PRINCESS READER AND CREGAN INFIDELITY PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Like what would Ormund think or how would he react when his innocent little wife is getting dicked down 24/7 and she’s a willing participant. Let alone she got fucked by a northener lol
The Letter
Ormund Hightower X Targ!Reader
The war had been grinding on for eight months, but Ormund Hightower had not slept in four.
Not since the night she disappeared. She had taken Aethan—his son, his blood—and vanished into the darkness like a ghost, like a traitor, like the ungrateful little whore he had always known she could become if he did not keep her close enough.
He had torn the reach apart searching for her. He had sent riders in every direction, had questioned every guard and servant and spy who might have seen something. Nothing. She had simply… gone. As if she had never existed at all. As if the months of marriage, the nights in his bed, the child she had borne him meant nothing. As if he had not shaped her, taught her, owned her.
He had not been the same since. His men whispered about it behind his back. Lord Hightower had grown erratic. Lord Hightower had stopped eating. Lord Hightower's eyes had taken on a wild, feverish light that made even his most seasoned commanders uneasy. He still led them into battle—he was too good a soldier to abandon the war entirely—but his mind was somewhere else. Always somewhere else. Always chasing the ghost of a silver-haired girl who had slipped through his fingers like smoke, taking his son with her.
And now this. The letter had arrived an hour ago, delivered by a rider who had nearly killed his horse getting there. The man had stumbled into camp, half-frozen and wild-eyed, clutching a scroll sealed with the mark of Ormund's own spy network—the network he had deployed across half of Westeros with one purpose and one purpose only: find her.
The tent was crowded with commanders when the rider was ushered in. Ser Brynden stood at Ormund's right hand, as he always did, Ser Gwayne, and half a dozen other knights and lords who had pledged their swords to the Green cause. They had been in the middle of a strategy session, poring over maps and troop movements, planning the next offensive.
Ormund took the scroll without a word. He broke the seal. He read.
His face went pale first. Bone-white, as if all the blood had been drained from his body in a single instant. Then the color rushed back, flooding his cheeks with a dark, dangerous red that spread down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his tunic. His hands began to tremble, just slightly at first, then violently, the parchment shaking in his grip like a leaf in a storm.
"My lord?" Brynden stepped forward, concern etched into his weathered features. "What news?"
Ormund did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the letter, reading and re-reading the words as if repetition might change them. His lips moved silently, forming syllables that no one else could hear. The trembling in his hands spread to his arms, his shoulders, his entire body.
And then he began to scream.
"CREGAN STARK!"
The sound was not human. It was the roar of a wounded animal, a beast caught in a trap, a man whose last thread of sanity had just snapped like a bowstring pulled too tight. The commanders scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and sending maps flying, but Ormund did not seem to see them. He was already moving, already reaching for the sword that rested against the campaign chest in the corner.
"CREGAN FUCKING STARK! I WILL KILL HIM! I WILL TEAR HIS HEART OUT WITH MY BARE HANDS!"
The first blow took the map table in half. Wood splintered and cracked, and the maps that had been spread across it fluttered to the ground like dying birds. Ormund ripped his sword free and swung again, and this time the blade carved a great, jagged slash through the canvas wall of the tent, letting in a shaft of cold grey daylight.
"MY LORD, PLEASE—" Ser Gwayne started forward, but a wild swing of the sword sent him reeling backward, his hands raised in surrender.
"SHE IS MINE!" Ormund brought the sword down on a chair, and the chair exploded. "SHE HAS ALWAYS BEEN MINE! AND HE—THAT NORTHERN SAVAGE—HE HAS TOUCHED HER! HE HAS PUT HIS HANDS ON WHAT BELONGS TO ME!"
She was there. She had been there for weeks. Living openly in Cregan Stark's tent, sleeping in his bed, wearing his colors, warming his furs like some Northern whore. Everyone in the camp knew. Everyone could hear them—the sounds she made, the way she cried out his name, the way she begged for more. His wife. His Aethan's mother. Screaming for another man like a common camp follower. A public affair, the letter said. A very public affair. As if she wanted everyone to know. As if she wanted him to know.
And the child. His son. Living under Stark's protection, being held by Stark's hands, perhaps already learning to call another man father. The thought made something behind his eyes go red and hot and blinding.
"DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING RIGHT NOW?" He rounded on his commanders, and they shrank back from the madness in his eyes. "RIGHT NOW, WHILE WE STAND HERE DISCUSSING STRATEGY AND SUPPLY LINES? HE IS TOUCHING HER! HE IS INSIDE HER! HE IS MAKING HER MOAN—THOSE MOANS BELONG TO ME!"
He threw the letter aside and grabbed another chair, hurling it against the central support pole with enough force to shatter it into kindling.
"I taught her everything," he snarled, his voice cracking. "Everything she knows about pleasure, everything she knows about her own body—I taught her that. I was the first. I was the only. And now she—she is using what I taught her with HIM—"
He could see it. That was the worst part. He could see it so clearly in his mind, as if he were standing in the corner of Stark's tent watching. Her silver hair spread across Stark's furs. Her body arching beneath another man's hands. Her lips parting on another man's name. The sounds she made, the expressions that crossed her face, the way she clung and gasped and pleaded—all of it, all of it, was his. He had discovered it. He had cultivated it. He had spent months learning every secret her body held, every spot that made her gasp, every rhythm that made her shatter.
And now Stark was reaping the harvest. Stark was enjoying the fruits of Ormund's labor. Stark was touching what Ormund had claimed, had trained, had owned.
The thought made him want to kill someone. Everyone.
"GET ME A MAP!" he bellowed, driving his sword into the floorboards. "A MAP OF THE NORTH! I WANT TO SEE THE FASTEST ROUTE TO WINTERFELL!"
Ser Brynden stepped forward, his old bones creaking, his weathered face set in lines of grim determination. "My lord, you cannot—"
"I CAN AND I WILL!" Ormund rounded on him, and for a terrible moment, the sword came up. But Brynden did not flinch. He stood his ground, steady as an oak, and met his lord's wild gaze without blinking.
"Strike me if you must," Brynden said quietly. "I have served your house for forty years. I served your father, and his father before him. And I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself."
"Destroy myself? DESTROY MYSELF?" Ormund laughed, and the sound was utterly unhinged. "I am already destroyed! Do you not see that? She destroyed me the moment she spread her legs for another man!"
"Then let her destruction mean something." Brynden's voice was steady, measured, the voice of a man talking a jumper down from a ledge. "Win the war, my lord. Win the war, and you can have everything. Everything."
Ormund's grip on the sword tightened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that if you ride north now, you die. You take men into the snow, into Stark territory, and you die. Cregan Stark will put your head on a spike, and your wife will watch, and she will not shed a single tear. Is that what you want? To give him the satisfaction? To give her the satisfaction?"
The words hit Ormund like a physical blow. He staggered, his free hand coming up to press against his temple.
"No," he said, his voice raw. "No. She is mine. She belongs to me."
"Then win the war first." Brynden stepped closer, close enough to lay a hand on Ormund's arm. The touch was gentle, almost paternal. "Win the war, and you win everything. The Iron Throne will owe you a debt that can never be repaid. You can demand Stark's head. You can demand your wife's return. You can have her back in your bed, back where she belongs, and you can make Stark watch while you remind her exactly who she answers to. But only if you win."
The tent was silent. The other commanders held their breath. Somewhere outside, a horse whinnied, and the wind snapped against the torn canvas walls.
Ormund stood perfectly still, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, his sword still clutched in his white-knuckled grip. The letter lay crumpled on the floor at his feet, the words still burning in his mind—words about her, about him, about the sounds she made and the way she cried his name. Stark's name. Not his. Never his, not anymore.
"Stark's head," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "On a spike. Outside my gates."
"Yes," Brynden agreed. "Stark's head on a spike."
"And my wife. Back in my bed. Back where she belongs. In chains if necessary."
Brynden hesitated. "Yes."
"And my son. Back in my house."
"Yes."
Ormund closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the wild, feverish light had not disappeared, but it had banked. Transforming from an inferno into something colder, something infinitely more dangerous.
"Then we win this war," he said. He pulled his sword from the floorboards and slid it back into its sheath with a soft, deadly hiss. "We win this war, and we take King's Landing, and we put Daeron on the throne. And when it is done—when the dragons are dead and the pretender queen is ash and there is no one left to stand against us—I will march north with a full army at my back. And I will tear Winterfell apart stone by stone until I find her."
He turned to face his commanders, and the smile that spread across his face made every man in the tent take an involuntary step backward.
"And when I do," he said, "I am going to make her watch while I kill him. I am going to make her watch every single moment of it. I am going to make her see what happens to men who touch what belongs to me. And then—" He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting them all imagine it. "Then she is coming home. And she is never leaving again.
Cregan Stark was a dead man. He just did not know it yet. Every battle Ormund fought, every victory he won, every strategic decision he made, all of it was in service of that single, burning goal. Win the war. Claim the throne. Take back what was his.
The war would end, and Cregan Stark would die, and Ormund Hightower would have his family back—by any means necessary. By fire and blood, if that was what it took.
He had been patient once before, he could be patient again. He could wait. He could plan. He could let the rage simmer and build and concentrate into something lethal.
--
Every night, the same ritual. Ormund Hightower would sit alone in his tent, a flagon of wine at his elbow, the crumpled spy's letter spread before him on the table, and he would lose his mind all over again.
He tried not to. He tried to focus on strategy, on supply lines, on the thousand logistical details that came with commanding an army. But the moment the silence descended, the moment he was alone with his thoughts, the images would come creeping back. Vivid. Detailed. Unbearable.
Her. With him. Cregan Stark was younger than Ormund. That was the first thing that ate at him, gnawing at his pride like a rat at a corpse. Stark was her age—only a few years older than her, if that. A young man in his prime, not a grizzled lord of forty with grey threading his temples and lines deepening around his eyes. Stark was tall and broad-shouldered and hard-muscled from a lifetime of swinging a greatsword in the Northern wilderness. Stark had a full head of dark hair and a strong jaw and the kind of rugged, wolfish handsomeness that maidens swooned over in the songs.
Ormund had seen him once, years ago, at some tourney or council. He remembered thinking the boy was arrogant. Northern savages, all of them. But now—now he could not stop picturing that arrogance in his bed. In his wife.
He would pour another cup of wine and drink it down in one burning swallow, but the images only grew sharper.
Stark's hands on her hips. Stark's mouth on her throat. Stark's body—younger, harder, stronger—pressing her into the furs. The furs. Northern furs, rough and barbaric, not the fine silk sheets of the Hightower. And she was moaning for him. Making those sounds—those sounds that Ormund had discovered, had cultivated, had taught her to make—for another man.
A younger man.
A man her own age.
"FUCK!"
The goblet flew across the tent and clanged against the central pole, spraying wine across the canvas. Ormund was on his feet, pacing, his hands tearing through his hair.
He was not just any man. That was the second thing. That was what made it so much worse. Cregan Stark was the Lord of Winterfell. The Warden of the North. A Great Lord in his own right, who ruled a territory larger than all the other Kingdoms combined. His titles were ancient and unimpeachable. His bloodline stretched back eight thousand years to the First Men, to the Kings of Winter. The Starks had been royalty when the Hightowers were still lighting signal fires and calling it civilization.
Ormund was a powerful man. He knew that. He was the Lord of Oldtown, the Beacon of the South, the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the Reach. But he was not a Great House. He was not a Warden. He was a vassal to the Tyrells, technically, however much he might disdain them. He did not have a crown in his history. He did not have the blood of kings.
But Stark did.
She was a princess of the blood. A Targaryen. A dragonrider. And now she was spreading her legs for a man who could call himself her equal—or near enough. A man whose titles could almost match her own. A man who could give her a castle that had stood for thousands of years, a kingdom that bowed to no one, a name that commanded respect across the entire continent.
What could Ormund give her that Stark could not match or exceed?
The thought made him want to kill someone. "HE IS NO BETTER THAN ME!" he roared at the empty tent. "HE IS A SAVAGE IN FURS! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF HER! HE DOES NOT KNOW HER THE WAY I DO!"
But the cruel voice in the back of his mind whispered: He knows her now. He's learning her. Every night, he's learning her.
He hurled the wine flagon against the tent pole, and it shattered, spraying dark red liquid across the maps and the bedroll and the crumpled letter. He picked up a chair and smashed it against the ground. He drove his fist into the tent pole, once, twice, three times, until his knuckles were bloody and the pain cut through the red haze for a few blessed seconds.
"She was MINE!" he screamed at no one. "She was MINE before she was his! She will be MINE after he is dead!"
But the voice whispered: She chose him. She ran from you and chose him.
He staggered to his cot and collapsed onto it, his bloody hand pressed to his face, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The images would not stop. They never stopped. Every night, the same torture.
Her on her back, her hair fanned out across Stark's furs, her eyes hazy with pleasure. Her legs wrapped around his waist—his young, hard waist, not the softening middle of a man twenty years her senior. Her nails raking down his back. Her lips forming his name. Stark. Cregan. Not Ormund. Never Ormund.
Did she think of him at all? When Stark was inside her, when she was crying out for him, when she was shattering around him—did she remember the man who had taught her what pleasure was? Did she remember her husband?
Or had she forgotten him entirely?
"Ungrateful little WHORE," he snarled, but the word felt hollow. Because she was not a whore, was she? A whore took coin. A whore spread her legs for anyone. She had spread her legs for one man—one other man—and that made it so much worse. That made it a choice. She had chosen Stark. She wanted Stark. She was with Stark not out of duty or desperation but because she preferred him.
Because he was younger. Because he was her age. Because he was a Great Lord, a Warden, a man whose power matched her own.
Because he was not Ormund.
"I GAVE HER EVERYTHING!" The cry was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I gave her a home, a name, a son! I protected her! I loved her! And she—she threw it all away for—for a Northern savage who—"
Who could give her a kingdom. Who could give her a castle that made the Hightower look like a merchant's counting house. Who could give her the blood of the First Men, the loyalty of the North, a place at the side of a man who answered to no one but himself.
Ormund had spent his entire life climbing. Clawing his way up the ladder of power, building alliances, accumulating influence. He had married a Targaryen princess—a feat that should have been the crowning achievement of his house. And now she was in another man's bed, and that man outranked him, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it except win this damned war and take her back by force.
"I will kill him," he whispered into the darkness. "I will kill him slowly. I will make it last for days. I will make her watch every moment of it. And when he is dead—when she has seen what happens to men who touch what is MINE—she will beg for my forgiveness. She will crawl back to me on her knees. And I will decide whether to give it to her."
He lay back on the cot, staring at the canvas ceiling, his bloody hand cradled against his chest. Outside, the camp was quiet. The sentries walked their posts. The horses stamped in the picket lines. The army slept.
But Ormund Hightower did not sleep. He never slept anymore. He just lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound of his own ragged breathing, and pictured his wife in another man's arms.
Younger. Stronger. Higher-born.
It did not matter. None of it mattered. Because when this war was over, Cregan Stark would be dead, and YN would be back in his bed where she belonged, and he would spend the rest of his life reminding her exactly who owned her.
That was the thought he clung to. That was the thought that got him through the night.
That, and the image of Stark's head on a spike outside the gates of Oldtown, his sightless eyes staring at nothing, his blood dripping down the stone walls.
black smoke seeped through the oven and the machine beeped dramatically. You rushed over to switch it off, coughing as the smoke weaved through your lungs.
The chicken was ruined, making you stare at it for a minute.
Completely burnt.
You almost laughed, as the smoke still curled lazily toward the ceiling.
Almost.
Because after everything that had gone wrong tonight, the blackened chicken felt less like a disaster and more like an insult.
The candles had melted hours ago. The flowers were beginning to droop. The fancy dress you'd put on at six o'clock had been exchanged for sweatpants sometime around nine.
And Simon still wasn't home.
No text, no call, nothing. As if he had totally forgotten about you.
You checked your phone again, 11:47 PM. " where are you simon..." you mumbled to yourself.
An unsettling ache settled in your chest and.....disappointment. Not because he late, not because he'd missed dinner but because the day meant something to you.
And now it was over.
You sank into one of the dining room chairs, staring at the untouched plates sitting across the room. Waiting, just like the plates were.
A lump formed in your throat. You grabbed a napkin and scribbled a note.
Three words.
Maybe next year.
You left it beside his plate and went to bed, still clutching your phone in one hand. just in case.
Simon got home at 3:16 in the morning. His shoulders slumped with something more than tiredness. his stomach sank the moment he entered the apartment.
The mission had gone sideways. Communication had gone down. His phone had died. All of them excuses.
Because none of them changed the fact that he'd missed it, again.
Simon made his way to kitchen but stopped right in his tracks. he stared at the set dining table, the candles which were now reduced pools of wax, the faint smell of something burnt and a note.
"Christ", he whispered to himself. Something twisted painfully in his chest as he picked up the note.
Read it once.
Then again.
Maybe next year.
The disappointment hurt worse than he could imagine. He let you down, and he hated himself for that.
Simon lowered himself into the chair opposite the empty one. The chair that should've been his. The chair you'd probably stared at all evening.
Waiting.
The realization made him feel sick as his eyes drifted toward the kitchen. The burnt food, the dishes, the effort. Every little detail you'd spent hours preparing.
For him. And he'd never shown up.
A sharp ache settled behind his ribs, the familiar kind. Guilt.
You blinked awake as bedroom door creaked. For a moment you thought you'd imagined the sound. Then you saw simon standing awkwardly in the doorway, still wearing his gear and looking exhausted and guilty.
Relief hit first, at least he was home. Then the anger followed, as heat crept up against the back of your neck. You turned away, trying to hide the tears prickling at the corner of your eyes and pulled the blanket higher.
"I'm sorry.", Simon whispered, sounding truly sincere. And you hated that cause it made staying angry so much more harder.
"Phone died."
"Mission got extended."
"I tried.", he said finally ,voice breaking slightly.
Your throat tightened. "Do you know how many times I checked my phone tonight?", you accused him, on the brink of breaking down.
Simon didn't answer. Probably because he knew the answer didn't matter.
Eventually you sat up and the sight of him nearly stole the rest of your anger.
He looked exhausted, bruised and worn down. my poor baby. But that wasn't fair cause you were allowed to hurt too.
"I waited." ,you whispered as your voice cracked.
"I kept thinking you'd call."
"I kept making excuses for you.", you sighed.
"I know.", simon whispered.
You finally broke down, damn tears. "I just wanted one night.", you sobbed looking absolutely heart broken. Cause you were.
Simon looked like you'd hit him ,his throat bobbing up and down. Then he approached you, slowly.
Then Simon reached into one of his pockets and pulled something out with his shaky hands.
It was a small, battered envelope.
"What is that?", you sniffled, wiping your tears.
His eyes stayed fixed on it.
"The card.", he whispered.
"What card?"
"The anniversary card."
You frowned as you looked at the tattered piece of folded paper.
Simon gave a weak laugh. "I've been carrying it around for two weeks....just didn't have it in me love. I'm not as strong you think i am."
Your chest tightened as he handed it over.
The envelope was bent, creased and worn from being shoved into gear and pockets. Inside was a handwritten message, three pages long.
His arms came around to hold you in the tightest embrace ever. As if he was afraid his mistake would cost him you.
You stared at the letter and then back at him.
"You wrote three pages?", you looked at him with teary eyes.
His ears turned slightly red, "It's not the point."
A laugh escaped through your tears. Oh how you loved him.
The corner of Simon's mouth twitched at the tiny success. Then he reached over and brushed away a tear, his thumb lingered.
"I know I missed dinner.", The humour disappeared.
"And I know I ruined tonight."
"But if I get another chance, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
You stared because that sounded suspiciously close to a promise and Simon Riley didn't make promises lightly.
Eventually you leaned forward and rested your forehead against his shoulder.
"i love you", he whispered as he tilted your face up and kissed away your tears.
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
my doomed targaryen dark haired princes. they both deserved to be kings and would’ve easily made the best kings their house had ever produced. GRRM when i catch you!!!!
the next person to fill up fandom tags with complaints about what writers are writing whilst making no effort to contribute to the fandom ecosystem other than said complaints are getting an ant infestation in their underwear manifested upon them.
SUMMARY - The realisation that you two have yet to make anything official causes Aerion to take matters into his own hands.
CONTAINS - crazy pining, tension, they argue, aerion is aerion, fluff, can be read as a standalone but context always helps!! part one, part two
A/N - the amount of love ive received for this fic is unbelievableee, i love you guys. This might be the last part but if you have any questions or ideas you wanna share feel free to do so lovelies!
The following weeks had a way of blurring the lines until you couldn’t even remember where the boundaries used to be.
Aerion was completely integrated into your life. His jackets were a permanent fixture draped over the back of your kitchen chairs, and a spare phone charger that definitely wasn’t yours was always laying by the table in the living room.
You’d find yourself lying in bed late at night, your eyes burning from the glare of the screen in your dark room, staring at his face on FaceTime while he complained about a boring lecture or his annoying family.
Whenever he would come over, you two would often argue over what stupid movie to put on just for you both to ignore it.
It was wild how naturally you adapted to being with him in real life. On campus, the shift was just as obvious. It was no longer just you and Tanselle in Davis's class. Aerion would consistently leave his friends baffled as he walked past his usual row just to slide into the seat beside yours.
He’d steal your pens just to draw in the margins of your notebook, his shoulder brushing yours every time he leaned in to whisper a mocking comment about anyone that was bothering him.
He was still the same to everyone else, completely aloof and dismissive, but with you, he was different. He’d steal your drinks without asking, take a sip, and complain it was way too sweet before drinking the entire thing anyway.
When the air conditioning in the class got too cold, he’d blindly throw his jacket over your lap, his arm lingering on the back of your chair.
You grew used to the constant scent of his expensive cologne and the way the side of his thigh always pressed firmly against yours under the desk.
You talked about everything. You knew his habits and he knew yours. You knew his humour and the specific way his jaw set when he was frustrated. You were hanging out constantly, sharing every little detail of your life to one another.
Your chat history was an endless loop filled with a lot of bickering.
Aerion 🎱: where are you
YOU: At the library studying???
YOU: Like i said i would be??
Aerion 🎱: stop studying come out
Aerion 🎱: im by the fountain
YOU: Noo i have a quiz tmrw go away
Aerion 🎱: i brought your usual from the cafe
YOU: Ru srs
Aerion 🎱: im holding it right now
Aerion 🎱: you have 2 minutes before i finish it
YOU: OK CHILL
YOU: Omw dont finish it pls
But through all of it, you never actually talked about what this was. There was no label. You had just slipped into this comfortable routine without a single thought.
Until tuesday night.
You were sitting across from him at a dimly lit pasta place a few blocks away from your apartment. It was a crowded spot, the kind of place where the tables were small and forced you close together.
You were mid laugh, reaching over the table to stab a piece of chicken from his plate with your fork, while he watched you with an amused smirk.
“Hey, sorry to bother you,” a voice suddenly broke your bubble.
You blinked, your fork hovering in the air as a guy from a nearby table stepped up to your booth. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking a little nervous, oblivious to the way Aerion’s smirk instantly vanished.
The guy looked directly at you. “I just saw you from over there and thought you were really pretty. I was wondering if I could maybe get your number?”
Your fingers froze around your fork. Your brain went blank for a second, and your usual response started sliding out of your mouth before you could even think.
“Oh, no, sorry, I have a–”
The word boyfriend died right in your throat.
A sudden wave of realisation hit you. Did you have a boyfriend? You and Aerion text all day, you call each other every night, you eat dinner together... but he had never actually asked you out properly. He had never said the words.
Technically, you guys weren’t even dating. He wasn’t your boyfriend.
The silence stretched between the three of you, turning incredibly heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Aerion lean back slowly in his seat. His posture went rigid, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.
Shaking off the sudden thought, you forced a tight, polite smile and shook your head at the guy. “Sorry, I’m just… yeah. But thank you.”
The guy caught the terrifying form radiating from Aerion, and mumbled a quick “oh, okay, my bad,” before bolting back to his friends.
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, your heart doing a weird thud against your ribs. You swallowed hard, slowly lowering your fork back to your plate, trying your best to act normal. But when you finally gathered the courage to look back across the table, Aerion’s eyes were locked dead onto your face.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The background noise of clinking glasses and chatter was drowned out by the heavy atmosphere hanging over your table. Aerion picked up his drink, taking a slow sip, his gaze never once wavering from your face.
“What were you going to tell him?” he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone.
You moved your fork around your plate, trying your best to look unbothered. “What do you mean? I told him no.”
“Before that,” Aerion corrected, “you started saying ‘I have a…’ and then you choked. What was the rest of that sentence?"
A flush of heat crawled up your neck. You couldn't tell if you were embarrassed or just annoyed that he was backing you into a corner. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” he countered, a stubborn edge bleeding into his tone. He tilted his head, studying the way you purposely avoided his eyes. “Were you going to say you had a boyfriend?”
You finally snapped your gaze up, meeting his head-on. “Well, I couldn’t exactly say that, could I? Because I don’t.”
Aerion blinked. The bluntness of your response caught him off guard.
“You’ve never actually asked me out,” you pointed out, mumbling slightly. “Technically, I’m single. So I couldn’t use you as an excuse.”
The silence that followed was weighed down by a sudden realisation on his part. Aerion sat back, processing your words.
He was so used to having your undivided attention, so accustomed to the seamless way you had a space in his routine, that he hadn't even realised he left a massive hole for any random guy to step through. And clearly, the mere thought of anyone else having a claim on you made him feel sick.
He licked his lower lip, his expression hardening with profound determination. “Fine.”
“Fine?” you repeated, raising a brow.
“This saturday” he paused, the casual drawl returning to his voice, though his eyes remained focused on yours. “I’m picking you up at eight. We’re going on a proper date.”
You tried to suppress a smile, biting down on your inner cheek. “Are you asking me or ordering me?”
“I’m telling you,” Aerion said, a familiar smirk finally returning to his lips. He reached across the small table, his fingers lightly brushing against your wrist. “Because I’m not dealing with another dumbass trying his luck with you.”
Your heart gave a soft, fluttery jump against your ribs. You looked down at his hand resting against your skin, the warmth of his touch sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Even when he was being demanding, it was impossible to ignore the warmth hidden beneath his pride.
“Okay,” you murmured, looking back up to meet his gaze, a small smile breaking through. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be,” he promised.
Saturday arrived, and you spent the entire afternoon vibrating with a mix of excitement and nerves. You had spent way too long picking out a dress, styling your hair perfectly, and checking your reflection in the mirror until you were completely satisfied with your makeup.
By 7:55 PM, you were sitting on your living room sofa, your purse resting on your lap, ready to go.
Right on cue, your phone buzzed in your palm. You scrambled to open it, expecting a text from Aerion saying he was outside, but it was a message from Tanselle.
Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: let me see the fitttt
You smiled, typing back quickly.
YOU: [IMAGE ATTACHED]
YOU: Waiting for him to get heree
Tanselle #cantsing#plsstop: and just like that im gay
YOU: LMAO pls
Then the clock struck 8:00 PM.
Five minutes passed. You figured he was probably stuck at a red light. You checked your phone, but the screen remained completely blank.
Ten minutes. Sitting back against the cushions, the minutes began to tick away, and the excitement began to fade. You unlocked your phone and opened his chat, typing out a quick message.
YOU: ru here yett?
Twenty minutes. Your text didn’t even get a response. You tried calling him, but it didn’t ring.
A sickening mix of disappointment and fury flared up in your chest. The memory of him sitting in front of you just a week ago, arrogantly demanding to be your boyfriend, suddenly felt like a joke. You had actually trusted him to show up, and he was ghosting you.
“Fuck this,” you muttered to yourself, powering off your phone.
You weren’t going to sit around waiting for him. You were already fully dressed up. You were going to get food, with or without him.
Slamming the apartment door behind you, you walked down the hallway and took the stairs down to the complex parking lot. You did a slow, sweeping scan of the rows, half hoping to spot his car pulling in, but the asphalt was completely empty of any familiar vehicles.
Your jaw clenched. That was the final straw.
Your favourite diner was only about a ten minute walk down the main street, and a giant plate of comfort food sounded infinitely better than dealing with Aerion right now.
The air was cooling down, but your skin was boiling. Every step you took on the sidewalk felt like an exclamation point to your rage. The sheer humiliation of it was what burned the most—you had spent hours getting ready, only to be left sitting on your sofa like you were nothing.
You had barely made it two blocks from your complex when the distinct, low purr of an engine sounded right behind you.
A sleek car slowly crept up to the curb, matching your exact walking pace. The passenger window rolled down, revealing Aerion gripping the steering wheel.
He called your name out, “get in,” he said, his voice laced with a frantic edge. “Please. Just get in the car.”
You stopped dead in your tracks, turning on your heel to glare at him. “Go away.”
“I’m sorry, just let me explain,” he pleaded, leaning across the center console so his face was closer to the open window, keeping his foot lightly on the brake to match your steps as you started walking again. “Don’t do this. Just hear me out.”
“Hear you out?” you snapped, your voice rising as the frustration boiled over. “You’re twenty minutes late! I sat there like an idiot while you ghosted me. You don’t get to–” you let out a furious exhale. “Just go back home.”
Aerion licked his lips, looking seriously desperate. Because he was driving slowly along the busy street, the cars behind him were struggling to pass through. Within seconds, a line of blinding headlights began to stack up. A loud horn echoed through the street.
Aerion didn’t look back, unbothered by the massive traffic he was single handedly creating.
“Aerion, you’re blocking the road,” you hissed, your cheeks flushing at the mortification as several people on the sidewalk turned to stare at the scene.
“I don’t give a shit,” he shot back, slamming the car into park, completely ignoring a barrage of angry honks. His unyielding eyes locked onto yours. “I’m not moving the car until you get in. Let them honk.”
Realizing his stubbornness was boundless and that your public humiliation was only going to get worse if you stayed on the sidewalk, you let out a livid growl. You tore the passenger door open, slid into the leather seat, and slammed it shut.
“You’re fucking unbelievable,” you muttered, instantly turning your body toward the window, folding your arms tightly over your waist.
Aerion didn’t say a word. He immediately stepped on the gas, turning sharp left into a parking lot a block away. He pulled into a secluded space beneath a large tree.
Before he could even open his mouth, you turned on him, your brows furrowed. “You have a phone, Aerion! It takes exactly two seconds to type a text that says ‘I’m running late.’ But you couldn't even do that. You clearly didn’t–no, don't care about how long I sat there waiting for you.”
“I do care,” he insisted, his voice cracking slightly with raw vulnerability. He held up his phone, tapping the screen before shoving it into your hands. “But my dad called. Look at the screen.”
You looked down at the glowing display. Open on his phone was a text thread from his dad. Your eyes scanned the messages stretching across the last hour.
It was a brutal barrage of stern texts, culminating in a string of missed calls and direct orders demanding Aerion handle his brother Daeron's latest legal mess immediately.
Aerion was stuck on a group call with his father and some legal person all the way from 7:28 to 8:02 PM.
“I couldn’t hang up on him,” Aerion murmured, his eyes searching your face, begging you for forgiveness. “The second he let me off the phone, I didn’t look at my notifications. I just went straight to my car and drove to your place. When I saw you weren’t there, I tried calling back but you didn’t pick up.”
Looking at the undeniable proof on his screen, the knot in your chest slowly began to deflate. He wasn't lying. He looked exhausted and terrified that his family problems had ruined his chances with you.
You slowly handed the phone back to him, letting out a long, shaky breath, though you kept your posture guarded. “I’m sorry your dad’s putting you through this. But I wish you spared at least a second to tell me.”
“I know,” he said softly, leaning in a fraction closer, his gaze fixed entirely on your eyes. “I messed up. I’m sorry.”
You didn’t know what to say. Glancing down at the dashboard clock, it was already creeping past 8:30 PM.
“What about the restaurant?” you asked, shifting in your seat and breaking the quiet. “We’re late. They probably gave our table away to someone else.”
Hearing the softer tone in your voice, Aerion reached forward and turned the ignition on. The engine roared back to life and he shifted the car into drive.
“What about it?” He casted a brief glance your way as he turned the steering wheel to pull out of the lot. “They know my family. That table isn’t going anywhere.”
As it turned out, he wasn’t exaggerating. When the two of you arrived, the hostess didn’t even look at the clock. The moment Aerion stepped in, her eyes widened slightly, and she immediately gathered two menus.
“Right this way, please.”
She led you both past the main dining area to a secluded table in the back, tucked away and bathed in the warm, golden glow of a low hanging chandelier.
But the moment you slid onto the plush velvet seat, Aerion stopped before sitting down across from you. He patted his pocket, his brows drawing together as if he just remembered something urgent.
“Wait,” he murmured, “I have to go back to the car. I left something in the console.”
Before you could even reply, he turned around and disappeared back through the restaurant lobby.
Your stomach instantly dropped, another wave of disappointment washing over you. You sat alone at the table, feeling completely out of place.
You automatically assumed Maekar had called him the second he stepped out of the vehicle, and now Aerion was going to stand in the parking lot for another twenty minutes handling it while you sat here by yourself.
A few minutes passed, each second stretching like an eternity. You were about to go look for him when a shadow fell over the table.
You snapped your head up, about to question him but the words died on your lips.
Aerion was standing there, holding an absurdly large bouquet of fresh white roses mixed with your favorite delicate florals. He looked slightly flushed, a rare hint of self consciousness in his eyes as he carefully placed the massive arrangement on the seat right beside you. The sweet, rich scent of the flowers immediately engulfed your senses.
You were going to speak but he slid into the seat across from you and reached into his pocket, placing a small, sleek black velvet box onto the table. He pushed it forward until it tapped gently against your water glass.
“Did you think I was making another call?” he asked gently as he read the lingering tension on your face. “I had to hide them in the trunk so you wouldn’t see them on the drive over.”
Your heart did a brutal flip against your ribs. You reached out, picked up the box, and opened it. Resting inside was a gorgeous, delicate gold ring, its band intricately designed to perfectly match the silver rings he always wore on his own hands.
“To make it official,” Aerion explained, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto yours intensely, making your breath hitch. “No more confusion. I’m yours, you’re mine.”
A massive, sweet smile broke across your face. You tried your absolute best to bite your lower lip and fight it down, wanting to contain your excitement, but it was pointless.
“A massive bouquet and a ring?” you giggled, lifting the delicate band out of the box and slipping it onto your finger. It fit flawlessly. You held your hand up, admiring the way it caught the warm candlelight before looking back at him.
“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend or trying to marry me, Aerion? You are so extra.” You teased, though your heart was beating with a dizzying speed.
Aerion let out a low laugh, the last of the tension shattering as he reached across the table, wrapping his hand firmly over yours. “It suits you.” He spun the ring around your finger, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and softness that was reserved just for you.
The drive back to your apartment was filled with anticipation. The sweet scent of the white roses filled the car, resting safely in your lap as you kept twisting the new ring around your finger.
Aerion drove with one hand on the wheel, his other hand resting firmly on the center console, palm up. You slid your fingers into his, and he immediately locked them together, his thumb tracing slow strokes over your skin all the way to your apartment.
When he parked, he didn’t give you a chance to reach for the flowers. He grabbed the massive bouquet himself, keeping his other hand anchored to the small of your back as he guided you up the stairs and down the quiet hallway to your front door.
You unlocked the door, stepping into your apartment. You turned around to finally take the arrangement from him, but Aerion simply bypassed you, setting the heavy bundle down on the table in the living room.
The front door clicked shut behind him, locking you both in.
The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, thick with magnetic tension that made your pulse hitch.
Aerion stepped right in front of you, crowding you until your back met the cool wood of the door. He rested one hand flat against the wood beside your head, trapping you in.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, searching your face. His gaze traveled deliberately down your dress before snapping back up to lock onto your eyes. “It took everything in me to sit through dinner without doing this.”
A breathless smile formed on your face, your heart doing a violent thud. “Really? Thought you were just staring at the menu.”
“I wasn’t looking at the menu,” he muttered, a soft gleam in his eyes. His free hand reached up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb tilting your chin up.
He leaned down, closing the remaining distance to capture your lips in a deep kiss.
Heat shot through your entire body. Your hands instantly flew up, tangling desperately into his soft hair, pulling him closer. Aerion let out a low groan against your mouth, his hand leaving the door to wrap tightly around your waist.
He pulled you flush, removing any space left between you until you could feel the frantic beat of his heart against your own.
The kiss quickly escalated. His tongue slid past your parted lips, tasting you with a hunger that made your knees weak.
Without breaking contact, his hands slid down to hook firmly under your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up from the floor.
You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you across the short distance of the room, seamlessly setting you down onto the cushions of the sofa.
He hovered over you, his forearms bracing his weight on either side of your shoulders. The sheer happiness of the night finally overtook you. You let out a muffled giggle against his lips.
Aerion paused, backing up just a fraction. He looked down at you, a massive, soft smile breaking across his own face.
“What?” he whispered, his chest heaving as he laughed softly against your mouth, his nose playfully nuzzling yours. “What's so funny?”
“Nothing,” you gasped out, laughing properly now as you wrapped your arms securely around his neck, pulling him down a little closer.
He chuckled warmly as he leaned down to kiss you again.
This time, it was different. It was sweet and messy. You both kept laughing in between kisses, your lips bumping together clumsily as Aerion peppered them all over your face.
“Stop, I can’t breathe,” you giggled, pressing your hands flat on his chest, though your fingers were still gripping his shirt.
“Don’t care,” he mumbled against your lips, a light laugh escaping him as he caught your mouth one more time, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you tight on the cushions of your quiet apartment.
Hear me out on single mother Reader x obsessed+in love at first sight butcher Simon
You don't know him, you think, not really.
You've seen him a couple times behind the counter - large man in an apron, blond hair buzzed too short to his skull, surgical mask on his face and in the cool air of the butchery, it almost feels like you are the meat on his counter.
Stupid thought, really, probably because you haven't been resting much lately and maybe, because running from your child's father across the country is draining you of energy, money and hours of sleep.
'What can I get you?' He asks, voice vibrating through the space between the two of you invisible strings getting stroked because you have to crane your neck to look up at him, because his eyes don't blink at you as he stares, because you don't know how to ask for what you want and what do you even need-
You shake your head, stepping to the side, pretending you are still looking at the display, letting the impatient man behind you step forward so that the line can finally get moving and butcher's head tilts to the side.
Not even surprised, for some reason.
Your pride and joy sleeps on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your neck - little boy with your eyes and your nose, his hair tickling your nose when you turn your head to breathe him in, trying to calm down.
His gp has already told you that he needs to eat more meat, but apple never falls far away from the tree - a picky eater has another picky eater, because your chid positively despises red meat, refuses any duck or lamb, spits out ground meat, whining about texture and doesn't take to fish kindly either.
And money's tight this month, you chew on your lower lip, fingers wooden with anxiety coarsing through your body like electrical current.
Buzzes in your arms, already aching because your 3-year old is a growing boy, and maybe you aren't getting stronger to hold him up for hours like before when he was an infant and you could pretend you can still carry him under your heart. Keeping him safe.
"What can I get you, luv?" The low voice slithers through your stupor, so you'd look up from the display and see that the large man from before is bracing his arms on the counter, leaning forward. "Been starin' for a while. What's the plan for dinner?" He asks, and you don't know how to push down the animal's urge to back off from him immediately.
The butcher's eyes are dark and round, almost soft when his gazse is anything but.
'Cow's eyes', you think, swallowing a smile because you don't need no trouble and don't want to smile at another man to give him some bloody reason to get closer. 'If cow was a butcher, that is.'
"I'm not...sure." You say quietly, keeping your voice low and he hums, apparently not planning to pull back. "He uh...doesn't like meat much. But I need him to eat a little of it, something...just- just don't know what to try." Your lower lip wobbles and fuck, this is humiliating. But the month have been so rough and so long and you are so so tired.
"Okay." The man nods slowly, tilting his head to the right shoulder, eyes the bottomless well that you cannot get out of, thick stone of it muffling any screams. "Lad eat anythin' from meat or nothin' at all?" He clarifies, keeping his voice quiet and gratitude blooms in your chest for this small consideration.
"Uh, yeah, he..." you nod quickly, wiping tears on your shoulder hastily. "Likes chicken nuggets sometimes. In the shape of dinosaurs." You explain and the man makes a sound only adjacent to chuckle.
"Got decent chicken fillet this mornin'. Fresh." He proposes, nodding at the neatly arranged pale pink of chicken on your left. "Can coat breadcrumbs and bake 'em in the oven till golden. Should taste like nuggets."
It is so simple, so bloody easy but you have no energy to feel embarassed that you did not think of it yourself.
"I'll take two." You swallow the small shudder, because you cannot allow it while your boy's asleep. Can't risk waking him up.
"Four quid." The man nods, starting to move immediately, picking out the meat to wrap up for you and you fumble for your wallet, trying to get it out of the pocket without needing to set your child down.
The butcher huffs out air, but when you glance up at him, he is looking down on the meat he is packing for you. The only give away of his mood - eyes crinkled in the corners.
Is he smiling?
"Here you go, luv." He takes the money from you and passes you the wrapped up meat. "Let me know how it goes with the chicken." The butcher adds, not requesting but telling and you nod automatically, too glad to get it over with.
He is weird, you think. Weird, but he was nice and that's much more than you were getting in the last couple months.
Only back at your apartment when you get dinner ready, you realise something. The butcher didn't pack you two fillets. He packed four.
When you step into his shop few days later, your toddler, holding onto the bag of groceries you have in hand. "Helpin', mum" as he said to you, determined to do just that.
The bell dings above your head and the butcher emerges out of the backroom, his whole massive frame moving too quietly for someone of his size.
When he sees you and your boy, something changes in his eyes, almost eager. Anticipatory of something, when he gives you a short nod and circles the counter, leaning on it again, this time by the register, so he can see you proper.
So there is no glass between you two.
You open your mouth to greet him, only to pause realising that you don't know his name. Bloody hell, you didn't even ask it last time.
"Simon." He chimes in helpfully, eyes crinkling when you quickly nod. He is definitely smiling.
"Thank you for the last time, Simon." You smile, wide and relieved, reaching for your wallet. "But you've given us more accidentally. How much do I owe you for the extra two fillets we got last time?"
He makes a low humming sound, something satisfied passing through his eyes when he turns his head from side to side, slowly shaking it.
"Not accidental. On the house, luv." He says, glancing down at your toddler, tilting his head to the other shoulder when your son just stares up at him back. "Y'like the chicken?" Simon asks, casual and curious, not moving any closer but your baby quickly nods. Stands on his tippy toes to reach for the counter.
Breathes out 'thank u', a little shy in the face of a new person met and when you glance at Simon, his heavy shoulders sag down, dark eyes warm in a way you didn't expect.
"No problem." He says back to your son and glances back at you. "Same today, luv?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, please." You snap out of your daze quickly and he nods, pushing himself up, suddenly towering over you. "Seems like we hit out jackpot with oven-baked chicken."
Fuck, you did not realise he will be even bigger up close.
"Breast's better today." Simon announces casually, not even looking up at you as he packs it for you just as quickly as the last time. "Same price as last time."
You are pretty sure that it should not be the same, but the big butcher sends you one glance and you promtly shut your jaws closed.
You will still be paying for the meat, so maybe it's okay if he wants to be kind to someone.
"Thank you, Simon." You tilt your head, mirroring his usual gesture without even realising when you take chicken from him. "Love, tell Simon 'bye-bye', we are leaving." You glance down at your child, currently watching Simon with rapt attention, clearly not planning to leave.
Simon huffs out 'g'bye', very obviously amused and says that he will see you later.
You don't question it. Not until you run into him in the grocery store. Then at the bakery.
Simon tilts his big head to the shoulder every time, large and tall, thick thighs wrapped in jeans that should be bursting at the seams by the looks of it.
Simon huffs 'hey, lad' at your son and breathes out 'mornin', love.", purrs 'evenin', luv' and practically savours the surprise on your face when you run into him in your apartment building when he tilts his head at you in the elevator and hold it so you can get in.
Smiles behind his surgical mask when you glance up at him and your throat bobs.
Not good for you and your kid to be all on your own. He could fix it for you, you know.
Simon nods goodbyes to you, says 'see you soon' instead of simple 'bye' and has the pleasure to watch the jump of your pulse at the base of your neck, breathing hitching.
Yeah, perhaps he should. Simon checked, there is no one with you and the laddie you haul on your hip everywhere.
You could use a hand and won't you look at that, Simon had two.
✮ summary: jack has a weird staring problem, and others were noticing.
✮ warnings: slow burn, jack's piercing stare, mention of snorting candy LOL, lowkey slowburn omg im sorry.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
✮ gif by @abbotstudy
You wish you felt this tension anywhere else besides the fluorescent lights of the emergency department. The smell of antiseptic made your nose scrunch, a semi-shock to the system to wake you up as you're nearing the end of your twelve-hour shift. The sun is starting to ascend, the morning warmth seeping into the entrance from the ambulance bay.
Dr. Jack Abbot was known for many things, but all you notice now is his piercing stare. You’re at the Hub, getting through charting while keeping an eye on your patient at South 15. A young kid decided it would be funny to crush up and snort Smarteez powder, which ultimately left him with a burning sensation in his nasal cavity.
Your face warms when you look up from your screen and find Jack staring at you. You think maybe he might have been staring off into space, which prompted a small wave and an even smaller awkward smile from your position behind the monitor. You expected him to snap out of it and offer a smile back before continuing onto whatever he needed to do, but to your surprise, he huffs a laugh and walks over to you.
You freeze, clearly not expecting him to approach you. Jack made you nervous; you weren’t sure if it was because he had an assertive disposition, or maybe because he's your attending. “How’s the young drug addict in 15?” He props his hand on the table next to you, leaning to your level.
You readjust your shoulders, suddenly conscious of your posture, “Still trying to act like his nose isn’t hurting. We gave him a saline rinse earlier; he should be ready to leave within the hour.”
“Good, good,” he mutters low, a small rasp appearing in his voice. Calling out orders and talking to patients all day, now evident even when he didn’t need to shout. “Try not to stay too late charting,” he places his hand on your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze before standing up to his full height.
You can tell his leg is killing him; a small limp in his step is giving it away—something others in the hospital might not notice, but you did. He told you about his prosthetic at a post-shift breakfast you grabbed with him. A small diner with burnt coffee will reveal everything; Jack even called it his ‘truth serum’.
Charting came and went, along with the kid in South 15, not before a strongly worded lecture from his parents. You were making your final rounds and handing off your patients to the day shift nurses who were slowly starting to roll in as the digital clock showed 6:50 in red, when you passed Jack again. He still was busy in Trauma 1 when you were on your way to the lockers, Mateo doing the same. “Any plans today?” He asks, grabbing his backpack.
You groan at the thought of doing anything else today, “Don’t even put that in my head. I’m going straight to bed after the hottest shower in the world.” Reaching for your bag, you sling it over your shoulder, closing the door shortly after. You turn to him, “Do you?”
“Yeah, actually,” he smiles to himself, “Victoria had the day off, so I’m headed to hers.”
You raise your eyebrows, “Woah, look at you!” He walks beside you as you both make your way to the break room, fetching your packed lunches. “I knew you guys would work out; you were so worried for nothing,” you smile at him as he rolls his eyes.
Mateo nudges you, “You know I heard Princess and Pearla talking about you and Abbot earlier at the nurse’s station.” You laugh to yourself and feel your cheeks warm.
“How would you know? You don’t speak Tagalog,” you exit the break room, a newfound nervousness rising.
“Well,” he starts, “I heard both your names in the same sentence, and Princess had that weird smirk on her face when she knows she’s not supposed to be talking about something…or someone.”
You roll your eyes. Making your way to chairs, you try to avoid the business of people walking in to start their days. In all the craziness, Jack still finds you, his backpack also slung over his shoulder. Mateo is also surprised at his sudden appearance, and he quickly excuses himself after saying goodbye.
“How is it that you always catch me right as I’m about to leave?” It’s true; it was almost like he had a tracker on you that paged him as you were nearing the exits of this God-forsaken place.
He smirks, his sharp smile piercing straight through you, “Maybe it’s my outstanding record in perfect timing.” His failing act of being nonchalant is evident; even he can feel it, a small awkward laugh escaping his lips.
You walk with him, his arm extending out to hold the door open for you as you both walk into the chaos of chairs. Even this early in the morning, the room is buzzing with a constant wave of discomfort. The emergency department tends to carry that feeling of uneasiness, something the two of you have learned to live with and leave at work.
The sun was the first thing you felt that made you sigh out of relief all day. “I don’t think I could ever give up the night shift, because I don’t know how I would be able to not miss this feeling.” It was almost a ritual, taking a moment to yourself after experiencing some of the worst days of your patient’s lives.
You couldn’t see it, but Jack was entranced with your reaction to something so simple. And yes, it would look like he’s just staring at you, like usual. But little did you know, he was admiring you. He always is. “Please don’t,” he mutters.
Turning your head, a lingering grin on your lips, you ask, “Why? You gonna miss me too much?” A half joke.
“Yeah,” he tilts his head, almost to capture this moment at a different angle, “I would.”
✮ author's note: at this point im writing per request of my friends LOL! jack abbot you will always be famous. my asks/requests are OPEN!!
When Jack takes off his prosthetic, he has no time to prepare himself for how his daughter looks at the most complicated part of his body with her toddler curiosity.
Chubby has seen her father without his leg before, obviously. There are only so many ways to preserve mystery when she doesn’t believe in closed doors, and Jack’s routine of (slight and tight) relaxation involves removing Leggy, his prosthetic. Leggy is her friend, and sometimes it needs cleaning. She gets to put stickers on the thing and tries feeding it yogurt.
But even with all the familiarity she has with her dad’s lack of leg, you and Jack should’ve expected the question to be asked at some point.
“Chubs, c’mon. You need your pajamas.”
“No pee-jams. No!”
Sitting on your bed in her diaper, Chubby keeps escaping your attempts to pull pajamas over her head.
“You’re naked.”
She looks down at herself, considering your accusation.
“I get diaper. Not naked.”
…Well. She got you there.
“She got you there—”
“I know, Jack.”
Jack sits at the edge of the bed as he unfastens his prosthetic, and you glare at him. He pulls it free.
“She sleeps between us half the time. The body heat of two parents and enough blankets to suffocate a horse works well to keep her warm. But sweetheart, listen to your mother—”
When he sets his prosthetic against the nightstand, Chubby stops trying to crawl away. She sits between the pillows and looks at Jack’s residual limb. The sudden stillness gets your attention first.
When Jack notices, his hand moves to rest over the end of his thigh, as if there’s something indecent about her seeing too much of the part of him that she has literally helped you clean before.
She tilts her head.
“Dada, where leg go?”
Jack glances at his prosthetic, propped up. “Right there.”
“No. That’s Leggy. Other leg. Where it go?”
You lower her pajama shirt into your lap as you know Jack too well to understand that the muscles in his jaw settle in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to answer the question. That he’s arranging his body around her question, and you can’t stop him.
Even if you could, you wouldn’t, because if you know your daughter well enough, too, she’ll know how to charm the hurt into something beautiful.
“I don’t have it anymore. I lost it. You know that.”
He’s been better than good about his leg long before you. He’s let Chubby knock on the socket like it was a door.
...He pretended to answer. But this ain’t a joke. His daughter is looking at him and realizing that his body is different.
He goes still, but he doesn’t stop her when she reaches out and presses a hand to his thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not right now.”
She plops down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce style. Jack looks at you, but not to plead, which is obvious. He’d probably chew off his other leg rather than ask to be rescued from a conversation with his little girl. But…you see the clear uncertainty, because you’re so good at making big things fit inside small, soft words.
You just nod.
Go on. Tell her there was a world where you existed without either of us and almost stopped existing altogether. Maybe leave the parts that still visit you in your dreams for when she’s older. All she knows is that you kiss me too much and sometimes uses a scary voice when I accidentally leave the door unlocked.
“My leg got hurt pretty badly.”
“Mommy fix with Leggy?”
Oh. That’s a heartkiller. Jack looks at you again, swallowing.
“No, baby. I didn’t know Mommy yet.”
Chubby turns to stare at you. She’s disturbed by this. You understand totally. A world in which you and Jack did not know each other feels unreal to you, too.
“Mommy not there? Who fix you?”
“Doctors helped me. They tried to fix the hurt leg, but it was hurt too badly. So they had to take it away to help the rest of me get better.”
Chubby stares down at the rounded end of his thigh, her small fingers curling into his shirt.
“You were sick like me? Like Mommy when she cough?”
“Sicker than that. I was in the hospital for a while.”
“You cry?”
…Oop. That is also a heartkiller, the way she says it. The way Jack sighs.
“Probably.”
“You were scared?”
Jack lowers his eyes at Chubby’s question. He feels as much as he feels he should lie. He could easily…well, not easily, but he could tell her that Dada knew everything would be okay and that he was brave.
But she deserves more than that. She may be too small for the truth of fear, but she doesn’t deserve some false version of her dad. That’ll make the truth harder to take down the line. He doesn’t know if he could handle that.
“Yeah, I was scared.”
Chubby’s face goes blank before it twists at the fact she’s just learned that her father can hurt. Of course, you should expect a tantrum or a wail for her dada, the immovable object of her life. The broad chest runs into, and the deep voice that makes the monsters beneath her bed dumb for even trying.
Her eyes begin to tear up. Her lips begin to pout. You instinctively shift closer, but Jack rubs her back first.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”
Anyway, Jack should think it beautiful and flattering that his being scared is harder for her to understand than his having one leg…considering it’s the most his heart can do before it dies on itself at her cries.
…The way yours is right now.
“Dada scared!”
“I was, but that was a long time ago.”
Her lip trembles as she sniffles.
“Your leg gone, you almost gone?”
…You’re not sure if Chubby even knows what she’s asking. Gone to her usually means work, or when you have to use the bathroom, and she can’t handle it. Or when she throws bun-bun under the couch.
But, apparently, she’s put enough of the pieces together, and when you look at Jack, you think he’s the man that must’ve been in that hospital bed.
You lay your hand over his before your tearducts can follow your daughter’s.
“I’m here now, baby—”
“No! Don’t go Dada! No Dada go!”
Chubby scrambles into him and locks her arms around his neck. Jack hugs her, which is too easy considering how tiny she is.
“I’m right here, baby.”
“No go.”
“I’m not going anywhere right now.”
You hear the care he takes with the last two words, because Jack never promises forever, not with the future that he watches like a hawk. And as annoying as it is, you understand his point.
But when your baby girl lifts her head and looks into his eyes, you understand the way he breaks in on himself.
“Stay, Dada.”
And jeez, how can he not at that? You, though? Breaking inward—silently, that’s not your style.
“...Dada’s not going anywhere. Can’t. I’ve got two girls to take care of.”
something in me knows where I’m going something in me knows where I’m going something in me knows where I’m going something in me knows where I’m going
authors note: req by @wooceanic <3 I'm sorry this took so long!!!!!
maekar
Maekar maintains a stern temperament with all except you. You see how he scolds the Ser’s, maesters, his brothers, the stewards, all who test his patience. A stare, a smack at the back of the head, a shove. He towers above them all. There is only an infinity of love and patience for you.
In the moments shared just between you, when he thinks no one is watching, nor can they see, he pats you on the backside, grazes his hand against the side of your neck. Maybe even a peck on the cheek. A tug by the wrist into a dark corner to embrace you and kiss you. Though, even when he is in one of his impatient mood's and feeling argumentative, with you, he never is cruel, nor is he vicious.
The two-hour ride to the woods to celebrate Rhaegal's Nameday, a great hunt and feast. Maekar joined you in the carriage instead of riding with the others by horse. He had been well-behaved initially, but you knew better than all, that it started with a little bicker. A little teasing. And then heated contest.
"I told you to wear your red gown today." He started with, a mere fifteen minutes into the journey.
"Darling this is my red gown." You answered immediately, as you tried looking out through the cracks in the window. You could just about make out the blur of the green trees.
"You know which gown I meant. That is maroon." Maekar was playing with a tassel on his tunic as he watched you ease back on your side of the carriage.
"Maroon is red. You should have been more specific." You hummed and after a beat. "Oh I thought you meant this one anyway. It is the newest one."
"Hmm." He grumbled something incoherent, you never tried to ask what he was saying - there was no point. Maekar flickered his eyebrow up in thought.
"Why don't you leave me out a gown specifically. And I can please you as you so desire." Only you could say something so waspish to Maekar and make him semi-hard. Especially with that teasing smile on your face.
"They all come off you the same." He tore his eyes off you for a moment, trying to calm himself. Just watching you red-faced from the heat in the carriage made him hard.
"Please do free me of it.” You exhaled as you used your hand to fan yourself. “It's frightfully hot today Maekar."
He watched in silence, a bead of sweat rolled out from the bottom of your hairline, down the side of your next and across your collar bone. You caught his eye, watching you, then, and he launched off from his seat.
His hands grasped your face first, and you felt his lips crashing against yours desperately. Maekar kissed you, a gentle grunt escaping him as your hands held his face mostly out of support. You had not been intimate for some time; Maekar had been busy assisting Baelor with all matters across the realm. He would not say specifics, he never did, so you learned quickly to never ask. By the time Maekar would get to bed you were fast asleep. He couldn't bring himself to wake you when you looked so peaceful, so angellic.
"Mm- fuck Maekar." You groaned as he bit your lip in the intensity. He pulled away slightly hoping he had not made your lip bleed.
Maekar's tongue soon pushed against yours until you laughed. You spread your legs so he could rest against you, but you both slipped from the seat to the floor of the carriage when it rocked unexpectedly. Maekar pushed his groin into you as he kissed you, he was an unstoppable force sucking your tongue unabashedly loudly. His torso pressed into you to make sure you would not roll around the carriage.
"We cannot- we cannot do this here." You panted between kisses, breathless almost, and he finally tore his mouth from yours, instead planting kissing across to your neck, down to your collar bone.
Maekar groaned as he sucked at you, kissed you, moving all over your body. He bunched up the skirt of your dress, burying himself in material to get to your body.
"Oh yes we can." Maekar grunted as you felt his facial hair against the bare skin of your inner thigh. He kissed you slowly, intimately, and you sighed at the sensation. His hands massaging your thighs warmed you like the summer heat could never. You could not see his face, nor anticipate what he was going to do next.
You felt a single finger at your entrance, making you flinch and grab the door handle to the carriage. Maekar tickled you, as he parted your briefs slowly, his middle finger slipped against you slowly, separating your hot wet folds. You bit your lip as he then rolled his tongue between your legs, the tip of his tongue moving cruelly but deliciously slowly. You moaned with your lips pressed together, your brow tensing, almost frowning down as you watched Maekar's hulking form below, half hidden under your skirt.
"You're going to make me come in this carriage if you keep doing that." You whispered, though the sound of the horses, the carriage itself were loud enough to cover the sounds of you both.
"That's the intent." Maekar spoke against you, his tongue continuing to lick you, flick you.
You arched your back as you felt the sensation build and erupt, as you clenched your thighs against Maekar's head. You were unable to keep your cries of pleasure quiet, gripping whatever you could that was in reach, with Maekar ensuring your legs were spread wide for him.
"God's, Maekar, you're-" You stammered, panting, sweating, chest heaving below you. "Oh Maekar!" You cried and the carriage stopped to a halt.
You froze as did Maekar, his tongue had flicked your clit to an inch of her life. He kissed you between your legs and emerged from your skirt, red faced and flustered. Maekar sat in his seat as you were flustered, desperately trying to get back into yours.
The carriage door swung open as the guard, Ser Link emerged from the sunlight. He blinked, regarding you both. Maekar smoothed down his messed platinum hair as you tried to regulate your breathing, your full chest heaving.
"Is everything okay my Prince, Princess? I thought I 'eard crying."
valarr
Valarr kept his distance from you initially and you thought he was upset with the arrangement once it had been officially announced. It was both out of your control but as you began to spend more time alone with him he warmed to you, and you couldn’t get him off of you. The night of your ceremony was exhausting but passionate, and a sign of things to come.
Valarr had many obligations and as the First Born Son to the First in Line to the Throne, there were many duties for him to perfect. Especially under Baelor. He returned to your chamber late into the night often, but he always woke you in the best of ways.
You woke to his lips against yours, the sweetest way to be stirred. Valarr knelt into your bed and climbed in to join you under the sheets, already stripped and ready for you.
"Where were you this night?" You asked quietly, stretching a little as Valarr ran his hand up the side of your body across the ridges of your ribs, to the base of your arm pit. You shook from the ticklish sensation.
"There's much unrest at Iron's Spear. Father wanted my ear on the Small Council this eve." Valarr spoke so eloquently. Women were not for council meetings, or many things for that matter. He knew it intrigued you to no end and kept you informed of all that he knew. It reassured you, to know he entrusted you with such information.
As Valarr spoke he lifted your night dress slowly from the hem, bunching the material up as he pulled it over your head. Valarr rested his body onto yours and kissed you lovingly, running his fingers through your hair as you became free of clothing. You felt safest under the sheets with Valarr, it were as if nothing could harm either of you. Your hands worked their way up his body, from his plump backside, up his smooth back, around to his downy chest, up to his shoulders. Oh how the others had no idea how hairy Valarr truly was. This was all for you. Over the past few months he had grown strong from his training, on the horse, sword play, archery, to name a few. You took to watching him fight Aerion in the courtyard despite the trainer being very much much against it. You imagined it when Valarr was away from your bed, and you were alone, under the sheets as your fingers explored your body - the vision pleasured you deeply. Endlessly.
Valarr rolled his groin into you teasingly as you kissed, enough to make you gasp involuntarily into his mouth. His tongue melted against yours, almost becoming one. You couldn't help but smile as you felt him pushing down into you. It had been some months since you wed and through experimenting the many positions with Valarr, you found riding him on top was not only your favourite but also his. He would start on top of you, to get you wet and ready for him, then gently hold you as he rolled onto his back, and you were straddling him. Valarr did the same that night, each time becoming more smooth with his movements.
You rested your hands, your fingers into his hairy torso, kissing him and running your fingers up the side of his neck, through his luscious soft brown hair. Valarr sucked at your bottom lip noisily, groaning as you positioned his eager cock inside you. You were impatient. Once Valarr initiated, you unravelled so easily and happily. You felt no reason to play hard to get when you wanted it as much as he did. If not more.
Valarr held securely onto your waist, ensuring he was deep inside you and rolling you back and forth, rather than moving out of you. You sounded impossibly wet, as always; this was the effect he had on you. It was all enough to make you hum and bite your lip. You sat up and held your breasts; he loved watching you play with yourself, touch yourself. Valarr maintained the pace and felt your thighs clench against him as you finally came. You lifted your chin to the ceiling but he pulled you to him, taking your face so he could kiss you, his Wife.
daeron
You had convinced yourself Daeron hadn't been paying attention to you, listening to the conversations you engaged in whilst walking the gardens of the castle. And as you finally resigned to accept that he was too preoccupied with the thought of wine, or ale, when his next cup was, he surprised you in the most glorious of ways.
A painting of a view from home you had talked about missing dearly. A dress you had grown fond of, seeing another Lady at the Keep wear; only it was unique and embellished, more in line with the shades you wore. A necklace he believed you would adore, and right he was. You would wear it to sleep, you even wore it in the bath. As Daeron came into your chamber to surprise you with it, you were overcome with emotion, gaping at him as if he were your shooting star.
"Daeron, you-" Your bottom lip wobbled as he unhooked it and draped it around your neck, hooking the clasp back into one of the loops. You regarded yourself in the mirror momentarily before wiping tears from your eyes. It had been a hard few days; you had hardly seen him and worried he had gone missing.
"Only the best for my Princess." He gazed at you as his fingers gently grazed the skin of your shoulders, squeezing you encouragingly. "My light."
You had pounced on him, taking him by total surprise. The pair of you collapsed onto the bed and your mouth was all over him. Your sweet high pitched moans echoed around the room and Daeron clasped onto your face tightly, his tongue diving into your mouth, rolling across your tongue. He moaned back, as your hands explored his body, right to his crotch. You smiled at just feeling the size of him. One of the biggest in Westeros, no? You had posed many a night to yourself.
Daeron panted as you massaged him over his maroon breeches. You were overcome with love, passion for this man. Your Prince. He twirled your hair around his fingers as you slipped your hand into his breeches, the base of your palm stretching down his length, fingers around his solid balls that were almost as big as the palm of your hands alone. You helped him remove them from his waist, and freed his cock for you to enjoy. Daeron leant back against the bed, your lips kissing him, rubbing against him. He closed his eyes, but was desperate to watch your every move.
"Do you like your new gift?" He asked you, and you nodded without word. You released your tongue against him and licked him from base to tip slowly, and then pushed him as far as your throat could take.
Your afternoon was a heated mess of moans, tearing at clothes, rolling on the bed until you were almost dazed and dizzy, sweating and trembling. Daeron was on top one moment, his toned torso sliding against yours as he fucked you. You were then on top of him, digging your fingernails into his chest, leaving crescent-moon shaped indents in his pale skin. You cried out as he pushed his hand against your lower stomach. Daeron had pulled you into his lap as you wrapped your arms and legs around him, your mouths, your tongues unable to move apart from one another.
You had finished on the floor by the balcony, enjoying the sea breeze against your sweating bodies. Though he had come, he remained inside you, panting and exhaling loudly on top of you. You kissed the side of his face, running your hands through his soft dark blonde hair. This Prince, so unassuming, so endlessly loving.
aerion
The first few months of being married to Aerion were a lustful, passionate blur. You had barely left the castle and initially struggled to walk down the hallway without adjusting your underclothes. Your small clothes. Aerion was determined to keep you satisfied and all to himself, like at times the two of you were inseparable. Bound by an unbreakable, unseen tie.
Aerion was called to join his father on a trip to Mistwood, which made you distraught and alleviated simultaneously. Your body yearned for rest, but as you slept soundlessly on the first night, the second you gazed up at the ceiling of your bed, wondering how you would get through the coming seven days. The nights were hot and made you restless, as you lay with the sheets kicked down to your feet so you could feel the breeze against your neglected skin.
Supper's were peaceful, with most of the men away in Mistwood, except Baelor, who had come from Dragonstone, and Rhaegal who had always matters to attend to. His presence reassured you and you enjoyed his company, especially as he spoke so infrequently. On the fifth night he informed you Maekar had sent correspondence; they were delayed and would be back in a week. In your chamber you kept busy until you could no longer keep your eyes open, reading or sewing, or even painting when you had the patience for it. Only one night you cried, you allowed yourself to look up at the night sky and wonder if he were looking up at the moon, thinking of you too.
When the day finally came, you joined the others at the gate, anticipating their return. A rush of adrenaline riddled your body as you watched the procession, and felt your heart race at the sight of Aerion, gliding up on his horse and dismounting at ease. He came to you first, his platinum blonde hair fluffed from the wind.
"Princess." Aerion kissed you once, his cheeks flushed pink, as you tried maintaining your excitement. You had put on your new black and blood-red embroidered dress for it. Even seeing Maekar, you smiled at him until he rubbed your shoulder encouragingly.
You returned to your chamber at Aerion's side, your hands behind your back as you walked slowly, listening to Aerion describe the journey home, Mistwood, the tedious Lord's.
"It sounds wonderful." You said, intrigued by how Aerion had recalled it.
As you stepped through the door, Aerion closed it behind him and had started undressing before you. You watched for a moment, curious at his eagerness, as he undressed until he remained in only his red undershirt. His throbbing cock was desperate to come out.
"Take your clothes off. Or I will tear them from you." He exhaled as if he had been running uphill.
You stripped slowly for him until you were in only your stockings. As you stood up straight Aerion was at you, taking your face in his hands so suddenly you almost fell back.
Aerion's lips were forceful, passionate, as he took over your mouth, his tongue rolling into you, making you moan for him.
"Aerion."
He lifted you up onto the bed and climbed after you, guiding you back with his lips still attached to yours, determined not to break.
"My Princess." He exhaled into your mouth, as you felt his hands over your body, around your waist, down to your backside to bring you closer to him. Aerion smacked you gently and pulled away noisily from your mouth. "Turn around." He grazed his index finger across your wet bottom lip.
You turned away from him and knew then how Aerion wanted to have you. His hands grasped your backside tightly and pulled you back into him hard. You felt the tip of his erection glide over your wetness, separating your folds, as you rested your elbows into the bedding. It sent goosebumps across your back, and you pressed your mouth against the back of your forearm.
"Did you hate waiting for me?" Aerion asked, and you nodded, your platinum hair tickling your back.
As he thrusted his hard cock into you, the time apart had evaporated and it were as if he had never left you at all. The sensation of him filling you so determinedly, feeling his hands over your soft supple skin made you grab fistfuls of your bedding, squeezing tight enough you thought you may break your nails. You cried out into the bed as he spanked you, hard enough until the room filled with the sounds of smacking of skin. You arched your back like a cat as his rhythm picked up and he pounded against you harder. Aerion very rarely was gentle with you in these intimate moments, but it worked. You adored him for it.
"Did you miss me?" Aerion panted loudly, his hands both at your backside, squeezing hard, .
You lifted your head up and nodded, flexing your hands out of fists.
"Every minute."
Aerion smacked your backside again and turned you over, desperate to see your face again as he teetered on the verge of coming. He spread your legs as he settled between them and massaged your breasts. You gazed up at his face, his steely eyes as he pushed his hard cock into you again. You held your breath until you knew he was fully inside you, and finally you cried out, as he hit that spot that you could never determine if it hurt, or was painfully good.
He scrunched his nose as he thrust into you, his platinum hair messed from the intensity, the physicality. Aerion thumbed your clit as he fucked you relentlessly, as you had dreamt of since he had left. Your hands scratched his hairy thighs gently, your fingernails leaving pink lines in his skin. You knew it wouldn't be long before you came, especially when he had you this way. Seeing his face look down at yours, knowing he was pleasuring you so intensely. You bit your bottom lip, your chest heaving. Aerion had tried to make it so you both came at the same time; he usually was first, but it was never due to his lack of trying. This time you came first, clenching around his thick cock, lifting your chin up to cry out in relief as that indescribable feeling washed over your body. Within a minute Aerion released inside you, his fingers digging deep enough into your hips to leave bruises that would emerge later. Aerion ran his hands through his hair then and collapsed on top of you, his lips keen to still have you, kiss you, taste you. He licked you, from bottom lip to the tip of your nose.
As you panted against one another, you held the back of his head as it rested on your collar bone. Aerion was still inside you, and unbeknownst to you both it was in that moment you conceived your first.
baelor
Even before your ceremony you knew how busy a man Baelor was. There was much weighing on his shoulders, and an unfathomable amount on his mind. Baelor enjoyed sharing a space with you at Dragonstone, even if you were doing separate things. As you embroidered, he read and responded to letters, but when you yawned and stretched in your chair, his eyes lifted to admire you in the peace you two shared.
"Late is the hour." Baelor's rich voice was lax at this time, and you knew he only spoke when it mattered. "You should return to our chamber. I will join you soon."
You gazed up at him from your book sleepily and slowly inhaled, wondering how much longer he would be up for. You rose from your seat and moved to stand behind Baelor, hugging him gently with your arms wrapped around his shoulders. He squeezed you back then turned to kiss you, holding your face with his hand.
You settled into bed, the pillow cool against your cheek, just as you liked. On your side, turned away from the door too anxious to face it. As you began to drift to sleep, a creak in the bed stirred you back, the bedding shifted to Baelor's weight as he joined you.
His hand caressed you from behind, at your waist, he squeezed you reassuringly. The air smelled of extinguished candles, his body of his natural musk. You felt his hand at your hip, massaging you, moving down your thighs between your legs. Smiling, you pushed your face into your pillow, enjoying the sensation of his hands on you. You liked not having to do much when it came to foreplay, Baelor was all over it. He initiated mostly, and he would touch, kiss you like his life depended on it.
"You are still awake." Baelor spoke softly, you could feel it against the side of your ear.
"As are you." You smiled though he could not see your face.
You felt his body against your back, his groin gently moving against your backside. A sweet almost inaudible moan escaped your mouth as you felt his hands on you. His fingers grazed your backside, sending goosebumps rippling over you. Baelor lifted your leg to rest on him, and he found your sweet wetness, his fingers tickling you. You lifted your chin at the sensation, as he then slipped his finger inside you.
"Mm." You exhaled as he put his other arm underneath your neck to support you.
Baelor was unable to keep himself from you longer, putting your legs back together, he adjusted his dark veiny cock, sliding against the back of you, his tip gently pressing against your entrance. He wanted to fuck you from behind, you felt tighter, you moaned sweeter, more intensely. As he pushed into you, you gripped the side of the bed and felt that familiar but overwhelming wave of pleasure wash over you. Baelor held you by the waist with one hand and slowly bent his other arm underneath your neck, gently bringing it in as if he were to strangle you with his forearm but he stopped. He let you rest against him, kiss him. You resisted the urge to bite him as Baelor quickly built up his pace, fucking you harder and more adoringly. He exhaled against you, feeling you tremble, your pussy clench around him. He felt you press your backside into him and he couldn't help but smile.
"You like that, hm?" He told you.
"I love it." You sounded as if you were in pain, but it couldn't be further from the truth. Your cries rippled against his forearm.
Baelor grunted against you as he thrust harder, deeper and you gritted your teeth, stifling a high pitch moan as best you could.
"Moan for me Princess." Baelor spoke. "Don't hold it in."
You nodded, you did not care to keep it inside you any longer. You did not care his guard could hear, or your daughter in the next room may wake from the sounds. Selfishly, you wanted to make the castle walls vibrate from the moans of pleasure.
Baelor pulled out from you and guided you onto your back as he collapsed on top of you, his hands moving your messed hair from your face to see you properly. He spread your legs to rest against your body, your hands got to his wet cock before he could, massaging him and pulling him to be inside you once again. As he entered you again, you closed your eyes and tried to lift your chin, a high-pitched moan emitting from you. Baelor took your face as he began to fuck you, squeezing you just enough to make you open your eyes again.
"Look at me, my darling." He panted as he then finally kissed you.
summary: a collection of their first times together. connected to my other shy!reader fic, but can be read as a standalone!
content: explicit 18+ MDNI. smut, oral (f receiving), tad of dry humping, unprotected p in v. brief mention of sexual assault (a patient, not reader), reader is a SANE.
wc: 8.9k
notes: thank u for the love on my first fic!! i thought id write a lil extra fic of this dynamic bc i also adore them.
masterlists
First Date
Jack is a traditional man, you’ve come to realise.
After the kiss, the invisible boundary stopping him from taking care of you the way he wanted had been broken, and he promises to care for you to the fullest extent, for as long as you’d let him.
Your schedules never seemed to align to both have a day off, and Jack was getting antsy at the prospect that he had kissed you days ago, but couldn’t take his girl out for a date.
A particularly stressful case one evening broke his patience.
An MVC trauma case had rolled in just before his shift was about to end, the man was in his late-thirties and the crash seemed to have paralysed his lower limbs. He worked to treat the most imminent problems, but Jack could tell the man knew what had happened to his legs, and was grieving silently.
Not long after he’s finished treating the man, a tall, blonde woman rushes into the trauma room just as Jack was about to exit, and the look on her face was fear followed by complete devastation. He watches her sob as she rounds the table to sit next to her partner, moving strands of hair away from his face so she can lean in and press her forehead against his.
Jack stands off to the side watching the scene unfolds, and his breath hitches as he hears the couples’ cries, their pleas of love for one another, the fear that she had almost lost him; lost him before they could finally get married, he overhears.
The woman promises that nothing could ever change the love she has for him, begging to scrap the big, fancy wedding they’d planned, wanting to elope, not bearing to waste another day of not being married to him.
Something twists low in his chest, patience wearing thin and excuses himself from the room, desperately needing to find you.
He couldn’t wait.
Jack’s shoulders are tight when he exits the trauma room, shaking his head and searching for you, hoping you hadn’t left for the day.
───
You’re zipping your bag up where it rests on your chair, when a low, familiar voice startles you from behind.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Uh, going home and sleeping. You should try it sometime, y’know–” You begin to tease back, turning to look at him, but his face is serious, tight, making you falter. You’re about to ask what had happened, never having seen him so disturbed.
He speaks before you can ask, shaking his head and commanding,
“No. C’mon, we’re grabbing food.” His voice is gravelly as he grabs your bag, slinging it over his shoulder, before picking up your coat holding it out for you to slip into it. Your heart warms at the sweet, domestic gesture. Nervously, and heavily blushing, you turn, and let him drape you in the coat. You move to take the bag from Jack, but he shakes his head, holding it tighter.
“Let’s go.” His voice is low, and you feel his hand rest on the small of your back, guiding you to the exit. You almost just let yourself fall into the comfort of allowing Jack to take over, enjoying not having to think for once.
“Jack– hold on.” You say a little flabbergasted. Shen and Lena give you both an amused look as you pass, clearly they seem to know what’s going on whilst you’re left in the dark.
“We’re exhausted, I look a mess right now– we just finished a 12 hour shift!” You try and reason with him as he hurriedly leads you to his truck.
“So?” He gives you a look that implies what you said has no grounds for protest, whatsoever.
You scoff, completely taken aback, and swivel to face him once you reach his truck, searching his face for an inkling of an idea as to what’s up with him.
“Jack–” You try, but he just leans past you, and opens the truck door for you, nodding his head signalling for you to hop in.
“First of all. You ain’t a mess, sweetheart.” He says, almost offended by the notion.
Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you watch as he reaches for the seatbelt and buckles you in, and before pulling away, he rests his forehead on yours and whispers, “You looking fuckin’ amazing all the time.”
You can't help but let out a flustered whine at his praise, blush covering your face as you meet his intense stare. His expression begins to soften once he looks you over, realising you’re finally here with him. He softly brushes a strand of hair away from your face.
“Diner food okay, doll?”
───
You feel the car come to a stop across the street from a 24/7 diner downtown, it’s cutesy, it has a retro feel to it. You go to open the door, but his hand gently catches your wrist mid-movement.
“Ah ah. Stay.” He commands with a soft-but-stern tone, willing you to obey.
You smile to yourself as you watch him round the hood of the truck, you’ve never received this kind of princess treatment, and your heart clenches. You thrum with anxiety as you wait for him to open your door, begging yourself to not make a fool of yourself and somehow faceplanting out of the truck.
Checking that no cars are passing, he opens the door and holds his hand out for you to take. You can’t stop your smile from growing or the heat covering your face, utterly touched by his gentlemanly gestures.
“You don’t have to do all this, you know?” Your voice is quiet, but slightly teasing as you hop out of the truck, holding his hand. “I already like you.”
Jack sighs when looks down at you, wrapping an arm around you to rest on your hip before moving you to the inner side of the sidewalk, away from the road.
“I ain’t doing this to impress ya.” He grumbles out, bringing his lips to your temple. “It’s how you deserve to be treated, honey.”
You’re speechless.
He needs to stop making you blush, you’re already flustered and overwhelmed by all of his actions within the short span of time you’ve left the ER, and the date has barely begun.
You’re barely able to focus or think straight, which is why when you reach the doors to the diner, you mistakenly make a move to open the door, and Jack almost hangs his head in soft frustration
“Sweetheart, c’mon.” He says in disbelief. You look up at him with a confused expression, watching as he enters your space, and opens the door for you. God, he’s so traditional. Your grin is wide as you stare at him, unable to keep it off your face as you enter the Diner.
You let him order first, as you stare up at the menu above the counter. You’d heard him order a savory dish, something with eggs. It’s healthy, and though you’d wanted something sweet like pancakes you start overthinking, not wanting to look unhealthy or childish in front of Jack, completely baseless worries.
He turns to look at you, seeing your brows are furrowed and a worried look paints your face as you’re trying to decide. He reaches back, squeezing your hand tilting his head. “Honey, get whatever ya want, yeah?”
Your smile is tight and shy again when you order the pancakes, nerves wracking your body for no good reason, just another moment anxiety seems to spike randomly.
“Will that be separate or together?” The cashier asks about payment whilst finishing up the order, and both you and Jack speak at the same time.
“Separate–”
“Together.”
His tone is final as he looks at you with an incredulous expression that you even tried to offer to pay on your first date. You begin to shake your head, feeling guilty about making him pay for you, but he taps his card and gives you a stern look.
While you’re waiting for the food he wraps you in his arms and whispers into your hair.
“Let me take care of you. Please.” His voice is gentle but pleading.
Your heart clenches as you look up at him from where you’re wrapped around him, face touching his chest. Vulnerability flickers in your eyes, unsure if you should admit to Jack just yet, how hard it is for you to let go and be cared for.
But he just smiles, patting your hair, and silently, you think he already knows.
Grabbing your food, you look for a place to sit, but you notice Jack is… walking out? You frown again, catching up to him with confusion painting your face. Did he not want to eat together? Had you completely misinterpreted this as a date? Maybe he just wanted to grab food before going home.
He snorts at the confusion, back tracking a little and cupping your face with one hand, a thumb stroking back and forth across your cheek.
“You think I was gonna take ya to a diner for our first date?” He croons, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Jesus, kid, who have you been hanging around with before me?”
───
What you hadn’t expected was for him to bring you to a remote spot that overlooked the city. It was still early in the morning, a fresh spring fog coating the city from above as you sat on a bench and had breakfast.
You’re too in your own head, you know this. But you can’t stop. You’re painfully aware that this is a date, you want to act the right way, say the right things, be charming, be funny. But it inevitably leads to complete silence from you and jumpy eyes darting around focusing on anywhere but him.
Sighing, he sets his takeout container on the bench beside him, before scooting closer to you.
“Hey, what’cha worrying about over there?” He nudges his knee with yours. He meets your eyes and finds insecurity and so much shyness. He tilts your head up using his fingers on your chin, making sure you really hear him when he speaks.
“You still get me so nervous.” You breathe out shakily, laughing a little at the prospect knowing he’d already kissed you stupid days ago.
“You got no one to impress, yeah? S’just me.” He teases a little, recalling your words from earlier.
“Plus, I already got a taste of those lips, doll.” This raises a shy laugh from you and you groan while you nudge his knee back playfully, clearly calming down. He has a way of easing you, making you comfortable around him like no one ever has. You lean your head down against his shoulder, bringing your hand to trace patterns on his scrubs.
In the comfortable lull between you both, you break the silence.
“What happened today? Why were you so… worked up?” You ask cautiously, not wanting to break the serenity of the moment by bringing up negative emotions.
Jack pauses, you feel him tense beside you. But he places a hand on your thigh and rubs his thumb back and forth comfortingly, searching for the right words.
“I just… didn’t wanna waste any time.” He admits softly, breathing out a sigh of relief.
“I know what I want, and we’ll go as slow as you want– but I’m not waiting around to miss key moments with you.” He leans down to where you rest on his shoulder and places a gentle kiss on your forehead, lingering there for a moment after his admission.
Your breath hitches at his intensity, realising how serious he is, that he really wants this, wants you.
“Now,” he pauses, using his hand to lift your head off his shoulder. “I’ve been dreamin’ about kissing you again for days.” His rough voice whispers, searching your eyes for permission, any indication you want this as much as he does.
You don’t give him time to find it.
Immediately, you lean in and crash your lips to his, faster and passionate than your first.
Jack is genuinely taken aback by your little show of confidence, and he makes a surprised whine at feeling your lips again.
You pull back, wide eyed and shocked at what you had done. “Fuck–”
He growls at you having broken the kiss. You don’t get time to sit with embarrassment at how desperately you’d kissed him, you notice how blown out his pupils are and he immediately cups your face bringing you back in.
He had so effortlessly taken over, comforting you and pleasing you with one kiss that your worries dissipate, your body relaxes into him, and you let yourself feel it.
For the second time, Jack had kissed you stupid.
First Personality Shifts
Slowly, but surely, Jack was getting you to come out of your shell. He was discovering parts of you he hadn’t known existed, and loved it.
He was encouraging you to grow, to flourish, which is how he discovered how sassy you could get.
The night shift were working overtime, wrapping up cases here and there, during a particularly brutal shift. You’d been working around 15 hours now, exhausted but powering through.
You and Emma, a day shift nurse, were assisting a trauma case led by Jack and Dr. Robby, much to the dismay of Shen and Ellis. It was a particularly tricky case, you’d all been in that room for ages, holding your breath during a risky procedure as the room stays silent.
After a while, you watch Jack and Robby step back from the patient, letting out a breath of relief before Robby raises his thumbs, signalling everything went perfectly. You see them smile, their eyes crinkling from under the mask.
Small cheers and laughs filter through the room, the tension easing out.
“You’ve still got it, man.” Jack praises Robby.
Robby almost looks reluctant to accept the approval.
“Nah man, that’s all you.” Robby retorts, his hand patting Jack’s back whilst Robby went to leave the room.
“Take the compliment, Robby.” Jack raises his voice to reach where Robby was leaving the room, knowing how his friend gets. Robby pauses in the doorway turning to face Jack.
“No, seriously, brother. Everyone could learn a thing or two from you.” Robby says loudly enough so his residents can hear, making it a point.
You hear them go back and forth for a while, your brain is finally slowing down from exhaustion, they do this all the goddamn time, which is why you don’t even process it when you blurt out your next sentence.
“Careful, Jack’s ego is inflated enough as is.” Your voice is somewhat quiet, you really meant it for just Robby and Jack.
The room erupts in small giggles, Robby’s eyebrows lifting in surprise and smirking at Jack. He can’t help but let out a laugh.
“Oof, damn girl.” You hear Ellis joke from behind you.
Your wide eyes shoot up to meet Jack’s, your tired brain catching up and afraid you’d offended him. But he’s stood there, completely still, and grinning so hard. He almost looks proud.
Jack didn’t think he could fall for you any harder.
He was wrong.
───
You had finally gotten comfortable enough to ask for his comfort.
Before you met Jack, you couldn’t imagine asking for help for the littlest of things, afraid of inconveniencing people. Jack had reassured you, time and again, that he wants to be the person you go to when you need help.
So you do.
At first, it was adorable for Jack trying to get you to ask for help. Being a slight tease about it, encouraging you to use your words.
You’d had a rough shift, you weren’t meant to be going to Jack’s place after work, but god did you need him today more than ever.
You’d been in the room for a few trauma cases, neither of which had ended with the patients pulling through, one being a pediatric case. You’d also opted to do an evidence collection for a sexual assault patient, knowing how busy Lena had been tonight, the floor needing her more than ever, so you’d taken over for her.
Safe to say, by the end of the night, you were a wreck. You felt on the verge of tears for hours, like the littlest thing could set you off. You were emotionally depleted, you wanted to just switch off, and you knew Jack could help.
So you approached him quietly, anxiously, your hands fidgeting. He was grabbing his bag out of his locker, so you slid in next to him, your back against the lockers next to him searching his face, checking if he’s too tired, because you wouldn’t want to be a burden.
“Hey, baby.” He smiles at your appearance next to him, glancing over at you.
“Everything okay?” He says gently after noticing your stature. He can tell you’re anxious. He pauses from where he’s gathering his stuff in his lockers, turning to face you fully now. You’re staring into his eyes, you’re hesitant.
“Talk to me.” He commands gently, his hand coming to yours to break apart your nervous fidgeting.
You swallow the lump in your throat, asking for help always ended with tears for you and you didn’t want to cry. Not here, not now.
“Jack.” You just whine, silently begging that he’d understand what you need without you having to vocalise it. Your eyes water slightly, needing his comfort desperately.
“C’mon, baby, use your words.” He coaxes, his hand cupping your cheek. “You can do it.” His thumb brushes back and forth across the apple of your cheek, catching any tears if they fell.
“I need you.” Your voice is shaky, broken. It’s all you can manage without completely breaking down at work.
“Yeah?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s trying not to spook you, but a smirk tugs at his lips. “Atta girl.” His praise causes an involuntary, but quiet whine to leave you.
He’ll stop the teasing for tonight, he sees how much you need him and the fact you had even verbalised your need for him was progress. He’s so proud of you.
“You need me, baby? C’mere.” He opens his arms for you, beckoning you into his hold. You’re a little embarrassed as you hug him, worried someone will find you like this, all vulnerable and mushy.
“You did so good, baby, asking me for help.” He strokes your hair, comforting you. “C’mon. I’ll bring you home.”
A protesting whine escapes you before you realise, the idea of him dropping you home alone upsetting you. You had just said you needed him, hadn’t you?
“Hey, hey.” He says quickly, needing to settle you down before you get more upset. “I meant home. Our home. You’re mine, baby. Imma take care of you now.”
───
However, one particular night, he uncovered an unexpected, but one of his favourite sides of you.
It’d been a rare evening where most of the night shift were off for the day, well at least those fun enough to drink with.
You and Jack hadn’t even bothered to try and hide your relationship around your coworkers, they knew too much. It wasn’t much of a problem anyways, not that either of you were overly affectionate at work.
Lena supported you, but continued to encourage you to err on the side of caution, worried you’ll get hurt. Shen, however, lived for teasing you both.
With a few drinks in your bloodstream, you had shuffled closer to Jack within the booth, searching for his touch. Shen, sitting opposite you both kept giving you knowing looks. It’d started with your thigh against his under the table, a gentle, grounding presence. But drink after drink, it hadn’t been enough. You wrap your arms around his forearm, your head on his shoulder now.
You’re definitely feeling the drinks, tipsy if not drunk, and you’re practically all over Jack. It's like you wanted to crawl into his skin. He’s definitely enjoying how clingy you’re being tonight. He leaves soft kisses in your hair from time-to-time, not trying to go full on PDA in front of his friends. But you were making it very hard for him to keep his cool.
The drinks get to your head, making you both loose-lipped and a little sleepy.
Your eyes fall to his hands. His fingers idly trace around the condensation on his glass as he politely listens to a story Ellis is telling. Truthfully, you hadn’t been clocked into the conversation for a while now, Jack occupying so much space in your mind. Jack. Jack. Jack.
His hands just looked so good. They were so big and veiny, and his fingers were so thick. You don’t know what had gotten into you, but you were so incredibly entranced by his hands.
Without thinking, you slide your hand that rested on his bicep, down his arm until it landed on his hand, gently pulling it away from his glass. He lets you, doesn’t even look down to see what you’re doing, assuming you wanna hold his hand. But you just turn his hand over, palm facing up, and reject his attempt at intertwining your hands together.
You let out a small, short whine in protest. Keeping his hand laying flat on the table while you take your nails and gently trace your fingers in his palm, up his fingers and back down. They were so worn, tough. Nothing like your soft hands.
This touch from you makes him shiver, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. He glances down at your face, your eyes are glazed over and you seem completely infatuated by his hand. He watches you turn over his hand again, and you begin to trace his veins, like you’re completely hypnotised.
His breath comes out shakily, now completely zoned out of Ellis’ conversation.
“What’ya doing, honey?” He whispers quietly into your hair, ensuring no one else can hear him.
You peek up at him from where you rest on his shoulder. God, you’re drunk. He’s so beautiful.
“Your hands are realllyyyy hot.” You blurt out, drunkenly as you continue to toy with his hands. By the power of the universe, the table had erupted into laughter at Ellis’ story at the same time you’d blurted that out, such that no one heard.
He stills at your comment and almost barks out a laugh. He holds it in, not wanting you to get all shy on him. Not when his shy girl has gotten so confident.
“Is that so, baby?” He practically growls into your ear, lifting a drink to hide his smirk.
“Mhmmm.” You hum in affirmation. Your focus shifts from his arm to wrapping both hands around his bicep, it flexes slightly as he brings his drink to his lips. “Y’r arms too. Soooo big. Wanna bite ‘em.”
He genuinely chokes on his drink at that, something possessive stirring in his chest. His shy, sweet girl, completely fawning over Jack.
He blinks around, making sure no one heard what you said, he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else hearing your desired rambles for him. Looking up, he notices Shen’s cocky smirk as he glances between the two of you. Jack’s about to tell him to mind his own business, but you beat him to it, by doubling down.
“Like it's unfairrrrr.” You mumble into his bicep.
“Unfair?” Jack asks, confused.
“How are you sooo– ugh!”
He tilts your chin to look at him, wanting to know where all this flattery is coming from, and you have a lovestruck tired expression.
You pout as you take him in, his curls, his scruff, his face.
Oh.
Something more present and aware flashes in your eyes the longer you stare at him, like you’re realising you spoke the words out loud. Your eyes widen slowly, mortified, and heat rushes to your face as you stare at him silently, replaying everything you just said. In public.
You dart your face around the table and make eye contact with Shen who's laughing under his breath. Oh fuck. You probably just embarrassed Jack and yourself.
You detach from him so quickly it gives him whiplash.
“Oh my god, I’m so–” Your voice is incredibly apologetic, horrified, and you won't even look at him in the face.
“No, hey. none of that.” Jack’s voice is firm. He brings his hands to cup your face, making you look into his eyes. “I like you like this, cheeky, confident.”
You want to be happy at his words, but you can’t help but feel guilt and nausea stir in your stomach. Your drunk brain is making it very hard to think straight. You bite your lip anxiously.
“Do you…” You hesitate, looking into his eyes. “Do you wish I was more like that?” You have to ask. Maybe sober you wouldn’t feel so insecure, but you’re tired and your mouth is still feeling braver than your brain.
“God, no, honey–” He pauses trying to find the right words, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your cheek. “I mean– Don’t apologise for this. I want you, every version of you.” His tone is pleading. You calm down a little at his words, feeling silly at how quick your mind jumped to the worst case.
“Want you even when you’re drunk outta your mind and thirsting over me like this–” He teases which gets cut off by a groan from you. You can’t help but smile as you hide your face into his neck again.
First Time
You’d been dating Jack for a little while now, but you still hadn’t had your first time together. Jack waited for your signal, he wouldn’t push, he’d wait until you were comfortable enough to be with him.
Which you were. You wanted to be intimate with Jack for so long, but there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your brain, stopping you from initiating.
Your past relationships, as Jack had slowly realised, weren’t exactly the best. You weren’t ever cared for like you are with Jack, which extended to sex. Sex had never really been about you and your partner, it’d always been about his pleasure, his needs.
And now you’re with the most perfect guy, you don’t know how to navigate being intimate in a way that isn’t focused only on him.
This thought was really getting to you one evening. You and Jack were at his place, just having finished dinner, and now you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap as you absentmindedly watch TV. His hand is giving you gentle strokes up and down your leg, and you can’t stop thinking about needing to warn him about your relationship with sex.
“Jack?” You ask gently. He doesn’t look over, he continues stroking your leg whilst humming in response.
You bite your lip anxiously.
“Um– I need to tell you something.” Jack’s hand falters his motions on your leg and he turns his head quickly, concern flashing on his features. Your tone, so nervous and anxious, had worried him, his chest twisting.
“Baby, what’s going on?” He coos, but he’s definitely on edge.
“It’s nothing, really. Um–” You pause, realising you hadn’t thought about a way to approach this with him. “I just really wanna have sex with you–” You blurt out.
Oh for fuck’s sake. You wince and close your eyes in embarrassment. That’s definitely not the right way to do this
Jack’s face is even more confused, amusement flashing his features.
“Right. Baby, I’ve been waiting for you…” He reminds you gently.
“No, no, I know.” You huff frustrated. “I– it’s about that. I just– fuck.” Your frustration builds at yourself for not being able to articulate your words well.
Jack sits up now, sensing your discomfort. He brings you closer to him, leaning on his shoulder now.
“Honey, focus, you’re okay. You can tell me anything.” His voice is immediately grounding. You breathe out shakily.
Silence hangs between you both, before you finally admit it.
“I can’t finish during sex.”
Silence continues to permeate the room. You’re so mortified. You don’t turn to look at his face. You can’t.
“You mean– you haven’t or you can’t?” His voice is gentle, a hand coming to stroke your hair. He’s definitely suspicious of your confession.
“I dunno… both, I guess. I’m not saying this to make it a challenge– people have done that before and it just makes it worse. I’m just warning you beforehand my body is wired differently and I don’t want you to feel bad if you can’t make it happen–”
“Oh, honey, is this why you’ve been hesitant to have sex?” He asks softly, interrupting your rambling.
You just hum in affirmation, embarrassed.
Jack mulls over your words, he won’t argue and tell you he will make you finish but he seriously thinks this is a product of your previous boyfriends being inattentive and careless with you. Anger twists in his chest thinking about you thinking you’re somehow inadequate when it was your boyfriends who just took and took.
“Listen to me, baby.” He tilts your face to look at him now. “I don’t care about that y’hear me?” He watches your expression falter, eyes full of vulnerability.
“If you can’t? Fine. I don’t want you any less, I just wanna make you feel loved, baby.” He can tell you’re still hesitant, but you nod.
You smile shyly and cuddle into his side, resting your head on his lap as he plays with your hair.
The days following your conversation you think over his words more, and a few days later, you tell him you wanna do it– be with him.
He checks in multiple times throughout the day, making sure you’re okay, that you’re absolutely sure. But you also notice how much more often his touches linger. You can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, but you can’t stop thinking about him. Everything about him that day is so much more gentle and careful with you.
That evening, when he leads you onto the couch your body is thrumming with anxiety. You know what's about to happen, he knows. Why are you so scared? You’ve never been more tense, more afraid of something going wrong. This is the man you love.
When you both sit on the couch, cuddling like you always do, he doesn’t make a move. Maybe he’s waiting for you. Your leg shakes as you try to figure out what’s meant to happen, what you’re supposed to do.
Before you can overthink it, you drape yourself over his lap and crash your lips to kiss, a hungry desperate kiss.
He returns it, a grunt of surprise before melting into it. Hands coming to gently rest on your face. The kiss is almost rough, your tongue intertwining with his. You can do this, you can make him feel good. Your brain already slips into making sure he’s pleased, unable to shake the habit from the past.
You move against his lap, and he groans in pleasure. The noise he makes thrills you, wanting to hear it again, you’ve never heard him like this. You try to grind again but he pulls away breathless, shaking his head.
“Baby, slow down.” He practically laughs caressing your cheek. He can’t lose his cool already, not when he plans to make you feel good.
Fuck.
Shame floods your chest and your cheeks heat, climbing off of him and curl up next to him. You somehow messed this up, you want the couch to open and swallow you up.
“Oh, my sweet girl. C’mere.” He coos, turning to face you. He realises how his words may have come across like a rejection, and that’s the last thing he wants you to think.
“I don’t wanna rush this” He places a hand on your thigh, dipping his head trying to find your eyes. He can tell how nervous you are, how much you’re overthinking this. “Lemme take over, yeah?” He asks softly.
You meekly lift your head to meet his eyes before nodding. His eyes are blown out, he looks hungry. But there's an edge of restraint, he's holding back.
You don’t even have time to feel guilty before he cups your face and brings your lips to his again, slow, passionate.
He leans forward, crowding you back against the couch until he’s lying over you. Your heart jumps at the closeness, the position you’re in.
You become breathless, almost gasping for air between each kiss.
Jack moves from your lips, placing sweet kisses down your jaw. Your body erupts in goosebumps, you’re practically shivering at the contact. You don’t even register your hand lifting to comb through his hair, pulling him down onto your jaw for more.
You feel his lips twitch into a smirk.
“That feel good, baby?” He rasps. The low grumble of his voice has you bucking your hips into him, desperate for him. You get completely lost in his kisses–
“Words, baby.” He commands pulling away to look into your eyes. He smirks smugly as he sees how wrecked he’s made you with just his kisses.
You blink processing his request, breathless and annoyed he’s stopped kissing you.
“Yeah– please, Jack. Don’t st– ah!” You’re cut off by his lips attaching to a sensitive spot on your neck, just below your ear. You whine as he sucks on your skin, for sure leaving a mark. Your body shivers again with the thought of him marking you that you involuntarily tug at his hair, which provokes a growl from Jack.
He detaches from your neck breathlessly dipping his head like you’ve just wrecked him with a simple tug.
“Do that again.” He commands low, before hungrily returning to your neck sucking more spots over and over.
A surge of confidence fills you knowing you have the capacity to make him feel just as wrecked as he does you. You continue to rake your hands through his curls, tugging occasionally loving his whines, as he sucks spots lower and lower down your collarbone and chest.
His hand trails under your shirt, his cold hand making contact with your tummy and you tense involuntarily. He pauses looking up from where his head rests on your chest.
“You need to slow down?” His tone is so soft, gentle, it almost makes you cry.
“Nononon– please keep going,” you almost beg “Your hand was just cold.” You laugh embarrassed while stroking his hair.
He smirks at your neediness trying not to tease you more.
He holds eye contact while his hands trail up your torso, goosebumps erupting throughout your body once again. You get flustered as he stares so intensely and you try to look away.
“Eyes on me.” He coos, bringing his fingers to tilt your head back to face him. Heat rushes in your face, your body practically shakes with anticipation.
He lifts your top off so slowly, that you almost just beg for him to hurry up, for him to touch you. His hand slowly slides up from your hips up to your breasts, a hand coming to cup you over your bra as he returns to sucking spots at your collarbone. You get lost in the sensation once more, not noticing his other hand working at removing your bra. Once you peel it off he just stares. You almost go to hide, feeling self-conscious under his stare.
“So fuckin’ pretty.” He groans before directly leaning down and taking a nipple into his mouth.
Your hands grip the couch roughly and your back arches into him involuntarily.
“Fuck– ohmygod–” you whine at the sensation of his tongue swirling your nipples. You feel jack smirk against your breast, cocky fucker, before returning to suck on them hard.
You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good, you had no idea kisses and touches like this could wreck you.
His teeth unexpectedly grazes your nipple and you moan. Your body shakes with overwhelm, you bring your hands to cup jacks face needing him to pause.
His lips detach from your nipple and his pupils are black. He looks like a man starved. He tries to go back to sucking but you hold his face steady.
“Need– fuck– need a break, feels too good.” You pant.
Jack blinks and his cocky smirk returns.
“Oh yeah?” He rasps, with a mock condescending tone.
You want to even the playing field a bit so you paw at his shirt, needing him to take it off, which he complies by ripping it clean off so quickly you barely register it. He leans down to capture your lips again, but you push your body upwards into his to manoeuvre you both into sitting position. You’re on top of him now, your turn to wreck him.
His eyes narrow and smiles at your little show of dominance, and he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, for now.
You lean down to return the kisses he gave you. You test out his sensitive spots, kissing and sucking spots along his neck whilst raking your nails along his biceps, his back, his chest.
His breathing is shallow and you hear him whine.
Bingo.
You continue sucking in that spot on his neck, one hand tugging in his hair and another raking nails on his bicep. You love the sound of him falling apart.
You feel his hips involuntarily buck into your and you know you have him under your finger. It’s your turn to smirk against his neck, peppering small kisses up his jaw before locking eyes with him and grinding down straight into his lap.
His hands jolt to your waist, not roughly, but a firm presence. He holds you down as he groans loudly, coming to rest his head on your chest. You try to move again but his hands on your waists prevent it, and he sounds destroyed.
Your smug, cocky victory is short lived.
His hands are on your thighs in an instant and you’re suddenly jolted upwards, your legs wrap around his torso as you let out a startled yelp. He’s carrying you.
“You’re a fuckin’ tease, baby.” He murmurs into your neck as he carries you towards his bedroom.
You’re plopped down onto his bed and you bounce a little. You don’t even get time to speak before he’s on you again, his kisses desperate.
His hands paw at your bottoms, sliding them off in one quick go before he cups your panties.
“You enjoy almost getting me to blow my load in my pants, hmmm?” He teases feeling how wet you are already. “Making me feel like a fucking teenager again–” He growls before latching onto your breast again.
His hand slides your panties off as he sucks you, and it all feels too good you whine as you paw at his belt, wanting him to take his pants off too, to be on equal playing ground.
Groaning, he reluctantly detaches again before quickly working at his belt. The sound of the clink and him sliding it through the loops has your stomach flipping as you breathlessly stare at him from the bed.
As soon as they’re off he’s on you again, his fingers coming to your clit, spreading the wetness from your folds up and making small circles. You jolt a little at the feeling, not expecting his touch there.
“Jack– fuck– what’r you doing? You don’t have to–” You begin to tell him to not waste his time on you, you already know you won't be able to cum.
“M’working you up, baby.” He coos, not slowing his motions. “No pressure to finish, yeah? Just wanna make sure it doesn’t hurt.”
You hesitate, staring into his eyes and you realise he’s being sincere. You swallow a lump in your throat, feeling extra vulnerable at the lengths of care you feel he’s taking for you. You nod before falling back against the bed, just letting yourself enjoy the feeling of his touches.
You feel the way his fingers move slow circles against your clit, how they adjust every time your breath hitches, as he’s searching for the right tempo and pressure to make you feel good.
You can hear how wet you are, you almost feel embarrassed how his fingers glide through your folds so easily. He continues to pepper gentle kisses down your neck as his fingers stroke you, they move lower and lower until they reach your entrance.
You gasp as he pushes his fingers inside you, feeling full.
You let out small whines of pleasure as he thrusts his fingers inside you. He shushes you by placing his soft lips to yours, continuing to mumble sweet words.
“Just let go for me, baby.”
“Thaaaats it.”
“Rub your clit for me.”
You reach down to add pressure to your clit and immediately jolt at the feeling. It feels different. The pressure from his fingers inside you, curling upwards and continuously thrusting at a consistent pace is getting to you.
Your lower stomach twists, he sucks on your neck as he rubs against the spongy spot inside you, you realise the pressure feels good. That the way you’re rubbing yourself as he thrusts into you while whispering is working. You try so hard to keep it there. Keep rubbing. Keep focused on the feeling. Focusing on his words–
It disappears.
“Fuck!” You huff frustrated, tears welling in your eyes. He pulls his fingers out immediately, worried he’s hurt you and you curl up into yourself. “I can’t do it.” Your voice is wobbly as you berate yourself, wiping a tear off your face.
“Hey, easy, baby.” He soothes by rubbing a hand on your back. His heart clenches at the sight of your teary eyes.
“M’sorry, Jack,” you sniffle. “You spent so much time on me and I couldn’t–”
“No. Hey.” He stops you, firmly. “No apologies. M’not mad, not upset.” He coos, moving your hair away from your face.
“I did all of that because I wanted to. You didn’t ruin anything, y’hear me?” He cups your face making you look into his eyes.
You nod shyly, but you’re still feeling low about it, he can tell.
“Jack– It’s okay if you wanna just fuck me now. M’ready. I want it too.” You whisper looking up into his eyes, still on the verge of tears.
He’s shaking his head before you even finish your sentence.
“No.” His tone is final.
He has an inkling that you’re in your own head too much, putting too much pressure on yourself to perform even when he told you there’s no expectations. He can feel your frustration, just wanting to fix this for you. An idea lands in his head.
“I’m not done with you.” He says gently whilst moving down your body again. “If you’ll let me, I wanna try something else, yeah?”
“But–” You begin to protest, feeling guilty he has to try so hard on you.
“It’s for me. Not for you. Humour me, okay?” He asks so politely, you don’t wanna deprive him of something he enjoys. So you nod.
“Lay back for me completely, baby.” You oblige, breathing heavily.
You feel his fingers in your folds again, they linger on your clit before he gently thrusts them back inside you. You lie back, continuing to feel the pressure but you can’t shake the guilt.
You feel his hot breath ghost over your mound. You jerk your head up, he’s staring directly at you before he places his lips directly on your clit and sucks.
Your body jolts, arching your back off the bed, your hand landing in his hair once more. You were not expecting this.
“Jack– ohgod.” You breathe as he simultaneously works his fingers inside you and tongues your clit. He smirks at your reaction.
“That feel good?” He’s cocky, but he’s also checking in on you. You nod fervently and guide his head back down. He obliges wordlessly and gets back to working your clit. You’ve never been made to finish with someone else's fingers, but no one has ever tried this.
He hears your small whines and it takes all the restraint in his body to keep focused on you, as much as he wants to just take his cock and slide it inside you, to watch your eyes widen as he fills you up, he wants you to feel good.
You feel the familiar pressure build in your lower stomach.
You start squirming, your lower half somehow both chasing his mouth but trying to get away from it. You’re getting overwhelmed, your body experiencing too much at once, and this is where you usually tap out, where it dissipates.
Jack senses it. He feels you clenching around his fingers. Feels your whines becoming more high pitched and breathless. He doesn’t want you to think too much about finishing, can’t have you waiting for the build because it’s gonna drive it away.
He doesn’t change his pace, his fingers continue thrusting, and his tongue doesn’t speed up on your clit, he keeps everything consistent.
“Jack–” You whine, feeling overwhelmed but knowing it’s not going to work, edging towards overstimulation.
He glances up to meet your eyes but doesn’t stop his motions, searching your face. He can see you’re wrecked. He’s desperate for you to fall off the edge, you’re right there.
So he distracts you.
In one smooth motion, he removes his mouth. You almost whine in sadness before he replaces them with his fingers, eliciting a stronger reaction from you, and he says, in the most casual tone:
“You finish your charting?”
What?
“My– Jack– what?” You huff out breathlessly but he doesn’t slow his fingers from toying with your clit and thrusting inside you
You try to answer his question, racking your brain.
But you can’t think.
It feels too good.
Your mind goes completely blank.
And you let go.
You fall apart completely. You clench around his fingers and your legs shake involuntarily.
“Fuck–!” You moan loudly. Jack continues to work you through your orgasm, not stopping for a minute.
He pulls the pleasure from your body, the only thing you register is the waves of pleasure crashing down on your body. Your back is arched off the bed and your eyes are squeezed shut as Jack manages the impossible.
You didn’t know it could feel this good.
You finally start squirming trying to get away, and he eases his fingers out of you. You’re practically shaking, breaths coming out heavily as you lay on the bed completely destroyed.
You feel him slide up the bed, tucking himself under you so your head rests in his lap and he just strokes your head, moving strands of hair out of your face from where they’ve stuck to you as you’ve gotten sweaty.
You slowly calm down, coming back to yourself and shyly open your eyes. He’s already staring down at you, smiling so wide.
Despite yourself, you blush. Like he hadn’t just made you completely fall apart.
“My sweet girl.” He coos, stroking your cheek.
You try to hide your face in your arms, feeling impossibly shy at his words.
“Oh, c’mere, baby.” He coaxes you out of hiding. “Y’getting all shy? After I just made you cum so hard?” He teases gently and you groan, turning around to sit in his lap, resting your head in his neck.
“Jaaaaack.” You whine.
“Okay, I hear ya, baby. No more teasin’,” he rubs a hand down your back, then his tone gets impossible quiet, like you’ve never heard before. “That was okay, right, sweetheart?” His puppy dog eyes meet yours.
You can’t help but laugh.
“Okay?” You scoff.
“Jack, that was– everything.” You tell him, kissing his cheek.
He settles down a little after that, the brief shyness leaving him.
“My turn, please.” You beg whilst reaching down to his crotch where you can feel the erection poking through from where you’re sat above him.
He grabs your wrists as you touch the waist band of his shorts, stopping you, you frown.
“Darlin’, believe me. Any other night, absolutely,” He pauses stroking your cheek. “But I need you so bad right now, need to be inside you.”
“Oh.” You whisper, a shy smile coating your face as you realise how wrecked he is. Rising from his lap and allowing him to remove his boxers, you settle back down onto the bed. He’s on top of you in an instant. “Jack– I can get on top, wanna ride you.” You say shyly.
“Fucccck,” he groans. “Baby, I want that, but I’m not gonna last. Next time. Let me feel you this way. Please.” He begs while positioning himself between your legs.
You wrap your legs around him as the tip of his cock slides through your folds. Your breath hitches when it nudges against your clit, the feel of your wet folds sliding against his cock makes it twitch against you, and he lets out a low groan at the feeling. Jack repeats the motion a few times before bringing the tip to your entrance.
You instinctively brace, knowing how painful it always is. Jack sees this, leaning down to kiss your neck and calming you down, relaxing you.
“S’okay, relax.” He coos before dipping his head into your neck, and pushing in.
He pushes in slowly, so slowly he’s losing his restraint.
But it doesn’t hurt.
He’d worked you open so well, kept you so relaxed, you just feel full.
You moan as he bottoms out, a hand tugging at his curls and the other gripping his bicep. You nod fervently,
“You can move, please, move–” You don’t even finish your begs, your permission is all he needs to start letting go and thrusting into you.
You swear you’ve never felt so good in your life, the level of intimacy is unmatched.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good.” He whines
His eyes meet yours as he thrusts, and as always his stare is intense. His pupils are blown and he looks destroyed.
He fits so perfectly inside you, you’re so full, you can’t help but moan.
You’re clenching around him so perfectly, your breasts bouncing with every thrust and he can’t take his eyes off you.
“You’re doing so good f’me.” He praises even though he looks like he’s on the edge.
Holding himself up on one arm to continue his movements, he brings a second to your clit.
You don’t expect his touch once more, so lost in how full you feel, how heavenly it all is, that you hadn’t realised how close you were again, and his simple touch pulls a second orgasm from you.
You fall apart even more, gripping his hair, nails leaving marks on his bicep as you shake around him, clenching.
That’s all he needs to finish.
Your beautiful moans, the way you don’t break eye contact, the feel of you coming undone on his cock, he’s gone.
His thrusts stagger, becoming more desperate and frantic, his hold on your waist tightens as he grips onto you bringing you down onto his cock. His head lulls next to your head, hot breath in your ear as he groans, his seed spilling inside you.
He’s completely wrecked, his last few after-orgasm thrusts jolt you, overstimulating. He lets his body go and completely crashes down onto you like a weighted blanket, leaving sloppy kisses down your neck.
You’re both breathing so heavily, he’s still inside you as your aftershocks move through you, clenching involuntarily, but he seems to enjoy the feeling even as sensitive as he is.
“Y’were perfect for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear.
Your heart clenches at his words, how soft he’d been with you the whole time. He was so caring, so focused on you, praising you throughout the whole thing, he never took, he just kept giving and giving. He made sure it didn’t hurt. You realise that you’ve been accepting subpar treatment your whole life and just brushing it off.
In your post-orgasmic blank brain, you can’t process the emotions and a few silent tears spill from your eyes at the complete overwhelm of emotions.
Your sniffles are what alert Jack, finally lifting his head to meet your eyes. His heart drops into his stomach, panic flooding him.
“Hey, hey, talk to me.” His tone is so soft you feel guilty for worrying him. He moves to pull out, but you’re not thinking straight and you lock your legs around him, not wanting him to leave.
You just reach around and koala-bear hug him. He settles a little knowing he hasn’t hurt you, that you still wanted him touching you.
“Gotta talk to me, baby.” He pleads, cupping your face.
You’re not silent for much longer, calming down enough to stop his worry.
“You– felt so good.” Your voice is high pitched, almost shy. “You cared for me.” You sniffle.
Jack’s heart practically breaks.
“Oh, baby.” He coos, bringing you into his chest. Peppering many kisses into your hair. “M’always gonna take care of you.” He says so gently you can’t help but let out another tear, but you’re smiling now.
“I love you.” You whisper, eyes full of tears, him still inside you.
He breathes out a sigh of relief.
“Baby you got no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.” He kisses you, soft, passionately.
