ALEXANDER
The second we stepped into my bedroom, I kicked the door shut and locked it.
Dashiell was still in my arms, legs wrapped around my waist, face buried in my neck. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, his fingers tapping rapidly on my shoulders.
I carried him straight to the bed and laid him down on his back. He looked up at me with wide, nervous but eager eyes, cheeks flushed pink.
"Alexander…" he started, voice already breathy.
"Shh." I leaned over him, brushing my thumb across his bottom lip. "You told me what you wanted. Now let me give it to you."
I reached into the nightstand and pulled out a soft black silk tie, and held it up so he could see it.
"Too tight?" I asked.
He shook his head quickly. "Not too tight. But… not over my eyes yet. I want to see you first."
I smirked, dark satisfaction curling in my chest.
"Good boy."
I grabbed both his wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand. He gasped softly, body arching instinctively. I loved how responsive he was, every little sound, every twitch.
I tied the silk around his wrists, securing them to the headboard. Not too tight but hust enough that he couldn't pull free easily. He tested the restraint, tugging once, then moaned quietly when he realized he really couldn't move his arms.
"Alexander…" he whispered, already sounding wrecked.
I leaned down and kissed him deeply, tongue pushing into his mouth while my free hand slid under his shirt, stroking his bare skin. When I finally pulled back, I grabbed another silk tie and gently covered his eyes, tying it behind his head.
The moment the world went dark for him, Dashiell let out a shaky, needy sound. His body trembled beneath me.
"Too much?" I asked, voice low.
He shook his head quickly. "No… it's good. Everything feels… louder. More."
I smiled and slowly stripped him, pulling off his t-shirt until it bunched around his hand, then sliding his sweatpants and underwear down his long, smooth legs. He was already hard, cock flushed and leaking against his stomach.
Beautiful.
I stood back for a moment just to look at him: wrists bound above his head, eyes covered, completely naked and exposed on my bed. My cock throbbed painfully at the sight.
"Fuck, you look perfect like this," I growled.
I climbed back over him, fully clothed, and pinned his hips down with my weight. I kissed down his neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, then moved lower, biting his collarbone, licking his nipples until he was whimpering and squirming.
"Alexander… please…" he gasped, tugging uselessly at the silk around his wrists.
I wrapped my hand around his cock and stroked him slowly, torturously.
"Tell me what you want," I ordered against his skin.
"I want… I want you inside me," he moaned, hips bucking up into my fist. "Please. I need to feel you."
I groaned at how honest and desperate he sounded.
I grabbed the lube, slicked myself up, and pushed his legs apart. I pressed the head of my cock against his tight hole and slowly pushed in, inch by thick inch until I was buried completely inside him.
Dashiell cried out, back arching hard, wrists pulling against the restraint.
"Too much?" I asked, voice strained.
He shook his head frantically. "No, don't stop. Please don't stop."
I started moving, deep, slow, powerful thrusts that made the bed creak. Every time I bottomed out, he let out these broken little moans that drove me insane.
I leaned down, one hand still pinning his wrists, the other gripping his hip, and fucked him harder.
"My perfect little anomaly," I rasped against his ear. "All tied up and blindfolded for me. Taking my cock so well."
Dashiell whimpered loudly, legs wrapping around my waist, heels digging into my back.
"Alexander, ah, harder…"
I gave him exactly what he asked for.
I slammed into him, deep and ruthless, while whispering filthy praise against his neck.
"You're mine. Only mine. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to fuck you. No one else gets to make you scream."
Dashiell came with a broken cry, body shaking violently, clenching around me so tightly I almost followed him right then.
I fucked him through it, then buried myself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, filling him up.
I stayed inside him for a long moment, breathing hard against his neck.
When I finally pulled out and removed the blindfold, Dashiell's eyes were glassy, cheeks wet with tears, lips swollen.
He looked at me, dazed and soft, and whispered:
"…I liked that. A lot."
I kissed him gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead.
"Good," I murmured. "Because we're doing it again soon."
******
Operating Room 3 – 7:42 AM
The room was cold, sterile, and humming with controlled tension.
I stood at the head of the table, fully scrubbed in, eyes locked on the open chest of 16-year-old Elias Grant. My hands were steady as I worked through the complex repair of his Tetralogy of Fallot. This was my domain. My stage.
Dashiell was positioned at the neuromonitoring station to my right, eyes glued to the screens, white coat hidden under surgical gown and cap. Even from here, I could see the subtle signs, his left foot rubbing against his right ankle under the gown, fingers tapping rapidly against the side of the monitoring equipment in that familiar rhythm.
My little anomaly was hyperfocused.
Good.
"Brain waves stable," he reported clearly, voice calm but precise. "No epileptiform activity. Left hemisphere amplitude holding."
I didn't respond verbally, just gave a short nod. I trusted him to catch anything the second it appeared.
The surgery moved forward with brutal efficiency. I worked methodically, reconstructing the ventricular septal defect and relieving the pulmonary stenosis. Every cut, every stitch was perfect.
For forty-three minutes, everything went exactly as planned.
Then it didn't.
The waveforms on Dashiell's monitor suddenly spiked, sharp, rhythmic discharges exploding across the screen.
"Seizure activity!" Dashiell's voice rose sharply. "Focal onset, right frontal lobe. Starting now. Amplitude dropping on the left side, possible ischemia!"
The anesthesiologist moved fast, but I kept my hands steady inside the boy's chest.
"Manage it," I ordered coldly, not looking away from the surgical field.
Dashiell leaned closer to the monitor, fingers tapping frantically against the equipment. I could hear the slight tremor in his voice as he called out adjustments.
But then, a critical ten-second window, one of the monitoring leads glitched. The signal on the left hemisphere went fuzzy.
Dashiell's tapping intensified. His foot-rubbing became almost frantic under the gown.
"I lost clear signal on the left, technical failure!" he announced, voice tight with stress. "Rebooting lead…"
Too late.
A large clot dislodged during the repair. The boy's brain activity plummeted.
"Significant drop in left hemisphere amplitude!" Dashiell shouted. "Possible acute ischemia…."
"Fix it, Dr. Astor," I snapped, voice ice-cold, hands still deep in the open chest.
The room exploded into controlled chaos.
By the time we closed, Elias had suffered a significant perioperative stroke on the left side, weakness on the right side of his body, and potential speech involvement.
The moment the monitors flatlined into post-op silence, the atmosphere shifted.
Dr. Reyes, one of my attending surgeons, muttered loud enough for everyone to hear:
"The neurologist was supposed to catch that ischemia in time."
Another resident glanced at Dashiell.
Dashiell stood frozen at his station, eyes wide, fingers tapping so rapidly it looked like a tremor. His foot was rubbing hard against his ankle. He looked shocked and completely overwhelmed.
I pulled off my gloves and stepped back from the table, eyes narrowing.
The blame was already starting to shift toward him.
And I was not going to allow that.