toward; only men who adore their girls look like that.
Before he can even truly realize that it’s you and him on screen, his eyes widening, you grab him and plant a big fat shimmery lip gloss kiss on his cheek. Then you grin, following it up by blowing a kiss and winking to the camera.
And Brendon Park smiles wide enough to power the whole arena, the apples of his cheek glowing neon pink and he drops his eyes and shakes his head in delight.
The video is immediately saved and sent to the ED group chat by none other than Trinity Santos, naturally. One of the nurses proceeds to forward it to the nurses chat, where it makes its way to the ortho chat. By the time the camera even pans away, the moment has been forever cemented in PTMC history as the first time Park the Shark has smiled earnestly – innocently, even – in front of his coworkers.
Only the whoops, cheers, and laughs from your nearby ED coworkers drops him back onto earth from cloud nine. Park frowns as he rubs his cheek with a napkin, pouting, “You got lipgloss on my face.”
“What was I supposed to do?” You gesture to Trinity and Whitaker, who are pumping their fists in their air victoriously. “Leave my adoring fans hanging?”
With a sheepish wave in their direction to get them to fuck off, he mutters, “I think you’ve permanently damaged my tough guy reputation.”
But you just reply in a sing-sony voice, “You didn’t have to blush.”
“Involuntary response to relevant stimulus.”
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
If he’s honest with himself, his smile isn’t half as bright when the Penguins win an hour later. It only warms back up to critical heat when you wrap him in a hug, gleefully jumping up and down as the puck hits the net right as the buzzer goes off. He’d kiss you for real if you weren’t surrounded by the PTMC staff.
Still, with your arms around the back of his neck, he can’t resist doing something. So he keeps it simple and asks, “It’s been a while since those cheese fries; want to grab dinner with me?”
When you say yes, his heart sings.
After the hockey game, there’s a definite shift in your friendship with Brendon. It’s more playful. Less guarded. The two of you grab dinner together after your shifts whenever Park doesn’t have a late surgery and, if you miss out on dinner, he insists on coffee in the morning. He tells you about his personal life and you do the same, not that it’s hard on your end. Gradually, you start to notice the differences that everyone else in the ED picked up on months and months ago. The way his face goes from hardened to soft when he sees you entering a room. The way his texts have emojis instead of periods. The way he accepts your hugs instead of turning them into handshakes.
Right when you’ve gotten up your confidence to actually ask him out, you overhear him and Robby talking in hushed tones inside Park’s office. The door’s cracked and you’d come up specifically to ask him to go out with you in a few days on Saturday because you both actually have a weekend off.
With an X-Ray in hand, Robby pushes, “Are you sure you can’t do the revision yourself on Sunday? I know you’re not scheduled to be here, but the family trusts you now, and it might be-”
“I told you, man, I’m surprising my girlfriend on Sunday. I’ve been sitting on these ballet tickets for weeks already and I don’t do shit like that,” Park tells him sternly. No room for argument. “You’re in good hands with Torres; she’s as good as me any day – maybe better since people actually like her.”
You don’t wait for Robby’s response. Losing your ability to breathe, you scamper to the nearby staircase and start stamping your way down to the ED. Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces. No, a million. They fall down the stairs like glass, so heavy you’re surprised you can’t hear them echoing.
Stopping just shy of the ED entrance, you tuck yourself away underneath the staircase to catch your breath, trying not to let yourself cry. Park’s just one of those guys, you figure. Guys with ultra-secure girlfriends who don’t care if they have female friends who drool all over their biceps. Guys who don’t mention their ultra-secure girlfriends because they know what they have at home and they probably don’t even realize you’re flirting because they’re so enamored with their great, successful, probably gorgeous girlfriend who knows exactly what she’s doing in bed and always satisfies him and-
There are the tears.
Feelings of inadequacy and sadness well up and spill over. It’s hard to keep your sniffles and sobs quiet enough not to draw attention when all you want is to ugly sob over a tub of ice cream and your favorite movie. Only one more hour in your shift. You can make it. Right?
Upstairs, you hear the door squeak open and heavy footsteps traipse down toward you. Familiar footsteps. Of course. He probably saw you running away from his office and is coming to find you because you have the luck of a worm after a rainstorm.
When Park comes closer, he spots your elbow sticking out from behind the staircase. Hiding. You’re still crying, unable to stop yourself until you get it all out. Silently, yes, but with puffy eyes and tiny whimpers and sniffles that escape every once in a while. Tucked up underneath the staircase, you blot at your cheeks with the sleeve of your daisy-patterned turtleneck.
Rage devours Brendon’s insides. He beelines for you and demands with a level of anger in his eyes you’ve never seen before, “What’s wrong? Did someone make you cry?”
“No, no, I’m fine.” You try a shaky smile and wipe your face again even though more tears just fall in their wake. “Just, um, I’m on my period and I’m emotional.”
Which isn’t not true. It’s the last day or two and you are emotional. It’s definitely not helping the situation. Park’s a little taken aback you admitted that so freely, but he’s a doctor, dammit, so he doesn’t let it faze him. Instead he offers, “Okay, well, um, do you, ah, do you need anything? I have some ibuprofen in my office if-”
You start crying harder, ugly sobs now at how nice he’s being when he just unintentionally and unknowingly turned you into a 12-year-old girl having her first heartbreak.
Park stammers, unsure how to deal with this situation. “Okay, ah, maybe just a hug, then?”
You nod ardently and he pulls you close with his strong arms. You nestle your face in his chest and breathe deep. If this is the closest you’re gonna get to having him, you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth. With your nose pressed to his muscles as you start to calm down, you whimper, “You smell really good.”
Still tentative, Brendon murmurs, “It’s Dior. My mom bought it for me.”
Then you start crying even more.
That night, after making some lazy excuse to Brendon for why you can’t get dinner like usual, you curl up on your couch and vow to set some darn boundaries with the guy. You’re only going to get yourself hurt if you indulge in dinners and coffees and stolen gazes and elevator conversations. So you put his messages on silent, only returning them when you actually have a second instead of carving out time. You make a point of ducking into other rooms when you know he’s coming down for a consult, ignoring the desperate calls for Sharkbait from your hapless coworkers.
And by the time you’re clocked out on Friday night, you almost feel better about the situation. Well, that’s a lie. You actually don’t feel better at all. If anything, you feel much, much worse because you don’t have your best friend to hang out with anymore. You’re going to have to resort to drinks with the Pittlings if you don’t find another attending soon.
But at least you have the weekend to wallow.
Walking to your bus stop with Celine Dion blasting in your ears, you try to focus on the pretty sunset and the wins of the shift instead of letting your brain drift to-
Fuck.
Brendon’s standing at your bus stop with his stance wide and his arms crossed like a bodyguard, forearms looking extra delectable in the sunset. He’s not a hallucination from your lovesick mind nor a hologram designed to trip you up on the way home.
You scurry up to him with averted eyes and ask, “What are you doing here? You drive a Rolls-Royce.”
“Yeah, and that Spectre is my damn baby, but you take the bus when you’re ignoring my offer for rides. So here I am.” His eyes drill through your forehead and your resolve. “Can we talk now?”
Weakly, you mutter back, “My bus is in five minutes.”
“You’re not taking the bus. I’m driving you.” The firmness of his voice makes your knees wobble. He nods over his shoulder toward the small park next to the hospital. “We’re talking. Come on.”
Then he takes your hand – you want to throw up – and leads you through the park entrance to a shaded spot under a tree where the light makes his chiseled features agonizingly beautiful. Like a fucking Roman marble sculpture. He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, instead taking charge and launching in, “What’s going on with you? Why have you been ignoring me the last few days? If I did something to hurt you, tell me and I’ll fix it. I know I’m a dumbass about the feelings stuff sometimes, a lot of the time, but I’m not going to mess shit up with you, so you have to let me know what I need to do better.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” you whimper. You hate how pathetic you sound. How downtrodden and heartbroken. But Brendon looks hurt, too, which makes you feel ten times as bad. So you rush out a hasty version of the truth, “I came up to your office on Wednesday to ask you on a date this weekend, but then- then I heard you telling Robby about your girlfriend who you’re surprising on Sunday and it just, like, crushed me so bad even though I know it was so silly for me to think I’d ever have a chance with someone like you in the first place since you’re this sexy strong surgeon and I’m so not but I thought maybe in the last couple months-”
“Woah, pipsqueak, hey.” Brendon cups your cheek in his hand to cut you off once the shock of your words wears off. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Unable to meet his eyes, you start to feel the tears coming. Dammit. You stare at your pink sneakers – the same ones you were wearing when the two of you met, you realize – and let them fall to the ground. After a minute, you manage to admit, “I just- I don’t think I can be this close to you if you have a girlfriend. It’s great that she’s so cool about you having female friends, but I’m just so sensitive and I know that’s not your fault but-”
“Hold on.” Brendon places both hands on your shoulders, staring at you like you’re an alien making first contact. Baffled beyond his wildest dreams, he explains slowly, “You’re my girlfriend.”
Between sniffles and shaky breaths, you whimper out, unable to process anything, “Huh?”
“My girlfriend. Who I’m surprising on Sunday. That would be you.”
Now it’s your turn to go catatonic, eyes wide and shimmery. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked you out to dinner after the hockey game,” he tells you, exasperated in the cutest way you’ve ever seen. Like you’re dumb but like maybe he’s also dumb. “I paid for your dinner. I insisted you get dessert. The whole thing. And we- Sweetheart, what do you think all the dinners we eat together are? Why else would I always be inviting you for coffee? Why would I always pay? I don’t just dump a couple hundred bucks a week on casual coworkers.”
Starting to feel silly instead of sad, you cover your laugh and protest, “I don’t know; I thought you were being friendly! You make $500,000 a year; you should be paying for all your friends’ coffees!”
“$650,000, actually, I have a sub-specialty in pediatric surgery,” he replies as though you wouldn’t drop your panties right here in the park. “More importantly, I am the least friendly person in the entire hospital. Maybe the entire city.” He runs a hand through his hair and replies a bit bashfully, “I kind of figured you like that about me or we wouldn’t be dating.”
The last two months recontextualize in your head in rapid succession. Little moments appear lit up by neon lights that blare, HEY DUMBASS! Brendon tied your shoes last week instead of telling you they were loose, dropping down on his knees right outside the ED where anyone could see just to make sure you wouldn’t trip. He always takes your backpack from your shoulders before walking you to the parking garage and opening the door of his gorgeous navy blue sedan for you. Even the way he looked at you at the hockey game.
God, you’re an idiot.
With your lips parted and your eyes rapidly blinking, you come up with a new protest: “You’ve never even tried to kiss me, Brendon. What the fuck? You should be kissing me all the time! You could’ve been jumping my bones ever since the hockey game; that would’ve made things pretty clear to me!”
“Jumping your bones?” He suppresses a laugh since you’re still flustered. He just kind of scoffs and explains with a shrug, “I guess I’m still old-school about that. A gentleman. I wasn’t picking up signals that you wanted me to, y’know, make a big move. Figured we should take it slow. I mean, you’re new to Pittsburgh, you’ve had some big life changes. And I have a history of being too, ah, too intense for some women. I didn’t want to mess that up with you.”
“That’s actually really sweet, Bren,” you reply, sniffling back tears. Waving a hand in front of your face to cool down your burning cheeks, you pinch your eyebrows together and point out, “Okay, well, then we never did, like, a ‘what are we?’ talk.”
“That’s because I’m 38 years old,” he replies bluntly. “When I’m with my woman, she has my full attention. My devotion. Everything. I don’t need to have that talk.”
My woman. The phrase makes you feel kinda bubbly like soda. You smack him on the chest and poke him, “Clearly you do, dummy!”
After you nudge him, Park catches your hand in his, fingers enveloping yours. Fuck, his hands are so big and sturdy. Then his eyes soften and he kisses your fingers. He leans down slightly to make better eye contact. “Okay, I’ll have that talk if you want it.” Crystal clear, blue eyes positively sparkling with amusement and adoration, he asks, “Would you like to be my very, very official girlfriend?”
You let out an absolute squeal. It’s delighted and silly and so cute his stomach turns. God, how did a girl like you get your claws in him? When you throw your arms around his neck and he spins you around, he doesn’t care why or how. He just cares that the first words out of your mouth are, “Yes, of course, obviously.” You nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, feet barely touching the ground, and murmur against his ear, “This is my favorite night ever.”
“You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, princess,” he assures as he sets you down on your own balance. Then he holds your face in his palm and finally bends down to kiss you properly.
But you stop him with your pointer finger in his lips, his eyes widening. “No, no, no, I can’t have our first kiss be when I’m all puffy and snotty from crying.”
He gives a pretend growl but concedes, “Fair enough. Whatever you want. C’mon, let’s get you home.”
Before he turns away, though, you step on your very tippy toes (and then some) and kiss his forehead before asking so sweetly, “How about you come over tomorrow? I know we already have plans Sunday – by the way, I really love the ballet, so good job – but maybe we should have a first date that I know is a first date beforehand?”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies wistfully, still feeling your lips on his skin. On his thick fucking skull. “I’ll go anywhere you ask me.”
Like you asked, Brendon knocks on your door at 3PM sharp. You promised to entertain him and make him dinner and he could absolutely care less about any of the details beyond getting to be with you like he craves. He’d agonized over what to wear to an embarrassing extent, nearly caving and texting his mother for her approval. But that would be a fate worse than death, so he settles on dark jeans rolled at the ankle and a black tee because a little old lady told him he looked hunky when he wore them to the pharmacy a few weeks ago.
You answer the door wearing nothing but the oversized Penguins sweater he bought you, a pair of panties he can barely see under it, and knee-high socks.
Park’s pupils dilate.
In that one look, you can finally see why they call him Shark. He’s a predator latching onto you, ready to devour you alive. You take a step back and he steps forward like you’re pulling him by a string attached to his gut. He doesn’t even notice himself closing and locking the door, too fixated on the expanse of your legs and the Pittsburgh Penguins logo on your chest. He tentatively puts one hand on your waist and sighs reverently, “Yup, this is the singular sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You look away from him, bashful under his praise: “Well, y’know, I wanted to surprise my boyfriend since he’s planning on surprising me tomorrow.” Then your attempt at a sultry voice goes away and is replaced by your usual glittery one when you see that he’s carrying a bouquet of pastel pink, soft orange, and angel white gerberas in the hand not touching you. “Brenny, did you get me flowers?”
‘Brenny’ might be too far, but he can’t bear to tell you that. You could call him anything and he’d accept it. He lifts the flowers up and offers them to you. “Um, yes. Is that still romantic or is it really, really lame now?”
“Still romantic,” you assure him with misty eyes, taking the bouquet and skipping away toward the kitchen.
Brendon toes off his shoes and follows you into the house, not surprised to find the place decked out in pastel colors and soft fabrics and dreamy artwork. You dig through your cabinets to find a porcelain vase you thrifted years ago and arrange the flowers inside of it.
As you place them on the windowsill, you give him a soft gaze, softer than any he’s been on the receiving side of. “This is the sweetest thing any man’s ever done for me.”
Brendon pulls you into a warm embrace, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, and says, “Baby, you’re about to have your bar raised, because flowers are the least you deserve.” When your lips part into a shy smile, he asks, “Can I kiss you now?”
You nod eagerly and rock up onto your toes, tilting your chin to get as close to him as possible. Brendon’s gentle, boyish smile makes your heart pound in your throat in the moments before he closes the gap. He takes a second to admire the slopes of your face when you’re gazing up at him like he means something.
And then he kisses you.
It’s eager and bright, the way you kiss after prom night. You have to fight not to smile when he holds your face between both hands, so much desire in his touch that you can feel his resolve to take it slow with you melting away.
Suddenly, at the sound of you giggling for only a second, Brendon’s arms loop around your back. Before you know it, he’s lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. You hop up, knowing he’ll catch you, and lock your legs around his hips. When you feel his smooth, cold belt buckle against your panties, you gasp out a moan at the contact.
Brendon chuckles and buries his forehead in the crook of your neck. He groans quietly, “Baby, you can’t make all those little sounds or you’re gonna kill me.”
Breathless, you tease back, “Then you definitely can’t call me baby.”
He smirks, kisses you again, and asks in a lower and more pointed voice, “Where’s your bedroom, baby?”
“It’s right upstairs; if you wanna put me down, I can-”
He shakes his head and keeps you balanced firmly in his arms, walking back toward the staircase. “No point in having these muscles if my girl ever has to touch the ground again.”
As he carries you up the stairs so easily that you’re turning into a person made more of giggles than anything else, you ask him, “Are you gonna carry me around from patient to patient forever?”
“If that’s what you want,” he replies with a laugh as he pushes through your bedroom door. Guiding you down onto the bed, which you’ve meticulously made, Brendon murmurs against the pulse point just beneath your ear, “I’ll give you everything you want, kitten.”
At the tender pet name, you can’t help but moan, encouraging him to touch you as he pins you to the bed just by virtue of how big his body is. He pulls back and gazes down at you so gently. Your heartbeat is slow again, comfortable, safe, but the heat between your legs is undeniable.
Brendon lowers himself down to kiss you once more. The energy between you shifts in that kiss, like he’s become painfully aware of being in your bedroom, your body pliant beneath him, your eyes full of trust and adoration he hasn’t experienced in years. His kiss is slow and sweet and simple. He shifts onto his side so one of his hands can cradle your cheek while the other gingerly takes your waist. You can tell he’s being painfully careful with you, his gentle touch revealing a certain level of fear – that he’ll hurt you or break you or scare you off.
So you reach forward and twine your fingers in the short hair at the base of his neck, gently scratching his scalp, and press your body against his. One leg thrown over his hip so that he can feel the heat of your barely clothed cunt. You arch your back and wiggle a tiny bit so that his hand almost has to move to your ass. He chuckles into the kiss and that makes you whimper. But he doesn’t do more, doesn’t grab or push or demand.
You pull back an inch, stare at him seriously, and murmur, “You’re not gonna break me, Bren.”
Mischief flickers in his blue eyes. He knows perfectly well what you’re asking, even if he’s tentative to give it to you. “What are you trying to say, sweetheart? Use your words.”
Mimicking his own voice, you bat your lashes and offer, “What’s the point in having those muscles if you don’t throw your girl around a little? C’mon, Shark, I know you’re not a shy lover.” You sit up just enough to reach down and lift the hockey sweater up and over your head. Underneath, you’ve got a black lace unlined bra, filled out only by the weight of your breasts, and it’s absolutely sinful. “Touch me like you mean it.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, this is one hell of a surprise,” he rasps as he grabs your tits through the fabric, a rough sting buzzing through your body. The sight of his hands against the lace flips the switch in his mind and he’s hunting for blood in the water. “I didn’t know you owned anything black.”
As he pinches your nipples, mean and certain, the fabric of the lace adding a scratchy friction, you gasp, “It’s a special occasion.”
“Yeah?” His hands run down toward your thighs, kneading the thickness of your waist and hips with a greed that approaches true obsession. You lose the ability to think when he bends down and bites the side of your waist, his teeth quickly becoming less and less gentle as your moans get louder and louder. “What’s so special?”
You can only whimper as he roughly manhandles you upwards so that he can unhook your bra, using only one hand. Fucking surgeons. All you can think about is what else those hands of his can do. You’ve noticed how thick his fingers are a million times and now you might actually get to feel them the way you want.
Brendon can see the lust laid bare over you, chest rising and falling faster, eyes wide and waiting, skin prickled with goosebumps. Hooking his fingers beneath the edges of your panties and pulling them down, he teases, “Out of words now, pretty girl?”
You take five seconds to breathe, swallow hard, and order, “Take your clothes off.”
He throws his head back and grins. “Good choice of words.”
While you prop yourself on your elbows for a better view, Brendon steps off the bed and tugs his shirt off first. He even does that thing buff guys do where he pulls it off by the back, his arm muscles offensively large as he reveals his abs. His muscles are less defined than they are sturdy, built less like an Abercrombie model and more like a lumberjack or, y’know, a fridge. The way his obliques cut down into his hips is downright pornographic.
You let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Perfectly and completely aware, he gives you a hunky grin. “What? Something wrong?”
You bite your lower lip and physically try to stop yourself from staring, but you just keep failing. Because he’s your boyfriend. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, gradually drawing closer to him like a magnet, you attempt to tease, “Are you always this much of a cocky bastard about your hot bod?”
“My hot bod?” His hands go to his belt and he slowly removes it. Then, once he’s stepped out of his jeans and you’re blinded by the outline of his, yes, proportionally long and thick cock against his black boxer briefs, he says, “Yeah, I always am.”
Eyes greedily drinking down every inch of his body and imagining all the ways you could play with it, you manage to mumble out, “You should be.”
God, he even makes taking off his underwear hot. It must be those damn thighs. Or the everything else. With your eyes trained squarely on his fat cock, mouth actually watering, Brendon steps toward and lifts your chin. “Like what you see, princess?”
With that same confident smirk on his lips, he takes your small hand and wraps it around his shaft. Suddenly you get the whole ‘beer-can-sized-dick’ thing you’ve read in way too much erotica because you can’t close your hand around his girth. “Oh.”
“What? Bigger than you thought? You intimidated?”
“Honey, I think everyone you’ve ever met knows you have a big dick.” Your eyes flick up to his playfully. “And I’m definitely not intimidated.”
“Really?”
“You’ve never intimidated me. Not like you do everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m so into you.” As you smile coyly, Brendon thrusts between your fingers, watching every miniscule change in your expression – which is rapidly growing less patient. He cups your cheek with his hand and asks, “Want a taste?”
You open your mouth. Obedient, immediate. When his tip touches your tongue, you eagerly lap up the sticky drop of precum and then take him between your lips. Brendon has to grip your headboard hard to tolerate the sight of you sucking him with such a precious, adoring, sweet look in your eyes. It feels like you’re thanking him with your mouth, making the prettiest damn noises for him to memorize and play on repeat.
When you lift your hand to gently tug and roll his balls, Brendon hangs his head and groans, loud and low, gravelly in a way that tickles the back of your mind. “Fuck, baby, that’s- that’s perfect.” Your happy hum in reply makes his toes curl into the carpet. “Jesus, you drive me crazy, you know that? I’ve never been this obsessed with someone.”
You pull off him and beam, lips shiny and slightly swollen now. “Really?”
Brendon pushes you back on the bed and crawls on top of you, easily maneuvering you so that your head’s back on the pillows and his hands are on either side of your face. He kisses you hard, claiming, and says, “It’s actually become a huge problem for me. You’re all I can think about.”
You giggle breathlessly and ask, “Is that a complaint?”
“Mmm. There’s that little laugh of yours. That’s how you got me,” he groans before kissing you again. “I made some stupid goddamn joke during surgery and the whole team was exhausted but you laughed. Just like that. And I was done for.”
You cover your face, embarrassed and delighted all at once, and remember, “Then I said you have a cutting-edge sense of humor.”
“And I thought that was funny,” he goes on with a fond chuckle. His hands have never stopped roaming over your body, playing with your breasts or digging into your hips. “You’re so gorgeous and perfect I thought that was funny. You don’t even realize how deep you’ve got your hooks in me, baby.”
Biting your lip, you try to come up with something to say to match his sudden deep sweetness, but he stops you from being able to think at all. His lips drag down your neck, biting and kissing in equal measure until you’re squirming and bucking beneath him. Then, just beneath your ear, he growls, “Can I leave marks?”
The sound you make is nothing short of pathetic. You clutch the back of his head, tugging his hair a bit to push his teeth against your neck, and whine, “Please.”
“Yeah?” He’s grinning, now, but he can’t bear to let you see. “Want the whole world to know you’re mine now?” You whimper and nod, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. He murmurs, “Good girl.”
Fuck, you’re soaked.
As Brendon sucks hard over your pulse, branding you with the dark shape of his kiss, his right hand goes between your legs, pushing them apart. Two of his thick fingers dip between your folds to collect your wetness before smearing it over your clit. “All this for me? You’re easy to work up.”
You laugh and tuck your forehead into his bicep. “Are you surprised?”
“Not even a little,” he chuckles. Making sure to kiss you and hold you as his fingers work firm circles around your clit, Brendon purrs, “I’ve thought about all the sounds you must make a thousand times. How you must be so enthusiastic to be a good girl. You’re so easy for me to read; I knew I could get you off better than anyone else.”
You nod against his arm and moan when he finds just the right tempo on your clit, his fingers ridiculously skilled. “Just like that.”
“Whatever you need, sweet girl,” he assures, listening to you and keeping his fingers exactly the way they are. Methodical.
“Brendon,” you gasp as your pussy pulses wantingly around nothing, “I really need you to fuck me.”
“I love the enthusiasm, kitten, but I’m not gonna hurt you,” he replies simply. Reluctantly. There’s a tenderness to his voice that shouldn’t fit with his harsh attitude and masculine features, but it does. It’s him, beneath everything he shows the rest of the world. He drops down between your legs and nuzzles loving kisses over your sensitive inner thighs, worshipping into your skin, “If I’m gonna fuck you to sleep tonight, then I can’t leave you sore from the first time. Let me make you cum before I’m inside you, kitten. Can you be good and do that?”
With your eyebrows knitted together and sweat on your brow, you nod and whine, “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask,” he tells you. It’s insane that a man being offensively cocky with all those smirks and chuckles is so hot. He leans back, sitting between your legs, and begins to plunge his fingers inside of you. Just his two middle fingers have to be as thick as any dildo you’ve used before. He bends at the waist so he can keep biting and sucking on your body, the most brutal on your nipples but sure to get ample coverage over your waist and stomach and hips. When he feels you clamping down tight around him, the pleasure so much you can’t come up with any response besides your body’s natural reactions, he teases lightly, “Careful, baby, my hands are my livelihood.”
Eyes large and glassy, you breathe, “Sorry about that.”
Brendon’s thumb goes to your clit and your walls tighten again. This time, he doesn’t tease you. He works your clit intently, trying to find what he’d found before, and doesn’t rest until he’s right there. Your delicious gasp gives him all the cue he needs. With his thumb flat and firm, he rubs your clit in time with his fingers curling back toward himself. His eyes focus on your expression, each detail, and he’s addicted to your every sound and twitch.
“There you go,” he praises while your pussy tightens up slowly, threatening to snap into sparkles. “That’s right. Just trust me. All I want is to make you feel good.
Your orgasm bursts like waves against a hull, building and building until it crashes over you, rocking your gravity and stealing your breath. Brendon’s there with you through it, his blue eyes a lighthouse, his stupid smirk your shore. His free hand holds you down by the hip as he lets you enjoy the fluttery aftershocks, not quite forcing you into overstimulation but not letting up until you’ve had as much as you can take.
When you’re finally completely breathless and satiated, Brendon slowly withdraws his fingers and then licks them clean. He leans down for a moment and laps at your inner thighs, tasting your tart juices and salty skin. Your hips buck instinctively when he presses one tiny kiss to your clit and then laughs at your reaction, breath ghosting down your hot cunt. With his slick-wet hand, he fists his cock and asks, “How do you want me, sweetheart?”
You take a few seconds to think and admire the view before asking, “Can I ride you? Whenever I’ve fantasized about us having sex, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You can do literally whatever you want to me, baby,” he reminds you as he reclines on the bed next to you. He steals one more kiss from you before you start moving to your knees, collecting your balance. “What exactly do you fantasize about?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you reply as you climb into his lap, hands going straight to grabbing his pecs with your nails digging deliciously into the flesh, “but you have these giant fucking tits I’d like to fondle.” Then, as he laughs, you rub your sloppy cunt up and down his shaft, watching his eyes close and hearing his breath go shaky with lust. “I wanna see your arms when you hold onto my hips and thrust up into me. Wanna feel how strong your thighs are underneath me.”
Brendon shakes his head and snickers, “Wow, I had no idea how much you were going to objectify my muscles.”
“Shut up; yes, you did.”
You roll your eyes and sink down on him, nice and slow, savoring the way he has to resist slamming up to meet you.
He groans, hands finding purchase on the curve of your waist, “Yeah, you’re right.”
You’re completely forgotten how to talk. The stretch of him is divine. Everything you’d imagined and then some. You have to be careful not to get too eager too fast because his length is definitely enough to bruise your cervix if you aren’t gentle with yourself while your pussy adjusts to him. Which is sad, considering the only thing you’ve ever wanted in life all of a sudden is to bounce on Park the Shark’s huge cock until you pass out.
Instead, you slowly rock back and forth, your hands flush on his pecs, with your eyes pinched shut and your mouth falling open. Brendon reaches up to hold your chin, forcing you to open your eyes, and checks softly, “Too much? We can slow down and-”
“Shut up,” you order breathily. He smiles, puts his hands behind his head a moment, and enjoys the view of you being a tiny bit bossy. “Feels so fucking good, I promise. Not too much. Just- just- Jesus.”
“Well, they do say he was hung.”
Your laugh is addictively adorable, sounding almost sleepy from the enormous effort of acclimating to him. “You’re so awful.”
Dragging his hands down and resting them on your ass, he coos back, “And you’re sooooo into it.”
When he gives you a quick upward thrust, your response turns into a squeak, “Yeah.”
From there, Brendon helps you out. He knows he’s not exactly an easy man to take in this position – beyond the size of his cock, his thighs and glutes are so well-developed that your knees don’t even reach the mattress on either side of his hips – so he holds you in place and rolls his hips up into yours, slow and precise.
Once he can tell you’re getting comfortable, breaths easy and moans tumbling out again, he murmurs, “How about you touch yourself?”
Eyebrows knitted together, you sigh, “Already so much, Bren.”
Purposefully missing the point, he sighs back, “I guess I can do it for you, princess.”
When his thumb goes to your clit, your nails dig into his chest. Mean pink half moons rise in their wake, but you can’t stop yourself – and he doesn’t mind. So stretched out, your pussy pulses more than it clamps down, each contraction a fluttery thing that’s somehow more intense than the last. He’s grinning to himself as he feels your orgasm approaching fast. You’re so relaxed with him that he can control your pleasure with the ease of a decades-long lover. He’s going to have to teach you to be less trusting, maybe teach you to fight, but right now all he wants is for you to yield to him completely.
You cum with a long, drawn-out whine, sweat shiny on your hairline, and Brendon has to take over completely as your thighs twitch and falter. It’s impossible to hold yourself up through the roiling pleasure that overtakes you in a deluge. Your wetness drips down his balls and onto your bed and you’re not sure you’ve ever been this soaked from how much a partner’s turned you on and worked you up.
“Aw, my sweet baby,” he purrs as you fight hard to stay upright, your thighs burning for relief in the wake of your second orgasm, “trying so hard to keep up.”
While you let out tiny, cute whimpers, Brendon pulls out slowly and stands up, ignoring your complaining whine at the lack of contact. He goes to your bedside table and muses, “Let’s see what we have here.” Your cheeks burn as he thumbs through your admittedly maybe-too-ample sex toy collection. Taking out your baby blue silicone mini wand, Brendon grins. “Hot, young, single doctor – knew I’d find some goodies in here.”
You’re totally gone by now, anything but your desire to be with him gone out the window, and he can tell. It’s his favorite thing in the world. When he says, “get on your knees for me,” your brain is so mush for him that you do it without a single thought or word, presenting your ass beautifully with a placid smile on your lips.
Brendon yanks your hips back so that he can stand at the foot of your bed – which means he can use all his strength to handle you. Lining up the thick, angry red tip, he tenderly rubs your ass and says, “Tell me if you want more.”
All you can do is nod. Usually he’d press you for words just to hear you beg, but the eye contact you make is full of so much pleading that there’s no need for further clarity. You really are so sensitive; there are tears of pleasure and need brimming at your waterline.
“Don’t worry that sweet little head of yours,” he practically growls as his cock slowly fills you deeper than he’d been able to get without being in total control, “I’m gonna take care of you, princess. Gonna keep this pretty pussy stuffed. Gonna make sure you get everything you need. I promise.”
Gripping your pillow tight as you once again adjust to his thickness, you nod and sniffle, “Thank you, Bren.”
“There she is,” he teases as he starts to slam into you. Each time he bottoms out, it comes with a weak, needy cry. “That’s my sensitive girl. Love that about you.”
“That I’m a crybaby?”
He picks up speed at the word and all it means to him. You’re never prettier than with tears running down your cheeks, making your eyes shiny and your lips wobbly. “You know how much of a confidence boost it is making you cry because of how good you feel?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, princess, I fucking love it.” Brendon flicks the vibrating wand onto its lowest setting and reaching one huge arm around your body to press it to your clit. Your corresponding moan turns into a screaming sob, loud and messy and violently sexy. It’s completely overwhelming and consuming. The way your face contorts from the intensity sends Brendon’s thrusts into overdrive, almost putting all his force into it now. As sweat falls from his forehead onto your back, he urges, “Let it out. Let it all out for me. I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”
And you weep.
The catharsis of his cock christening you takes over. You’ve cried during sex before, yeah (of course), but this is different. It feels like pure relief and connection. Your mind is totally present in your body, feeling every single place of contact where Brendon’s sweating skin slides against yours. The vibrator between your legs is making you shake in his arms, but you trust him to hold you up, to give you what you need, to take you through exactly what he wants to give you.
“C’mon, honey, focus, you can do one more, I promise,” Brendon grunts when he starts to feel your pussy weakly squeezing him again. He didn’t think he could get you to this point your first time together, but, if he can, he’s not going to stop.
He leans over your body, mounting you now, primal and animalistic, and wraps his elbow around your neck. The gesture pulls your cunt tight to him and snaps your head back, forcing you to take a deep breath that lights your brain up. Tears slip constantly out of your eyes and Brendon’s drunk on the sniffles and whimpers and moans that choke out of your thickened throat. You drunkenly kiss his arm as it muffles over his mouth.
Then you bite him.
Brendon’s hips stutter and his balls tighten up. You bite him again and again. And you’re not screwing around with it. Your teeth are ravenous on his flush, cutting in nearly enough to draw blood. You’re so thoughtless that you’re just going for whatever’s been put in front of your mouth; it’s irrelevant that it’s your boyfriend’s flush.
“There it is,” Brendon groans, the pain of your bites sending him spiraling out into a new height of pleasure. “I can feel it coming on. Don’t you dare hold back, baby. Show me how much you can take. Give me another one and I’ll fill you up. I know what’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nod without releasing his arm from your mouth. Drool spills from the sides of your lips, mixing with your tears, and you’re hurtling into the orgasm more than it’s welling up within you. The thought that really does it, though, isn’t Brendon’s encouragement or the vibrator unrelentingly stimulating your clit. No. It’s the idea that Brendon’s going to cum inside of you. Even on birth control, it’s a sign that he’s claiming you completely, making you his, being totally naked with you in every sense.
Bliss blows your brains out like a volcano finally giving into the pressure. Brendon holds you tight against him with his free hand, so tight that his thrusts are short and deep. The final few, he grinds into you, totally enveloped in your cunt, letting himself feel each millimeter as it grabs down on him and milks it out. When his cum coats your walls, both of you collapse onto the bed into gasping breaths.
Brendon kisses and kisses your shoulders while he goes soft inside of your pussy, gently pulling your chew toy away and shaking it out because it fucking kills in the most satisfying way possible. He makes a mental note to buy himself a long-sleeve to wear to work as he admires the egregious display of total horny thoughtlessness from the cutesy, angelic doctor.
He sits up and then murmurs, rubbing your back softly, “I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up, okay?”
You nod lazily, eyes half-lidded. You make no effort to help him, which only makes him smile to himself and shake his head. He’d do anything for you already. Cradling you like a baby, he pushes open the bathroom door with his foot and hits the light with his elbow. He’s absolutely done for. Setting you down on the toilet, he orders, “Go pee, baby. No UTIs allowed.”
Under normal circumstances, you definitely wouldn’t be able to pee in front of your boyfriend and you would definitely be mortified by the mere thought. But you’re so relaxed. Your whole brain is like a nice cozy hot tub, warm and bubbly and nothing to worry about. So you do as he instructs without question, some part of your brain acknowledging that he’s correct.
Brendon leans down on his knees, a posture that would be condescending in most situations but is nothing but adoring right now, and suggests, “Now, you said you were gonna cook, but how does delivery on my tab sound? We can get pizza.”
You give a hazy smile and nod. “That’s so nice, Brenny.”
“We’re gonna have to talk about that nickname,” he chuckles, booping the tip of your nose.
You pout out your lower lip. “I’m gonna call you whatever I want.”
“Yeah, alright, tough guy.”
“Mmm.” You lean up to kiss him. “Good boy.”
Brendon laughs and then stands up to fiddle with the handles of your shower until he’s happy with the temperature. Then he guides you to your feet and brings you under the water, not too hot or too cold on your over-sensitive skin. You’re glad you went for the house with the rain shower when you moved, both of you fitting comfortably beneath the stream at the same time. For a while, he just holds you, hands roaming up and down your back, as he kisses the top of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs quietly, barely audible above the running water. “You’re gonna turn me into such a softie.”
You giggle, “Or you’re gonna make me a big mean gym bro.”
Brendon shakes his head and reaches for your shampoo. “Maybe we stick to our current roles.”
“I think they suit us,” you agree as he squirts some into his palm and orders you to turn around. With his fingers working devotion into your scalp, you hum gently under your breath and trust him to hold you up. During the course of the shower, you gradually come back to life. Once you’re sudsing his abs with your lufah, maybe being a touch too thorough by going over every spot with your hands, you lilt, “You fucked my brains out. I didn’t know that was actually a thing.”
“I did set a high bar for myself,” he concedes with a self-satisfied laugh, “but I’m guessing it’s only gonna get better from here.”
You stand on your toes and kiss him. “Does this mean we’re doing paperwork when we go back to the hospital?”
“I love paperwork,” he tells you, mock serious. He chuckles and whistles, “My first time to HR for something besides another doctor filing a complaint because I hurt their precious feelings by ensuring my patients get the highest quality care possible.”
“Big bad scary Park the Shark,” you agree as you turn off the water. You gently brush his cheek and coo, “My softie.”
Brendon rolls his eyes affectionately, shakes out his hair, and steps out, grabbing a towel and wrapping you up in it before taking one for himself. With a towel hanging low on his hips, he’s scrumptious enough to have your mind wandering toward round two even though your body wouldn’t even consider cooperating for a few more hours.
You head over to the mirror for your moisturizer and catch a glimpse of yourself with clear eyes for the first time since your sex brain turned off. Looking at the myriad of bite marks littered over your body, the flesh swollen and indented, you laugh, “Jesus, now I know why they call you Shark.”
“Yeah?” Park bares his left forearm to you, the one that had been in your face while he destroyed your cunt, to show off an absolute minefield of neon pink bites, some deep enough that they’re bruising already. Your eyes widen with guilt, but he quickly yanks you close and kisses you hard, nothing but lust and gratitude on his lips. He nips your neck and teases, “They’re gonna have to start calling you Sharkette.”
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Summary: Request: Ive seen fic where Jack x reader had cryptic pregnancy but they found out about it later when she was like 6 months in? and I think it would be more interesting if reader would have her normal shift and goes into labor without knowing she is pregnant (babygirl bc jack would be such a great girl dad🥹)
TW: Cryptic pregnancy, birth
You always hated pulling mid-shifts. It was never easy on your sleep schedule. Too early for night shift, too late for day shift. You weren’t surprised when you woke up feeling off. Jack was still very much asleep.
“Call in.” He grumbled, pulling you closer before you could escape.
“I can’t. My boss will kill me.” You chuckled.
“I’m your boss. It’s fine.” He kissed your shoulder.
“Dana and Lena are my boss. They will be pissed. I’m telling them you think you’re the boss, by the way.” You wiggled out of his grasp.
The only good part of working in the middle of two shifts, was getting to see everyone. And the fact that you came in when everyone had claimed patients, so you got to start slow.
“Hey, sweetheart. You look a little pale? You doing okay?” Dana watched you flop into the seat next to her.
“Just tired. And achy. Must be getting my period soon.” You sighed.
“Take it easy if you need to. Don’t run yourself into the ground.” She gave you a stern look over the top of her glasses.
“Yeah, yeah.” You smiled.
The day seemed to crawl by. The cramps were getting worse and worse. You’d always had bad cramps, to the point you thought you might have endometriosis. They never found anything. But it was starting to get out of hand.
You ignored it and kept pushing through the pain. You just had to get through a few more hours. You groaned as you saw Jack walk in. He was going to see right through you.
“Whoa. You look like shit.” He said walking up to you.
“Charming.” You snapped.
“I’m serious. You don’t look good at all. What’s going on?” He put a hand on the small of your back.
“Just cramps. And nausea. But that’s because of the cramps.” You shook your head.
“Honey-”
“Jack, I have a few more hours and then I can go home and relax. Let me get through this.” You sighed.
“Fine. Fine. But if it gets worse, I’m calling it. Understood?” He pointed at you.
“You just get off by being in charge.” You rolled your eyes.
“Bet your sweet ass I do.” He smirked.
“Keep it professional, for god sake.” Dana scoffed.
The shift slowly progressed. It was a glacier pace. You were really starting to feel like shit. Once a patient noted how sweaty and pale you were, you knew you couldn’t fight it anymore.
“Dana, where’s Jack?” You leaned over the counter, the pain too much to stand up and bear.
“Finishing up in trauma one. Sweetheart, you have to sit down.” She rushed over to your sweaty form.
“No, I won’t get back up.” You waved her off. “I just need Jack-”
“Jesus, fuck!” Jack barked as he ran over to you. “Honey! You’re off the floor. Dana what’s open?”
“Room 2. I’ll send Robby your way.” She ushered you toward the room.
“It got so bad I couldn’t move for a second.” You leaned into Jack’s side for support.
“You should have gotten me before it got this bad.” He criticized.
“I know. I thought it was nothing.” You whined as you sat on the bed. “My hips are killing me.”
“Let’s get you in a gown.” Jack said, helping you strip your scrubs off.
“I hate being the patient.” You mumbled as he tied the back of the gown closed.
“No one likes it.” He kissed your cheek.
“Knock, knock.” Robby entered the room with a sympathetic smile. “Oh, yeah. Dana was not exaggerating.”
“Keep your comments on my appearance to yourself, Robinavitch.” You hissed.
“Sorry.” Robby put his hands up. “Tell me what’s going on?” He snapped on his gloves.
“Abdominal pain, nausea, sweating. It comes and goes, but it’s getting worse.” You groan as he presses on your belly.
“Definitely guarding. Ever had your appendix removed?” He asked.
“No. You think it’s my appendix?” You sat up.
“Could be. We’ll get some blood work going and I’d like to do an ultrasound. Any chance you could be pregnant?” Robby looked between you and Jack.
“I doubt it, but you should probably check.” You sighed.
“I appreciate the honesty. I’ll be back once we have results.” Robby nodded.
“Hey, Rockstar, gonna get your blood going.” Perlah came in.
“Full panel, please.” Robby ordered.
“You got it.” Perlah smiled as she set up her station.
“You have patients to look after.” You looked up at Jack.
“They can hold down the fort without me. Shen’s got it.” Jack said, pulling the chair closer to your bed.
“Let us take care of you.” Perlah gave you a stern look.
“Alright, I concede. I don’t have the fight in me anyway.” You gave a half-hearted laugh.
The pain only increased as you waited for blood work. Robby had apologized for the wait on the ultrasound as a trauma had come in. You were curled in a ball, panting and sweating. Jack was getting more and more anxious, more and more angry at the wait.
“That’s it.” He growled as he jumped up and stormed out of the room. “Robinavitch!” He barked.
“Jack. I was just on my way over. I’m sorry.” Robby sighed, seeing the red growing on Jack’s face.
“She’s in a ball, shaking in pain! Get a move on!” Jack stomped back to the room.
“Yelling never makes anything faster.” You grumbled.
“Worth a try.” Jack sighed.
“Sorry for the wait!” Robby came in with the ultrasound machine.
“Get to it, Robby.” Jack snapped.
“Relax.” You shot him a look.
“Hey, Robby!” Perlah came running in with a tablet in hand. “Her blood work just got back. You need to take a look.” She handed him the tablet.
“What’s wrong?” Jack sat up, taking your hand. He knew that if a nurse was worried, it was bad.
“Oh. Okay. Wow.” Robby cleared his throat.
“It’s cancer. I’m dying. I knew it!” You groaned.
“Not cancer. You’re pregnant.” Robby said.
“What!?” You and Jack looked at each other in shock.
“What’s the hcG?” Jack swallowed, trying to get his voice to work.
“Well…117,000. With, it looks like, an increased blood volume.” Robby said.
“What are you saying?” You asked him, getting frustrated by the coy nature of his demeanor.
“By the looks of your blood work, and I have to confirm with an ultrasound, I’d say you’re full term.” Robby watched the color drain from your face.
“Hold on!” Perlah shouted, grabbing an emesis bag and shoving it at your face just in time for you to vomit.
“No way. That’s not possible. She doesn’t even look pregnant!” Jack ran a hand through his curls.
“Everyone breathe. Let’s look at the ultrasound before we panic.” Robby rolled the ultrasound next to the bed.
“I would have known. Right?” You looked up at Jack.
“I mean…cryptic pregnancies happen. I don’t know.” He shook his head.
“Gel is gonna be cold.” Robby warned as he spread the gel on your belly. He pressed the wand into your belly, scanning and typing. His face remained neutral, not even an eyebrow twitch.
“What’s it look like?” You asked.
“Good news, the baby looks healthy. I don’t see any abnormalities. Potentially bad news, I think you’re in active labor.” Robby moved the screen to show you and Jack. “That is a head down, full-term fetus.”
“Holy shit.” You mumbled.
“I don’t…we…um…” Jack fell back into his seat.
“I can’t imagine the shock you two are going through right now. But I’m going to need to call OB down. They’ll want a pelvic exam. I can do it or I can get McKay to. Up to you.” Robby said.
“McKay.” You said, a far-off look in your eye.
“Try to remember to breathe.” Robby said as he got up and left.
“You two are going to be okay. Even the most prepared parents are surprised. Don’t worry.” Perlah gave your hand a squeeze before running out of the room.
“Holy shit.” You mumbled again.
“Are you okay?” Jack asked, finally back in his body.
“No. Not even a little. I just found out that I’m about to push a bowling ball out of my body and I didn’t even know it was there! Oh my god! Jack! I drank! I drank so much wine!” You gasped.
“I know, it’s okay. We didn’t know.” Jack tried to get you to calm down.
“Jack, we smoked so much weed! It was so much!” You started to cry.
“Baby! It’s alright! We’ll figure this out! Right now, my priority is keeping you safe. That’s what we’ll worry about first.” Jack squeezed your hand.
“How could I not know? It’s my body. I just…I don’t understand.” You tried to take a deep breath.
“Some women don’t experience any symptoms. It’s not unheard of.” Jack was just as confused as you, but he had decided that didn’t matter.
“I’m so fucking scared.” You looked up at him with tear-filled eyes.
“I know. Me too.” He kissed your hand. The knock at the door made you both wince with anticipation.
“Hey, you crazy kids. Robby filled me in.” McKay came in, snapping on gloves.
“No one gets to use me for a research paper.” You huffed.
“Wasn’t even gonna ask.” McKay chuckled. “I’ll do a quick pelvic exam, see how far along you are. When you’re ready, let me know.”
“J-Just a second! Shit!” You groaned.
“Um, remember to breathe.” Jack took your hand, letting you crush it.
“Fucking stupid thing to say!” You growled.
“Sorry.” His voice came out strained as he tried not to wince at the pain in his hand.
“Focus on breathing out. Focus on one breath at a time.” McKay put hand on your thigh.
“Shit. Okay. Okay. It’s over.” You breathed out.
“Ready?” McKay asked.
“Sure.” You sighed.
“Let’s get those knees up, great. Deep breath, lots of pressure.” She said as she started her exam.
“Pressure. They always say pressure.” You squeezed your eyes shut.
“O-kay! You are fully dilated!” She pulled her hand back and snapped off her gloves.
“What!?” You barked. “No way!”
“Yes way. I just felt the head.” She said, jumping up and running to the door.
“This can’t be happening!” You groaned.
“It’s going to be okay.” Jack brushed the sweaty hair from your face.
“I need a BOA kit and some hands!” McKay called out into the hall.
“I can’t do this, Jack! I’m not prepared for this!” You panted.
“Honey, you don’t have a choice.” Jack said.
“Not helpful!” You snapped.
“Honey, you’re going to do this because you have to. I know you and I know you can do this. There isn’t anything you can’t do when you put your mind to it.” Jack kissed your cheek.
“What a show, Rockstar! You are never living this one down.” Perlah came in laughing.
“OB is on their way, not sure they’ll make it.” Robby came in and grabbed a gown from Perlah.
“No! Not you! Absolutely not!” You barked.
“An attending has to be present for births. You know that.” Robby said.
“I have one! Jack!”
“He’s the father, he doesn’t count. I’m a professional. I’m not phased by this.” Robby sighed.
“Super. I am!” You groaned. “Fuck!”
“Baby, let him do it! It’s him or Shen.” Jack told you.
“Fucking fine!” You whined.
“Okay! Let’s get the bed ready. Is the warming station set up?” Robby snapped on his gloves.
“Got it!” Donnie wheeled in the warming station.
“No more boys! No boys!” You hollered.
“Thank you, Donnie. Go ahead and let everyone know this is a female only room.” Robby instructed.
“You got it.” Donnie scurried out of the room.
McKay and Perlah helped set up the bed. Putting your feet into the stirrups. They covered your body in blue drapes.
“Okay, when you feel the next contraction, put your chin to your chest push.” McKay instructed.
“You make it sound so easy.” You whined.
“You can do this.” Jack leaned in close, his hand firmly in yours.
As pain hit you groaned, tucking your chin to your chest and pushing. This was certainly not how you thought the shift would end.
“Good! Really good job! Lots of progress.” McKay cheered.
“Oh my god, I don’t want to do this!” You sobbed.
“Honey, look at me,” Jack cupped your cheek and turned your head so you were forced to make eye contact. “I know this is scary. I know that you’re in pain. I wish I could fix it, I can’t. But I know you are braver than you realize. Just a little more effort and then it’s over. Okay?”
“You’re getting snipped after this!” you cried.
“Anything for you.” Jack smiled. He shot a glare at Robby who failed to muffle his laughter.
“The heads out, just a few more pushes.” McKay told you.
“Oh god!” You cried.
“You’re doing great.” Jack said.
“Stop saying that! Say literally anything else!” You groaned.
“Sorry, I wasn’t really prepared for this either.” Jack sighed.
“Fuck you!”
“Yeah, that’s right, fuck me. Go with that!” Jack cheered.
“What!?” You looked at him confused.
“Curse! Swear! It’s good for you. It doesn’t bother me if you tell me to fuck off.” He smiled.
“Get fucked!” You screamed as you pushed.
“You’re doing great! Keep going!” Jack kissed your cheek.
“Fuck this!!” You screeched.
Out in the treatment area, everyone had turned to face the screaming. The nurses looked at each other with confused faces.
“Should we…tell them to stop?” Shen looked to Dana.
“You want to go in there and tell that woman to keep it down?” Dana cocked an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not. She scares me on a good day.” Shen scoffed.
“Anyway, that’s a valid response. I did that twice and I knew what was coming and I was traumatized. Can’t imagine what she’s feeling.” Dana shook her head.
There was so much noise in the room. From the monitors to the people talking. It was pissing you off.
“One more big push!” McKay told you.
“You said that two pushes ago!” You growled.
“Come on, deep breath. Let’s finish this.” Jack nodded.
You gave one last heaving push, screaming your baby into the world. Her cries made your breath stutter in your chest.
“It’s a baby girl!” McKay cheered.
“She’s okay?” You panted.
“As far as we can tell.” Robby smiled down at the bundle. McKay put the baby on your chest.
“Holy shit.” You couldn’t breathe, you were so stunned. Your arms immediately came up to hold her. “Jack!”
“I know.” He sniffled.
“Hi, little one. What a way to enter the world.” You cooed to the baby.
“That was a hell of a surprise.” Jack cupped the baby’s head.
“I can’t believe I just had a baby.” You laughed, tears streaming down your face.
“You’re amazing. That was…fucking incredible.” Jack beamed down at you and the baby.
“Okay, little one. Let’s get you checked out.” Perlah lifted the baby from your chest, taking her to the warmer.
“Everything looks good.” McKay helped the nurses clean you up and get you comfortable. “Placenta is going down to pathology, just to be safe.”
“Sounds good.” You yawned.
“Tired?” Jack chuckled.
“Beyond.” You nodded.
“We’re going to send her to the nursery for monitoring. You’ll be able to get some rest soon.” Robby said.
“Are you okay for a minute? I just realized I haven’t clocked out.” Jack stood up.
“Yeah, I think the excitement is over for now.” You nodded.
“I’ll be right back.” He kissed you and left the room.
The door closed behind him, and he bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air. His face was red and eyes wide. Dana and Shen watched, unsure what was happening.
“Holy fuck. I have a baby. I have a daughter.” Jack stuttered.
“Uh-oh.” Dana rushed over. “Jack, take a deep breath. Sit down.” She pulled him over to the closest chair.
“I-I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a crib. I don’t even have a car seat! How am I getting her home!?” Jack was panicking. This was a new sight for the staff, used to the steadfast Dr. Abbot.
“Relax. They’re going to be here for a few days. Plenty of time to get the essentials.” Shen put a hand on his shoulder.
“Donnie has agreed to give you guys some hand-me-downs to tide you over. We’re going to get you two sorted. Don’t you worry.” Dana nodded.
“Right. Okay.” Jack cleared his throat.
“You can do this.” Dana could see the panic lingering.
“Ya know the funny thing is, we just started talking about kids. Agreed to start trying soon.” Jack huffed.
“Universe called your bluff.” Shen chuckled.
“I married a superhero.” Jack took a deep breath, looking toward your room.
“Yeah, you did. Get back in there. She’s freaking out still, I’m sure. Go freak out together.” Dana patted his back.
Jack took a deep breath. Stood up and walked back into the room. The sight he was met with almost made him drop to his knees. You were holding your little girl, your gown pulled down so she was skin-to-skin and humming to her.
“Steady on, Jack.” Robby gave his shoulder a pat.
“Wh-when are they going upstairs?” Jack cleared his throat, trying to stay present.
“Soon. They’re getting a room ready. We’re getting her some formula ready.” Robby said.
“Right here.” Perlah came waltzing in with a bottle. “A bottle of PTMC’s finest for the newest member.”
“Thank you.” You chuckled, taking the bottle.
“Donnie is giving us some things to help us out.” Jack sat next to the bed.
“That’s nice of him.” You hummed. The baby latched onto the body like she was angry about it. “Got your dad’s appetite.”
“Poor thing.” Jack huffed. “I’ll go out and get a car seat tomorrow. And a crib.” Jack ran a hand through his curls.
“She’ll have to sleep with us until we get the office converted.” You said.
“Shit, yeah. Didn’t think about that.” He bit his lip. “Once you two are settled, I’ll head home and get some of our things.”
“Make sure you don’t forget my socks. My feet are going to be freezing up there.” You handed the empty bottle to Jack, who set it aside on the table and grabbed a towel from the cabinet and draped it on your shoulder so you could burp the baby.
“Look at you two. Already in sync.” Perlah chuckled.
“We’re always in sync.” You smile.
“Don’t forget to think of a name at some point.” Perlah said. “I’m going to give you three some space. Holler if you need me.” She said, ushering everyone out of the room.
“She deserves a raise.” You chuckled.
“She makes a good point. She needs a name.” Jack leaned against the railing, watching the baby squirm in your arms.
“Got any ideas?” You asked.
“Nope.” He sighed.
“What about…Felicity? She feels like good luck.” You kissed the top of your baby’s head.
“Felicity. Yeah, I like it. Felicity Abbot. Sounds like a badass hero.” Jack smiled, running a finger along the baby’s chubby cheek.
Eventually, you and the baby were transferred to the postpartum recovery ward. The second everyone left the room, you passed out. Jack decided to swing by the nursery before he went back to the house.
“Dr. Abbot, did you want to see your girl?” One of the nurses smiled up at him.
“Yeah, I just wanted a second with her.” Jack nodded. The nurse led him over to the bassinet where the baby lay.
“Technically, I’m not supposed to let you back here. Don’t take too long.” The nurse said s she walked off.
“Hi, Felicity. Hi, baby.” He picked her up, cuddling her close.
The baby squirmed for a minute before settling in his arms. She looked up at him, her little eyebrows furrowed as she tried to understand him.
“We might not have been prepared for you, but you are going to be so loved. We’re going to make sure you are so happy.” He kissed the soft curls on her head.
Summery: After a bad fall lands her in the ER, she comes face-to-face with the ex who shattered her self-worth during the darkest part of his addiction. But this time, she’s not alone—and when Park the Shark steps in, protective and unexpectedly soft, she finally gets to see what care without cruelty looks like.
Warnings: past toxic relationship, emotional abuse, addiction/recovery mentions, eating disorder/body image issues, hospitalization/injury, ex confrontation, lingering trauma, angst with comfort. Langdon is not married. I promise I love Frank. I really do
Please do not read if any of those warnings are triggers <3
You hate how the ER still smells the same.
Antiseptic. stale coffee. trauma bay sweat. that weird sharp coldness in the air that never changes no matter how many people come through the doors bleeding or crying or swearing they’re fine when they’re very obviously not.
It’s stupid, maybe, that your first thought when they wheel you in isn’t my ankle is definitely broken or wow, that curb came out of nowhere. It’s God, I hope Frank isn’t here.
You haven’t been in the Pitt ER in over a year. Not since you transferred hospitals. Not since before rehab. Not since before the screaming matches in his apartment. Not since before the slammed cabinets and the biting little comments delivered with that pretty, devastating smile that fooled everyone else into thinking he was charming when really he was already halfway gone.
“You with me?” the nurse asks as she helps transfer you onto the stretcher. You suck in a breath through your teeth as soon as your foot shifts. “Unfortunately.” That gets a snort out of Mateo, who’s standing at the end of the bed. “Good. Sarcasm means you’re stable.”
“Wow,” you mutter, gripping the rail. “Beautiful patient care.” “Thank you. I trained for years.” Someone cuts away the edge of your pant leg near the ankle, and you wince hard enough your eyes sting. “It’s probably just a fracture,” the resident says. “We’ll get films, pain meds, and ortho can weigh in if needed.”
You nod, not really listening, because then you hear a voice from across the department.
A voice you would know if someone woke you from a dead sleep. Frank.
It hits low in your stomach, mean and immediate.
For one stupid second, your body remembers him before your brain does. Remembers the version of him that used to kiss your forehead while he made coffee. The version that curled around you in bed and called you beautiful like he meant it. The version that made you feel chosen.
Then the rest comes flooding in right behind it.
“You’re getting soft. You know I have a reputation. Do you really think I can bring you around Robby’s people looking like that? I need someone who takes care of herself. You’d actually be so pretty if you just had some discipline.”
It’s funny, in a horrible way, how your body can heal from one thing and still flinch at words said a year ago. Your breathing goes shallow. Mateo notices first. “Hey. Hey, look at me.” You blink at him. His voice gentles. “You’re okay.” You swallow. “Is he here?” Mateo hesitates, which is enough of an answer.
Of course he is. Of course.
You laugh once, humorless, and look up at the ceiling. “That’s cruel.”
Before Mateo can answer, another familiar voice cuts in. “What happened?” Garcia appears at your bedside in trauma green scrubs and a face that goes from confusion to immediate concern in half a second. “Oh, thank God,” you breathe. She takes one look at you and sets her jaw. “Who did this?” “I fell off a curb,” you say.
“That curb’s dead to me.”
Despite everything, you smile. Garcia reaches down and squeezes your hand once. Firm. Grounding. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” And because Yolanda Garcia has always been the kind of friend who doesn’t ask whether you want backup before becoming backup, she glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice.
“Frank is on the other side of the department.” Your throat tightens. “I do not,” she says, all flat menace, “have to let him anywhere near you.” It shouldn’t make you emotional. It really shouldn’t.
But there was a time, when things with Frank were bad, that you got very good at making excuses for him. Good at smiling through humiliation. Good at pretending the comments weren’t comments, the cruelty wasn’t cruelty, the fear in your chest every time he walked through the door wasn’t fear, exactly, just stress.
Good at lying.
Then you left him.
He went to rehab.
And you spent months putting yourself back together in quiet, unglamorous pieces.
Therapy. Actual meals. Throwing out the jeans you used to keep as punishment. Learning how to look at your reflection without mentally taking inventory. Learning that being wanted was not the same thing as being loved.
Then somehow, in the middle of all that, Brendon Park noticed you.
Which had been deeply annoying at first. Because Brendon Park didn’t really notice people. He barked at residents, insulted poor splinting, and stalked around consults with the expression of a man personally offended by nonsense.
And yet.
With you, he always paused. Always softened half an inch. Always asked if you’d eaten like it was a medical necessity. Always handed you coffee without making a thing of it. Always stood a little closer than he had to. Always looked at you like there was nothing on earth he’d want changed.
The first time he kissed you, he had one hand cupping your face like you were something fragile and precious and worth being careful with.
You hadn’t known what to do with that. Still don’t, some days.
“Okay,” the resident says, coming back into view. “X-ray confirms a distal fibula fracture. Clean break. We’ll need ortho.”
Garcia’s brows lift. “Convenient.” You groan. “No.” “Extremely.” “Yolanda.” She already has her phone out. “Too late.” You know exactly who she’s texting.
A weird, hysterical laugh catches in your chest. “Please tell me you are not summoning the terrifying orthopedic golden retriever to my ER bed.” Garcia gives you the blandest look imaginable. “I’m summoning the attending most likely to make sure no one emotionally destabilizes my best friend while her ankle is broken.” You stare at her. She pockets her phone. “So yes.”
You close your eyes for a second.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful.
Because if there is one thing more humiliating than unexpectedly seeing your toxic ex in the ER, it is unexpectedly seeing your very current not-exactly-boyfriend-but-definitely-something orthopedic surgeon while sweaty, teary-eyed, and wearing one hospital sock.
You hear Frank before you see him.
“Why wasn’t I told she was here?” Your whole body goes rigid. Garcia turns before you can. “Because no one asked you.” Frank steps into your bay, and for a moment the air changes. He looks healthier. That’s the first awful thing you notice.
Clear-eyed. steadier. a little leaner in the face. no chemical fuzziness behind his expression. still unfairly handsome in that polished, dangerous way that used to make you feel lucky and later made you feel trapped.
And then he sees you. Really sees you. His expression shifts. Not pity. Not exactly guilt, either. Something heavier. Something stunned. You haven’t seen him since before rehab.
Since before he called you crying the night before intake and you let it go to voicemail because by then there was nothing left in you to save.
“You’re hurt,” he says quietly. Garcia folds her arms. “Insightful.” “Yolanda—” “No, actually,” she cuts in, “I’m having a pretty bad day for your face, Frank.”
You keep your eyes on the blanket over your lap. You hate that your pulse is racing. Hate that some buried, bruised part of you still reacts like this. Frank takes a step closer, slower this time, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “Can I just—”
“No,” you say.
The word comes out sharp enough that the whole bay stills. Frank stops. For the first time in your life, you do not soften to make him comfortable. His jaw ticks. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” You let out a shaky breath and finally look up at him. It’s easier than it used to be.
That surprises you. Easier to look. Easier not to fold. Easier to remember that he is just a man. Not a storm. Not a god. Not a thing that gets to define the room because he walked into it.
“I am now,” you say. “But I wasn’t.”
Something cracks across his face. Good. Maybe that makes you mean. Maybe you’ve earned mean. Frank glances at Garcia, at Mateo, at the nurse charting near the door, then back at you. His voice drops. “I know I hurt you.” You laugh once, incredulous. “That’s one way to say it.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. “I was sick.”
“And I was there,” you say. “I was there while you were sick.” The words come easier now, once they start. “I was there when you snapped at me for chewing too loud. I was there when you said I embarrassed you. I was there when you made me feel like every inch of me was too much and not enough at the same time.” Your throat burns. “I was there when you looked at me like loving me was some kind of professional liability.”
Frank goes pale. Garcia says absolutely nothing. Which, from Garcia, is support of the highest order. “I know,” he says, voice rough.
“No, I don’t think you do.” Your eyes sting, but you hold his gaze. “Because you got rehab. You got a second chance. You got everyone rooting for your recovery, telling you how brave you were, how hard it must’ve been.” You inhale carefully. “Do you know what I got, Frank?”
Silence.
“I got to relearn how to eat without guilt.” His eyes close. “I got to gain weight and not hate myself for it.” His shoulders slump. “I got to find out that half the things I thought about my body were never mine to begin with. They were yours. You put them there.”
There’s a long, ugly quiet.
When Frank opens his eyes again, there’s no defensiveness in them. Just pain. Real pain. Maybe overdue pain. “I am sorry,” he says. “I know that doesn’t fix it. I know I don’t get to ask for anything from you. But I am sorry.”
You believe him. That’s the inconvenient part. You believe he means it. And it still doesn’t change a thing.
Before you can answer, a new voice slices in from the hallway.
“Why is he in here?” The entire bay turns. Brendon Park stands at the entrance in dark blue scrubs, x-rays in hand, expression carved from ice. You have never, in your life, been so relieved to see a man who routinely looks disappointed in the existence of humanity.
Park’s gaze flicks from Frank to you, then down to the way your fingers are gripping the blanket too tightly, then back to Frank.
He doesn’t ask questions first. Very on brand. “I said,” Park repeats, stepping fully inside, “why is he in here?” Garcia’s mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. Frank straightens automatically. “I was talking to her.” Park gives him a long, unimpressed stare. “That seemed obvious.” You would laugh if your chest didn’t feel so tight.
Park moves to your bedside like everyone else in the room is furniture. He sets the films down, crouches in front of you, and his whole face changes.
Just for you.
It’s so subtle most people probably miss it. The softened mouth. the calmer eyes. the care he never bothers hiding when it comes to you. “Hey, honey,” he says quietly. Frank goes very still.
Your breath catches for a totally different reason now.
Park glances at your chart, then back at you. “Pain manageable?” “Mostly.” He studies your face for one second too long, like he knows you well enough now to hear the lie in the mostly. “Mm.” He rises to his full height and looks over his shoulder at Frank with all the warmth of a glacier. “Step out.”
Frank’s jaw tightens. “Park—” “No.” Park’s voice stays even, which somehow makes it worse. “You don’t get to loom over my girl while she’s vulnerable, and you definitely don’t get to do it while she’s visibly distressed.”
My girl. Something about that nearly undoes you. Not possession. Protection.
Park turns back to you. “Do you want him here?” It’s the only question that matters. And he asks it like the answer is law. You shake your head.
Park nods once. Then, without even looking at Frank, says, “There’s your answer.”
For a second, you think Frank might argue.
Old Frank would have. Old Frank would have made this about ego, about territory, about humiliation. But Frank just looks at you. Not Park. Not Garcia. You.
And whatever he sees on your face must answer something for him, because his shoulders drop. “Okay,” he says, quiet and wrecked. “Okay.” He leaves. Just like that. And the whole room exhales with him gone.
Garcia mutters, “Love a happy ending.” Mateo snorts and slips out to “check on meds,” which is generous nurse code for I’m giving you privacy because this got incredibly loaded. Park stays where he is until Frank disappears around the corner. Then he looks back at you, and all that steel drains right out of him.
“Hey,” he says again, softer this time. That’s it. That’s all it takes. Your eyes fill instantly. “Oh, sweetheart,” Park murmurs. He steps closer, careful of your leg, and touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers first like he’s asking permission. When you lean into it, his hand settles there fully. Garcia quietly excuses herself, which is true friendship because she absolutely will want details later and is still willing to leave.
Then it’s just you and Park. “I’m okay,” you whisper, which is a lie in at least six different ways. Park’s thumb brushes under one eye. “You don’t have to be.” You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s inconvenient.” “I can live with inconvenient.”
He says it so simply that your chest hurts.You look up at him. “You don’t have to do this.” His brow furrows. “Do what?” “This.” You gesture vaguely, embarrassed now by everything all at once. The tears. the ankle. Frank. your body. the history of it all. “Be nice to me when I’m a mess.”
Park stares at you for a second like he genuinely doesn’t understand the sentence. Then his face does something achingly tender. “Oh,” he says. Just that. Oh. Like he sees all the way to the root of it. He glances at the door to make sure no one’s hovering, then leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours.
“I’m not nice to you because you’re easy,” he says softly. “I’m nice to you because it’s you.” Your throat closes. Park’s hand slides from your cheek to the side of your neck, steady and warm. “And for the record, I have never once looked at you and wanted you smaller.” The tears spill before you can stop them.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t overreact. Doesn’t panic.
He just wipes them away with his thumb and keeps holding your gaze like you are something sacred he is trying not to scare off. “I like you exactly as you are,” he says. “Actually, that’s not true. I like that you take up space. I like that you laugh loud when you forget to be self-conscious. I like that you order fries and then steal mine too. I like that you look soft and warm and alive.” His mouth twitches. “Makes me want to commit crimes when people imply otherwise.”
A laugh breaks through your crying. Ugly, wet, real. “There she is,” he murmurs. You shake your head, overwhelmed. “Brendon—” “No.” He smooths a strand of hair back from your face. “Listen to me. I know I’m not…” He exhales through his nose. “I know I’m not exactly known for bedside manner.” “That’s one way to put it.” “Thank you, very supportive.” His thumb brushes your cheek again. “But with you, I want to get this right.”
That one lands somewhere deep. Because Frank always made love feel like something you had to earn. Like one wrong word, one bad angle, one meal too many, and it would vanish. But Park stands here looking at you with your eyes red and your ankle broken and your hospital gown tied crooked and there is not one ounce of revulsion in him.
Only care. Only certainty.
You whisper, “He used to make me feel like I was hard to love.” Park’s expression hardens for half a breath, not at you, at the memory of him. Then he looks back at you. “He was wrong.”
So simple. So immediate. No hesitation.
He might as well have reached into your ribcage and rewritten something by hand. You close your eyes because you suddenly can’t look at him and survive it. His lips brush your forehead. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just there. A promise, maybe.
When you open your eyes again, Park has shifted back into doctor mode by sheer force of discipline, though his hand stays on yours. “Okay,” he says. “Here’s what happens next. You’re getting a boot. no surgery unless follow-up imaging says otherwise. You are not putting weight on that ankle tonight. Someone is driving you home.”
“You volunteering?” His mouth tips at one corner. “I was under the impression I was being voluntold.” “That was fast.”
“I’m an orthopedist. We move with terrifying efficiency when motivated.” You laugh again, shakier this time but real. Park squeezes your hand. “Good. Keep doing that.” “Laughing?” “Breathing.” Your chest aches.
“You know,” you say quietly, “you’re weirdly sweet for a man everyone calls Park the Shark.”
He gives you a dry look. “Don’t spread it around. I have a reputation.” Something old and painful in you expects the sentence to turn sharp after that. To become a joke at your expense. A warning. A condition.
It doesn’t.
Park just leans down and kisses your temple like it’s the easiest thing in the world, then says, “Besides, I only like one girl enough to ruin my image.” You stare at him. He shrugs, faintly pink now, which is maybe the most endearing thing you’ve ever seen. “Don’t make it weird.”
And because you’ve cried enough and hurt enough and survived enough for one night, you do the only reasonable thing. You smile. “Too late,” you whisper. Park huffs a laugh, reaches for your boot, and starts explaining the plan.
Outside the bay, the ER keeps moving.
Stretchers rolling.
Monitors beeping.
Residents arguing.
Somewhere Trinity Santos is probably calling someone an idiot with alarming affection. Somewhere Robby is stalking through the department making everyone’s blood pressure worse. Life goes on. The Pitt goes on. And for the first time in a long time, so do you.
Not because Frank apologized.
Not because the past disappeared.
Not because broken things magically became unbroken.
But because someone kind is standing in front of you now, holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and when he looks at you there is no calculation in it.
No punishment. No cruelty. No condition.
Just warmth. Just care.
Just, finally, enough.
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