◟ content ! ୧ babbling to your husband when he's trying to sleep
𝒪ver the year you've shared a bed with him , you have learned every habit that helps Jacaerys sleep.
The slow circles against the nape of his neck. The absentminded twirling of the short curls hidden beneath his hair. The gentle weight of your hand resting there until the tension finally leaves his shoulders.
And tonight is no different. His breathing deepens , the lines of responsibility easing from his face as sleep gradually claims him.
Beyond the narrow windows , the sea rolls endlessly against Dragonstone's black cliffs. Every wave breaks with the same patient rhythm , the sound carrying through ancient stone until it becomes part of the castle itself. Salt lingers in the air despite the shuttered windows , mingling with melted wax and smoke from the dying candles.
A great foundation to get lulled to sleep.
But no , unfortunately for your husband , you are still awake.
"Jace." A noise that is half agreement and half sleep follows the call of his name , and so you continue , "i think i would greatly miss the sea."
The sheets shuffle beside you as Jacaerys rolls onto his back , smacking his lips as if to will the lingering drowsiness away. To properly engage in a conversation (even if he wants nothing less than find rest) , as his wife deserve nothing less. Yet , he keeps his eyes close. And your hand doesn't slip from his neck as he does , lingering in a way that is familiar , and warm.
"You say that every time we're away from Dragonstone ," he finally notes. He doesn’t understand where your longing words for the sea are coming from , and he doesn’t pry. Perhaps it is merely sleepy delusion. Because you are at Dragonstone , you are at the sea , as it is right outside these walls.
There is nothing to be missed here.
You are home , you're with him.
So instead , he melts back into the pillows , comforted by your gentle touch and surrendering to finally let the dragging day come to an end , so that one will start anew with more duty , more war … , but also more you.
Yet every crash against the cliffs tugged strangely at your chest , as though the sea was calling from somewhere much farther away than Dragonstone's shore.
"I know." Silence settles again.
This time , it lasts almost a full minute. Enough to make his breath even out , to let him believe that you finally found sleep as well. He curls around you like a Dragon , nose brushing against the side of your face to keep close , and warm…
Then — "Jace ?"
Oh , how he adores you. Even when you steal his rare moments of rest just to converse with him a bit longer. "Hm ?"
"Have you ever been scared of the sea ?"
Ah , again with the sea. This time your question is enough to have him blink open his eyes , glazed with sleep and searching yours with a bit of confusion.
"...Not really ," he answers lightly , and this time his hand shifts to cradle the back of your neck too , mindlessly twirling the short hairs like you do him. He hopes it soothes you to finally let conversation fall away , and to let sleep win.
"Not even in storms ?"
This one he considers a bit longer. Then , he shrugs , huffing a sleepy laugh , barely more than an exhale.
"If I ever end up in the sea, it'll be because I've done something spectacularly stupid."
You consider his answer for a moment , and yet it doesn't comfort you at all.
Because it's such a Jace answer. Your Jace , firstborn son of Rhaenyra , fierce , kind , and spectacularly stupid when it comes to protecting what's his. You know him well enough to understand that it's a lingering fear of loosing someone close to him. Like Lucerys. And that he'd rather it was him in that storm than his little brother.
"I would jump in after you," you say , fierce gaze meeting his , "I would bring you home."
"No, you won't." 'Won't' , not 'wouldn't'.
"I absolutely will."
A soft patient sigh as he cradles your jaw , thumb brushing your cheekbone with so much devotion you almost yield. Almost.
"If I'm in the water , my love , the sensible thing is to stay on the ship ," he hums , readjusting himself yet again , trying to gently direct you deeper into soft sheets. His eyes close again when you don't fight him , and you're both just tangled limbs and lingering warmth , "t' stay alive ."
You wrinkle your nose.
He knows you do , even when he can't see. Because he knows you.
"I'd still come after you ," you mutter , much softer this time , and he hopes that it's a sign you're slowly surrendering to his warmth, "i wouldn't just leave you , Jace."
"I know ," he hums , and you feel his hand curl the locks at the back of your neck again , gently breathing you in as he also becomes more silent , "i know you would."
Then , "but we're not at the sea , my love. We're home , and we're safe..."
Another wave struck the cliffs below. Far enough away to sound gentle. Close enough to shake the silence.
And this time you don't fight him , and his attempt to get you to sleep. You press your forehead against his arm , and he rests his chin on top of your head with a satisfied sigh.
It's warm , and it's safe , and suddenly you're much sleepier than moments before.
A few seconds pass.
"...Jace ?"
He doesn't answer this time. He's finally asleep.
You smile into the darkness , listening to the sea outside , and letting it finally lull you to sleep , surrounded by the warmth of your husband. In which neither of you imagine there would come a day when its waves would carry away more than lost boots ...
Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon… except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow… yours remembers it too.
↳ Sequel ‘YOUR TOUCH’
Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader
Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship
Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanism🥹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).
A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him 😭. Also half of this is me word vomiting🥴.
Word Count: 10.1k
- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!
The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.
Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Black’s dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.
The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.
High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.
He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jace’s riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.
He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.
She lives. Therefore, I go.
Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jace’s eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.
Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.
Of course she was.
Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Lohar’s vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armada’s leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.
Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.
Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.
He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.
Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlys’s flagship being violently rammed by Lohar’s vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.
He flew too close to the water.
His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.
A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermax’s right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragon’s chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.
Vermax screamed.
The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.
They were falling.
“No-”
Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.
“Vermax, fly!”
The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jace’s chest shattered at the sight of it.
“Soves!” His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. “Soves, Vermax! Please-”
One final, agonizing beat of the wings.
It was not enough.
Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.
Primal instinct flared.
He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesn’t feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare.
He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.
“Vermax!”
He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.
“Vermax!”
Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jace’s from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination.
They did not look like the eyes of an animal.
They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye.
A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermax’s exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.
He never resurfaced.
Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesn’t ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.
He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.
He thought of his mother.
The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.
He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.
He thought of-
A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.
Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.
Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source.
A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Lohar’s soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.
They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.
The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless.
A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.
Then a third...straight to the neck.
A strange, sudden calm washed over him.
The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.
He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.
He thought of Baela’s laughter.
He thought of his brothers.
And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.
The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.
A burning sky, mirrored in the water.
Beautiful.
Tragic.
Then everything went black.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.
His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart.
He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.
White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.
No smoke.
No dragon.
No sea.
No battle.
Just a bedroom. His bedroom.
Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, King’s Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.
His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.
No swords or the banners of House Targaryen.
Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.
The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermax’s movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.
He could still feel the bolts.
Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.
“Just a dream.”
A dream where he had been a prince.
A prince who had died.
His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room..
Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.
Classes.
Shit.
He was already late.
He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasn’t time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.
The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.
His steps halted in the doorway.
Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.
CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in King’s Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.
His mother.
The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right.
He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.
“Jacaerys-”
She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.
“Sweet boy.” Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. “What’s the matter?”
Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.
He shook his head against her shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“You are clearly not fine.”
Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.
He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. “I just…” His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.
Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.
“What happened?”
He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldn’t comment on it and took a breath.
“I had the most vivid dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted.
“I was a prince,” he said.
Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.
“A prince?”
“Yeah.” A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. “You were a queen.”
Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. “Oh?”
“I died fighting a battle for you.”
Silence.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.
“Well,” she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. “That sounds exhausting.”
Jace stared. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“You are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterday’s hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.”
He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. “Fair.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “It was only a dream.”
“You know,” said a new voice from the doorway, “some families start their mornings with good morning.”
Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.
“Did Jace finally lose his mind?”
Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. “About time.”
Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. “There he is.”
“Dreaming about being a prince?” Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. “That’s because you’re already treated like one.”
The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.
“My sons,” she said, picking up her coffee. “Truly intellectual giants.”
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.
Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.
“Are you still picking up your girlfriend?”
He froze.
The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.
“…My what?”
Luke’s head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.
Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.
“Your girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Jace set the cup down carefully. “Right.”
You.
He had a girlfriend.
A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his mother’s kitchen in yesterday’s hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.
And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed.
Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.
Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness.
Luke nearly choked on his cereal.
“Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“Only briefly.”
“Only” Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.
Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Jace.”
“It was a very intense dream,” he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“The dream had dragons, Mum.”
She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. “She’s a lovely girl. I wish you’d bring her home more often.”
Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close.
“I was planning to.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Today?”
“…Possibly.”
“Good.” Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jace’s Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.
Vermax.
He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ironic to him.
He stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book he’d read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.
He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-
Built for the sky.
A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is you’re recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before you’ve registered their face.
He shook it off. Got in and drove.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in King’s Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.
Then the front door opened and you stepped out.
He got out of the car.
The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jace’s eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.
And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.
Waiting for him to come back.
The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.
Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.
Deliberatea and unhurried. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.
“How are you, my beloved?”
You stopped.
Looked at the hand.
Looked at him.
And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. “What has gotten into you this morning?” you questioned him.
Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. “I genuinely have no idea.”
“You’re being sooo weird.” You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. “How weird is this going to get?”
“I had the wildest dream.”
“Oh?” Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained.
He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.
“In it,” he said against your smile, “you were my princess too.”
Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed.
“Oh my God.”
“You asked.”
“I asked what was wrong with you, not-”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-”
“I make no promises.”
He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when he’d left the penthouse.
The dream wasn’t entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than you’d already been, which was saying something considerable.
He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
University should have felt normal.
Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.
The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone.
He stared at his notebook.
He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.
He had no idea when.
“You’re disassociating again.”
Jace blinked.
Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.
They’d been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense.
Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.
Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting.
Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.
“What?” Jace managed.
Cregan raised one eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.”
“Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.”
“You texted me at four in the morning.”
Jace went very still.
“I did?”
Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryon’s closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.
“‘Brother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.’”
“Oh, God.”
“‘You would have loved Winterfell.’”
“Cregan-”
“‘You were Lord of the North.’” He glanced up briefly. “I’m from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.”
“Please stop-”
‘I miss Vermax.’
Cregan lowered the phone.
“I don’t know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.” he said.
Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement.
“You were never meant to read those.”
“You sent them to me.”
“I was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I don’t remember doing this at all.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.
“Yeah,” he said. Then, quietly: “Not entirely.”
Cregan nodded. He didn’t push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.
“Tell me later,” Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.
Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.
Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the world’s coordinates make sense again. He’d never found quite the right words for it. He’d stopped trying.
You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.
“Better than this morning?”
“A little.”
“Still thinking about your prince dream?”
He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. “Unfortunately.”
“You are such a nerd.”
“I was literally fighting a war.”
“You were dreaming about fighting a war.”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-”
“Noted and rejected.”
You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. “I make no promises about what I tell your mother.”
Together you walked toward the café nearby. A small, overcrowded place called something Jace could never quite remember but it had had excellent coffee and terrible lighting and was perpetually full of students and professors who had clearly rather be somewhere else. The place that existed to absorb the ambient anxiety of a university and convert it, through caffeine, into something marginally more functional.
You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”
Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jace’s car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.
He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldn’t fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Jace asked.
Aegon’s attention had already moved to you.
“And how are you?”
“Good,” you said politely.
“Still putting up with him?”
You smiled. “Barely.”
“Excellent answer.”
Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted.
“You’re blushing,” Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.
“He was calling me his beloved this morning.”
Aegon’s chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“In what context?”
“He kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.”
Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.”
Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.
None of these were practical.
He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
After Aegon eventually wandered off, ostensibly to a meeting, credibly to cause chaos somewhere else and so the café settled back into its ordinary rhythms. Students came and went. Espresso machines hissed. The ambient noise absorbed itself.
You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.
He was staring into his coffee again.
You watched him for a moment.
“You never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.” you said quietly.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.
“To put it simply, there was a war,” he said.
You didn’t ask him to explain. You waited.
“A civil war.” He looked up briefly, then back at the table. “A war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didn’t accept it. Didn’t accept her.”
“And you fought for her.”
“Of course.”
The images came without invitation, Dragonstone’s grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.
You reached across the table and took his hand.
He continued.
“I flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-” Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. “Vermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.” The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. “He died with me.”
Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles.
“The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.” He paused.
“It was strange. It wasn’t- it wasn’t the way I would have imagined. It wasn’t terrifying.”
“What was it?”
He thought about it honestly.
“It was sad,” he said. “But calm.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.
He leaned into it without thinking.
“I’m glad it was only a dream,” you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didn’t want to confess out loud.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it.
She’s right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.
He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.
The afternoon passed.
Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.
“My mother wants you over more often,” Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.
“Apparently she likes you.”
You brightened immediately. “Really?”
“She said so unprompted. First thing this morning.”
“Good.” You smiled with satisfaction. “I’m charming.”
Jace looked at you sideways. “You are deeply smug about this.”
“I’m charming,” you repeated, pleasantly.
He laughed. “Come over tonight?”
You looked at him, with that look you had, the one he’d never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.
“I’d love to,” you said.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived.
Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.
You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.
For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional.
Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didn’t ask, didn’t need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.
He was reading about capital allocation.
“Jace.”
He looked up.
“You’re getting lost in your mind again.”
“I’m not what are you talking about?” he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something he’d apparently committed to today: “I was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?”
“That is not better.”
“You look pretty,” he said simply.
The silence that followed had a distinct texture.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.
“No,” you said.
“What?”
“You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to study.”
“I was simply making an observation.”
“You are impossible.”
He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.
An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.
Blankets appeared.
The overhead lights went off.
And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.
The city moved quietly outside the windows.
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The prince stood before you.
The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.
“No.”
Your voice came out broken.
“No, please.”
He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.
“I have to go.”
“You don’t,” you said, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.
His hands found yours.
They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.
“You can stay,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You can let someone else-”
“I cannot.” His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.
You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.
Fire.
Water.
“You promised.” The words escaped before you could decide to say them.
His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isn’t breaking.
“And I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.”
He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.
Then he rested his brow against yours.
His eyes never left yours.
“If I do not return- which I intend to,”
The world seemed to hold its breath.
“I will find you.”
A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.
“In every lifetime if not this one. I promise.”
The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.
You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.
He smiled.
Then he stepped away.
He turned toward the waiting dragon.
Toward the dark water below.
Toward a destiny that was also a death.
And all you could do was watch him leave.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.
For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.
Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.
You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, King’s Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the city’s lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.
The bedroom door opened.
Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.
The moment he saw your face, he froze.
“Hey.”
The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.
“What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.
You stood.
Crossed the room.
The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.
“Sweetheart?” Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.
You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.
Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.
“I had a dream,” you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.
Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.
“What kind of dream?”
“I saw a prince.”
His breath caught. You felt it.
“I saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-”
Your voice faltered, then steadied. “He knew he might not come back. And he said-” You stopped.
Jace’s arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily.
“He said he would find me,” you continued. “That if he didn’t return-” Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. “He would find me in every lifetime.”
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Jace stared at you.
Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.
His throat moved.
You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” you said.
“Neither do I.”
“But if it was real-”
His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.
“You kept your promise,” you whispered.
He felt his throat close.
And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasn’t the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.
Because you knew.
You had been there.
You rose onto your toes.
Your lips met his.
It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.
Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The knock was soft.
They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadn’t.
Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.
Another knock.
“Jacaerys?”
Rhaenyra’s voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.
“Dinner is ready.” They heard the muffled voice of his mother.
Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy “We’ll be there in a minute!”
A pause that had weight.
“Five minutes,” his mother’s voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.
You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.
“Your mother doesn’t trust you.”
“She absolutely does not.”
“And honestly?” You poked his chest. “I don’t blame her.”
“You wound me.”
“Good.” You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.
Your cheeks went pink.
He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.
There she is, he thought. My girl.
My princess.
He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.
Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.
“No, because you’re objectively wrong-”
“I’m objectively right-”
“You don’t even know what objectively means.”
“I literally do.”
“You used it wrong.”
Joffrey groaned with his whole body. “I hate this family.”
“You are this family,” Luke pointed out.
Joffrey considered this. “Exactly.”
Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.
The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.
“There she is.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. “I was beginning to think my son had invented you.”
“Mum.”
“What? He never brings you over.”
“That’s his fault,” you said.
“Traitor,” Jace said.
“You’re literally my boyfriend.”
“Exactly.”
You smiled sweetly. “I’m allowed.”
Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.
“See? This is why she’s my favorite.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“Unfortunately.”
Jace threw a bread roll at him.
Luke threw one back.
The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyra’s single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, “if I raised wolves.”
“That’s insulting,” Joffrey said.
Everyone looked at him.
The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. “Wolves are smarter.”
The silence held for two seconds before Luke’s expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyra’s attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.
You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Dinner found its rhythm.
Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.
Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).
You listened to all of it.
Jace, mostly, watched.
He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermax’s last look in his chest all day like a stone.
And now.
He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.
You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged.
He thought of the dream again.
Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didn’t require a king’s son to die for it.
He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again.
He had his answer now.
The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadn’t known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.
No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.
Just this.
Halfway through dessert, Joffrey’s phone lit up.
“Oh!” He reached for it with the speed of receiving news they’d been waiting for. “Dad’s calling.”
Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenor’s face.
It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasn’t interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and that’s all that mattered.
“There are my favorite children.”
Luke snorted. “We’re your only children.”
“And yet somehow still my favorites.” Laenor’s gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled “There she is.”
You laughed. “Hello.”
“Good. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.”
“Hey!” Three voices, simultaneous.
Laenor continued as though he hadn’t heard. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
Jace groaned. “Why does everyone in my family like her more than me?”
“Because,” Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, “she has manners.”
The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.
Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Joffery’s rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting she’d complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something you’d mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.
The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.
Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.
And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that.
The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what she’d started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet
Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
King’s Landing stretched below them without end.
The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.
A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the city’s particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jace’s curls and did what it wanted with them.
You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.
Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.
“Do you think it was real?”
He didn’t ask what you meant.
The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.
“I don’t know,” he said.
You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.
“But it felt real,” you said.
“It did.”
Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.
“If it was real…”
Jace looked toward you. The city’s light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing he’d thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.
Radiant.
The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.
“If it was real,” you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, “I think she’d be happy.”
“Who?”
“The princess.”
Your fingers squeezed his.
“Because she got her prince back.”
Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.
“And he got his princess,” he said quietly.
The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.
“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’ve spent all day thinking about the battle.”
“The Gullet?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the city. “The part where I died.”
You were quiet beside him.
“And?” you said, finally.
He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions.
Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.
Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.
And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.
“I think that prince would’ve liked this,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.
A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.
Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.
Just family.
Just love.
Just peace.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.
Neither of you saw it.
But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.
Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.
Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.
Smiling.
At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.
Then the image dissolved.
The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.
Synopsis: He fell from the sky. She rose from the deep. When an unlikely savior pulls a prince back from death’s door, neither of them can quite stay away from the shore that brought them together.
Word Count: 6.0K
Pairing: Prince!Jacaerys Velaryon x Mermaid!Reader
Genre: Little mermaid au, Jace lives!, fluff
Warnings: Mermaid descriptions of reader but nothing too specific about looks, Jace and Baela aren’t betrothed, vermax :(, brief mentions of nudity.
A/N: Based off THIS REQUEST, I hope this doesn’t seem rushed :) lowkey used my physics knowledge to make bs up 🥴
Divider credits to: @uzmacchiato <3
In a world where dragons roamed the sky and stranger things still lurked in the far reaches of Sothoryos, the existence of merfolk was hardly a thing beyond belief.
Yet for centuries the merfolk had kept to themselves, hidden from human eyes by choice rather than necessity, for the sea was their domain, vast and forgiving, older than any castle built of stone, and they had little wish to share it with a race that seemed forever at war with itself and everything around it.
In time, that same secrecy had turned them into little more than legend, tales spun by sailors over cups of watered wine on nights when the wind howled and the deck rolled beneath them. Sirens were known to lure ships onto rocks with voices sweet enough to make a man forget his own name, and feast on whatever remained once the rocks had finished their work.
Mermaids were a gentler breed by comparison, prone to guiding lost sailors safely home as often as they were blamed for storms and ill weather they had no hand in at all. Two natures entirely, wearing similar faces, and precious few humans who lived long enough to learn the difference between them.
They were beautiful creatures beneath the waves, long tails the colour of pearl and coral fading seamlessly into human torsos, faces too fine and too still to belong to any mortal woman, gill feathers tracing delicate lines along their throats that fluttered faintly with every breath of water drawn through them. Webbing caught the light between their fingers and along the curves of their ears, and their eyes, when a sailor was unlucky or lucky enough to catch one open beneath the surface, ethereal was the word men reached for, when they had any words left at all.
It had been pure chance that placed you so close to the Gullet on the day the battle came, chance and your own incurable curiosity, which your sisters had scolded you for since you were small enough to hide behind their tails.
You had always had a weakness for collecting things. Rings slipped from dead men's fingers, buckles and buttons and the little bronze bells that sailors sometimes wore for luck that had done them no good at all in the end, coins gone green and soft with centuries beneath the salt.
You kept them in the hollow belly of an old sunken hull you had claimed as your own years ago, arranging and rearranging them the way a child arranges shells on a beach, and you were forbidden, absolutely forbidden, from ever breaking the surface to retrieve anything that had not already sunk deep enough to be safely yours. The deep waters near the wreck sites were permitted. The world above the waterline was not.
You had seen fleets pass overhead before, dark hulls cutting shadows across the sunlit shallows, and it had never troubled you much. Ships came and went. Men fought their wars on the surface and left their dead to sink down to you eventually, and you had learned not to think too hard about where the trinkets came from.
What startled you that day, what sent ice through your veins even in water still warm from the summer sun, was the sound. A battle breaking out with no warning at all, not the slow grinding approach you were used to but something sudden and enormous, the water shaking with it as though the sea itself had been struck. Fire that should not have been able to burn beneath the waves somehow did, hissing and spitting where it touched the surface, and ash sifted down through the water like grey snow, and wood came apart in great splintering chunks, and bodies. So many bodies, falling and falling, sinking past you like stones dropped from a terrible height, men who had been laughing and cursing and praying only moments before.
You very nearly got swept into the worst of it yourself. Your pale pink tail caught for one heart-stopping instant on a length of trailing rigging, and you fought and thrashed to free yourself, kicking hard for clearer, deeper water, away from the chaos above. It was then that something struck the surface with such force that the shockwave of it rolled straight through your chest, and you turned back despite every instinct screaming at you to keep swimming, and saw a dragon.
Only the one. You did not know his name yet, though you would come to learn it soon enough. Vermax, green as new leaves, thrashing against water he had never been built to fight, wings beating in great useless sweeps, trying and failing again and again to claw his way back up into a sky that no longer wanted him.
And strapped to his back, tangled in leather that should have kept him safe and now threatened only to drown him with the beast, was a boy.
A very pretty boy, you thought, even through the horror of it, because you had always had a weakness for pretty things as well as shiny ones, and some habits did not care what was happening around them.
He fought his harness with a growing, panicked desperation, one leg caught fast beneath a buckle that would not give no matter how he wrenched at it, and you watched the fight slowly bleed out of him as the water rose past his chin and then his mouth. You watched him press his palm flat against his dragon’s scaled hide, whether in farewell or in simple desperate comfort you could not say, and something inside your chest twisted so hard and so suddenly that it hurt, a feeling you had no name for and no time to think about, and you were moving before your brain had caught up to it.
The buckles gave easily enough beneath your fingers, quick clever things built for human hands rather than merfolk ones but simple enough once you understood the shape of them, all but the one pinning his leg fast, which would not release no matter how you pulled. It was your sister's whalebone dagger, tucked always at your hip, that finally cut him free, the leather parting in one long stroke. By then the boy had gone entirely still, his eyes half open and unseeing.
You spared one moment, only one, though it cost you dearly to spare it, to press your palm flat against Vermax’s scales in something like an apology, for jot being able to save him. The great beast simply closed his eyes, as if content that his rider had found safer hands than his own to carry him the rest of the way, and sank without a struggle into the dark below, leaving no trace but a slow drift of green scales catching what little light remained.
Surfacing was a huge mistake. You broke into open air in the very heart of the wreckage, ships burning on every side, smoke thick enough to sting your eyes, and had barely a breath to get your bearings before an arrow split the water beside you, close enough that you felt the wind of its passing against your cheek and almost hitting the boy in the neck.
You looked up into a row of crossbows all trained your way, men shouting words you did not understand but whose meaning was plain enough in the set of their shoulders, and understood with sudden, terrible clarity exactly how little difference they would see between a dragon’s rider and whatever monster had come to finish the work the sea had started.
You went back under. Humans could not breathe water, but neither, you thought grimly, dragging the boy's dead weight down with you, could you survive a volley of bolts meant to end lives.
You swam hard and fast and low, keeping to what cover the drifting wreckage offered, dragging him through water gone thick and stinging with smoke and ash, until the sounds of battle fell away behind you into a dull, distant roar and the nearest shore rose dark and welcoming against the horizon. You hauled him up onto the sand with strength you did not know you possessed, adrenaline lending you what your body alone could not, and only then let yourself look at him properly.
Your stomach dropped. His lips had gone the deep, bruised blue of a man already claimed by the sea, his skin pale as the underbelly of a fish, and his chest did not move at all.
The old stories. Your grandmother had told them half as warning and half as wonder, back when you were young enough to still believe every tale she spun, of how a drowned man's lungs might yet be coaxed back to life if the sea inside them was driven out in time, before the body forgot how to want air at all. You laid both palms flat over the centre of his chest, unsure of your own strength, and pressed down hard.
Once. Nothing happened. Panic clawed up your throat.
Twice. Your own breath caught, tight and painful.
Thrice, and you pressed with everything you had left in you, uncaring now whether you cracked something beneath your palms, because a bruise, even a broken rib, was nothing at all set against death.
On the fourth press he convulsed beneath your hands and turned sharply to one side, retching a lungful of seawater onto the sand, coughing so violently his whole body shook with the force of it. You sat back, tail curling instinctively beneath you, heart hammering, and watched the grey slowly bleed out of his face as air, found its way back into him at last.
He did not understand, in that first hazy moment, anything beyond the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, still alive. The world swam in and out of focus around him, blurred and ringing. The last clear memory he had was of Vermax beneath him and the water closing over them both in a great green rush, of struggling against a harness that would not give no matter how he fought it, and then a blurred pale shape cutting toward him through the murk like something out of a half remembered dream, and then nothing at all.
He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull bright enough to make him gasp, and he only dimly registered that he had knocked someone backward in the process, hearing a small startled sound beside him.
"I am sorry- I did not mean to- are you..." The words died somewhere in his throat.
A hand still rested lightly against his shoulder, small and cool and strange. He gaze followed it down past a bare collarbone, down a torso, and then no legs at all, only a long tail the colour of pale coral, still trembling faintly where it lay half in the surf, catching what little light the dying sun still offered.
His eyes came back up to meet yours. Yours were already wide with fright, caught somewhere between diving straight back into the water and staying just long enough to see what he would do with the knowledge now sitting plainly on his face.
"You," he breathed, and could not seem to manage a single word more than that.
You did not wait to find out what he would say next. You began dragging yourself backward toward the water on your palms, tail scraping over wet sand, and that seemed to break whatever had held him frozen in place, because he scrambled after you across the shore despite the state of his own battered, aching body.
"Wait, please, don't go, who are you? What is your name? Why did you save me? Why?" The questions tumbled out of him faster than you could possibly have answered even if your voice had worked properly, one tripping over the next, desperation making him clumsy with his words. When you opened your mouth to try anyway, nothing came at all, no sound, not even a whisper. You touched two fingers to your throat and shook your head slowly.
"You cannot speak?"
You nodded, something apologetic in the tilt of your head.
There was no simple way to explain it to him, not with gestures alone, that merfolk voices were shaped and tuned for the weight and pressure of deep water and simply could not survive in air thin and empty as this, so you only looked at him, sorry, and slid a little further back toward the tideline, the cool water lapping welcome against your tail.
"Wait!" He was on his feet now, unsteady, swaying slightly as he turned to take in the shore around him properly for the first time. "This is Driftmark- I think- and that," he pointed to a dark shape rising jagged from the water in the distance, smoke still curling faintly from somewhere within the battle behind them, "that's Dragonstone. That is where I live. I must find some way to thank you properly, I do not even know how yet, but I will. I swear it."
You gave him one last long look, drinking in the sight of him properly now that the worst of the danger had passed, pale and shaking and utterly unlike anyone you had ever pulled from the wreckage before, and nodded once before the water closed silently over your head.
What he did not know, could not have known, was that you had not truly gone. You lingered just beneath the surface, hidden in the shallows where the light still reached, watching as the full weight of what he had lost caught up to him at last.
You watched his shoulders begin to shake, watched him sink slowly to his knees on the wet sand as the grief he had been too shocked to feel finally broke over him, grieving the bond severed so suddenly with his dragon, a bond you understood was not so different from the ones your own kind shared with the great whales that sometimes let mermaids ride upon their backs through the deep currents. You felt sad and helpless and entirely too far away to do anything about either, your own chest aching in sympathy for a boy you did not even know the name of yet.
Trinkets, you thought at last, retreating slowly deeper into the water where the cold and the dark could swallow the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting heavy in your chest. I will bring him pretty things. Pretty things always help. Everyone knows that.
By the time Jace made it back to Dragonstone, disguised as best his battered state allowed, the sun had long since set and the castle had already begun to mourn a prince presumed lost at sea.
Rhaenyra, who had spent the whole of that day and the one before convincing herself, against every hope, that he was truly gone, very nearly lost her composure entirely at the sight of him standing whole in the doorway of her solar, swaying but breathing, and threatened violence on anyone who dared suggest it a cruel trick before she was even certain of it herself.
Then he was close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth still clinging to him despite the cold seawater soaked through every layer of his clothes, and she crossed the room in three swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so fierce it near cracked his ribs, one hand cradling the back of his neck the way she had when he was small enough to carry on her hip.
She pulled back only far enough to strike him hard across the face, the sound of it sharp in the quiet room, then dragged him straight back into her arms before he had time to recover from either the blow or the embrace that followed it.
"Never," she whispered fiercely against his hair, "never again. Do you understand me?"
Jace made no complaint about any of it. He only held on, breathing in the familiar smell of her, flowery and something that had always simply meant home no matter where in the world he found himself, and let himself be scolded and forgiven in the very same breath, over and over, until the shaking in his hands finally began to still.
There would be time to explain everything later, the mermaid and the potion he did not yet know he would go looking for and the strange ache already settling in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Tonight he only wanted this, his mother’s arms and the solid stone floor beneath his feet and the simple, overwhelming relief of being alive.
It was two full days before he saw you again, two days that felt considerably longer to both of you than their number suggested.
He had taken to walking the shore each evening as the sun went down, though he offered no one an explanation for it beyond a vague murmur about wanting air, and Rhaenyra, watching her son closely for any sign of the grief she knew still sat unresolved in him, chose not to press the matter, not yet.
On the second such evening, with the light turning gold and heavy across the water at the very edge of dusk, a small shape broke the surface some distance out from where he stood. Only your eyes showed at first, wary, scanning the beach with the caution of a creature that had learned, however briefly, exactly what danger humans could pose. Once you were certain he was truly alone, no soldiers, no crossbows waiting in the shadows, you swam closer, arms full of things gathered carefully from the seafloor over the two long days you had spent working up the courage to return.
He laughed before he could help himself, disbelieving, because you had brought him what looked like a small fortune of drowned treasure: coins gone green with centuries of salt, sea glass worn to the smoothness of river stones in every colour from deep emerald to pale, milky blue, pearls still crusted faintly with the ghosts of the shells that had once held them, all of it cradled carefully against your chest as though it were the finest gift any king had ever received.
"For me?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, incredulous, and you beamed and nodded so hard your whole body shook with the force of it, tail flicking once against the shallows in what he would later come to recognise as excitement.
"I have nothing half so precious to give you in return," he said, quieter now, kneeling properly in the wet sand so that he was closer to your level, and you shook your head firmly, as if to tell him that was hardly the point of any of it, that gifts given freely required nothing given back.
He knelt at the waterline for a long while that evening and talked, filling the silence you could not, telling you his name, his House, that he was a prince of Dragonstone and heir to something called an Iron Throne that sounded, from the little he explained, far heavier a burden than any crown ought to be. Your eyes lit at the word prince, delighted, and you pointed to your own chest in turn, tapping it twice for emphasis.
"A princess, then?" he guessed, and you nodded, pleased as anything with yourself, and something in his chest that had been wound painfully tight since the moment the water closed over his head two days before finally began, slowly, to loosen.
You tried, that first proper evening, to tell him other things too, though the telling was slow and clumsy without words. You drew shapes in the wet sand with one finger, a rough sketch of a tail, of waves, of something that might have been a whale or might simply have been a very poor circle, and Jace watched with a fascination that made you strangely warm beneath your scales, guessing at your meaning and laughing softly whenever he guessed wrong, which was often.
When the moon rose high enough that you knew you had to leave, you leaned in and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek, as if to tell him not to be sad any longer, that you would return, that whatever grief still lived behind his eyes need not be carried entirely alone. That Vermax lay peacefully beneath the sea. And if he had been pretty enough to catch a second glance from you even amid the chaos of a burning battlefield, well.
You had always liked pretty things, and you saw no shame in admitting it, even silently, even only to yourself.
In the days that followed, Jace found himself buried in the library far more often than seated at council, a fact that did not escape his mother's notice for long. The war, if it could even still be properly called that, had cooled in the aftermath of the battle into something closer to a wary, watchful peace, both sides circling cautiously around the idea of parley rather than open slaughter, and so Rhaenyra could afford, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, to spend her worry on her son rather than entirely on her crown.
It was on the seventh day since his return that she finally cornered him about it, finding him hunched over a table stacked high with scrolls he had clearly been picking through for hours, Daemon lounging nearby against a bookshelf with a look of a man who had already scented an amusing story and had no intention whatsoever of leaving before he heard the whole of it.
"The one who saved me from the water," Jace admitted at last, ears burning red under his mother's steady gaze, "was a mermaid. I have been meeting her at dusk every evening since. She brings me gifts."
Silence, and then Daemon's low, delighted laugh rang out across the quiet library. "A fish," he said, "has stolen my son’s heart. Rhaenyra, did you hear that? A fish."
"She is not a fish," Jace snapped, mortified, colour flooding all the way up to the tips of his ears, and would say nothing further no matter how Daemon pressed him for details, though his ears stayed scarlet the rest of the evening and he refused, quite pointedly, to look either of them in the eye.
It was only once they were alone, Daemon finally chased off by some matter of ships needing his attention, that Rhaenyra asked, more gently now, what exactly he hoped to find buried in all those old scrolls.
He confessed it slowly, haltingly, that he was searching for some means of letting you speak properly above the water, because you listened to him so patiently each evening, tilting your head at his every word as though nothing he said could ever bore you, and he found, to his own quiet surprise, that he wanted very badly to hear your voice in return, to know what you sounded like when you laughed instead of simply seeing it in the curve of your mouth.
Something in her face softened at that, the last of the earlier sternness melting away entirely. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, something she would often do when he was but a babe and even now.
"I nearly lost you once already," she said quietly. "I do not think I would survive losing you a second time, not truly. If this girl from the sea brings you peace after everything, then that peace is worth more to me than I can properly measure. I will help you find your answer, if I am able. You have only to ask."
He thanked her, throat tight, and went to bed that night lighter than he had felt in a very long time.
By the tenth day, though, his search had turned up nothing but dust and disappointment, page after page of tidal charts and shipping records that told him everything about the sea and nothing at all about the creatures who lived beneath it, and he was scowling so fiercely at a particularly useless scroll that he did not hear Baela approach until she dropped a stack of books onto the table hard enough to make him jump nearly out of his seat.
"What have I told you about pouting, cousin? It hardly befits a prince, especially not one so recently returned from the dead."
"I am not pouting," he said, pouting.
She laughed, unbothered, and pushed the books toward him anyway, settling into the chair across from him with the satisfied air of someone bearing very good news. "Found these buried in the old archive, behind a shelf half the household seems to have forgotten existed. Scrolls on sea creatures, potions, that sort of thing, all written in the old tongue. Some of it looks to go back to Old Valyria itself, if the binding is anything to judge by. Thought they might serve you better than moping about the library like a wet cat."
His whole face changed, disappointment giving way so suddenly to hope that Baela laughed again just watching it happen. He thanked her so earnestly, gripping her hands in both of his, that she looked half embarrassed by the whole display and waved him off with a mock scowl of her own, and then he buried himself in the texts for the rest of the day and well into the night, barely stopping to eat, ink staining his fingers as he copied out passage after passage by candlelight.
The gods, it seemed, had finally decided to smile down upon him after everything, because tucked among the brittle, crumbling pages he found precisely what he had been searching for all along: an old Valyrian draught, described in cramped, faded script, said to grant a creature of the sea, mermaid or siren alike, a brief and temporary span of human legs, the magic bound to fade again once enough days had passed.
Gathering the ingredients took the better part of two more days, some of them common enough to find in any well stocked kitchen and others requiring correspondence sent quietly to a maester on the mainland who asked no questions he clearly did not wish answered, and finding an alchemist both skilled and discreet enough to brew the whole of it properly took longer still. But by the fourteenth day since the battle, Jace stood at the shoreline at dusk with a small vial clutched tight in one hand, its contents glowing faintly violet in the fading light, and his heart hammering somewhere up near his throat.
You surfaced as you always did by then, cautious first, scanning the shore out of old habit, then delighted once you saw him standing alone, swimming in swiftly with your usual haul of shells and drowned bottles clutched against your chest. He knelt at the waterline and, for once, did not simply talk about his day or ask after yours in the halting, gestured way you had both grown so used to.
He explained the potion instead, slowly, carefully, holding the vial up so you could see the strange violet light swirling within it, watching your face closely all the while for any sign that this was too much, too strange, too great a thing to ask of you.
You went very quiet. Your brow furrowed the way it always did when you turned something over carefully in your mind, weighing it from every side, and Jace, who had come to know that expression well over a fortnight of evenings spent together, made himself sit still and wait, though every part of him wanted to fill the silence with reassurance.
"It is only if you wish it," he said softly, when the silence had stretched long enough that he could not help himself any longer. "I would never have you feel forced into anything on my account, not after everything you have already given me. If you would rather not, I will understand completely, and I will still come to see you each evening, just as I have."
You studied the vial a long moment more, turning the choice over one final time, thinking of your sisters and the warnings you had grown up hearing about the dangers of the world above, of legs that were not truly yours and a voice that might vanish again the moment the magic faded.
Then you looked at him, at the earnest hope he could not quite hide no matter how he tried, and something in your face settled at last, resolve chasing out the last of the hesitation, and you nodded.
He could have wept from the sheer relief of it. He handed you the vial with hands that were not entirely steady, and you drank it down in a single determined swallow, immediately screwing your face up at the taste, which was somehow both bitter and sickly sweet beneath it, like rot dressed up in honey, and Jace laughed at the disgusted noise you made.
The change came almost at once, faster than either of you had quite expected. Your tail began to glow faintly from within, the violet light spreading through the coral pink scales, and then, slowly, the scales themselves began to dissolve and reshape, splitting and lengthening before your very eyes.
You watched it happen to your own body with something closer to wonder than fear, propping yourself up on your elbows in the shallow water to see it better. It did not hurt, not truly, only felt strange, an unfamiliar pulling and settling sensation that ran the length of what had been your tail only moments before, and then, quite suddenly, you had legs. Two of them, unfamiliar and entirely new to you, kicking weakly in the shallows as you tried, with no success at all, to make them do anything useful.
It was Jace who first remembered, with a start that nearly gave him whiplash, that you now had absolutely nothing on at all beneath the water. He spun to face the other direction so fast he nearly lost his footing on the wet sand, hurriedly unclasping his own travelling cloak and passing it back over his shoulder to you without turning around, ears burning scarlet all over again.
"Here, please, wrap this around yourself, I am so sorry, I did not think- I should have thought of it before you drank the wretched thing."
You took the cloak, bewildered by the whole strange business of clothing, and wrapped it clumsily about yourself as best you could manage with limbs that still refused to cooperate properly.
"Why," you whispered, voice thin and strange and entirely your own, and both of you went utterly, completely still.
"You spoke," Jace said, turning back around despite himself, eyes wide with wonder, all thought of modesty forgotten entirely.
"I did," you said, marvelling at the strange, thin sound of your own voice carrying through open air, so unlike the way words moved and pressed through water, lighter somehow, and stranger, but yours all the same.
He knelt properly before you then in the wet sand, something almost formal in the gesture despite how thoroughly absurd the whole moment truly was, both of them soaked and shivering and grinning like fools, and asked if he might finally know the proper name of the maiden who had pulled him back so stubbornly from death's door.
You told him. Your name, spoken aloud for the first time in your life, and that you were the seventh daughter of a house that ruled beneath the narrow sea, a true princess in every sense, just as you had claimed all along through nothing but gestures and a proud tilt of your chin.
"I know this may only last a short while," Jace said, still kneeling, still holding your hands as though he feared letting go might undo the magic.
"And I mean to keep searching, if that is what you wish, for some way to make it last longer, or even permanent. But for now, will you come and meet my family properly? They ought to see, with their own eyes, the girl who saved their prince from the bottom of the Gullet."
You tried to stand at that, eager and entirely too confident in limbs you had possessed for all of ten minutes, and discovered immediately that legs demanded a coordination and strength the sea had never once asked of you. You stumbled, pitched forward, and landed hard on your knees in the wet sand with a startled, frustrated huff.
You tried again, gripping his shoulder for balance this time, and managed perhaps three wobbling steps before your legs betrayed you a second time, sending you tumbling sideways with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure exasperation.
Jace, biting back a laugh of his own though it clearly threatened to escape, knelt beside you and tightened the cloak properly around your shoulders, then slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath the crook of your knees, lifting you up into his arms with far more ease than his still-recovering body should reasonably have allowed.
"I will teach you to walk properly," he promised, adjusting his grip as you settled, somewhat stiffly, against his chest, your new legs kicking experimentally against nothing at all. "Though I think that particular lesson is better suited to daylight and a rather softer patch of ground than this. Just now I have limited time before the magic fades, and I intend to make the very most of it while I can."
The jaws that dropped when Jacaerys Velaryon strode into Dragonstone’s great hall carrying a girl in his arms, salt still drying in tangled waves through her hair, wrapped in nothing but his own travelling cloak and kicking her bare feet with open, delighted fascination at the strange new sensation of having feet at all, were a sight none of the household would soon forget, and several among the kitchen staff would still be whispering about weeks later.
Baela nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Rhaena’s mouth fell open mid sentence and simply stayed that way. You met Rhaenyra and Daemon’s twin looks of open astonishment with wide, curious eyes of your own, entirely unbothered by the attention, as though growing an entirely new pair of legs within the hour were the most ordinary thing in all the world, and gave the queen a doe eyed stare that made it very difficult indeed for anyone in that hall to remain suspicious for long.
Daemon was the first to find his voice, low and disbelieving, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well- damn. He wasn’t kidding about the fish.”
Rhaenyra’s palm found the back of his head before he had even finished speaking, a sharp, swift smack that made him yelp and rub at the spot, wounded.
“Mind your tongue,” she warned, though there was little real heat in it, her gaze already softening as it moved from Daemon back to her son and the girl held so carefully in his arms.
In the end, there was little else for anyone present to do but believe it, however improbable the tale sounded when spoken aloud: that the lost prince of Dragonstone had indeed been pulled from the bottom of the sea by a little mermaid, and that she, in turn, without quite meaning for it to happen at all, had followed him all the way home.
synopsis. somewhere in a web of crimson thread, jacaerys velaryon finds himself unexpectedly stuck.
pairing. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
word count. 2,987
authors note. fluff bc im getting depressed w all the sad fics here. AND MY FIRST EVER JACE FIC HELLO??? give this sum love!! leave a comment or reblog mwamwa <3
The Feast Hall of the keep was a deafening roar of rustic merriment, entirely too loud for a realm on the precipice of a succession crisis.
Jace sat stiffly at the high table, his fingers curled so tightly around the silver stem of his wine goblet that his knuckles were white. He watched the local lords and smallfolk mingle, laughing and drinking as if the greens weren't currently circling King's Landing like vultures. His mother had brought him here to secure a pledge from a house that didn't traditionally care for dragons, hoping their massive influence would deter a war entirely.
And yet, instead of a private solar and a contract, they were given a feast.
"They are wasting time," Jace muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the lord of the house, who was currently laughing at a jest across the room. "We should be negotiating the terms of the alliance, not nursing ale. Every hour we sit here is an hour Aegon uses to solidify his claim."
Rhaenyra didn't so much as glance his way. She lifted her goblet to her lips, letting him stew for a moment before speaking.
"Have some courtesy, Jace," she said quietly. "You may be king one day, but that means learning how to win people over. These people are opening their home to us. The least you can do is look pleased to be here."
Jace's jaw tightened. Beside him, Rhaenyra took note immediately. She lifted her wine cup to her lips, though the faint look she sent him over the rim was knowing enough.
Jace glanced sideways at his mother.
"I have reason to," Jace replied.
"You always have reason to."
He looked away, his gaze settling on the lord seated halfway across the hall. The man had spent most of the evening laughing with his bannermen rather than discussing the alliance they had traveled all this way to secure.
"We've been here for hours," Jace said quietly. "Every moment spent feasting is a moment wasted." Rhaenyra hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"So does everyone in this hall," she said after a moment. "Yet they still seem capable of enjoying themselves."
Jace followed her gaze across the room. A group of young knights were arguing over some game near the hearth. A cluster of ladies sat together, smiling behind raised cups. Even the older men looked relaxed.
He remained unimpressed. At that, Rhaenyra nudged his arm lightly with her own.
"Try smiling."
Jace stared at her.
"Mother."
"It will not kill you."
A breath escaped through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"I doubt a smile is what wins alliances."
"No," a voice said from nearby. "But it certainly helps."
Jace blinked, shifting his gaze downward. You were standing before the high table, a cup of spiced cider in one hand and a lazy, knowing grin on your face. Months earlier, at a banquet in King's Landing, the two of you had found yourselves trapped in the same corner of the hall while half the court chased after more interesting company. The conversation had been brief, but memorable. Jace had spent most of it attempting to be polite, and you had spent most of it laughing at him.
"And judging by the look on your face, Prince Jacaerys," you continued, "you could use all the help you can get."
A smile tugged at Rhaenyra's mouth. And Jace– unfortunately, felt no such inclination.
"I believe you owe me a dance," you said, tilting your head.
Jace’s formal mask slipped perfectly into place, his expression hardening. "No, I don't."
“Oh, you absolutely do,” you countered, stepping closer to the dais, entirely unbothered by his frosty stare. “You promised it in the Red Keep, just before Prince Aegon caused enough of a scene to distract the entire court.”
Jace’s brow furrowed, his shoulders squaring defensively. “I did not.”
“You did–“
“–Then I would remember.”
You hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow, deliberate sip of your cider while keeping your eyes locked onto his.
“Oh, of course you don’t remember,” you said, your smile widening with wicked delight. “You flew here on dragonback, didn't you? The wind must have blown the memory straight out of your head.”
A few local lords nearby snorted into their ale, entirely unawed by the royal guest. Jace's jaw tightened, a faint flush of irritation creeping up his neck.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his voice to a stern register. “I am here on official crown business, my lady. I hardly think a dance is appropriate given the gravity of the circumstances.”
“There really is no cure for princely arrogance, is there?” you mused, turning your head slightly to appeal to the surrounding crowd. “A man makes one promise and immediately hides behind a crown.”
“I made no such promise.”
“You did.”
“When?” Jace demanded, leaning forward slightly.
You pointed at him triumphantly, your grin turning entirely smug. “See? You're asking for the time because you've forgotten it already.”
For a brief moment, Jace simply stared at you, his mouth slightly open as he processed the trap he had just walked into. Months ago in King's Landing, he had thought you mildly amusing. Now, he was beginning to suspect that there had been a grave miscalculation. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone had gone suspiciously quiet beside him. You noticed immediately, your eyes darting over his shoulder. “Your mother remembers.”
Jace turned sharply toward his mother.
To his absolute horror, she looked distinctly entertained. She wasn't even trying to hide it, her violet eyes dancing with mirth as she raised her chalice.
“I do recall a conversation,” Rhaenyra said smoothly into her wine.
“Mother,” Jace hissed, his ears burning.
“What?” she asked, looking at him with an innocence that fooled absolutely no one at the table. “You should be grateful, Jace. It is not often someone honors your promises better than you do. Go on.” A smirk came up to the side of his lips– “don't keep the host waiting.”
"Official business can wait until the morning," you said, offering a fluid, mocking little bow as you reached out and confidently took his hand. Jace shot you a look of utter, incredulous disbelief at the sheer audacity of the gesture. The gods– he decided right then and there, were testing him today. You offered him one of your most charming, shameless smiles before he could even think to pull away.
"Besides–" you added smoothly, "my father refuses to talk politics on an empty stomach–” you then glanced and nodded towards the parque, “--or an empty dance floor.” You then lowered your voice as though sharing a secret, “it's bad luck."
Jace looked unconvinced but before he could find a polite way to decline again, you stepped back, letting your fingers slide from his as you turned your attention to your sister. She stood a few paces away, holding a massive wooden spool wound tight with vibrant, crimson yarn.
"My lords, ladies, and honored guests!" your sister called out, her voice easily cutting through the din of the hall. A few heads turned. Then a few more. Before long, conversations began to taper off as the musicians eased into a much slower tune. “Before the night gets away from us,” she continued, raising the large spool of crimson wool in her hands, “it is time for the Weaver’s Dance.”
A cheer went up from several of the local guests. Others laughed and began pushing back their benches, already preparing to join. You glanced toward the high table. The royal party had caught on immediately. Some looked curious. Others exchanged quiet questions among themselves. But only one person remained distinctly unimpressed.
Your gaze settled on Prince Jacaerys. You had to bite back a smile. There was something almost impressive about his dedication to being miserable. Unfortunately for him, you had no intention of letting him spend the evening glowering from the high table.
"A regional tradition," you explained, nodding toward your sister and the enormous spool of crimson wool in her hands. By now, servants and guests alike were helping unwind the thread, passing lengths of it between tables as dancers began to gather in the center of the hall.
"The dancers take the floor while everyone else weaves the string through the crowd." You gestured toward a group of children already running off with an armful of wool. "Usually with considerably more enthusiasm than skill."
Jace's gaze followed the growing web of crimson stretching across the hall.
"And the purpose of this is?" Jace asked, watching as a servant tossed a length of red wool across the room.
You followed his gaze and shrugged. "Depends on who you ask."
Your eyes drifted toward an elderly woman seated near the hearth. She had already wrapped a strand of the wool around her wrist and was murmuring something under her breath as though the thread itself might be listening. "The old women will tell you the thread has a mind of its own," you said. "That it catches people whose paths were always meant to cross."
Jace glanced at the woman, then back at you. "Convenient," Jace said dryly.
"Very." You smiled.
Across the hall, another strand was thrown overhead, drawing a cheer from a group of children who immediately ducked beneath it. "The younger generation mostly uses it as an excuse to trip their cousins and embarrass their friends."
As if on cue, a boy of about ten promptly tangled his sister's feet in a loop of wool. The girl shoved him. That earned a snort from Luke.
"There it is." You pointed triumphantly. "Exhibit A."
Jace shook his head and ran his tongue across his lips before folding his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly unconvinced despite the flicker of interest in his eyes. "You have a peculiar tradition."
"You've not seen the worst of it yet." And then in a cue– a musician narrowly avoided being clotheslined by a poorly aimed strand, earning another round of laughter from the crowd.
"But every now and then," you continued, turning back to him, "someone ends up tangled with a complete stranger, and by the end of the year they're married."
"I'm sure the maesters would be fascinated by that."
"Oh, unquestionably." You folded your hands behind your back, before stating– "personally, I think it's nonsense."
Jace raised a brow. "But?"
You offered him a look of pure, exaggerated innocence– the kind that fooled absolutely no one, least of all a prince. But the playful tilt of your chin did something unexpected. And foor the first time all evening, Jace’s guarded gaze slipped. His eyes flickered downward, catching the curve of your lips for a single, heavy heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes.
Not so prince-like, you noted with a quiet surge of triumph. Beneath all that heavy velvet and duty, the boy could be unnerved.
"But my grandmother would haunt me from beyond the grave if I said so too loudly." Around you, the hall continued to buzz with anticipation as more strands of red thread crisscrossed the room, turning the space into a loose web of crimson lines.
"Either way," you said, your voice dropping to a smooth whisper as you stepped just an inch closer to the dais, "it's a tradition. And seeing as you're a guest in our hall, it would be terribly rude not to participate. Surely the future king of Westeros isn't afraid of a little local superstition?"
Jace’s eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge, his jaw tightening as he looked down at your outstretched hand. He was a creature of duty, and you were weaponizing hospitality against him with terrifying efficiency.
"I am afraid of nothing, my lady," he muttered, though his tone lacked its previous icy armor.
"Prove it then," you teased.
The dance began. It wasn't the rigid, courtly steps of King's Landing, but something more fluid and alive. As you and Jace moved, circling each other, the music swelled, the heavy thrum of the drums echoing off the stone walls. At first, the prince was predictably stiff, his posture impeccably straight as if he were still standing at attention. "You look as though you're marching to an execution, not a dance," you said, stepping closer as the rhythm shifted. "Relax your shoulders, My Prince. I don't bite unless requested."
Jace’s eyebrows shot up, a sudden flush creeping up his neck, though his expression remained stubbornly stern. "I have a lot on my mind. My mother needs this alliance. I thought your house understood the urgency, yet you treat this like a maiden's day festival."
"We do understand," you said softly, your eyes holding his as you took a step backward, drawing him deeper into the lively pattern of the dance. As the tempo quickened, he was forced to adapt, his hand on your waist tightening significantly to keep up with the pace of the local youth. "But my father believes that you cannot truly know a man's character in a dark room over parchment. He wanted to see how the future king comports himself among the people he wishes to rule. If you are cold, they will be cold."
Jace paused mid-step, a sudden realization dawning on him. He looked around the room over your shoulder, noticing for the first time that the lord of the house– your father– wasn't drinking blindly– he was watching Jace. Watching how he treated you, how he carried himself.
"I see," Jace murmured, a bit of the tension finally leaving his shoulders, though his dark eyes narrowed playfully down at you. "A test, then. And you're the distraction?"
"I prefer the term 'hostess'," you smirked.
From the galleries above and the sidelines below, the onlookers began to toss the long, unbroken strands of vibrant red wool across the floor. The crimson lines arched beautifully through the air like a localized storm, draping softly over shoulders, catching on heavy velvet sleeves, and tangling around the swirling skirts and heavy boots of the dancers. With every passing second, the room was being woven together into a chaotic, beautiful web of bright red thread.
Jace ducked his head slightly as a stray strand brushed over his dark curls, his eyes darting around the room in a mix of wariness and pure fascination. He looked less like a brooding prince now and more like a man caught in a spell, entirely surrounded by the warmth of your hall– and the impossible-to-ignore pull of his partner.
Suddenly, a particularly long, vibrant arc of red string was thrown from the gallery above, cutting through the warm haze of the hall like a streak of wildfire. It dropped directly into the narrow space between the two of you just as the music took a sharp, dramatic turn.
As Jace expertly spun you around to follow the changing beat, the heavy wool caught. With a sudden snap, the coarse yarn hooked itself tightly onto the sharp, ornamental silver buckle of his belt. At the exact same moment, the momentum of your spin caused the loose tail of the thread to whip around your arm, wrapping itself three times perfectly around your wrist.
The sudden, rigid tension snapped the line completely taut, halting your movements mid-stride. The delicate friction of the wool dug slightly into your skin, effectively locking your hand to his hip.
You stopped in your tracks. Slowing down your breathing, you looked down at your bound wrist, then tracked the straight crimson line directly to his waist. A slow, wicked smirk spread across your face.
Jace frowned, completely oblivious to the tradition's rules, and reached down with his free hand to unhook it. "Let me just–"
Before his fingers could even touch the wool, you gave your wrist a sudden, sharp yank.
The pull caught Jace entirely off guard. Stumbling forward, the sheer force of the tug dragged him a full step closer, his chest nearly colliding with yours. To keep his balance, his hand automatically clamped down firmly on your waist, his eyes widening in genuine shock as he found himself looking straight down into your amused face, mere inches away.
The music swelled perfectly with the moment, and around you, a few locals cheered and pointed at the tight, crimson line binding the stubborn prince's hips directly to your hand.
"Where are you going, Prince Jacaerys?" you whispered, your voice a low, teasing purr as you deliberately held the string taut between you, refusing to give him an inch of breathing room. "The game isn't over yet."
Jace’s breath hitched, his hand still anchored heavily to your hip, the warmth of his palm seeping through your clothes. He looked at your smirk, then down at the red string, his jaw tightening as he fought a losing battle against a sudden, involuntary smile of his own.
"You are incredibly frustrating," he muttered, his voice low, though he didn't make a single move to let go of your waist.
"And you're incredibly stiff," you whispered, leaning in just close enough to ensure he couldn't look away– "but your heart is betraying you, My Prince."
As you spoke, you deliberately pressed your bound hand flat against the center of his chest. The red string– wrapped tight around your wrist and anchored to his belt, pulled taut between you, dragging your bodies even closer. Beneath your palm, through the heavy layers of his velvet doublet, you could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his pulse against his ribs– rapid, fierce, and utterly uncoordinated with the rhythm of the drums around you.
At the touch, the air caught entirely in his throat. For all his rigid royal posture and cold sense of duty, his body was completely giving him away– his gaze dropped, helpless, tracking the slight parting of your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a sudden dark intensity.
"And I certainly think you're exactly where you want to be."
summary : your mother, rhaenyra targaryen, during her marriage to laenor velaryon had reconnected with her former lover, daemon targaryen—developing an affair in which resulted into pregnancy. carrying you and your older twin brother, aerion. rumors and gossip spread through the realm like wildfire, claiming aerion to be more legitimate and more fit to be king than your eldest brother, jacaerys. as both sons fight for their rightful place as heir to the throne, they fight for your hand in marriage
pairings : aerion targaryen x twin!sister!reader, jacaerys velaryon x younger!sister!reader
warnings : incest (reader is targaryen), tension, sexual content, age gap (reader is 2 years younger than jace), misogyny, self-harm, aerion is a warning itself, violence, reader is lowk a little shit towards everyone, angst, teen pregnancy, birth, vermithor and silverwing are claimed !
summary : your mother, rhaenyra targaryen, during her marriage to laenor velaryon had reconnected with her former lover, daemon targaryen—developing an affair in which resulted into pregnancy. carrying you and your older twin brother, aerion. rumors and gossip spread through the realm like wildfire, claiming aerion to be more legitimate and more fit to be king than your eldest brother, jacaerys. as both sons fight for their rightful place as heir to the throne, they fight for your hand in marriage
pairings : aerion targaryen x twin!sister!reader, jacaerys velaryon x younger!sister!reader
warnings : incest (reader is targaryen), tension, sexual content, age gap (reader is 2 years younger than jace), misogyny, self-harm, aerion is a warning itself, violence, reader is lowk a little shit towards everyone, angst, teen pregnancy, birth, vermithor and silverwing are claimed !
A sharp gasp left your lips as you immediately sat up, awakening from your nightly torment once again.
The gods seem to like punishing you this way.
Forcing you to relive the monstrous turn of events on that night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral, every night in dreamland.
They know it's your fault.
If only you hadn't mocked your uncle so harshly for being dragonless that day.
You huffed to yourself, losing your train of thought before roughly shoving the covers off of you.
"Meow."
Meraxes, your white long haired cat stared at you through the darkness of your room, alerted that you had awakened.
Looking at the small kitty next to you, you stopped your huffing to acknowledge her, scratching at her head with such gentleness as she began to purr.
"Sorry for worrying you, my love. You won't be upset at me if I find comfort somewhere else tonight?" You cooed, smiling gently.
She looked at you with a blank expression, like always. Yet, you swear she always understands you.
Meraxes purred once more before rolling on her back comfortably, seemingly content now, slowly pulling away and humming as you did so.
You then reached beside your bed to grab your shawl, wrapping it around yourself and made your way out of your chambers.
As if your body had a mind of its own, taking you to your older brother's room, routinely. You seem to find yourself going to him for comfort after every nightmare.
Which was of course, across the large castle.
Your hands slowly pushed at the heavy wooden doors, wincing at how loud the noise was. You walked across the room, trying to not make a sound as you moved to fix your hair and take off your shawl before sitting by the bedside.
It was dark in the spacious room, the only source of light coming from the full moon outside the window sill.
Sniffing the smoke coming from the blown out candles on the table, you snatched the blanket to wrap yourself inside before laying close to the warm body that was practically spread across the large bed.
The loud snores were oddly comforting, even though it sounded like the great and obnoxious roars of caraxes.
Once you laid yourself right next to your brother, you quickly felt the warm skin of his burly arm wrapping around your waist.
He brought you closer.
“… Mmm… Sister, is that you?" Jace murmured hoarsely, awake now.
His face resting closer to yours.
He held you closer, tighter. You hummed in response, placing your hand right on top of his as you tried to get more comfortable.
"Same nightmare, hm?" He asked, his soothing voice whispering.
"Yes." You breathed out.
You can practically hear him and his thoughts right now, you swear he must be sick of you at this point, but you know he would never say it out loud.
"Our brother clouds your mind." Jace lightly scoffed, showing his disapproval but remaining sweet with you, "and your judgement. Why don't you ease your mind? He's a dunce, sister."
"It's not that simple, Jace." You argued, huffing at his words to which he quickly laughed. "Aerion does not have control over me! It's just… that night… he scared me."
A moment of silence filled the room.
"He was not the same after that night."
Jace swallowed at that.
The young prince tried to collect his thoughts, he only pays attention to Aerion unless he's doing something foolish.
And that was usually on the daily.
He does recognize the fact that his younger brother changed.
He's just not sure if it's for good.
Over the past years, rumors and whispers only increased.
It was worse back in King's Landing of course, comparing both brothers to each other, debating who was truly Targaryen or not.
Aerion has the look of a true Targaryen. He claimed Vermithor. He was always their grandfather's favorite grandson. Daemon seemed to pay more attention to him too.
And now you.
Always seeming to worry for your twin, making every effort for Aerion.
He enters your mind like he owns it.
It infuriates Jace. What makes that devious idiot better than him? It was obvious his little brother was well liked, even if he was a pain in the ass.
Jace still cared for him, of course, that was his brother, no matter what.
But…
"He's still our brother." He answered, nudging your shoulder before shutting his eyes and held you against his chest. "Rest now, sister. Duties call for us on the morrow."
You wanted to discuss further but ultimately you knew your brother was right.
In the morning, you had duties with your mother.
Boring duties to be exact.
Studies… dragonback… Valyrian lessons…
Shutting your eyes finally, your breathing began to slow down and the warmth from Jace's body was helping you ease back to sleep.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
THUD!
"This match's victory belongs to me, once again. Get up, idiot." Aerion demanded with such arrogance in his voice and manner, staring down at Luke, who fell too harsh on the muddy ground once again during their lessons.
It was always like this.
Every lesson, defeating his little brother. It was clear to Aerion that Luke was a lost cause.. .he wasn't making any progress.
It was an easy feat every time.
Now if it was with Jace, that was a different story.
Lessons between him and his older brother always went on, never able to declare who wins.
But unfortunately, Jace was off—at mother's beck and call like always. Too busy with his newfound place at mother's council.
Now Aerion was stuck with Luke as his opponent.
The silver haired prince released his hold on him, taking his boot off his stomach and walked back into position.
As he walks back to the other side, he can see Daemon's gaze clearly on him.
Luke slowly emerged from the mud, trying to wipe his face from the mess.
"O-Okay!"
The young boy felt all the more embarrassed.
"Perhaps, we shall let us be finished." Daemon suddenly spoke, looking over at the two princes as if he was growing bored, ready to head back inside already. "Do keep trying, Lucerys. You'll be as skilled as your older brothers soon enough."
To that, Luke appeared worried and a bit gloomy, like a puppy kicked to the side.
Aerion continued to keep that signature smirk on his face, snatching off his helmet before ruffling Luke's curls roughly.
"Run off, find your bride-to-be. Training, same time on the morrow." Aerion ordered blankly, watching as his little brother jolt but quickly nodded, "I won't go soft on you. You have the blood of the dragon, it's time you embrace it."
"Yes, Brother." The young prince nodded once more but slowly this time. Seemingly trying to appease his brother but also himself.
Aerion released his hold on Luke and shoved him towards the direction of the castle.
As he stared at the back of Luke's head, his eyes trailed over to the figure nearby that was walking towards him from the castle.
A dangerous glint settled in the dragon prince's eyes.
You tightened your hold on the skirt of your dress, bunching up as much fabric as you can to not ruin it by the mud.
Huffing from the long walk but as you came closer, noticing your younger brother going back to the castle.
You smiled, waving at Luke.
But he kept passing by—avoiding your gaze, you can tell by his stance alone that he probably wasn't doing well in training today.
And he was training with Aerion. That was hell itself.
As soon as you reached your twin brother, you could begin hearing the soft bellows coming from the cave where Silverwing and Vermithor resided on dragonstone.
"Must you always torment our sweet brother?" You questioned playfully, there was no hint of annoyance or malice in your tone.
"Oh… Do I need permission, sister?" Aerion appeared disinterested by your words, his hands moved to smooth down the creases on your dress before firmly settling on your waist.
A small yelp left your lips from complete shock when he suddenly pulled you closer, practically pressed up against his training gear.
He tilted his head, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Hm?"
He was certainly enjoying this.
Without another second going by, he leaned down to smash his lips into yours in a feverish kiss, full of passion and desire.
Your hands moving to wrap around his neck, internally groaning at the fact his gear was in the way.
You swallowed every second of this heated kiss, relishing his tongue in your mouth like he's claiming you for the first time.
How much you often think about that night…
"Fuck. I needed that." Your twin brother broke away from your lips, desperately moving to trace his lips down your jaw to your neck. "You have not been visiting my chambers, sweet sister.”
You suppressed a giggle at how desperate he sounded, roaming your hands into his short silvery hair.
Aerion groaned at the feeling. He certainly missed it.
"I missed your cunt-"
You quickly moved back a bit to cover his mouth with your palm, flustered by his sudden confession. "Hush!"
"Hush me with your cunt then. You can't deny me any longer." He swiped at your skin with a long lick of his tongue before pulling away, laughing at the disgusted look on your face.
You wiped your hand on his gear before fully emerging from his embrace, "Scoundrel."
You wanted to stay irritated but you couldn't.
Aerion always found a way to weasel himself in your heart, you couldn't stop the rush of excitement that's bubbling in your chest every time he would… well, act like himself.
He was a dangerous force to be reckoned with.
And it made you want him even more.
You brought your hand back up to his face, swiping at the smudge of mud on his cheek as you both maintained eye contact.
"Mother had asked me to bring you back inside. Supper is starting soon." You spoke once more.
He hummed, "I'm dirty. I must bathe myself first. Will you join me, sister?”
His eyes darkened with need, lowering his face to the point his lips ghost over your soft and plumped lips.
It felt wrong to reject your twin.
Perhaps this time, you both could actually spend some quality time together instead.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Splash! Splash! Splash!
"Mmm! A-Aerion! Oh—"
"Fuck- Stay like this… keep riding your dragon."
The steamy water only continued to make waves in the spacious bath, some spilling over the edge and falling on the ground but both of you didn't care.
You continued to pull yourself up, holding your weight by holding onto your twin brother's shoulders, practically digging your nails into his pale skin as you skillfully pull yourself off his cock before slamming back down.
You couldn't help but let out a sharp cry once feeling his cock's tip hitting your cervix again.
Aerion was curving up into you, practically teasing your sweet spots with his tip, meanwhile your pussy is happily getting stretched out once again, your soaking walls clinging to every inch as if speaking of missing him and his mean cock.
He would never admit aloud, but he could cum from just being inside you alone.
This whole time, his hands were occupied with holding onto your ass. Forcing you to keep fucking yourself on his cock as he thrusts up ever so rough just to hear you cry.
Aerion urgently moved to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a teasing tongue poking out of his mouth to lightly flick at your hardened nipples meanwhile looking up at you, maintaining such pleasuring and dirty eye contact that he was basically fucking you with just his gaze alone.
You were absolutely in love with whatever the fuck was wrong with him.
His hot, wet mouth quickly rush to wrap around your left nipple, tongue suckling until he was pulling sweet moans from your lips.
The wet sounds of you riding your dragon, as your brother loves to call it, echoed through the spacious area of Aerion's chambers. Soft sounds of your moans and his occasional grunts and hums of approval against your skin also being a bit nosy.
If anyone passed through the doors, they could probably hear it all…
Though, it didn't matter in the moment.
You were meant to be together. You were meant to love your twin. You were meant to be fucked by your twin.
Pulling you from your thoughts, Aerion released your nipple with a hard pop before kissing the curve of your cleavage and groping handfuls of your breasts.
"I'm close, B-Brother..!" You softly whimpered.
Sweat glistening on your body, even when bathing in a tub of now cooled water.
That's how long time has passed, you were already late to supper once entering the bath after your brother.
That is when he took the initiative, forcing you to sit firmly on top of him before he slammed his hips up, thrusting up into you with such vigorous speed to the point even more water began spilling out of the tub.
"Fucking cum on my cock," he growled against your skin, relishing in the pain of your nails digging into shoulders to the point he was starting to bleed.
He only continued ramming his cock upwards as his left hand trailed down beneath the water to rub against your clit, watching as you violently came undone.
The pressure in your pussy tightened, tightening around his girth, your walls clamping around him like a vice.
"Aerion!" You cried out, allowing yourself to cum finally, spilling all over him as you hear him groan at the hot feeling.
It didn't take long for him as well. Your brother followed shortly after as his hips smacked up against your ass one more time.
Jets of hot cum flooding your sweet cunt as he roared from intense pleasure, like if he was truly a dragon.
You couldn't help but collapse on top of him, your whole body feeling like jelly and stickiness.
Panting tiredly, your hands wrapped around his neck and clung to him even more.
His broad arms also held onto you, smoothing down your back to calm both of you down.
He leans towards to kiss you, and it's nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet once you slowly pulled yourself off, continuing to remain seated on his lap as he crashed his lips into yours, filled of need.
You tried to make it slow, meaningful, this time but he only urged for something more aggressive and sloppier with the kiss.
You looked back at Aerion once pulling away, lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath.
The hand that was on your lower back traveled to cup your jaw, pulling you back for one more kiss.
He bites your bottom lip once finishing, and you couldn't help but giggle when he slowly released his hold on you.
Before you could say anything, a loud bang on the door was sudden.
"You're late to supper! Mother is seething, Aerion!" Jace shouted, you can hear the irritation in his voice.
You completely forgot all about dinner.
Reluctantly, you pulled away in frantic, making a loud splash as you climbed out before rushing to put back on your gown —not caring that you were still wet.
Behind you, Aerion let out a loud and annoyed huff as he stayed inside the bath, not bothering to move as urgent like you were.
"It's just dinner. Lighten up. It is entirely tedious."
"AERION!" Jace yelled more stern this time, to which your twin brother laughed.
He shook his head lightly before moving to also get up, snatching the towel off the chair nearby and pat down his hair dry.
"All right, all right. I'll hurry to change, I was bathing." Aerion responded, still taking his sweet time.
As you remained quiet, not wanting to get caught by your older brother, you swore you heard Jace let out a huff through the heavy wooden doors.
"Y/n wasn't in her chambers either. Find her on your way to the dining hall. And don't take long!"
To that, Aerion shot you a smug look. "I will. Do not worry, brother."
You stifled a giggle, trying to be as quiet as you could while continuing to tie your own dress laces.
Jace went quiet for a moment, it seemed like he was gonna say something else but instead, he began to walk away.
Once the sounds of his footsteps began to die down, you decided to leave first, so as to not make it seem suspicious if you guys did show up to dinner at the same time.
Opening the doors to the dining hall, a few servants bowed once you entered.
You kept your head low, giving a generous smile to every servant before approaching your mother, giving her a kiss on the cheek then towards your younger siblings.
"You are late," Your mother firmly noted but her eyes were soft on you as you were busy giving Luke a fat kiss on his cheek.
Which Luke let out a disgusted groan, wiping at his reddened cheeks in slight embarrassment, trying to wipe off your kisses.
You grinned, like always, making your way to greet your cousins, "I'm always late, Mother,” You responded playfully.
As you finished with greeting Rhaena and Baela, you gracefully sat yourself next Jace, immediately snatching the lemon off his cakes and popping it into your mouth.
Rhaenyra sighed, not in annoyance or frustration.
Daemon looked amused as he sipped on his wine.
And with perfect timing, Aerion arrived as well.
Yawning into his hand, snatching a wine glass from a servant's platter as he made his way to sit next to you.
He sprawled on the chair, as if he owned it, to which your mother sighed once more, this time with slight frustration.
You swore you heard a laugh coming from Daemon.
"Forgive me, mother." Aerion spoke lazily, slightly turning his head towards you as he took a sip from his glass, "Can't keep up with time."
His words made you laugh, hiding your lips behind your palm.
You couldn't help but press your thighs together from the sight of his smirk.
Jace couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes, not finding any of it funny.
Rhaenyra looked over to your twin brother with that usual look she has whenever dealing with him but then, she suddenly turned over to Daemon.
It was as if they were speaking to each other with their minds.
Watching as your step-father nod, your mother suddenly turned to look back at all of you,
"Children," She started, you watched as she fiddled with the ring on her middle finger.
You know she always fiddled with her rings whenever something was on her mind.
Swallowing slowly, you pushed back your plate to give your full attention.
"Aerion, Y/n… it will be your namesday soon." Rhaenyra acknowledged, replacing the serious look on her face with a fond smile. "Your grandsire, King Viserys, wishes to see you all, and be there to celebrate with you."
With that news, you lit up.
You swore till this day, you were always your grandfather's favorite.
It's been years since you had last saw him.
Of course you wanted to reunite with him!
But Aerion seemed unimpressed, "We'd have to go back to King's Landing? Seriously? That place is a hole of dirt."
"Aerion," Rhaenyra warned, urging him to not complain. "The King only wants to see his family celebrate together. It is your ten-and-eighth nameday afterall."
She paused.
"And… He also discussed your betrothals in his message.."
Once you heard that, both you and your siblings grew even more shocked.
You were already receiving betrothals from great houses ever since you were ten, but if the King was now discussing the topic, you know you would be wedded soon.
The thought frightened you, of course.
Rhaenyra sighed, seemingly trying to form her words together before she fully acknowledged you, "He also mentioned a possible betrothal between you and Aemond."
To those news, your face paled.
You were at loss for words.
The thought of marrying..
.
.
.
"L-Let go of me..!"
"Let this be a lesson to you and your bastard brothers!"
.
.
.
Marrying that spawn of complete evilness?
Not a chance!
You would rather slice your head clean off before ever entertaining that idea.
"Who's that, again?" Aerion spoke up, looking completely bored while taking a bite out of his bloody steak.
You snapped your head towards him, not finding any of this funny like he was, but he genuinely appeared confused, not having any recall on who Aemond was.
Before either you or Jace could open your mouths to tell him to shut up, your mother spoke up once more.
"Please, my sweetness, don't fret," She hurried to ease your discomfort, a small but genuine smile on her face as she straightened her posture, "I had already let him know that would not happen."
The conversation should have ended there.
It was relieving that your mother had immediately rejected the idea.
But…
"I had already proposed the idea to the King that you and Jacaerys should be wed."
And with that, the room instantly fell silent.
Silent to the point, you could hear a pen drop.
You felt as if you were about to faint in your chair, your eyes widened and heart dropping.
Jace choked on his wine, getting it all over his lips and chin.
Meanwhile, Aerion stopped his chewing.
He was eerily quiet.
Suddenly, his table knife clanked on the wooden table loudly, echoing across the large room.
"Are you fucking mad?”
Seven hells.
HIIII chapter 2 is outttt😋🫰🏼
thank you all for being so patient!!
and to be honest, if aerion is ooc it’s simply because i made him a bit ooc considering the fact this is set in hotd universe😭 i truly think he would be a bit more softer and less cruel considering he’s in the era where dragons reign and thriving and he’s the son of rhaenyra..she would do a decent job at raising him.
and THANK YOU @hxtd @a-lina for proofreading and editing as always <3 love u sm twin
taglist : @nyaaaaa008 @baekxo07 @ae-gax @blurpleuni-squid @f1flowergirl (won’t let me tag u) @numberonerwitch @bambijuicee @helo1281917 @sinarainbows @giaaaarosaaaa (won’t let me tag u) @awhsya @goawaysha @godnesssstufff (won’t let me tag u) @pauxf013 @redwitchbitch1 @xpctogisatronus @purplegardenwhispers
summary: when the prince of dragonstone visits the north on a diplomatic mission, you begin to notice just how close he and your husband are. the last thing you expect is for him to set his sights on you, and for your husband to be content to let him see. coming soon.
tentative warnings: smut (minors dni), mallister!reader, afab!reader, canon divergence (no dance!), sexual tension between EVERYONE, piv sex, multiple orgasms, m/m/f threesome (heavy on the m/m), jace is SNEAKY!!!, switch!jace, dom!cregan, switch!reader, implied emotional affair/leftover feelings between cregan and jace if you squint but reader doesn’t really gaf, if anything shes genuinely fujoing out, reader and cregan have sex and both moan jace's name (what's the opposite of cucking?), blowjobs, sloppy seconds, hot springs sex, alcohol consumption, more warnings to come with finished fic.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”
You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”
The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”
His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”
Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.
His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder.
“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”
With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.
“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”
“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.
The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.
Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper.
“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”
Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.
“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.
Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”
“Does that scare you?”
This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.
“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”
Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, admiration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.
With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace.
They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.
This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”
“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”
He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”
Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”
Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”
Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”
Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”
“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”
“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”
If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle.
You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. The fingers other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?—inched along the edge of your cloak, threatening to dip inside.
You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.
“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”
The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. His hand had found its way into your cloak, fingerpads brushing your wool dress.
“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.
“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would immediately think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone.
His nose pressed harder into yours. The hand over yours, now at your side, burning where he touched. His other hand, lingering just below your breast. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.
“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?”
He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.
An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.
He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.
But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the you both turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards lingering in the doorway, looking incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal.
“Y-your grace. Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”
You cleared your throat a little too loudly, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone.
“Yes... Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
pls reblog/comment if you enjoyed! if you'd like to be tagged when this gets posted pls lmk
the morning sun was hitting the villa just right, casting a warm glow over soulties as you and carl melted into the mountain of pillows. his thick arms were securely wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, while your legs were completely tangled together. it was the perfect, quiet sanctuary away from the chaos of the rest of the islanders.
for the past few weeks, carl had been completely utterly obsessed with you. he couldn't keep his hands to himself, always needing to touch your skin, play with your hair, or steal a quick kiss when your attention was elsewhere. every time you smiled, his entire face would light up.
he constantly told you how much he admired how attentive and deeply caring you were—it really felt like you two were just one in the same, operating on the exact same wavelength. in that moment, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss right to the side of your neck, making you giggle and press backward into his warmth.
suddenly, zach’s voice boomed from across the main pool deck, echoing off the villa walls. “i got a text!”
“oh shit,” you muttered under your breath, a mix of excitement and nerves hitting your stomach. you and carl reluctantly untangled your limbs, scrambling out of soul ties alongside everyone else to crowd around zach.
zach cleared his throat, holding up the phone with a huge grin. “islanders, it’s time to turn up the heat and shake your cakes in tonight’s boys vs girls villa challenge!”
instant, deafening cheers erupted from all over the deck. the guys started chest-bumping each other, while the girls immediately locked eyes, giving each other knowing looks.
carl leaned into your ear, his hands resting heavily on your hips as he pulled you back against him. “i hope i get to see you shake somethin,” he teased, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. you laughed, turning around in his arms to slap his chest playfully before the girls started pulling you away.
you immediately ran to the makeup room, rushingto see what outfits the producers had laid out on the clothing racks. they found the look of the night: pastel colored corsets that hugged every curve, tiny white shorts that left very little to the imagination, and floppy white chef hats to tie the whole theme together.
the energy in the room was pure excitement. music was pumping through the villa speakers as the girls helped oil each other up with shimmering body oil. trinity was right behind you, squatted down and rubbing a generous handful of oil onto your butt to give it that perfect glow.
right then, the heavy makeup room doors swung open, and in walked megan the stallion herself, looking absolutely stunning.
“omg no fuckin way!” you shrieked, your jaw dropping to the floor.
“oh shit!” screams erupted from every single corner of the room. girls were jumping up and down, clutching their chests in pure disbelief. down the hall in the main bedroom, the boys were still totally clueless, completely unaware that a superstar was currently standing feet away from them.
megan laughed her signature laugh, walking around the room to give everyone big, warm hugs. she smelled amazing, and her energy completely filled the room as she complimented each and every one of the girls.
“how are y’all feeling? i love seeing yall on my tv! yall are so beautiful in person,” megan gushed, her eyes lingering on you with an approving nod. “i wish i was having a love island summer right now, but yall are giving me the inspiration exploreee.”
after chatting with the girls for a few more minutes and giving everyone a major confidence boost, megan quietly tiptoed down the hallway to the bedroom. she burst through the doors, completely surprising the boys right in the middle of them practicing their own ridiculous twerks and lines in front of the full-length mirrors. the boys absolutely lost their minds, shouting with their matching shorts and chef hats.
soon enough, you all went outside and it was time for the challenge to officially begin. megan stood at the center of the platform.
“okay yall let’s get into it! now yall know i couldn’t show up empty handed. i brought some gifts for yall, hot girl and hot boy swim! now who’s ready for some hot girl bakeryyy!”
the entire cast cheered, the boys hooting and hollering from across the yard. the producers had completely transformed the space. two massive sets of bleachers faced each other, one side for the boys and the other for the girls. directly in the center sat a raised, glossy platform, and next to it was a long table stacked high with massive, heavily frosted cakes.
the first round consisted of a girls vs boys showdown. it was musical chairs style, but instead of chairs, you had to land directly on top of a cake. the winner of the challenge would be hand-picked by megan herself.
the girls were up first, stepping onto the platform as the bass-heavy music started to blast. you didn’t hesitate for a single second. you immediately turned your back to megan, raising your arms above your head making your ass clap. the boys went absolutely wild, standing up. you then dropped all the way down to your knees on the slick platform, arching your back, while the rest of the girls performed to the side of you.
with a mischievous grin, you moved smoothly into a push-up position, holding yourself up while throwing it in a hypnotic circle, looking right over your shoulder to wink directly at carl. across the yard, carl’s entire demeanor shifted. his eyes went completely dark, locked onto you, and he heavily bit his lower lip, visibly turned on and completely mesmerized by how effortless you made it look.
suddenly, the music abruptly cut off.
the girls scrambled in a blind panic. you rushed forward, throwing your weight backward to sit squarely onto a massive, multi-layered chocolate cake just in the nick of time. you were safe, but the immediate feeling of thick, sticky frosting and squished sponge cake soaking through your tiny white shorts made you pull a hilarious, cringing face.
“don’t worry baby, i’ll clean it up later!” carl shouted at the top of his lungs from the bleachers, a massive, highly suggestive smirk plastered across his face.
the entire villa erupted into laughter, the boys smacking him on the back and shaking their heads at just how whipped he was for you.
the game went on for two more messy, chaotic rounds. girls were sliding around, but your determination kept you in the running until finally, the whistle blew and you were officially crowned the female winner.
“woo! let’s go baby! that’s my girl!” carl screamed, jumping over the bleacher seating, his chest puffed out with pride. you laughed, bending over one more time to do a quick, playful victory twerk right in his direction, which made him and the rest of the boys cheer even louder.
next up, it was the boys' turn, and it was pure, unadulterated chaos. guys were throwing their bodies around, slipping on stray frosting, and completely flattening the baked goods within seconds. it looked like a food fight dynamic. but by the end of the timer, through all the sliding and splashing, carl emerged from the mess completely victorious, his chef hat tilted to the side and frosting covering his chest.
you ran out onto the main platform to meet your man. you both stood there at the center stage as the reigning winners of the hot girl bakery challenge, completely covered in layers of frosting, laughing together at how wild the entire afternoon had been.
before megan could even announce what the next challenge of the night was, carl looked down at you, a dark, heavy spark of pure mischief in his eyes. he didn't care about the challenge or the rest of the islanders watching.
carl dropped straight down onto his knees on the gooey platform. his large, warm hands reached up, wrapping tightly around your hips to steady you as he leaned in, deliberately licking the sweet cake and thick frosting straight off your skin. playfully biting your left cheek.
the entire villa absolutely lost it. the girls were screaming at the top of their lungs, covering their mouths in shock, while the boys hyped him up, yelling and throwing their chef hats into the air. carl just closed his eyes, completely unbothered by the audience, a satisfied smile brushing against your skin as he took his absolute sweet time cleaning you up.
summary: jack abbot is a big fan of calling people pet names. it drives you nuts.
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
tags: afab reader, pet names [sweetheart, best girl], jack abbot being a cocky flirt, r has a huge crush on him
word count: 0.9k
notes: for all of those that were victims of workplace crushes <3
Doctors are not nice. Never have been, never will be. Even your professors in medical school had been made of stone, steel-faced and stubborn, refusing to let even a slight slipup happen without any consequence. It was excusable, the behavior of doctors, due to what they saw everyday and what they held in their hands. You have felt yourself becoming thicker-skinned as you’ve spent your years inside of the emergency department, an unmovable object in the unfair windstorm of life.
But Jack Abbot is not mean. He is not unfair or harsh. He is empathetic and gentle despite the consistent pressure always put on his shoulders. It’s jarring, compared to all of your other mentors. Dr. Robby, who will scold you until his face turns red beneath that beard and scruff, or the residents that have inherited their attitudes from him.
It’s only human nature, the fact that you find yourself so drawn to Abbot. Beneath the cool demeanor you keep, you’re just a being of nerves and flesh and blood and synapses, all willing to work on their own without your help. The drastic difference between how others treated those beneath them and Abbot was enough to get your stomach churning and heart racing, as much as you passed it off as a stupid workplace crush.
The worst part was that he couldn’t keep his nicknames to himself.
“You alright, sweetheart?” He asks as he steps beside you, a respectful amount of inches away as he glances at the patient board you’ve been so adamantly focused on for the past few minutes. “You’ve been standing here for a while.”
The name settles deep in your gut, an uncomfortable feeling that makes you fidgety. Your thumb drums against the counter as you pass the most nonchalant look you can summon over at him, lips pulling into a tight smile. “Fine. Just dozed off a little bit.”
Jack’s gaze travels over you like he’s trying to find something physically wrong, taking in the way you jut out your hips to take some pressure off of your back. He reaches out to press his hand into the small of your back, nudging you to sit up straight again. “Go take a break. Sit down and rest your feet for a moment, get a snack and a cup of coffee, come back your best self.”
“No, Dr. Abbot, really,” you argue. A hand raises defensively while the other gestures to the bustling hallways of the emergency room. “I have a few patients I need to check on and another couple that need to be discharged ‘cause they’ve already been here all night.”
Despite your protests, your attending simply crosses his arms over his chest and stares you down. “I’ll check with Lena and handle all of that.”
Immediately, the two of you end up in a staring contest. You with parted lips and a complaint hanging on the tip of your tongue and Jack with a clench of his jaw and a flex of muscle in his bicep. Finally, your shoulders drop in defeat, causing your attending’s face to relax in victory. “Go on, then,” he coaxes.
With a childish huff, you spin on your heel, irritation prickling up your spine. Who did Jack Abbot think he was, telling you when you needed to take a break? When was the last time he had taken a break? Sat down? Ate a snack in the middle of a busy night shift?
His cocky face is imprinted in your mind as you burst into the break room, sitting down on one of the chairs so abruptly that it screeches against the linoleum. You’re pouting, and deathly aware of it, but in the closed room of the breakroom there is no judgement to be cast and so you allow yourself to be grumpy about being sidelined.
Stupid Jack Abbot and his stupid nicknames and his stupid empathy for every little thing.
After approximately fifteen minutes of staring at the wall and allowing your brain to shut off for the first time all night, the door to the breakroom creaks open slowly, bringing in a wave of noise until it shuts again.
“How’s my favorite girl?” Jack asks, bracing his hand on the back of an unoccupied chair. “Do you feel better?”
There it is, that foolish gut feeling again the minute that sweet timbre hits your ears. You’ve never been one to crave praise, or even be flustered by it, however it was infuriatingly different when it came from your extremely handsome attending.
You prop your elbow up on the table, placing your chin in the palm of your hand and giving him your best bored look. “Dying of boredom from being sidelined,” you grump.
He just chuckles at your antics, reaching over to grab your wrist. In response, you lift your head so that he can place your hand down, breaking down your grumpy exterior physically. “You weren’t sidelined, you were told to take a break, there is a difference.” His hand lands on the top of your head, fingertips scrunching your hair and loosening it from your ponytail.
With an irritated grunt, you swat away his hand. “I don’t see you tellin’ anyone else to take a break.” You scrunch your nose at him mockingly, leaning back in your chair to look up at him.
Jack is the picture of amused, reaching out to pinch your chin playfully. “I don’t worry about anyone else that much,” he replies.
Finally, he pats your cheek gently with just his fingertips. “C’mon, sweetheart. Stop pouting and get out there.” With that, he turns and exits the breakroom, leaving you to gape at the door while trying to find a way to steady your own tachycardia.
How were you supposed to treat patients when Jack Abbot was so tempted to make you one?
summary — everyone has an ex that they’d rather forget about. yours is just more persistent than most. however, when he takes the initiative to show up at your place of work, demanding a second chance, it’s time for you to shut it down once and for all—and to show that you have standards now. (based on this request)
featured — dr. jack abbot / fem!nurse!reader, nurse lena handzo, dr. john shen, ahmad zidan
content — no spoilers for s1 or 2, fluff and angst, talk of drug abuse (not by reader or jack), past emotional abuse/manipulation, your ex is a possessive asshole, you and jack stand on business, dr. shen being iconic as per usual
(cross-posted on ao3) (the pitt masterlist)
The first call comes as you are walking into the PTMC that morning, your bag slung over your shoulder and one hand in the pocket of your jeans.
The frown comes with immediacy across your face as you realize you are unsure of who would be calling so early in the morning. You step to the side of the emergency room floor and brandish the vibrating mobile from your pocket. It is not a saved number in your phone, so you silence it without thinking twice about it. Spam calls these days have become so common that you average at least one a shift.
Crisis averted, you head to the nurse’s station and get changed into your scrubs. Even at three in the morning, the ER is already buzzing with life. You greet a few of the frequent fliers you pass on the way, an unshakable grin on your cheeks.
Once you’re dressed, the day officially begins. Despite yourself, you find your eyes jumping from person to person, eagerly looking for one doctor in particular.
But he finds you before you do him. You jolt when his arm brushes against yours as you stand near the charge station. You angle your head in his direction and you feel your heart skip a beat as you focus fully on him.
“Hey,” you say to Jack, trying—and failing—to refocus on the schedule in front of you.
He doesn’t even try to look busy as he drags a hand through his silver curls, eyes twinkling despite their exhaustion. “You’re starting early.”
You half-shrug, flipping the page over, scanning quickly through the patient list. “Lena needed another nurse on deck… something about Jacob’s paternity leave. So, here I am.”
“Here you are.”
You look at him fully then, an affectionate smile creeping across your face. “How’s the shift been? Chaotic?”
Jack shakes his head. He rubs his temple as if doing so would release every worry from his head. “Uh, it’s been about the same. So, catastrophic on every level. I had—“
Your Apple Watch suddenly buzzes twice in quick succession and your attention is unintentionally diverted. You frown, again confused why you were receiving nonessential notifications. When you open the screen, two text messages are there from an unknown number. You can’t preview the messages from your watch before the screen goes black, so you have no idea what they might contain.
“Everything okay?” Jack reminds you of his presence when he asks this, and you briefly look up at him to let him know you heard his question.
“Yeah, not sure what’s going on today.” You push and hold to silence the watch. “Spam callers are having a field day, I guess. Bet they just texted to let me know I have to click this sketchy link to prevent my nonexistent car from being repossessed.”
“Better get on that,” your boyfriend says with a light chuckle, “you know the United States government has an invested interest in your nonexistent car and those nonexistent toll fees.”
You grin at his sarcasm. Finally dissuaded from checking your notifications, you look up at him. “Now if only they could adjust their pitch to match Pittsburgh public transportation.”
“—Yo, lovebirds,” Lena’s voice commands attention from every corner of the room, and you feel your spine immediately go ramrod from her tone. “I got patients back here that would love an ounce of your undivided attention.”
Despite her tone, you know she’s not truly angry. You place a quick kiss on Jack’s cheek, then head over to your charge nurse. The text messages, phone call, and even Jack migrate to the back of your head as you get sucked into work.
You haven’t thought about your ex in a long ass time. It’s hard to reconcile that at one point in your life, he’d been all you thought about.
You had met in nursing school. He was the sweet, handsome, charismatic guy who sat next to you in pharmacology. It was hard to see in your young, 20-something-year-old brain the glaring red flags. Or perhaps you had ignored them in favor of the relationship.
You had the habit of focusing on the positives more than you did the negatives of any situation, especially regarding relationships. You focused on the fact that he always brought you a coffee when he got himself one, the fact that he would wrap his arm around you and tug you to his side when talking with friends, how he’d always make up for arguments with gifts and affection.
But as time wore on, his negatives only became more pronounced. He was not used to working hard for his degree in college—that is what happens when daddy pays for you to have good grades in undergrad—and flunked out. He blamed you for being a distraction to his schooling, but never dared breaking up with you. He started getting too adventurous with his drug usage, to the point finding his next fix took priority over everything else.
You broke up with him a year ago. Six months ago, you started dating Jack.
Jack is everything that he wasn’t. He’s responsible. Everything he has he’s had to work for. He loves you, and does not put you on the back burner when life gets messy, instead, he tries to make it work. Most importantly, though? He doesn’t fucking blame you for all his problems.
You stare at the phone in a stunned silence.
All it takes was two texts for you to remember why you hated being single those six months you were. The audacity of some men was truly astounding.
???: did you really just ignore my call? who the hell do you think you are?
And then, literally, seconds later:
???: are you in town, babe? maybe we could grab some drinks?
One might wonder how you knew it was him, but it’s just so obvious. No one else would be texting at five in the fucking morning looking to get drinks after a year no-contact. It’s the kind of insane behavior one could only expect from him.
You shake your head after a few moments of staring blankly at your phone and stand. You throw the last bits of your meal away and drop your phone back off into your locker. As you step out of the nurse’s area, you notice Lena waving you over from across the room.
You make it over to her in two quick strides, eager to get your mind the hell away from whatever those texts were.
Those dreams are dashed the second you notice Lena giving you a concerned look.
“Hey hon.” Hon? She never calls you that. “We have a man in North 2 asking for you by name. Want to take it?”
You cock a brow, mind moving a mile a minute as you try to quickly go through who that could be. But the texts still linger in your mind from moments before and you get stuck on one thought. Would he really be so stupid… so deplorable… to get himself admitted to your ER?
You sigh and nod, straightening your scrub top nervously as you approach the patient room door. You pause for a moment, trying to will yourself to just knock on the door. When you finally do, a smiling brunette answers it—not exactly what you’d been expecting.
“Are you the doctor?” she says, entirely too caffeinated and hyper for being in a hospital at five in the morning.
“I’m the nurse,” you tell her, smiling tightly. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, right.” She lets out a laugh. “Sorry, I see that on your badge now.”
She steps aside and you take at most two steps before your stomach drops to your feet. There he is, in all his glory. Considering the fact that you haven’t seen him in a year and he’s gained at least thirty pounds, you applaud yourself for recognizing him so quickly. He’s got one arm covered in gauze, and blood seems to have already soaked through.
The woman who’s with him goes to his side, stroking his unhurt arm gently. Poor girl, you think, if only she knew what she was getting herself into.
“I’m just going to take your vitals.” Strict professionalism. That is your aim for working with him. You grab the blood pressure cuff and loop it around his upper arm.
“Babe, how about you go get me a coke?” His voice is just as dry and grumbly as you remember. Once upon a time, you’d found it attractive. Now it was just grating.
You squeeze the cuff as the girl nods cheerily and practically skips out of the room. He lets out a quick breath through his teeth when you maybe squeeze it one time too hard. An honest mistake, really. You type down his blood pressure dutifully in his patient chart.
You gesture toward the door where the woman just slipped out. “Where’d you pick a girl like that up at?”
“Eh, she’s just some squeeze.” He shrugs. “Nothin’ compared to you, babe.”
“I see your limitless assholery has remained the same.” You type a few more numbers into his chart, refusing to give him the eye contact he so desperately searched for. “So, what? You just so happened to cut yourself after texting me for the first time in a year?”
He winces as you reach over to pull back the bandage. It’s not too bad. You probe the edges of skin once, twice, then pull the bandage back over it. It looks like it might need stitches, which means, unfortunately, he will have to stay longer.
“Would you respond to me otherwise?” He makes a good point. You would never answer the phone if you knew he was on the other line. However, faking an injury and taking the bed of a person who might actually need it? Now that’s just wrong.
You snap your gloves off and go to add one more note to his file. Do not administer Oxycodone-based medications. That last bit of information comes from personal experience.
“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” you ask, leaning up against the door of the room.
He doesn’t have to think on it for long. “Good.”
“The good news is that you will not be seeing me much more for the rest of your stay here. The bad news is you will have to stay a little longer. A doctor will need to come assess your wound.”
“How’s the good news good? I came here specifically to see you,” he says, his tone annoyed.
You give him your best attempt at a smile. “Oh right–that’s good news for me, not you. Have a good day.”
You leave the room quickly after that, ignoring his protests as you do. You pass the brunette on your way to the charge station, and you offer her a pitying smile. Poor girl really has no idea who she’s getting involved with, does she?
Leaning across the charge desk, you pinch your nose bridge in between your fingers and attempt to take several deep breaths.
Of all the things you’d seen in this profession; all the people that had been lost along the way… somehow, the hardest struggle was having to face your ex. How ridiculous was that?
“You good?” The sudden question is punctuated by a loud slurp of a drink, and you know who it is before you even turn your head.
“Hey Shen,” you greet him curtly. He shakes around the Dunkin’ drink in his hand, the ice cubes clinking together.
“You and Jack having some trouble in paradise?” Shen says before taking another loud sip of his drink.
You can’t help the short laugh from snorting out of your nostrils. “No, no,” you tell him, “if only it were that.”
Shen narrows his eyes. He looks you up and down as if trying to discern the issue.
You sigh. “My ex. He’s in North 2. He faked an injury to see me.”
“No way.” Shen laughs. “Listen, I have some pretty crazy exes, but even they haven’t done anything that crazy.” His tone shifts when he realizes you aren’t in the same jovial mood. He steps forward, expression drawn tight. “You need help?”
You look off to the side, pondering. It would suck if Jack had to meet him. It wasn’t so much that you didn’t want Jack to know as it was that you didn’t want to have to deal with the embarrassment of having dated that thing for a brief point in your life.
“You free? Think you could inspect his wound? Maybe put in some stitches?”
Shen cocks a brow. “You sure you don’t want Jack to do that? Need him to go all macho on him?”
“I’d rather Jack not be involved.” You shift uneasily on your feet. “Not because he’s possessive, but because I worry my ex might get… unruly.”
Shen nods, then puts his drink down on the counter, even though Lena had explicitly requested he not do that. “Give me fifteen. I’ll meet you back here for consult.”
You watch for a few seconds as he strides away, then you avert your eyes to your hands. They’re shaking, but you’re not sure why. You aren’t scared of your ex—but that doesn’t mean you aren’t upset by his reappearance in your life.
You hadn’t been one of those couples that said “let’s just be friends!” even once they broke up. You’d been more so the type that you blocked each other’s numbers and you moved your entire career and livelihood to get away from him. It felt like two worlds colliding, him being here, where you were now a successful nurse and not his overly-reliant girlfriend.
As you continue to stand by the desks, you notice Jack stepping out of a patient’s room down the hall. You turn your back and attempt to look busy in sorting paperwork, but you know he’s seen you.
His voice breaks through your thoughts just as you begin to think he’s not coming over. “Working hard or hardly working?”
You smile despite yourself. “Hey,” you say, turning your head.
His eyebrows furrow as he gets closer to you, able to see you more clearly. He leans beside you on the counter, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s worried about you—he always does that when he is. “You alright?”
You knew he was going to ask this, but it still catches you off-guard.
You don’t want to lie to him, but you don’t want to tell him the truth either. Subjecting Jack to your ex was not high on your to-do list. If all went well, no one would have to deal with him other than Shen. Besides, you don’t need a man to stick up for you. You could handle him just fine on your own.
You shrug. “Sometimes I forget how chaotic the night shift can be.”
He leans forward, voice soft. “If you’re struggling, I’m sure Lena will be understanding…”
You put your hand on his bicep and give it a squeeze. “I’m okay, Jack. I promise. Besides, your shift is over in, what, an hour and a half? Don’t worry about me.”
“I’ll try,” he tells you, “but you have a way of making it into my head whether I want you to or not.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
“—You ready to go, my favorite nurse?” you hear Shen say from behind you. He reaches between you and Jack to grab his drink, taking a long sip. The seriousness of the conversation he just interrupted is completely lost on him. He turns to Jack. “Oh, hey man. Didn’t see you there.”
Your boyfriend cocks a brow at you. “What’s going on?”
“A consult,” Shen replies simply.
Jack looks at you like he’s expecting a more in-depth explanation. You smile teasingly and pat his arm. “Back to work, doc. Patients won’t save themselves.”
Jack rolls his eyes affectionately as you step away, but once your back is turned, the expression falls away.
You clutch the suture kit cart as Shen knocks on the patient door then uses his hip to push it open. He stands to the side as you enter. Your ex’s new girlfriend shoots to her feet as you push the cart in, her eyes wide. You offer her what you hope is a comforting smile.
“Hello, hello,” Shen says as he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to his bed. “I’m Dr. Shen and I’m going to be taking care of you today. I hear you have a cut on your arm?”
Your ex doesn’t look at him as he replies, his eyes on you and the suture kit. “I slipped.” He reaches over to remove the gauze on his arm.
“Is it going to need stitches?” The girlfriend asks from behind you.
Shen inspects the wound carefully, eyes moving slowly across the ripped skin. He pulls away and nods. “Yeah, I think a few stitches. It’s pretty deep and jagged along the edges. What was it you slipped on?”
He moves out of the way so you can begin flushing the wound. You ignore the fact that your ex is flexing his muscles as you grab the cleanser, completely locked into your work.
“My damn hunting knife,” he says, “it’ll leave a pretty nice scar though, huh?”
You roll your eyes without even really meaning to, and you feel your ex’s glare on you.
“Go ahead and put some lidocaine in,” Shen tells you. He turns to your ex. “Don’t want you to feel your skin being pulled together with a needle, do we?”
Your ex goes pale as you grab the syringe and fill it with the liquid. “Uh, could I… does it have to have stitches?”
“Trust me, honey, you do not want sepsis,” his girlfriend says, “my cousin got it and—“
“—Just be quiet,” your ex snaps at her. You flinch at the tone, and accidentally spill a little bit of the liquid on the table.
Shen steps up behind you, crossing his arms in front of his chest. You know he wants to comfort you, but you’re glad he keeps his distance. “Your girlfriend is right,” he says, “lots of nasty things can happen if you let a cut like that not heal properly.”
You gently guide the needle into the skin above his wound and push the liquid inside. You turn to your ex as you pull the needle away. “It should be completely numb in a few minutes.”
You step back to let Shen take the seat again. You turn to look out the window of the room only to lock eyes with Jack. He’s talking to Lena, but his eyes are on you. You look away. You nervously shift on your feet, clutching your hands across your front.
“So, uh.” Your ex’s eyes are on you as he starts to speak. Your lips draw into a thin line. “You guys get out much? Have boyfriends, girlfriends?”
Shen knows who the question is aimed at, yet he answers anyway. “Eh, it’s kind of difficult,” he says, poking and prodding the arm. “I’m not much for commitment.”
You refuse to reply.
“Okay, I think it’s numbed up, I’m going to go ahead and start,” Shen tells him. “Maybe try not to look at it. I find my patients who don’t usually have the best time with this.”
You hand Shen the threaded needle and help clamp the skin together with forceps.
“And you?” His fucking mouth.
You barely look up from his wound as your ex says this. “What?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“Honey, I think they’re concentrating right now,” his girlfriend butts in. You shoot her an appreciative smile and keep your hands steady as Shen guides the needle through the first point.
“Surely she can answer a question,” he huffs, “I mean she’s just holding a clamp. I can do that.”
You shake your head and barely murmur, “I’m not doing this here. Not now.”
Shen goes through the third point, drawing the skin together tightly.
A few moments pass and you think he’s given up. Then, he says, “I just don’t understand what the big deal is. Why can’t you answer the question?”
You clench your jaw, barely able to conceal your irritation. Shen shoots you a look, but then goes back to sewing.
“Cmon, really?” he continues.
“I have a boyfriend—is that what you so desperately want to hear?!” your voice is unexpectedly loud, and you immediately regret the outburst after it leaves your lips.
The girlfriend looks shocked—hurt, probably realizing that your connection with her boyfriend goes beyond a normal patient-nurse relationship. Your ex looks equal parts annoyed as he does satisfied with your outburst. Like he’d just proved some point in his head about how you weren’t all perfect.
Shen turns his head and says, “scissors.”
You hand him the utensil and he pulls the thread taut before snipping it.
Your ex lets out a short laugh. You cock a brow, worried that someone had slipped him something.
“I don’t believe you.”
You roll your eyes. “Good thing I don’t care if you do or don’t.”
Shen turns to you. “I can wrap up here if you need to step out.”
You’re already halfway out the door by the time he says this. You move quickly to the stairwell, passing concerned nurses and doctors as you do. Once you are out the door, you have to bend over to catch your breath. Pressing the palms of your hands hard against your eyes, you will yourself not to get upset.
Only he could get you that flustered with hardly a word. And you fell for his bait every single time. You lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing.
A few minutes pass. More than you are sure that Lena would allow. The doors to the stairwell open and you turn to the side, hoping the person there can take a hint.
Unfortunately, Jack is persistent.
He gently grabs your arm and pulls you to his side. You allow him, and the stress of the day flows out of you with your muffled tears. You cushion your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He strokes the top of your head while the other arm holds you just as tightly.
Once you’ve released all the emotion you can handle, you pull back a little, wiping your eyes. Jack doesn’t let you get far, keeping you close to his chest.
“Shen told me you were upset,” he says, “what’s going on?”
You sniffle, trying to look away. He gently guides your head back to meet his eyes with his thumb on your chin. His fingers slide up to cup your cheek and you melt into his grip. “Talk to me, love.”
A fresh set of tears escape your eyes at the sweetness of his voice. The caring, affectionate man in front of you was so much better than anyone you’d ever been with. It makes you feel silly for crying, silly for complaining.
“This morning, when my watch buzzed.” You hiccup. “It wasn’t a spam number. It was my ex-boyfriend.”
You watch Jack’s face carefully as you say this, trying to predict his next words before he says them. You thread your fingers in his scrubs, anchoring yourself to him.
“Then, he showed up as a patient. He intentionally hurt himself to see me. And he’s been rude and crass, sure, but that’s not even what bothers me the most.” You wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, knowing you must look a mess. “I don’t want him back in my life. Never. He… just doesn’t belong here. It makes me sick thinking he’s trying to worm himself into my perfect life that I’ve built without him.”
You pause, taking a panicky breath in. “I don’t want him to come between us. I don’t want you to think… I don’t want you to think less of me because of him. I mean, I can’t believe I ever dated him. He’s awful.”
Jack strokes your cheek, letting you get it all out. When he’s sure you’re finished, he speaks.
“First of all,” he says, “I’m never going to judge you for people you no longer have in your life. If you chose to get rid of them, I know there’s a hell of a good reason. And, personally, I think you’re a great judge of character. I don’t want to hang out with someone you don’t like.” You avert your eyes bashfully, but Jack angles your head so you’re still looking at him.
“Secondly, don’t blame yourself for the choices of stupid people. Just because you once associated with him, doesn’t mean you still stand by his choices today,” he says. “I love you. I mean that. And that means I trust you, implicitly. I wouldn’t have tried to get in the way—well, let me rephrase that. If you weren’t in imminent trouble and I thought you had it handled, I wouldn’t intervene with your issues.”
You let out a soft laugh at that last part.
For a moment longer, the two of you stand there. He strokes your hair, you clutch his scrubs. Finally, you release him.
“I’ve got thirty more minutes left before the day shift inevitably arrives,” he says, “so, what do you want to do?”
You shake your head. “Honestly? I hope he disappears.” You push open the door with your hip. “But if he doesn’t, then I’ll let you know.”
You step into the buzzing ER and let out a deep breath. You start to head to the bathroom, when your eye gets caught on a figure quickly headed in the other direction. Her dark hair bounces against her back as she jogs away, her hand covering her face. The girlfriend. You imagine that their conversation didn’t go over well.
Your ex steps out after her, clutching his now-bandaged arm. He looks at her retreating back for a moment before he rolls his neck back, peeved. As he turns to go back in the room, he halts. Then his eyes lift and immediately lock onto yours.
A rehearsed grin spreads across his mouth. You turn your back, but he reaches you before you can push open the door to the bathroom.
He grabs your shoulder and you spin around, pushing him away disgustedly.
“Don’t ever touch me,” you say through gritted teeth.
“Woah, woah,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Easy there, tiger.”
He jumps in front of you when you go to push open the bathroom door.
“Hey, just listen to me.” His eyes are like a weasel’s, predatory and conniving. “Just let me say my piece.”
“I’m not interested,” you tell him. “What part of that can’t you get through your thick skull?”
“Is this about the cheating thing? Are you really still mad about that?”
“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?” You roll your eyes. “You can stick your dick in any hole you like. It’s none of my business. Why? Because we aren’t dating.”
You turn your back when you remember you have makeup wipes in your bag. But you can’t get far before a hand wraps around your wrist like steel. You don’t have a moment to think, your body reacts before your mind can. You turn and punch him squarely in the jaw.
He releases you immediately and lets out a loud groan, falling back against the bathroom door. He clutches his jaw with a fury in his eyes unlike you’ve ever seen.
“I said, don’t touch me, asswipe.”
He comes toward you, as if to retaliate, but then you feel an arm pushing you behind a sturdy body and your view is cut off.
“Who the hell are you?” your ex says, gesturing to Jack with a foul expression.
You look down at your hand and realize it’s bleeding. Your thumb might be sprained—you aren’t sure. It throbs painfully, but you can move it at least.
“I’m her boyfriend.” You peer around Jack’s shoulder and realize that your ex looks about ready to piss himself. “But that doesn’t matter. When someone asks for space, that’s when you back the fuck off.”
“—What’s going on here?” A voice cuts in. You turn your head to see Ahmad there, his hand resting on his holster.
You step forward. “Ahmad. Could you escort this patient out? He should be ready for discharge. I’ll fill out all the proper HR paperwork—this is all just a big mistake.”
“Hey, hey,” your ex says, waving his hand toward Ahmad, “I’m not taking the fall for this.”
Ahmad grabs your ex’s shoulder before he can reach out and grab you. You look back and see Jack and Shen are there, both willing to corroborate.
You look back at your ex. “It’s time to go. And don’t come back.”
“Unless you get seriously injured in the vicinity of our hospital, then you can—“ Shen starts to say, but Jack elbows him in the side.
Your ex stares at you for a full second. Then he turns his head. You think he’s given up, then he mutters a very clear, resounding bitch underneath his breath and Jack is stepping forward before you can stop him.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“Jack,” you call out.
Your ex looks at him square on. “She heard me.”
Jack clenches his fists. You reach forward to grab his shoulder. You look over at Ahmad, who then forcefully turns your ex around and leads him away.
“Jack, it’s okay,” you say. “I’ve heard worse, believe it or not.”
“He can’t just…” he starts to say, then shakes his head.
“I love you,” you tell him softly. “And I’m okay.”
Shen gets drawn into an incoming trauma and hurries away. You clutch your still-bleeding hand to your chest, which draws Jack’s attention.
“Shit,” he curses. “Why didn’t you say you’ve never punched someone before? I could’ve done it.”
Your hand is still shaking as you follow him to an empty exam room. He opens the door and you shuffle in.
“It’s really not that bad,” you say, “it’s mostly the adrenaline making me shake.”
Jack keeps his back to you in the room, looking through cabinets quickly. You sigh.
“Really, Jack, I needed to punch him. For my own mental well-being. I’d be kicking myself later if I hadn’t,” you say with a soft laugh.
Jack retrieves some bandages and disinfectant. He takes a seat on a rolling stool in front of where you sit perched on an exam bed, swinging your feet back and forth. Jack gently grabs your hand and looks over your injuries.
“How are you so calm right now?” he asks, unfolding a disinfectant swab. “Your ex just verbally assaulted you in front of the entire ER floor.”
You hiss through your teeth as he dabs the swab against your torn knuckles. He gives you an apologetic look, but doesn’t let up.
“I’m sure I’ll start panicking later, once everything settles in.” You wince again as he wraps your knuckles.
“Can you move your thumb?”
You move it side to side, then up and down. Confusion washes over you as he inspects it. “How’d you know I hurt my thumb?”
He laughs. “I haven’t seen a fist that bad since I was sixteen. You can’t tuck your thumb inside your fist when you punch—you’re lucky you didn’t break it.”
You pout. “I thought I did good.”
He lets go of your thumb to cup your cheeks together in his palms. “I didn’t say it was terrible. You still packed a pretty mean hook.”
You can’t resist. You lean forward to give him a kiss. He returns it wholeheartedly, angling your head with his palm.
You pull away before it can devolve into something inappropriate for a hospital setting. He strokes the back of your neck even as you pull apart, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded.
“You better go brief the day shift,” you tell him, “I’m sure they’ve already heard plenty about your eventful night. You know Shen loves to gossip.”
He bites his lip and throws his head back with a groan. “God, all I want to do right now is go to sleep.”
“At least you don’t have to do HR paperwork with a hurt hand.”
“You got me there,” he says, gently tugging you to his side as he heads to the door. “You’re off tomorrow, right? Want to come over to my place?”
summary ⠀♱ ⠀in the words of lana del rey, “i got sweet taste for men who are older…” or, two times jack abbot was mistaken for your father, and the one time he wasn’t.
pairing ⠀♱ dbf!jack abbot x fem!robinavitch!reader
warnings ⠀♱ big time age gap — reader is in her mid 20s, jack is in his early 50s. smut, overprotective robby, probably ooc jack and robby. way too many instances of jack and reader getting mistaken for a father/daughter duo — usage of the nickname ‘daddy’ (only during sex), jack is insecure about his age, mentions of jack’s leg, jack takes viagra, BIG DICK JACK !!! reader works at the hospital with her dad and daddy, small brendon park threesome idea sneak 🙂↕️
a/n ⠀♱ this is genuinely probably the freakiest fic i’ve ever written. enjoy my little freaks <3 i am NOT normal about the way i feel about shawn hatosy and dat shark in his pants. THIS WORK WAS MADE BY ME, NOT AI. DO NOT PLUG MY WORKS INTO AI. not proofread, ignore any spelling errors.
#1 — AT A BARBECUE
An aroma of grilling onions and bell peppers on a heated Blackstone filled the air. You and Jack were at a Memorial Day barbecue hosted by one of his old Army buddies who he hadn’t seen in a while, the sound of your flip flops slapping around on overheating concrete making Jack look up at you as you handed him a beer with a soft smile. “Thank you, honey.” He smiled back at you, a stray curl flopping onto his forehead.
You nod, “Of course. You want some fruit or something? There’s some really good watermelon over there,” you point to a table with an assortment of different types of fruit: watermelon, pineapple, honeydew, and cantaloupe—with a manicured finger. Jack shakes his head, putting the rim of the amber bottle to his lips, “I’m alright, honey, thank you.”
You nod again, a small ‘okay’ falling from your lips before you make your own way to the table, adjusting your cover up on your shoulders. There’s a woman already there who looks to be in her late forties, and you can tell she’s the wife of one of the retired vets that Jack became close with. She smiles at you, holding tongs in her left hand as she picks up a few pieces of watermelon and places them on a plate. “It’s so nice of Jack to bring you here,” She says kindly, “Are you on summer break from the University of Pittsburgh?”
You shake your head, grabbing a paper plate from the stack as the wind picks up, making a few napkins fly away, so you bend down to grab them before responding. “I actually just graduated from the Pitt School of Health,” you correct, “I’m a phlebotomist at PTMC, I work with Jack.” She gasps, “Oh, a father-daughter duo at the hospital! That’s so adorable. I’m Teresa, I’m Emmett’s wife,” She holds out her hand, pointing in the direction of the pool at a tan Asian man.
You shake her hand, “Thank you, but Jack’s not my father—I’m his girlfriend,” You giggle, and Teresa blushes, looking mortified, “Oh, gosh—I am so sorry—” She apologizes profusely, but you just laugh it off, shrugging, “It’s fine, really—the age gap and all—it makes sense that you would perceive us that way.”
She apologizes once more before walking back over to her husband, and you just giggle again to yourself, placing a few pieces of cantaloupe on your plate before going back over to Jack. “What was that all about?” He asks gravelly, pulling you into his lap with a soft grunt, his hand rubbing small circles on your hip bone.
“She thought you were my dad,” you laugh, wrapping your free arm around the back of his neck, stabbing the cantaloupe chunk with your plastic fork and bringing it up to your lips. “Are you serious?” Jack responds, huffing out a laugh, “I don’t look that old, do I honey?”
You hum, looking over his facial features—the Crow’s feet by his beautiful hazel eyes, the greying stubble on his cheeks and chin, the silvery-white curls that you loved to tug on and run your fingers through—and just chuckle, “I plead the fifth.”
Jack scoffs, pinching your hip, “Brat.”
#2 — HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!
You knew that sometimes the age gap bothered Jack—not in a malicious way towards you, but towards himself. He could never understand why you of all people, his best friend’s daughter, chose someone as old and as grumpy as him.
His back ached almost daily. He had wrinkles everywhere. His hair was grey, white in some places, and he had to take Viagra to keep up with you, for God’s sakes—and on top of all of that, he was a war veteran missing the lower part of his leg.
But you still wanted him. You still chose him.
“Baby, are you almost done?” You call out, walking back to Jack’s bedroom, where you see him standing in front of a mirror, sighing as he struggles with his tie. “Let me do it,” You murmur softly, removing his hands from the fabric, breathing steady as you concentrate on untying it for him. “Fuckin’ hands are shaking,” he scoffs, “I’m a doctor, and my hands are shaking. What kind of fucking bullshit—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” You cut him off, your voice soothing as you lift your hand to his cheek, “what’s going on, Jack? Are you okay?” His hand raises to cover yours as he turns his head to kiss your palm, and he nods. “Yeah, just…what that waiter said at dinner—I guess it shook me up more than I realized.”
“Oh, baby,” you coo, “the Dad thing? That happens all the time with us, Jackie—”
He cuts you off, stepping away from you and your touch, “I know,” He says roughly, “It happens basically every time we go out, honey—I just—it makes me feel so weird sometimes. Like I’m some kind of predator, I mean—” He scoffs, “You’re my best friend’s daughter and he doesn’t even know about us. I was there for all of your major life events, hon—don’t you think that’s weird?”
Even though he’s stepped away from you, you step closer to him. “Jack,” You sigh, “I am a grown woman, who can make my own choices.”
“Honey—that’s not what I—”
“No,” You shake your head, “I knew what I was doing when I pursued you, Jack. For God’s sakes, I’ve had a ‘crush’ on you since I was a senior in high school. Who cares if someone thinks you’re my father? You’re not, you’re my boyfriend. And that’s all that matters.”
Jack looks down at you with softened hazel eyes, a smile perking up on his lips. “I’m your boyfriend,” He repeats, like he’s reminding himself.
“My hot boyfriend,” You affirm, placing a hand on his chest to slowly push him towards the bed, “my hot, sexy, beekeeping age boyfriend with a massive dick…”
His eyebrows raise as his back lands against the crisply ironed sheets of his duvet, “Massive dick, huh?”
“You know it’s massive, Abbot, shut up.”
+ 1 — SUPPLY CLOSET
You knew it was wrong to lie to your father—but he couldn’t know about your relationship with Jack yet, he just couldn’t. So when you told him you were going to Italy, and he asked with who, obviously you couldn’t tell him it was with your boyfriend who just so happened to be his best friend of more than two decades. So you lied.
“Just some friends from college,” You shrug, plopping down onto his couch, “Hannah, Veronica, Quinn—that group.”
Michael looks up from his book, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as you rest your head on his shoulder. He places a kiss to your hair. “You better be safe, sweetheart. Use the buddy system when you go to the bathroom, don’t take drinks from strangers, practice safe sex—”
“Dad!” You exclaim with disgust, lifting your head up from his shoulder. “What? You’re a single young woman in a foreign country, honey, and Italian men are very persistent. I’m just trying to make sure you won’t be going home with some foreign objects, honey, that’s all.” He chuckles at his joke, and you roll your eyes.
“You’re so stupid,” You grumble, “and old. And annoying. And for the record, I have a boyfriend. No sex with Italian men will be happening any time soon.”
This intrigues Michael, and he takes his glasses off, closes his book, and then puts both items on the coffee table. “Yeah? When do I get to meet this lucky guy who makes my baby girl so happy, hm?”
Fuck. You’ve already said way too much.
“Someday,” You splutter, “he’s really busy with work, so—”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a doctor,”
Shit! Way too much fucking said!
The next week, you come into work, and almost immediately, Ahmad is in your face with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “The great Dr. Robinavitch! Welcome in, my fair lady.”
You look up at him, amused. “What’s the betting pool this time?”
He just sighs, a look of defeat on his face as his shoulders deflate. He crosses his arms over his chest, “Who in the hospital you’re dating. Your dad put $40 on Park the Shark, caught making out in the supply closet. Said something like that happened when he first started working at the ED with your mom, and you know the saying—like father, like daughter.”
You fake gag, “First of all, TMI about my parents. Didn’t need to know that. And second of all, Park the Shark? Really, dad?” You aim the last piece of your sentence towards him, where he’s at the nurses’ station chatting with Dana.
“Sorry honey!”
Four—almost five—hours later, there’s a small chance for a break after the chaos of an MVC begins to wind down. It had required all hands on deck, bringing in multiple doctors from different departments, and also doctors from the night shift, meaning that Dr. Jack Abbot, MD and you were in the same vicinity.
After completing a CBC and CMP for one of the patients, you had a small break. You let out a sigh of relief as you snap your gloves off, stretching and rolling out your neck before going down the hallway, where, strategically, there was a supply closet. You shrug to yourself, figuring that you could do some organizing in there with the downtime—and shut the door behind you once you make your way inside.
A few minutes later, the door opens behind you, and you gasp, placing a hand on your chest before realizing it was just your boyfriend, who now has a grin on his face. He locks the door before walking closer to you, gripping your hips with calloused hands. “I scare you?” He teases, backing you up against the shelving, placing kisses along your neck and jawline.
“Mm—Jack, we’re at work…” You try to protest, but they get caught in your throat as his hands move from your hips to underneath your scrub top. “In a closet,” he states, “with the lights turned off. With downtime in an Emergency Department. Let me fuck you, honey.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” You giggle, pressing your lips to his. You moan softly as the kisses get more intense, and soon enough, Jack’s scrub pants and boxers are pushed down just enough to let his cock out. Your scrub pants are all the way down to your ankles, thong pushed to the side, scrub top on the floor and your undershirt pulled up to let Jack see his favorite thing: your tits.
“So fucking perfect for me,” He murmurs, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking on it as he slowly starts to thrust into you. “Oh my God, Jackie…” You whine, head thumping against the shelving. He shushes you, pulling off of your breast, “Not my name, honey. And you gotta be quiet, can’t have our coworkers knowing how slutty their favorite phlebotomist gets for her daddy, hm?” He lifts his thumb to your lips, and you gladly take it, moaning around it as his thrusts increase.
“So big daddy—nghhhh,” You whimper, and he groans as you clench around him, shoving his head into the crook of your neck, “Oh, fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” He grits out, pace increasing as the knot begins to form in the base of his stomach—and as soon as it forms, it’s gone.
“What the fuck?!” Michael snarls, anger clearly expressive on his face as his grip tightens on the supply closet door’s handle, his teeth gritted. Jack scrambles to pull up his boxers and scrub pants, covering you up with his body as he turns around to face the older Dr. Robinavitch.
“Robby, man, I can explain—”
The door slams in Jack’s face.
“I thought you locked it!” You squeal, rushing to put all of your clothes back on: you pull your undershirt down, put your scrub top back on, put your thong back in the right place, and then pull your scrub pants back on before smoothing your hair and trying to ignore the dull ache that formed between your legs.
“I did!” Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair, “I forgot it unlocks if you pull on it hard enough—Robby must’ve already been irritated.”
“My dad just saw me having sex with you,” You whine, “my life is over.” You hide your face in his chest, and Jack just sighs again, placing a hand on your back before kissing the top of your head. “I’ll deal with it, honey. Just—go back to working, okay? Shut down any shit that people try to talk.”
You look up at him, nodding, and quickly exit the supply closet, avoiding eye contact with any staff as you try to busy yourself with bloodwork labs. Jack, still in the supply closet, grips both sides of his stethoscope, sighs, and then looks up at the ceiling, shutting his eyes before whispering, “God kill me now.”
After taking a few more deep breaths, he exits the closet, looking around for Robby. His heart drops to his ass when he looks out the doors to the ambulance bay, seeing Robby—and you—in a heated argument. Against his better judgement, he decides to go outside.
“He’s fifty years old and my best friend! You are not to date him, and that’s final!” Michael shouts, a finger pointed in your face.
“I’m a grown woman, dad! I can date who I want—who cares if he’s your best friend?” You argue, brows furrowed as you step closer to him.
“Guys—” Jack starts.
“Stay out of this!” You and Michael both yell in unison, and if Jack wasn’t about to get his head bit off, he’d make a comment about how alike your mannerisms were.
“You motherfucker,” Michael growls, walking up to Jack and immediately taking a swing. It lands, hard, and Jack groans as his head snaps to the side, a large bruise forming on his cheek as he spits blood from his mouth. You gasp, covering your mouth as your eyes widen.
“I deserved that,” he heaves, and the automatic doors open as Dana rushes outside, “Robby! Go somewhere else, now!” She yells, helping Jack to his feet.
EXTRA — SECRET’S OUT
“I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” You mumble, cheek smushed to Jack’s shoulder as he holds an ice pack to his cheekbone in Central 5, “I’m really sorry, Jackie.” Your hands are laced with his as the two of you sit on the edge of the hospital bed.
“Don’t be, sweetie,” He says softly, “I knew it was gonna happen.” Jack chuckles, “Your dad has always been protective of you, especially after your mother’s death. Plus, I really think he was expecting it to be you and Park making out in that supply closet.”
You pinch his thigh, and he winces playfully as the doors to Central 5 open with a mechanical hiss—you unlace your fingers from Jack’s immediately as your father walks in with Dana following behind him.
“Apologize,” she nudges the back of his leg with her foot like a mother scolding her toddler. “I’m sorry for punching you, Jack,” Michael sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before turning back towards Dana, who snaps her gum at him before pointing her chin towards you, “And I’m sorry, baby girl, for reacting that way towards you. You’re right—you’re a grown woman who can make her own choices and I have to trust that you’re capable enough to make your own choices.”
You grin, standing up from the hospital bed to wrap your arms around your father. “I forgive you,” You whisper softly, sighing as he wraps his arms around you in response, squeezing you momentarily.
“What, I don’t get a hug?” Jack jokes, wincing as the stitches on his cheek almost split open when Jack cracks a smile. Michael huffs, pulling Jack into a hug—which is a lot tighter than the one he just gave you, and Jack can tell it’s a warning.
“I’m not saying I approve of this,” Michael mutters, the sound low enough so that only Jack can hear—you were doing something on your phone—“but I tolerate it. I love you, brother, but I love my baby girl more. If you hurt her, so help me God, I will find you down and hunt you.”
“Yep, point taken,” Jack strains out, feeling his lungs get restricted from how tight Robby was holding him.
“First thing in the morning, baby girl, report this damn relationship to Gloria,” Michael says, aiming the sentence at you, his voice louder now.
You nod, laughing as you snap a picture of Jack and your father hugging, sending it to Perlah. “Best buddies!!” You caption it.
EXTRA #2 — FOOL’S GOLD
“Come on, just tell me who won the money! I already had to go basically spill my entire sex life to Gloria,” You whine, standing in front of Ahmad as he shakes his head.
“Can’t,” He sighs, holding up three fingers and placing his hand over his heart, “Scout’s Honor.” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Thanks for nothing, Ahmad!” You turn on your heel, exiting the security office as you make your way over to Trinity as she snapped a glove against Whittaker’s back.
“Do you guys know who won the bet? I asked Ahmad who won and he won’t tell me,” You pout, resting your arms against the nurses’ station. “You mean the bet about who in the hospital you were dating, which was started by your meddling father, who then punched your boyfriend, who turned out to be his best friend?” Trinity says matter-of-factly, and you huff.
“Way to call me out,”
“Park won it, I think he won like fifteen-hundred dollars,” Dennis shrugs, ripping open the wrapper to a granola bar. Your’s and Trinity’s jaws drop as you look towards Trauma Two, where Brendon ‘Park the Shark’ Park works on reattaching the severed limb of a construction worker.
“What was his bet?” You ask, tentatively.
“Dr. Abbot, two years and not HR-approved, found out by Dr. Robby in the supply closet,” Dennis replies, his words slightly gargled from granola.
You don’t think you’ve ever whipped out your phone so fast as you text Jack:
what would you say if i asked about a potential threesome with park?
summary: Spencer doesn't like you. He had a reputation for not liking new agents on the team. Months in, he still hadn't warmed up. When Hotch wants you to go undercover as teacher and student, things finally reach a boiling point.
wc: 10k
warnings: MDNI, F!reader, PWbadPlot, PIV, WRAP IT!!, light dom!spencer, teasing, fingering, they fuck it out, open ending (part two?), no Y/N! not edited, writer is lazy!!
Being the new agent on the team was difficult. The BAU were a fully formed unit, they knew each other like the back of their hands. They moved through the field like a well oiled machine.
But you were finally settling in, the team had started to trust you to do things on your own. JJ finally let you talk to the family of a victim alone, Morgan let you tackle an unsub, Emily stopped checking over your paperwork and Hotch allowed you to lead an interrogation.
But you were still surprised when Hotch called you into his office the second you stepped foot in the bullpen.
"You asked for me?" You close the door softly behind you, mind racing of any possible mistake you could have made. Did you make a mistake on the last case? Did you file your paperwork wrong?
"Yes, please sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk and you slowly lowered yourself into it. "We have another case." His eyes dart down to his watch.
The nerves got the better of you and you blurted out. "Are you firing me?"
"What? No." He paused, "We need you to go undercover for the case, I was checking in with you. We can find another way to go about it."
You held your chin up. "What's the case?"
"Georgia college." He sighed and passed a file across the table, "Four students from the same philosophy class have been murdered. All of them found dead in their dorm, poisoned."
"Jesus, that's brutal." You sigh, "Can the local police not interview everyone in the class?"
"They have, no one has flagged any concern. So they believe the unsub can either blend in or is another student on campus." He explained, "So they asked us if we had an agent we could send in. Morgan calls you baby bird for a reason." He smiled, a rare Hotch smile.
"So, we're sending you in as a college student. And Reid as a professor."
You choked back a cough. "Reid?"
It wasn't like you didn't like Reid, but he did not like you. He had a reputation, smart, genius that doesn't like newcomers in his unit. He never let you get away with a slip of the tongue, constantly correcting your every word. It was infuriating.
"He's an experienced profiler and he has lecturing experience." Hotch said, "Plus he will have a view of the whole room."
"I don't need hand holding Hotch." You pursed your lips, flipping the file closed and pressing it onto your legs.
"I know you don't. It's for everyone's safety." He sighed and huffed with a tone that told you there was no point in arguing back.
Sinking into the chair, you cross one leg over the other. "Do I need to do the assignments?" You asked.
"We aren’t sure yet. Come on, Garcia is about to debrief the team." He held the door open for you and you ducked under his arm.
The round table chatter stopped as soon as you stepped into the room. All of them trying to look busy as they did whenever they were gossiping.
"Do I really look like I could still be in college?" You sigh and throw yourself into your chair in between Morgan and JJ.
"Yes." "Yes." "A little." "We call you baby bird for a reason."
"I hate you guys." You grump, and shove your elbow into Morgan's ribs. "I do not look twenty two. I'm almost thirty."
"Actually," You roll your eyes as you hear Reid's voice cut across the chuckling. "You're actually three years, seven months and eleven days away from thirty. So not almost. Also due to your slightly larger eyes and your affinity to wear pink makes people believe you are younger than you actually are." He rattled off, fiddling with his fingers.
You opened your mouth to spit something back when Penelope came into the room in a flurry. She had bags of shopping bundled into her grip, dumping them down the floor and swooping in with the remote in hand.
"Morning, my superhuman crime fighters. I'll get right into it! At Georgia college four students have recently been killed in their dorm rooms." She clicked on the button and four pictures popped up. "James Gripe, Lucy Brown, Issac Nike and Cara Smith. At first, they thought James Gripe had died from caffeine overconsumption and stress from finals. But then, Lucy, Issac and Cara were found in the concurrent weeks." She sighed sadly, looking at their faces in sympathy.
"Crossing both race and gender lines is rare." Rossi stated, scribbling down the names in his journal.
"The police already looked into the other students in the class right?" Emily asked and Hotch nodded.
"No one caused them any concern." He confirmed, "And as far as the students know they all have died of an overdose and stress related causes. The local ME is currently checking the bodies for signs of poison."
"The media is going to have a field day if this gets out." JJ sighed, running a hand through her hair.
"Alright. Wheels up in 30, the sooner we get started the better. We'll discuss the undercover operation on the jet." Hotch said, striding out of the round table and back into his office.
Everyone else filed out, Derek pulling Reid to the side and mumbling something about "Getting better at talking to women." and Pen yanked you to the side before you could step out.
"I got you some things!" She rummaged around in the bag and shoved some clothes into your arms.
You held up a dress against your body. "Why the hell did you buy me a club dress?"
"You're going to college! And you're like my little sister and I couldn't send you off without a hot dress" She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh, and a shirt and a mini skirt." She held them up.
"Thanks Pen." You smile and pull her into a tight hug. "I'll send you a picture if i end up wearing it." She gripped back onto you tighter.
"Come back to me safe, Baby Bird." She whispered into your hair.
"I will." You nod and peck her on the cheek, shoving the clothes into your go bag and getting ready to hit the tarmac.
"Wait!" Pen shouts across the bullpen and runs toward you as fast as she could with her too high heels. "I forgot to give you these."
----
Hauling your go bag into the overhead cabin, you sit down opposite Hotch. He slides your new ID across the table and you put it straight into your wallet.
"Everyone in that class is a potential victim." Derek sighed, flipping over the papers in his file.
"What that's like forty more potential victims?" You scoff, shaking your head.
"Forty six. Well, forty seven including you." Reid cut in, not even looking up from the book his face was buried in.
"Close enough." You grit out, teeth clenched.
"Not exact." He spat back.
Rolling your eyes and turning away from him, shoving a middle finger his way and huffing towards Derek. He smiled towards you cheekily, "Did you get Penelope's gifts?"
"Yeah. A tiny shirt, a mini skirt and a barely there dress." Derek let out a low whistle. "Oh, and about five million condoms." You pull the box from your pocket where you'd shoved them in with your cheeks turning red, hoping that no one in the bullpen saw.
"You could go through half of Georgia with those."
Ripping off a strip and threw it, hitting him square in the chest. "And you can go through half the police department with those." You joke and nudge him with the tip of your shoe.
"That was one time man!" He exclaimed.
"Actually, there were the two in Colorado." Emily piped in.
"One in California, and another in Florida." JJ continued.
"Don't forget police chief Jones in Texas." You teased, counting on your fingers.
"And the nurse in Oregon." Rossi finished.
"And that was all in the last six months." Hotch put the nail in the coffin, never usually joining in on the team banter. But he was smirking over his file at Derek's mock glare.
"C'mon we've all gone home with someone once. Well apart from babybird and pretty boy over there." He defended, throwing his hands up.
You scoff, "Hey, I don't want to become a case. Look at half of our cases, they all go home with their killers." You shake your head and climb out of the seat and into the plane aisle.
"At least I'm not thirty year old virgin over there." You snort, pulling open the small blue curtain to the kitchenette with a loud screech.
"Thirty two." He corrects, having now moved on to another book. Flipping a page in between words, the whole page completed.
"I like how that's the part you correct." You purse your lips, snorting and closing the curtain behind you, the kettle beginning to bubble. You knew he was thirty two, you were there at the party Pen made him have at Rossi's. But sometimes, you liked to push. To see how far you could take it before he couldn't resist and correct you. Usually, it just took you rounding up or down to make his patience to tip over.
You sigh quietly as you sit down with a scalding cup of coffee, the bitter taste burning your tongue as you sip it down.
"Looking forward to doing assignments again?" Emily asks, clasping her hands together on the wooden table.
"Definitely not, I'm not that well versed in philosophy so I better get reading." You smile, trying to lighten her worry.
"I suspect Professor Reid will mark you highly." She laughed, her eyes darting over your shoulder to him.
You follow her gaze and quickly glance over, hoping he wouldn't notice. But he was already looking at you. Probably from hearing Emily mention his name. It takes you a second to pull away from his intense stare. Emily cleared her throat, yanking you back to reality.
"I think I'll be his least favourite student." You roll your eyes, still feeling his eyes glaring at the back of your head.
----
You never thought you’d be back at college. But now, you were walking through the hallways of Georgia college with a backpack filled to the brim on your back. Thick textbooks and laptop weighing you down, or was it the nerves of trying to blend in?
It was far too early in the morning for most of the students around you, all dragging their feet and murmured complaints due to the previous late night.
Slowing, in front of the lecture hall. Coming to a stop in front of a group of girls standing and chatting amongst themselves.
“Excuse me,” You start. “Is this Professor Wright’s philosophy?”
They quiet, and turn to you. “Yeah! but he’s on leave so another professor is standing in. Are you new?” The dark haired girl asked, a soft smile on her face.
“Yeah, I just transferred from Arizona. Something to do with the credit amounts for graduation.” You shrugged. “I’m - Ivy." The name stumbles out unnaturally, like it doesn't belong to you. Because it doesn't. The introduction feels foreign in your mouth and heat pooled in your cheeks.
“Marie. And this is Chloe and Sarah.” She points to the girls staring behind her, they both give a wave.
The door to the lecture hall swings open. And everyone starts to file in. The plan was to sit at the back, keeping your head down and being able to view the whole room.
“Come sit with us!” Marie smiled, waving you over to the front row.
Descending down the stairs of the lecture hall, long hair bouncing, you slide into the seat on the end of the aisle. Pulling out your laptop and loading it up.
“I wonder what the new professor will be like,” She whispered into your ear. “Professor Wright was great, but he was basically a dinosaur.” She giggled.
“Hopefully good. I really need this credit.” You sigh, opening your mouth to speak again when the door swings open.
“Sorry, I’m late. I couldn’t find the hall.” Reid came spluttering into the hall and throwing his shoulder bag on the desk and uncapping the whiteboard marker and scribbling his name now. “I’m Professor Gardener, and I’ll be here while Professor Wright is on sick leave. I assure you he is feeling OK and has started his recovery.”
But you knew Professor Wright wasn’t sick, he was sat in his cushy lakeside home. Getting paid time off to lounge around and read through his library.
It had allowed Professor Gardener or as you knew, Doctor Reid pacing around in his element. He had slid into the professor role like a second skin. Hotch had mentioned he had guest lectured before, but the confidence was surprising.
“I’ve been told you were about to start Kantian ethics. So into Kantian ethics 101!” His hands clap and his voice fades into the background as another voice whispered in your ear, pulling you away from the lecture.
“He’s so hot.” Marie said, your head darting toward her.
“What?” You whisper back, slightly alarmed, “Don’t you think he’s like a bit, I don’t know, nerdy?”
“But like a hot nerd.”
Reid’s rambling pulled your attention back to the front of the room. He wasn’t hot, he was all knitted cardigans and wool ties. Stupid facts about Doctor who and how the physics was dodgy. He talked with his hands, waving them around with every unnecessary word. Long fingers that could solve a rubix cube in seconds. His facial hair had started growing in, a shadow coating the bottom half of his face. And standing up there as he lectured, the way the words slipped from him with ease. Maybe, he was hot.
But he was Reid. And Reid was your annoying co worker. The only person on the team who still didn't believe in you as an agent. And there he was standing, as Professor Gardener. And he looked hot.
----
And apparently, half of campus also thought so. Walking into the lecture hall that had been half empty was almost full. The sight makes you trip over your feet and almost tumble down the stairs.
A hand grabbed your bicep and pulled you back and into a chest. You don't need to turn around to know who it was. You knew his cologne, the scent of books and coffee also a hint of mint. You steady yourself and spin around to look at him, he was closer than you thought he would be.
"Professor Gardener. Uh, thank you." You nod and start to head down the stairs where Marie had saved you a seat with her handbag.
"You're also new, Ivy right?" He said, falling in step next to you.
His casual small talk takes you back, you can never recall a time Reid had spoken to you casually. "Yeah, I had to transfer. Graduation credits, you know how it is." You shrugged, stopping at the row. "And thank you again."
Sitting down next to Marie, she immediately grips onto you. "What was that?" She almost gasped.
"I tripped, he caught me." You responded.
"It was straight out of a romcom! I think half of the people in here want to kill you." She giggled.
"He was just being polite." You glaze over the interaction and start to pull out your laptop and textbook.
"People are already calling him Gorgeous Gardener." She continued, and your breath stuttered. This case was going to be a lot more difficult than you thought.
You knew you were staring, ogling even. You were supposed to be looking at him, it was normal to keep your eyes on the professor. But the nickname was true. He was gorgeous. It had wormed it's way into your head, you couldn't escape the thought. Like a bad smell, the thought of Reid being attractive had spent it's time racing around your brain.
He looked like Reid, the same slightly grown out hair do. He moved like Reid, waving his hands around and fiddling with his fingers as he spoke. He dressed like Reid, a dark blue sweater vest and brown blazer. And he even smelled like Reid, the memory of his scent as he pulled you into him. Nevertheless, he wasn't making you feel like Reid.
But a sharp elbow jutted into your ribs.
"Ivy." He was standing at the front of the lecture hall with an expectant raised eyebrow.
"Sorry, what was the question?"
"Could you give us a quick summary of Kantian ethics?" His face hadn't changed.
"Uh, yeah." You tried not to stumble over your words and sent him a glare. "Developed by Immanuel Kant, deciding whether actions are right or wrong depending on duty and moral rules, not the consequences."
"Thank you. Pay attention next time." He span around on his conversed feet and back to the whiteboard. The same condescending tone he used on every case when he felt the need to correct your every word.
At the end of the day. He was still Reid.
The rose coloured glasses that Professor Gardener had grown over your eyes wilted away in an instant. Rose had deepened to red and you were glaring at him the way you had a million times before.
"Kantian ethics teaches that we should always act according to moral duties and universal rules. This creates a fair and consistent moral system." He explained, pacing between his desk and the whiteboard. "Does anyone have an argument against?"
His eyes darted around the room, nodding towards a girl in the middle of the room.
"Uh, I'm just auditing this class." She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flashed a smile at him.
"Oh. Is anyone else auditing this class?" He asked, and a sea of hands raised and your lip curled up in slight disgust. "Hmm, ok."
Your hand shot up into the air. He nodded towards you a sign for you to speak, not before looking desperately for someone else to answer. "But life is more complicated than simple rules. What if it causes harm to follow a rule?"
He looked surprised at your rebuttal. "Kant would argue that the moral rules should be followed regardless of consequences. Otherwise, people would make exceptions when it suited them."
"But take the famous example. Lying to a killer to save someone’s life. Telling the truth would lead to the death of an innocent person."
"Morality becomes subjective if we start making exemptions." He clicked his tongue.
"We can still have moral principles while recognising that consequences matter. A rule that leads to preventable harm does not seem truly moral." He tried to shoot an argument back.
"Morality should also help people and reduce suffering. If a moral theory ignores the real effects of actions, it can produce unfair outcomes." You hide the look of satisfaction on your face.
"That is the most common critique of Kantian ethics." He nodded, turning to the whiteboard and uncapped the pen with a pop. "As it's a Friday, I give you an essay."
Everyone in the room groaned, arms hanging heavy by your sides as your eyes follow his letters. "Is Kantian Ethics correct? You can argue for or against. I expect them to be on my desk by next Friday. Have a good weekend." Just as everyone was about to run out of there at the speed of light. "My office hours are the same as Professor Wright's, so see the paper on the door."
----
The weekend for you didn't mean going out partying and scrambling to plan your essay. Instead, you were sat in the back of a local police precinct. The taste of cardboard and burnt coffee peeked through the burning in your mouth.
You were sat with your head held up by your chin. The door opened and the rest of the team filed in.
"How was class?" JJ asked a joking lilt in her voice, sliding an actual, smooth cup of coffee across the desk.
"Professor Gardener treating you well?" Emily snorted.
Glaring at her but thanking her for the coffee. "I have an essay due next Friday." You fix your glare on Reid, "Oh, and there's about twenty more people auditing the class."
"Nineteen." He corrected.
"And that's nineteen more potential victims." Morgan sighed, "Has anyone in the class come up? Nothing has come up on our end."
"For me, no not yet. Everyone seems like a regular student so far. But I've been keeping my eye out." You explain, notepad and textbook open with the arguments you had chosen highlighted.
"Well if you had spent your time actually looking, rather than gossiping with the girls at the front. You would have seen something." Reid snarked, turning his body away from you and started to address the rest of the team. "There's a guy at the back of the class.-"
You take a deep breath before speaking, "I know that you spent all of your school years sat in the class with no friends. But I didn't, and I'm not going to sulk in the back of the class." You were shoving things back into your bag. "Fuck off, Reid." Your backpack smacked into him as you stormed out of the precinct, the door slammed loudly behind you.
Raging as your feet slammed along the pavement, hands balled into fists, held tightly at your sides. "Ivy, Ivy!" It takes a few seconds for the name to register before you turn around with a smile on your face. "Are you ok? Why were you at the station?" Marie asked, worry painted on her face.
"I just had to change my address to get my mail." Rolling your eyes, you lean all of your weight onto your back foot. "The college said they had handled it, what a way to spend your weekend huh?"
"Oh my God! You should come out with me, Chloe and Sarah!" She grabbed the tops of your arms, shaking you back and forth.
"Um." You pretend to pause in thought. "Not this weekend, we have that essay due in. But next weekend, count me in!"
Marie's face lit up with a large smile. "I'm so excited!" She linked arms with you, leading you away from the station. "There's this bar, they have themed cocktails every single week. They’re a tad expensive but soo strong so it's worth the money!"
She reminded you of Pen in a way, the happy go lucky attitude. The way she took you in like a stray, forcing you to go out for drinks. She brought a slither of normal in your facade, and well there was no stopping Reid from being, well Reid.
----
You had gotten the call that morning. They had found another body. It was a guy, Harry Jones. He sat in the middle of the class, he never spoke. He just sat with his friends and took notes whenever was necessary.
Penelope had managed to work out every victims average grades. They had all been in the top half of the class.
You were slumped in your chair, not listening to a thing Reid was saying. Your ears were tuned into the rows behind you, listening in for any mention of Harry's name. You could tell he was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot.
No one was talking about anything of note. Marie, Chloe and Sarah were talking about what they were going to wear to the bar later. The people a few rows behind were talking about what grade they thought they were going to get. Not a mention of Harry. No one realised he was gone.
You could tell Reid was profiling too, eyes constantly scanning the rows, talking on autopilot. Professor Gardener was long gone, you were looking at Reid. But it seemed he was coming up empty too.
"Right." He clapped, casually strolling over to the desk. Resting his hand atop the essays he had collected at the start of class and patted them gently. "Have a good weekend, no homework this week. See you on Wednesday!"
Marie linked arms with you once again, asking you what you were going to wear that night.
"Ivy!" His voice called as you got to the door.
"Hmm? Yes, Professor Gardener." You responded, leaning on the doorway.
"Could you come by my office later? I scanned your essay and there’s a couple points I think we could discuss in depth." He held up the paper, and Marie excuses herself. Lingering right outside.
"Sure, I'll swing by later." You run your finger across the paper on the door. "7pm?"
He nodded. "Sounds good."
Marie pretty much dragged you from the lecture hall. "You should so wear that dress you sent me a picture of." She giggled.
"I cannot wear that to my meeting with Professor Gardener." You deadpanned, hitting her lightly on the arm.
"I meant the bar. Your mind went there." She smiled, "But you should do that too, ugh I want him to go in depth with me." Groaning, she leant her head on your shoulder.
"Marie!" You exclaimed, jaw hanging open in shock. "You need to get laid girl, you should totally look for someone tonight."
"I was already planning on it." She smirked. "You better wear that dress."
----
You did wear the dress. The sparkly red fabric glittering as you snapped a picture for Penelope. It stopped at the top of your thighs, constantly pulling it down as your heels clicked on the pavement. It was too short, and had too much cleavage in your opinion, but it wasn't your opinion. It was Ivy's.
The halls were desolate and slightly chilly as you made your way to Reid's office. Well, Professor Wright's office. The golden plaque shined in the dim lighting. Checking over your shoulder, before you knocked on the door. You could hear shuffling behind the door before it swung open.
"Come in." He said, head sticking out of the door and looking down the hall.
"I wasn't followed." You rolled your eyes, your hand hitting his chest and kicking the door closed. Reaching behind you, clicking the lock shut you look around the office and step further in. "What do you want Reid?"
Standing across from him, hands resting on the back of the armchair opposite his desk. He looked up from the papers on his desk.
"What are you wearing?" It tumbled out of his mouth and his eyebrows scrunched together.
You matched his look of confusion. "A dress?" It wasn't like he hadn't seen you in a mini dress before. You always wore one when you went out with the team. Maybe not one this short or low cut, but a minidress nonetheless.
"Does Hotch know you're going out?" He asked, brows still furrowed.
"Yes, Professor Gardener." You snarked, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms across your chest.
He sucked in a breath, "I wanted to talk to you about your essay."
"Are you serious?" You scoffed, stalking around to the other side of the desk.
You leant across the desk, plucking out a red pen from the pot. Uncapping it and writing on your own paper. A. "There we go, now we don't have to talk about it."
"That's not-"
"Precise, correct, fair?" You laughed, straightening your back and you went to grab your handbag off of the table where you had dumped it.
But he snatched it out of your grasp, unzipping it and digging through it.
"What the fuck Reid?"
He held up the condoms that you had shoved into your bag. "Are you going to sleep with a college student?" His voice was coated with disdain.
"I don't think that's your business is it, Professor?" You lean forward, trying to snatch them out of his grip.
"As your Professor, no. But as your superior agent, it is." He moved backwards, stopping your waving grip. The smirk you had become acquainted with.
"I'm not going to fuck a college student. But I might just, if it pisses you off so much." You pouted in his face, heavy breaths making your chest rise and fall in his face. "I know you're a virgin Reid but Jesus."
That caught him off guard, giving you the opportunity to snatch them back and slide them back into your handbag. "Maybe we won't even use these."
"I'm not a virgin." He gritted through his teeth, glaring at your bare back.
You can't help but laugh out loud at that, "I'll believe it when I see it." Your hair shakes with your head, striding towards the door.
The smell of him hits you before you feel him. Your hand stilled as it reached for the doorknob, the same scent that hit you when he stopped you from falling down the stairs. His grip on your bicep was familiar, the tips of his fingers digging in as his other hand brushed your hair to one side.
"You are insufferable." He whispered, warm breath hitting the shell of your ear.
It was like you had forgotten how to breathe. He was inching closer to you, the warmth of his chest radiating against your back. "Reid." You sighed.
"Professor." He corrected, spinning you around and pushing you against the door roughly. "If anyone gets to cum inside of you tonight, It's going to be me."
Your head thumped backwards, eyebrows pulling together as his eyes met yours. It was like you had lost all sense, you hated Reid. But the mention of him cumming inside you had any rational abandoned.
"Does that sound good?" He hummed.
"Yes, Professor Reid." You sighed.
"Fuck." He growled before pressing his lips into yours. Your hands came forward to grip onto the lapels on his blazer, pulling him closer. His lips were softer than you expected, contrasted with his teeth coming out to yank on your bottom lip.
Your bag dropped to the floor with a thud. As his hands, the hands you had spent countless lectures staring at, started to wander. Long fingers travelled down your back, pulling up goosebumps in their wake. Then, his hands scooped you up, legs wrapping around his hips as he pressed you into the door.
His hardness pushed into you, making you gasp out and slide your hands into his hair and giving it a light tug. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, walking you across the room and sliding the papers and pens off the desk. They hit the floor with a clatter as he lowered you down.
Both of you panted as he separated, a line of spit connecting you between your lips. Neither of you said anything for a beat, just staring at each other with blown pupils.
A second later, he cupped your jaw and pulled your back straight, kissing you again.
Now it was your turn for your hands to wander, slotting your hands under his blazer and pushing it off and it hit the floor gently. Then, your hands came to fiddle with the buckle on his belt. It clinked loudly as you whipped it out of the belt loops. The button popped open not long after.
He made work of your dress, pulling it up and letting it pool around your hips. Not even taking your panties off, just sliding them to the side as the pads of his fingers come into contact with your clit.
"Jesus!" You gasped out, pulling him closer with your ankle. Painted nails sliding down the front of his brown corduroy slacks and cupping his dick.
His eyes rake down you, dress pulled up, panties to the side. Eyes hooded, chest heaving desperately as you throw your head back.
"You look, divine." He whispered into your ear, the intimacy of it took you by surprise. His finger still worked against your clit, leaving you writhing and gasping under his gaze.
You shoved his slacks down, his white boxer shorts followed not long after. His compliment sent a fire through your veins and a desperation to have him inside you take over.
His fingers pulled off of you, your whining halted. "Hurry up and fuck me!" You groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. Your heel dug into his backside and it fell to the floor.
He took his dick in his hand, looking down at you. The tip hit against your clit and he slid it up and down through your wetness. "Ah, ah, ah." He teased, refusing to push in, just leaving you with the delicious pressure of almost. "Say please."
"Oh, fuck off." You sigh, trying anything to get closer. Just anything to get him inside you.
He pulled his dick away, and it was like your brain had melted any rationality away. "Please, Reid." You pleaded, knuckles turning white at how hard you were gripping the edge of his desk. "Professor, please." You looked up at him through your lashes.
Then, he finally gave you what you wanted. He pressed his forehead to yours just as he sank into you. He was bigger than you thought he'd be. Not that you'd thought about it. The head brushed past your g spot as he bottomed out.
You couldn't help the almost scream that came from you. "Spencer!"
You had never called him Spencer, most of the time you didn't even address him. But any worry left your mind after hearing his groan as he pulled most of the way out, before slamming into you again.
His lips attached to your neck and your toes curled inside your heels. "No marks." You panted out.
Nodding into the crook of your neck, he slid his hands under you. He lifted you slightly, the new angle letting him pound deeper inside you. This lead to a string of moans to explode from your chest and his hand clamped over your mouth to keep you quiet.
He wasn't doing a good job of keeping quiet himself. Panting and groaning into your neck, teeth scratching your earlobe. Your hands screwed into the front of his shirt, whining helplessly at the brutal pace he was fucking you with.
"S-spencer." You both fall backwards, your back flat on the cool wooden desk and him hunched over you never faltering.
"You're much more bearable like this." He smirked down at you, reviling in the state he had you in. A fucked out pink flush painted across your cheeks, tits bouncing with every thrust that coaxed a wet noise from your pussy every time he slapped against it.
You tried to form a rebuttal, but what came out was babbling that vaugly sounded like hsi name. Desperately, pulling him closer with your nails scratching down his back.
"Awh, poor baby." He teased, "Can't you speak?"
The mocking had your head reeling and your walls clenching around him. The teasing, his body pressing you into the desk, the unrelenting pace and the smell of him was all just too much. It had the coil inside you ready to snap.
Your eyes meet his again and you slam your mouth to his. Tongue peeking into your mouth as your thighs started to tremble. You had your toes curled so hard that your heels slid off your feet and falling to the floor. Spencer's hand snaked down and hit your clit again, moving the wetness around with his fingers.
It had lightening bolts shooting through your spine and the coil in your belly to snap. Nails digging into his shoulder blades and a too loud cry of his name. "Spencer!" It almost echoed around the room as he fucked you through your orgasm, leaving you tightening and fluttering around his cock.
Then, he was cumming himself, with a similar groan of your name and a few more deep thrusts that sent your eyes rolling. His release was warm inside of you, he paused for a second. Letting it pool inside of you and leaving you both breathing into each others mouth's. His dick slid out of you, pussy clenching around emptiness. Gently, he moved your underwear back with a tenderness you wouldn't have expected.
Suddenly, the feeling of his cum pooling in your panties, had you hurtling back to reality. It was like a cool bucket of water had been thrown over you.
It was Reid. You and Reid had sex. Not even sex, fucked. He was technically your professor. And you had his cum dripping out of you.
You yanked your dress down, refusing to look him in the eye.
"That can't happen again." He called over his shoulder as you grabbed your bag. Piling the lip gloss that had spilled all over the floor when it had fallen from your fingers.
"I know." You commented, clicking the lock open and the door.
"Be careful, and you can call me if you need me to come and get you." He gave you that tight lipped smile he did when he felt awkward.
"Will do." You mirrored his face, your hair falling in front of your face and closing the door with a soft click.
Your dress was missing sparkles from all over and you had six missed calls from Marie, and you took off into the city.
----
The bar was exactly as Marie had described. It was slightly tacky with bright coloured lights with ocean themed drinks. Everyone was walking around with blue drinks with fish shaped ice cubes, sharks sticking from the top.
"Ivy!" Marie called, waving you over from the booth they had grabbed in the corner.
"Hey." You smiled and sidled into the booth next to Sarah.
"What did Professor Gardener want?" Sarah asked, close to your ear, cutting through the thumping pop music.
"Apparently, I did really well on my essay. There was just a couple mistakes he wanted me to clear up for next time." You smiled, casting a look towards the bar. "I'm going to go and get a drink! I'll be back."
The drink was overly sweet, Penelope would have loved it. The grenadine turned the blue drink a light purple.
"So tell us what mark you got, you can't leave us hanging girl." Marie grasped onto your arm. "Also what happened with Professor Gardenerrr?" She teased lightly and Chloe smacked her on the arm.
"I got a 97." You feigned a blush, hiding you face behind your hair.
Marie and Chloe gasped, excitedly shaking you back and forth. Some of your drink sloshing over the rim and making the bar table more sticky than it already was.
"You're going to get the credits that you need toats, oh my god we need to throw you a graduation party." She praised, her face lit up in the same way you had seen it so many times.
Just as you went to agree, head already nodding.
"Ivy, that guy over there is so looking at you." Sarah cut across, pointing a finger across the bar.
Your eyes followed her finger to find a very smiley Derek Morgan. You smile back at him with a small wave.
"Well go talk to him! He's so hot!" Chloe exclaimed, "Plus you deserve it after such a good essay."
Your eyes darted between them and him, pretending to give a moment of deliberation. Before standing up and glancing over your shoulder. "If he's weird, I'm coming back."
Winding your way through the crowded bar, smoothly directing yourself between sweaty bodies until you got to the booth. You slid up next to Morgan, your side pressing up against his.
"This dress is a gift from Penelope I assume." He whispered into your ear and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders.
"How could you tell?" You said back, looking back to the table of girls looking towards you expectantly. Sticking your thumb up towards them, you turn towards Derek fully.
"Have you been dancing with someone else babybird?" He asked, still leaned in close.
"No, why?" You scrunched your eyebrows.
"You smell like another man."
It felt like your stomach dropped to your feet, and you hoped and prayed that he wouldn't recognise the scent. Suddenly, it was like you could feel the cum that was wetting your panties through. The shame burned bright on your cheeks.
"Yikes, I need to get rid of my perfume." Joking, you elbowed him, "Go for a smoke?" You pulled the packet out of your purse and waved it in his face.
As the two of you stepped out of the bar you sent Marie a message. 'Going home with hot stuff, see you wednesday. ;)'
The cool air hit and was very, very welcome. Bricks pressed into your back and you let out a long, deep sigh. Lighting up the cigarette and holding it towards Derek.
"I don't smoke." He smiled, watching you puff out smoke.
"One of the girls I was with, Sarah. Get Pen to look into her, she was acting weird about my meeting with Reid." You throw a look over your shoulder and see Marie and the girls looking at you expectantly. "I think we're being watched." You murmured, leaning close to Derek's ear.
His muscles flexed under your trailing grip. "Want to get out of here?"
"Yeah." You nod, throwing a sheepish glance over your shoulder and a small wave to the girls who definitely weren't looking through the window.
Turning the corner there was a familiar squad car waiting for you.
----
Again, you spent your weekend hunched over a conference table. Files piled up around your head. The team had gone all in on Sarah, and the deeper you dug, the more she looked like your unsub.
"Her grades have been steadily dropping for the last few semesters." Emily commented, putting another file in the completed bin.
"Ah-Ha!" Penelope exclaimed, her face popping up on the monitor. "Recently, Sarah's adoptive Mom died. It didn't come up in the original searches because she wasn't offically adopted. The papers never went through."
"So we've got our stressor." Hotch nodded, his arms crossed tensely in the corner of the room. "Reid, have you noticed anything during class?"
As he started talking, you realised you hadn't looked over once. It was like he wasn't even there. "She seemed pretty normal until I read through the essay she handed in. Her critique of the ethics I set was neither for or against. But was more arguing that murder isn't entirely immoral." He explained, taking a sip from his coffee before continuing.
"Her argument was that neither lying or committing the murder is immoral. As both have their own moral explanations." He continued.
"Like lying to the murderer, or killing in self defence." You said without thought, his brown eyes meeting yours. Gaze dropped to your swirling cup of coffee, there was no escape from reminders of him.
"Wow babybird, they'll make a philosopher of you yet." Emily smiled, JJ giggled. "But what's the plan to get her to act again."
Rossi started to plan, "Release the grades publicly, put a select few people at the top of the list. We put an agent on everyone on the top of the list."
"She already thinks babybird has done well. So we stick her in a college dorm and wait. Also." He paused, looking between you and Reid. "If we were to drum up some rumours." He clicked his tongue, holding back a smirk.
Penelope squealed through the screen, "Are you telling me the garden is going to grow some ivy?" Her bottom lip pulled in between her teeth.
"What?" Reid asked, confused.
"Only if the two of you are comfortable." Hotch said at the same time and you sank deeper into the chair. Face burning as bright as a christmas light.
"Oh God." You groaned, head in your hands. Peeking through your fingers at Reid's face paling after JJ had kindly explained it into his ear. Finally, you made real eye contact for the first time all morning.
"We'll do it." He confirmed with a nod, and you a slightly less sure one.
"Oh my God!" Penelope cried, "It's like a cringe romcom. You should wear that mini skirt!"
"Garcia." Hotch warned, "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
Your eyes still locked together, you had to remind you it was for a case. All of it was for a case. No matter how fast your heart was beating. None of it was real.
----
The mini skirt was worn. Pleats brushing the tops of your thighs, falling right at the curve of your ass. The shirt you were wearing had one too many buttons undone.
Class hadn't started, it was just you and Reid in your meticulously planned play. Standing at his desk with your open, empty notebook. The bend of your back too salacious for just a teacher and student. His warmth radiated on your back as his arm reached around you, finger running down the blank page. You swore you could feel him starting to grow against your ass. Goosebumps pulled up on your skin, it wasn't real. It was a waiting game and you were begging for someone to catch you.
And someone did. Marie, Chloe and Sarah came bustling in. They paused in the doorway as the two of you jumped apart in fake shock.
"Um, thank you." You stuttered shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Eyes planted firmly at your shoes, toes tapping on the floor and making your way to your front row seat.
Marie scrambled to your side, dragging you down into the seat as everyone else made their way in. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't know what you mean." Your voice ticked up, eyes raking him up and down.
"Mhm." She hummed, eyebrow raised.
You weren't listening to anything he was saying. Shamelessly, eye fucking him as he explained things to the class. Lip bitten in between your teeth and tongue wetting your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, the three of them couldn't help but glance over.
He was just as intense back, every wave of his hands sending you back to having your brain fucked out on his desk. The lines were blurring between Ivy and Gardener and you and Reid. And you weren't sure if you minded.
Then, your pen rolled off the wooden desk, clattering to the ground and silencing his rambling. Halting teaching, striding towards your desk. When he crouched, your legs uncrossed. Revealing the damp spot that was ever present on your panties.
It sent him stuttering, "Y-your pen... Ivy."
"Thank you, Professor." The pen made home in between your lips, looking up at him through your lashes. Ivy had disappeared, it felt like it was just you and Reid in the room. Everyone else melted away.
He spent the rest of the lecture, glancing over to you every few seconds. Wiping sweaty palms down the front of his pants. "Alright!" He concluded, "I think that's enough for today. Oh! But before you go. Your essays, I'll hand them out."
He travelled back to front. Telling polite good jobs, or this needs improvements. Until, he got to the front row. Chloe and Marie got a good job, a kind nod, that left them smiling at their marks.
But then came Sarah, he slid the paper across the desk upside down with a tight smile on his face. And then you, a huge smile on his face, hand reaching out to your shoulder. It wasn't real.
"See me after class." His thumb brushed a strand of hair from your shoulder, before turning to the rest of the class. "Alright! See you next week!"
Hanging around, you waved goodbye to Marie and Chloe. Sarah had disappeared quickly, throwing a look you couldn't quite read over her shoulder before turning the corner.
The door slammed close, but the tight air didn't diffuse. You drifted to the other side, leaning on your desk. You could hear him breathing, hands gripping the desk, back hunched over. The lines had blurred, it wasn't Ivy's underwear that were soaked through. It was yours.
"Reid-" You started, his name coming out more like an awkward squeak.
"Spencer." He cut you off, voice gruff and he finally straightened up. His brown leather shoes, clicked on the tiled floor. A slow, echoing rhythm that made you look up from your swinging feet.
"Look, I'm sorry." You sighed, looking everywhere but his face. "I took it too far." Mouth claggy, hands sweaty.
"Hmm," He hummed, hand darting out and gripped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. "Are you sorry? The state of your panties says otherwise."
His fingers lingered at the crook of your knee. Softly, dragging up your thigh but stopping right before they could hit exactly where you wanted.
You whined, a high pitched, pathetic noise. "Spencer."
The look in his eyes lit you on fire. Tilting your head up, short breaths puffing from your lips. "Please."
His lips pressed against yours, tilting your neck up to meet his mouth. You groaned into his mouth, the noise silenced by his tongue dipping into your mouth. One hand brushed over your underwear, pressing into your clit lightly, the other gripped into your waist. Bringing you to the edge of the desk, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. At his mercy.
It was torture, the feather light touches giving you only a second of relief. He was smirking, the slight stubble that had grown in scratching at your chin.
At your wits end, you bite into his bottom lip. Teeth sinking into the skin and pulling back lightly. The two of you breathing in the others mouth, minty remnants coat your tongue.
"I swear to God Reid." You panted, hips bucking upwards into his fingers, "You are driving me crazy."
"I'm driving you crazy?" He scoffed, "You came in, wearing that tiny skirt. Basically bent over in front of me, then flashed me your wet panties, all while I was teaching." His tongue darted out, licking a long stripe up the column of your throat.
"Hotch's orders." You gasp, hand digging into his ragged curls and tugged him backwards.
He laughed, a mocking ring. "Oh I'm sure, I bet he told you to spread your legs for me. I wonder what he would say if I reported back? Huh babybird?"
The nickname out of his mouth had your head reeling, a complete opposite to the usual softness that came from Derek or Emily.
"I wonder what he would say, if I told him one of his best agents crumbled at the sight of me in a mini dress?" You shot back, hand cupping his now fully hard dick.
Finally, he pulled your panties down your legs. And slid them into his back pocket, his fingers slipping inside of you.
"Fuck Spencer!" You cried out, now fumbling at his belt. Clammy hands struggling with the buckle, arms falling weak as Spencer's fingers started to thrust in and out of you. A punishing pace, eyes rolling into the back of your head.
Every press of his fingers had a loud squelch bouncing around the lecture hall. Twitching his fingers upwards, brushing your g spot and laughing at your body falling limp. You used him as a support beam, slumped over in pleasure. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hair.
"Feel good baby?" He asked, voice turning soft.
"Mhm." You hummed, his fingers turning your brain to mush. "Close." You sighed into his chest.
"Good girl." He smiled, soft kisses peppered along the crook of your neck and collarbone.
The kind praise coming from Spencer of all people, had you hurling over the edge. Toes curling and hands desperately digging into his shoulder blades. Your thighs shook, clamping around his wrist tightly.
"Fucking hell." You sighed, breath warm on his ear as you pulled him into a soft kiss. It left your heart racing, almost exploding out of your chest.
You were holding on to him like a lifeline, he was holding onto you in a similar vein. His belt buckle clinked, pants pooling at his knees, before sliding into your warmth.
Still sensitive from a moment ago, your lips dug into your lip as he began to gently thrust. It was tender, a gentle rocking in and out. Soft strokes pulling through your hair. Smooth hands trailing up your spine.
It was almost too much. Too different. He wasn't being condescending, there was no mocking. Just sweet cooing in your ear that made you clench around him. Incoherent babbling of his name fell from your lips.
Then, he whispered your name. A gentle, soft noise that had you cumming around him. Stars bloomed behind your eye as you came, a whimpering moan falling from your lips.
He followed not long after you, pressing his forehead to yours. Chanting your name over and over, he released inside of you. A curl fell, sticking to him. He looked charming, you thought. Leaning down, he kissed you again, slow and languid.
It all felt too real.
"Um." You started, looking up at him. Pink cheeks and a shy smile, "Thank you."
"And thank you." He said, as he moved a fallen strand of hair away from your eyes.
"Can I have my panties back?" You bit your lip.
For a second, you just stared at him. Playing with your fingers, you started to giggle, and so did he. The laughter was infectious, everything was light. It was foreign, you weren't going at each others throats. There was no snarky comments, no corrections.
"Sure." He was smiling, not the smile he did when he was being polite. But the one when Penelope let him ramble about doctor who, or when JJ surprised him with a chocolate covered sprinkled doughnut.
He handed them to you, cool to the touch where they were still damp. There was a pool where his cum had dripped out of you. The desk under you, covered in him.
Shimmying them up your legs, more of him dripped out of you. You grimaced and he smirked.
"Shut up." You grumped, pouting slightly.
Suddenly, there was a rush of people outside of the hall. Another class period had ended. Had you really been in there that long?
"Right."
"Right." He echoed.
"I better head off, time to lure a murderer to my fake apartment." You joked, he didn't laugh. "Kidding."
Turning, you packed your bag and jogged up the stairs, hoping that he couldn't see the huge wet spot on your underwear. You'd never hear the end of it.
"Be careful." He called when you reached the last step with his hands in his pockets rocking back on his heels.
"I will."
----
Sometimes, you wished unsubs were less predictable. You had spotted Sarah two blocks away, she lurked around corners, hid behind signs and she thought the hat she had on was hiding her face.
As soon as you'd seen her, you messaged Hotch. By the time you reached the apartment block you'd seen three squad cars. The front entrance was propped open so she could follow you right on in.
And she did. Apartment 6B was on the third floor. When you got to the second the front entrance slammed closed. She was not far behind you now.
Anyone with eyes could tell no one lived in apartment 6B, it was bland as anything. The walls were stark white, all the furniture was drab grey. There was nothing personal at all. No photos on the walls, no trinkets sprawled on every surface.
You had left the door unlocked behind you, and dumped your bag on the boring, rough couch. Walking to the kitchen, you slid open the door by the sink. Your gun sat inside, exactly where Derek had left it. Him and JJ were in your 'bedroom', waiting for the signal.
A few seconds later, there was a knock on the door.
"Coming!" You called, sliding your gun into the waistband of your skirt and made your way to the door. "Sarah!" You gasped, then tilted your head, taking a pause. "How... do you know where I live?" You asked, furrowing your brows.
"You bitch!" She growled, immediately jumping at you. A knife that she had hidden behind her back at the ready. Now, that was an escalation.
Your hand gripped her forearm, trying to wrangle the knife from her grasp. The two of you crashed into the wall, the tip of the knife scratched against your shoulder. Dark blood stained your shirt.
"Sarah put the knife down." You pleaded, the air puffing out of your lungs as you fell to the floor. The coffee table's legs crashing under your back.
"You're a no good slut." Sarah lifted the knife, ready to strike down upon you. Derek and JJ came running out of the bedroom, guns drawn and shouting.
"FBI! Put the knife down!" Derek barked, moving in on her.
The crazed look in her eyes told you she wasn't going to relent. Scrambling back, you swept her legs out from under her. Her ribs crashed into your legs and the knife fell from her grip. It sliced your calf, the blood running down and turning your white sock red.
They moved in, yanking her off of your legs and pulling her arms behind her. Cuffs clinked as he read her, her rights. JJ rushed to your side, kneeling beside you.
"Are you ok?" She flustered, hand grasping onto your uninjured shoulder.
"I'm fine." You nodded, smoothing down your skirt. You hissed when her finger prodded at your leg. "Ow!"
She laughed lightly, "Cmon, there's an ambulance outside." She helped you up, supporting you as you hobbled down the staircase and out onto the street.
You get forced into the back of an ambulance, Hotch stood guard at the door. The paramedics started to pepper you with questions.
"Did you hit your head?" She shined a torch in your eyes, checking for signs of a concussion.
"No," You shake your head. "Just the slashes." You confirmed and slid your shirt off of your shoulder.
"Alright, you'll need a couple stitches in each one. We can do it here." She explained, starting to stitch you up. "You'll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks." She said, with a pointed glance towards Hotch.
You sat in the back of the ambulance, legs swinging as they processed Sarah.
"Hey." Spencer said, sitting down next to you. "I heard you got quite roughed up."
"I'm ok." You smiled, head resting on the side of the ambulance.
"Uh, I got you something." He coughed, rummaging around in his pocket and pulled out a red lollipop. "The sugar will be good for keeping your energy up after losing blood. It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff."
"It tricks your brain into thinking you're fine. Endorphins and stuff." You said at the same time, holding back a laugh at his face. "You said the same to Em when she got grazed two months ago."
"Do you memorise everything I say?" He smirked.
"Well if I didn't how could I be precise? Professor Reid." You batted your eyelashes at him.
"Don't." He warned with a finger waved in your face, clambering up from the back of the ambulance when he saw Emily walking your way. He gave a wave before heading over to the rest of the team.
Unwrapping the treat with a loud crinkle, you called out. "Spencer!"
He turned and raised his brows.
"Thank you!" Popping it into your mouth, as Emily sat down next to you.
"Since when do you call him Spencer?" She asked, eyes darting between you.
"Recent development." You shrugged, trying not to stare.
"We told you, you just needed to fuck it out." She smiled, bumping your good shoulder with hers. "Was it the dress? Cuz I'd so do you in that."
"Shut up." You grumbled, cheeks heating up. Going even more red as you locked eyes with Spencer.
"Babybird and pretty boy sittin in a tree." She whispered in your ear, then doubled over laughing after you jabbed your elbow into her ribs.
----
a/n: this is so ass, there is genuinely no literayness to this. lowk was just horny and rabidly typed this out. whoops! ! join my taglist here!!!!
SYNOPSIS & WC─•❥ [4.6k] The moment you're called down to treat a critically ill newborn...and the moment you meet the most interesting guy of your life.
WARNING(S) & A/N─•❥ swearing, child abandonment/neglect, medical trauma, clinical procedures, emotional distress, mentions of anxiety
divider: @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
THE Neonatal Intensive Care Unit always smelled of sterile plastic, mild chlorhexidine, and the warmth of heated isolettes.
And to anyone else, the ambient noise was probably some kind of anxiety trigger—the mechanical whir of ventilators, the high-pitched chime of a pulse oximeter, the quiet murmur of nurses passing shift reports...
But to you, it was the closest thing to peace you could find in this city.
You'd grew up in a place where silence was so consuming, it could swallow a person whole. In the dark, desolate stretches of the Montana hills, the wind was relentless—scraping against the sides of your family’s farmhouse, whistling through the gaps in the old worn-down barn.
You had spent your childhood with your fingers buried in coarse animal fur, standing beside your mother in the freezing damp of an April blizzard, watching her hands guide a struggling calf out and into the world.
“They’re so small when they start,” she used to whisper, content. “But if you give them your warmth, they find a way to pull through. You’ve got the touch for it, sweet girl. Don’t ever waste it.”
And you hadn't. In fact, you had run toward it so fast that the world had blurred around you.
"A prodigy", they called you in undergrad. "A freak", some of your bitter classmates muttered when you cleared your medical boards while they were still trying to figure it all out. You had walked into your residency at the edge of nineteen—a soft-spoken, wide-eyed girl from the plains who looked like she might faint if someone slammed a door too loudly, not yet used to the bustle of the city, yet possessed an almost terrifying brilliance the moment a neonate’s life hung in the balance of her own hands.
But right now, the peace of the NICU was shattered by the blaring of your pager.
The red LED screen blinked — TRAUMA BAY 1. NEWBORN. CRITICAL RESPIRATORY ARREST. RECOVERY FROM EXPOSURE.
Your heart didn't skip a beat. In fact, it plummeted straight to your stomach as you broke into a sprint, the rubber soles of your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as you hit the double doors of the unit and headed for the elevators. You stood in the small box anxiously, jamming your finger into the button, foot tapping relentlessly as you watched the floors change.
When the elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, the noise snapped you out of your thoughts—sirens wailing outside the ambulance bay, their red and blue lights strobing violently against the glass windows, orders shouted that bounced off the concrete walls, a psychiatric patient screaming in a holding cell down the hall, a trauma team was wrestling a gunshot victim into Bay 2...
But your focus was locked on Bay 1.
You pushed through, and the density of the crowd inside almost made you pause.
The room was packed—paramedics, nurses, respiratory therapists, and a handful of medical students clustered near the back wall like deer caught in headlights.
"Make way, people! NICU's here! C'mon, outta the way!" Dana barked, appearing next to you and shoving them aside gently to clear a path for you.
In the center of the room, under the glare of the overhead lights, lay a tiny, blue-grey scrap of humanity. An infant so small it looked like a doll, resting on the sterile blue drape of the resuscitation table.
"What do we have?" your voice rang out. It wasn't loud, but it possessed a strange clarity that pierced through the shouting of the room. You were already tearing open a sterile gown, your hands slipping into gloves with a sharp snap of the rubber against your skin.
"Found by a sanitation worker," Langdon informed, his voice tight as he managed the airway with a pediatric bag-valve mask. "In a dumpster behind an apartment complex down on 4th."
"A dumpster?" You asked incredulously.
Langdon nodded, lips drawing themselves into a thin line. He knew you were upset—you rarely ever swore. "Umbilical cord was hacked off. He's cold, hypothermic, bradycardic. Heart rate is hovering in the low fifties. We’ve been bagging him for three minutes with minimal chest rise..."
You stepped up to the table, a hard expression on your face and, for a single fraction of a second, as you reached for the neonatal stethoscope draped around your neck, your eyes drifted upward to look across the baby's tiny, shivering frame.
Standing right across from you, holding a tray of central line equipment, was a medical student you hadn't truly seen before.
He had an...interesting presence—dark eyes wide but still steady amidst the surrounding panic. Your eyes drifted down to his name tag, Dennis Whitaker. And Dennis was watching you with a look you couldn't quite decipher.
Your gaze locked with his, but the urgency of the situation tore you away. You snapped your eyes back down, your demeanor instantly hardening into the authority of the specialist that you were.
"He's severely hypothermic," you noted, your fingers gently touching the infant's cold and clammy skin before you adjusted the stethoscope, listening intently to the agonizingly slow, muffled thumping of the tiny heart.
It was too slow. Way too slow.
"Heart rate is forty-eight. He's slipping." You pulled away instantly, rushing, but not panicking. "I need an NRP cart, right now! Dana, I need you to find me a size 0 Miller blade and a 2.5 endotracheal tube. We need to intubate now."
The room moved at your command—medical students in the back shifted, trying to get a better look at the girl who looked like a teenager but was commanding the room like a sergeant.
"Whitaker, the tray," Dr. McKay ordered from the side, checking the portable monitor.
He immediately stepped forward, his movements controlled, extending the sterile tray toward you. "Sorry. Here," he said, his voice surprisingly deeper than you expected.
"Thank you," you breathed, not looking at him, your hands already selecting the tiny blade. "Langdon, let me take the airway. Someone get the radiant warmer up to one hundred percent. We need warm blankets, warmed saline for irrigation, and someone prepare a UVC line."
You took a barely noticeable deep breath as you leaned over the baby, your movements extremely careful and delicate. For a girl who grew up handling heavy, clumsy livestock, you had to admit that medical school had refined your fine motor skills.
You held your breath as you gently inserted the laryngoscope, visualizing the tiny vocal cords of a human being who probably hadn't even been given a name yet.
"I'm in," you murmured, sighing and sliding the microscopic plastic tube past the cords. "Bag him, and watch for bilateral chest rise." You instructed, a respiratory therapist connecting the tube to the bag and squeezing, everyone watching as the baby's tiny chest expanded.
"We have breath sounds on the right... sounds on the left," you confirmed, your fingers pressed against the infant's femoral artery. "But the heart rate isn't responding." Your hope dissapated. "It's still forty-five. We need epinephrine. 0.02 milligrams per kilogram. Give it through the tube while we establish the umbilical venous catheter."
"On it," a nurse called out., rushing to grab what you needed.
The pressure in the room was suffocating and entirely too tense.
Dennis remained at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on your hands. He had seen residents panic, he had seen attendings lose their tempers. But you? You were completely quiet, body stiff. Your brow was furrowed, a single bead of sweat tracing down your temple, but your hands were as steady as stone as you moved to cut the ragged umbilical stump, isolated the tiny, blue-walled vein, and threaded the thin plastic catheter into it with microscopic precision.
"Flush it," you ordered, nodding. "And let's get the epi into the line." You told your team, watching the baby intently as your voice dropped to just above a whisper. "Come on, little guy. Fight..."
For two long, excruciating minutes, the entire room held its breath. The only sound was the puff of the ventilation bag and the low, agonizing beep of the monitor.
Then, the monitor chirped. A higher pitch. Then another.
"His, uh, heart rate's coming up," Whitaker whispered, his eyes widening as he read the screen. "Sixty... eighty... one hundred."
"Good. We have sinus tachycardia, one-forty," Dr. Langdon sighed, wiping his brow. "Great save," He applauded, patting you on the shoulder
But you didn't look relieved. Your hands were still resting gently on the baby’s tiny and distended abdomen as your face fell. "...No. No, look at his stomach." Your face twisted. "Discoloration is spreading across the right lower quadrant." You leaned down closer, gently palpating the fragile abdomen. The baby gave a weak, miserable whine through the endotracheal tube. "He has an acute abdomen. There’s internal bleeding o-or a perforation, probably from the trauma of delivery or the fall into the dumpster... he's hemorrhaging into his peritoneum."
"Dana!" you called out, your voice cracking slightly with an underlying note of desperation. "Page pediatric surgery. Tell them we have an ex-utero neonate with a suspected gastric or bowel perforation and active intra-abdominal hemorrhage. They need to meet us in the OR right now."
"On it!" Dana yelled, already lunging for the wall phone.
"We need to move him," you said, your voice trembling just a fraction as the weight of your own empathy began to bleed through your professionality. "If he stays down here, he dies." You explained all in one breath.
FROM the trauma bay to the operating room elevators was a flash of lights, bodies, and running feet. You kept your hand on the transport isolette, your eyes fixed on the baby’s face, watching for any sign of fading color while you accompanied the pediatric surgical team right up to the red line of the surgical suite, but because you weren't a surgeon, you had to stop at the double doors.
The moment the doors swung shut, cutting you off from the baby, the adrenaline that had been keeping you upright and focused disappeared.
You stumbled backward a step, your back hitting the cold wall of the corridor as your breaths grew heavy. You pulled off your gloves, your hands shaking so violently that you dropped them onto the floor, collapsing onto a nearby plastic waiting chair, burying your face in your hands.
You knew people in your profession were supposed to build a wall, draw line—separate emotions from work. But you never could.
You had always been too sensitive for your own job. For the world. Every loss, every fail, every close call. You carried them all.
But you couldn't sit still, getting up after you gathered yourself, taking a deep breath and walking down to the central station where Dana was managing the incoming trauma charts for the lower floor.
"Dana," you said, your voice small. The older woman turned to face you, eyes wide but worried. "...Did the OR call down? Did they get access? What’s his pressure?"
Dana looked up from her computer, her expression softening. Everyone in this hospital knew you were the crown jewel of the pediatric wing, but they also knew you felt everything ten times harder than anyone else. "Sweetheart, they just rolled him in. Give 'em some time to get him prepped 'n draped. How 'bout you get yourself a coffee, hm?"
You sighed, "I don't want coffee," you whispered, your fingers twisting the hem of your scrub top. "His kidneys could fail. He was so cold, his blood isn't going to clot properly—"
"They have the warmers on, hun. And Dr. Vance is the best peds surgeon in the state. He's got him." She comforted, a small smile.
"He was in a dumpster. Someone just threw him away like trash." You muttered, angry. "Now what if he survived all those hours in the cold just to die on a table? It's not fair." Your voice rose slightly, a tremor leaking through. "It's not right."
"Hey," Dana said gently, reaching across the high desk to touch your trembling arm. "You did your part, gave him a fightin' chance. If you hadn't got that airway and that UVC line in when you did, he wouldn't even have made it to the elevator." She reassured. "Take a breath, kid."
But you couldn't take a breath. The air felt too thick.
So you turned away, continuing to pace the hallway outside the elevators.
DOWNSTAIRS, the chaos of the ED had temporarily plateaued.
Near the glass breakroom doors, a cluster of doctors and their medical students stood in a loose circle, chart tablets tucked under their arms.
Whitaker was leaning against the doorframe, his gaze still drifting toward the elevator where you had disappeared twenty minutes ago.
His mind was completely occupied by the image of you—your gentle voice, the moment your hands touched that baby.
"Damn," Santos muttered, shaking her head as she flipped through a patient file. "I thought that kid was a goner for sure." She shrugged, no empathy or concern in her tone, just casual. "Hey, who was that doctor, anyway? I’ve never seen her down here before."
"Oh, she doesn't usually come down," Javadi said, looking up from her tablet with her usual wide-eyed, enthusiasm as she introduced you by your last name. "She's basically the NICU prodigy."
"She looks like she’s about sixteen," Ogilvie chimed in. "Seriously, is she a volunteer or something? She looks younger than us."
"She is your age," a voice interrupted.
The students turned to see Dr. McKay walking over, a warm smile on her face as she grabbed a chart from the rack. She looked over at Whitaker, noticing the intense look on the young man's face.
McKay gave the students your full name, her tone carrying an edge of reverence. "And you'd do well to learn from her. She cleared her undergraduate degree by seventeen and entered her residency right here at nineteen." She boasted. "She’s the same age as most of you, but she’s already one of the most brilliant neonatologists this hospital has ever seen."
Joy, who had been quiet until now, let out a soft sigh. "Well, she was amazing. The way she handled that tiny little line? I would have been shaking like crazy."
"Everyone in this building adores her," Dr. Mohan added as she walked past the group, holding a cup of lukewarm cafeteria coffee. "She’s a sweet girl—comes from some farming community out West Montana, kind of soft-spoken, very kind though." She told the group. "But when she’s in that NICU? She’s a miracle worker." Samira smiled before it faded a look of annoyance crossing her features. "But, if you ask Robby, the only problem is, she 'cares too much.'"
Santos noticed the way Dennis was staring out at nothing, a mischievous grin spreading across her face, and she nudged Dennis hard in the ribs with her elbow. "Hey. No. None of that,"
Dennis blinked, clearing his throat. "What?"
"I see that look in your eye," Santos teased, chuckling quietly. "Forget about it, dude. She is entirely, completely, undeniably way out of your league." She taunted. "She’s a literal medical savant, a saint who saves babies, and everyone’s favorite doctor. You’re just a...needy little R1."
"I am not needy," Dennis grumbled, though a faint flush of color crept into his cheeks.
"She's out of everyone's league," Samira butted in, giving Santos a disapproving look. "But she looked really upset when they took the baby up. I hope she's okay..."
"She’ll be in the NICU," Dr. McKay said, turning back to Dennis with a small smile. "In fact, Whitaker, since you're standing around daydreaming, take these pediatric labs up to the fourth floor and hand them to the NICU charge nurse."
Dennis took the folder from McKay's hand, eyes wide and fleeting as his fingers gripped the cardboard tightly. "On it," he said, turning toward the elevators before Santos could crack another joke.
THE fourth floor was a completely different world. The moment Whitaker stepped out of the elevator, the chaos of the Pitt was almost instantly replaced by a warm stillness.
The lighting was dimmed to protect the underdeveloped eyes of the premature infants and offer parents solace, the air smelling faintly of baby powder and industrial soap.
Dennis walked slowly, his shoes feeling clunky and loud against the floor, despite his best efforts to tread lightly because of how silent it was. He passed large glass windows looking into the intensive care bays. Inside, tiny babies—some no larger than a textbook—slept inside high-tech plastic pods, covered by quilted blankets.
He found the central desk, handed the lab files to the charge nurse, who gave him a brief nod, before he let his eyes search and wander.
That was when he found you at the very end of the corridor, in an isolation bay that was currently empty of patients.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single desktop monitor. You were sitting on a low stool, your knees pulled up to your chest, your chin resting on your arms as you stared blankly out the large glass window toward the city skyline.
The confident doctor he'd witnessed from the trauma bay was gone. In her place sat a fragile girl.
Dennis paused at the threshold. He didn't want to startle you, but something about the deep slump of your shoulders made it impossible for him to just walk away.
He knocked his knuckles very softly against the open wooden doorframe, a lopsided frown on his face.
You jumped slightly, your head snapping around. In the dim light, he could see the faint tracks of dried tears on your cheeks.
You quickly lowered your legs, smoothing down your scrubs and wiping your face with the back of your hand.
"Oh," you said, your voice returning to that soft cadence. "I'm sorry. Is there an emergency down stairs? Do they need me—"
"N-no," Dennis said quickly, taking a slow step into the room, keeping his hands visible and his posture entirely non-threatening. "No emergency." He huffed out a small, nervous laugh. "It's... well, it’s still a disaster down there, but nothing new. I just...brought some labs up for the desk." He told you, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.
You looked at him, your eyes tracking his face until recognition clicked in your mind. "You were the guy in Bay 1. With the line tray."
A small, genuine smile touched Dennis's lips. "Yeah. D-Dennis." He nodded, rocking on the heels of his feet, tilting his head. "Dennis Whitaker."
You replied softly, giving him your name, offering a faint, tired smile. "I didn't get a chance to say it down there, but...thank you." Dennis' face twisted, confused. "Your hands were steady." You clarified. "A lot of students freeze when a neonate codes like that."
"Oh, I'm an R1," He corrected, pinching his badge with a small smile before shaking his head in embarrassment. "Not that it matters..." He squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment. "I was mostly just trying not to get in your way," Dennis admitted honestly, walking over to stand a respectful distance from your stool, leaning his hip against an empty counter. "...I’ve seen a lot of doctors handle traumas, but I’ve never seen anyone do what you did." He told you softly. "You were incredible."
You let out a soft breath, looking back out the window. You paused, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of your seat, a question coming to your mind. "Did you... did you hear anything from the OR before you came up?"
Dennis’s expression softened with deep empathy. He hated being the one to tell you nothing, but he wanted to give you whatever comfort he could. "Dana said they were halfway through about ten minutes ago. Dr. Vance found the perforation. He’s repairing it now." He offered, a small smile growing on his face as he saw your shoulders lose their stiffness. "Vitals are stable, and they've got his core temp back up to ninety-seven."
You couldn't help the shuddering breath escaped your lips and your entire body seemed to deflate as relief washed over you, closing your eyes for a long moment, leaning your head back against the wall. "Thank God," you whispered.
Dennis watched you, his heart aching a little at how deeply you felt about it all. "...You really care about them, don't you?"
You opened your eyes, looking up at him, shifting in your seat. "My mother always told me that when something is this small, it doesn't have a voice to tell you where it hurts. You have to listen with your hands, with your heart." You explained, a sheepish smile on your face. "I...grew up on a farm in Montana, watched a whole lot of lives begin and end. Out there, if you lose an animal, it hurts, but it’s just the way of the land. But here..." You looked around the sterile, dark room. "Here, when a human baby is thrown into a dumpster... it makes me feel like the world is losing its humanity." You shook your head, looking down.
"No, I get it," He reassured, perking up at your words. "I grew up on a farm in Nebraska. I understand more than you probably think." Dennis said, his voice dropping into a quiet sincerity. "I can see the passion in what you do. Seriously, it's... it's amazing. We need more people like you." He said, voice growing more enthusiastic.
You looked up at him, genuinely touched. Most of the senior attendings told you to toughen up, to grow a thicker skin.
But this random R1 that you hadn't noticed until today was telling you that your softness was strength.
"...Thank you, Whitaker," you said, your voice barely louder than a whisper, a genuine light finally returning to your eyes. "That...means more than you know."
The silence that settled between you was comfortable, both of you avoiding each other's gaze and hiding smiles.
"Well," Dennis said after a moment, realizing he couldn't hide out on the fourth floor forever. "I should probably get back down there."
"Probably a good idea," you agreed, finally standing up from your stool. As you stood, you picked up a heavy reference notebook you had been resting on your lap—a compilation of your personal notes and charts that you carried.
As you shifted your position, your foot caught on the base of the stool. You stumbled forward just a fraction, losing your grip on the heavy notebook.
The book hit the floor, its pages splaying open against the linoleum.
"Oh, shoot," you muttered, instantly bending down to retrieve it.
But at the exact same split-second, Dennis lunged forward to grab it for you, bending down.
Your hands met first. Your fingers brushing against his, soft skin contrasting sharply with the warmth of his own hand. The sudden physical contact made both of you freeze.
Dennis found himself looking directly into your eyes, close enough to see the flecks in your irises, close enough to feel the warm puff of your breath against his lips. The scent of you flooding his senses. His heart, which had survived the ED without fail so far, began to hammer violently inside of his chest.
And you didn't pull away immediately. You stayed there, your eyes tracing the strong line of his jaw, the intensity of his gaze, and the sudden stillness that had taken over his frame.
A slow change came over your expression, a beautiful yet slightly wicked smirk touching the corner of your lips. You didn't break eye contact as your fingers slid the notebook out from under his hand.
Slowly, gracefully, you stood up, smoothing down your scrub top with one hand while holding the book against your chest with the other. Dennis stood up a half-second later, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy, his eyes locked on your face.
You looked up at him through your eyelashes, your smirk softening into a playful, knowing smile that left him entirely speechless.
"It was really nice to meet you, Dr. Whitaker," you said, your voice carrying a subtle, melodious warmth that made his head spin. You took a slow step backward toward the corridor, never breaking eye contact. "...I hope to see you around more often."
summary: yours and dennis' routine on a cold december day, plus a little sneak peek into your future.
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: FLUFF!!!! non-sexual intimacy and nudity, just reader and dennis being domestic and cute and in love. swearing. mentions of nausea/vomiting/generally being sick but no depictions. dennis and reader celebrate christmas because i assume that dennis' family does, but you can also envision that they celebrate more than one holiday :) reader has hair long enough to tie up in a nondescript updo, wears jeans, a sweater, and a sundress
donning and doffing is the process of putting PPE (personal protective equipment like masks and gowns) on and secure chat is a patient privacy compliant messaging system that hospital staff use to communicate :)) this was requested by an anon thank u so much for requesting!!
word count: 3.4k
dennis x RT!reader masterlist
general masterlist
The alarm goes off at five thirty-five, Dennis’ phone lighting up and buzzing on the nightstand, dragging both of you out of sleep. He reaches over before it can ring a second time, hitting the power button, shutting it off for the time being. You don’t open your eyes, but you shift yourself closer to him, smiling when his arms curl around your waist and pull you against his body. He plants a kiss on your ear, then on your cheek, eliciting a hum from you.
“Hi, lovely girl,” He murmurs, putting his head back down on the pillow, closing his eyes to take advantage of the eight minutes remaining before the alarm goes off again.
“Hi baby,” You mumble, half-coherent, relishing in how warm he is, not wanting to face the temperature of your apartment in the middle of December. It’s still completely dark out, making the prospect of getting out of bed even worse.
“You want breakfast today?” He asks, slipping his hand under your shirt, warmth pressing lightly against your stomach. You whine, wiggling in an attempt to get even closer to him.
“Yeah, I think so,” You say. “Thank you.”
“‘Course,” He says. He presses another kiss to your cheek, squeezing you tightly. The two of you lay in silence until the alarm rings again, your cat lifting his head up at the sound, letting out a tiny chirp and hopping off the bed and onto the floor.
“Fuck,” You whisper, rubbing your eyes, groaning when Dennis lets go of you and climbs out of bed, exposing you to the frigid air for half a second. He walks off into the bathroom, brushing his teeth while simultaneously turning the shower on, closing the door behind him once he’s done to make sure the whole room is warm by the time you manage to crawl out of bed.
He comes back into the bedroom with your towel slung over his shoulder, opening the closet and pulling out a pair of jeans and a sweater for you. He grabs clothes for himself, then disappears down the hallway, tossing the towel and your clothes into the dryer before continuing on into the kitchen. You open your eyes again, sigh, and hype yourself up enough to throw the blanket off.
You practically run into the bathroom once you’re up, not wanting to stay in the cold any longer than necessary. The shower is the perfect temperature, with steam curling up and over the glass door, clinging to the mirror. You smile to yourself, your stomach filling with butterflies as you think about how lucky you are, a regular occurrence in the morning as Dennis does everything he can to make your day easier.
Dennis is in the doorway a few moments after you turn the shower off, holding up the warm towel, wrapping it around your shoulders as you step out.
“Clothes in the dryer, angel,” He says, leaning over, kissing your forehead. You smile.
“Thank you,” You say, the two words a constant in the morning when you both work, no matter how many times he’s done these things for you.
“You don’t have to thank me,” He says, like always. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Your smile grows. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head, closing the door, his footsteps receding back into the kitchen. You brush your teeth, do your skincare and hair, then grab the clothes from the dryer, climbing into them. You make it into the kitchen by six-fifteen, admiring the sight of Dennis for a moment, watching the way he moves as he makes your plate and pours coffee into a mug. He slides it onto the breakfast bar just as you take a seat, flashing you a small smile.
“Thank you,” You say. He teasingly rolls his eyes, but his cheeks go pink, ruining his attempt to seem nonchalant. He notices the way you glance towards the food, early-morning nausea obvious on your face, making him frown.
“You don’t have to eat it all,” He says. “Or any of it. Only as much as you want, yeah?”
You nod, sticking your fork into a piece of fruit, taking a small bite. “Yeah, I know, thank you.”
“I’m gonna’ start charging you each time you say that,” He says, picking up his own mug of coffee, moving towards the bedroom to take his own shower. You laugh under your breath, taking another bite of food, trying to get yourself to fully wake up.
You try your best to help once Dennis is out of the shower, but you’re still a little sluggish, likely hindering more than anything as he packs a few snacks for the day, fills your water bottles, pours more coffee into travel cups, and starts the car. He scrapes the snow and ice off the windows after letting it warm up for a minute, then carries your backpacks out, setting them in the backseat.
You tug your boots and jacket on, following him out, grabbing your keys off the hook and locking the door behind you. He opens the passenger door once he sees you, letting you hop in before getting into the drivers side. Music plays softly, buzzing from the speakers of the old car, filling the space perfectly until you’re awake enough to make conversation.
“Feeling okay today?” You ask, reaching your hand over, threading your fingers through his.
“Yeah, hopefully it’s not too crazy,” He says.
You hum, smiling. “Can’t wait to don and doff for every single patient all day.”
He laughs. “Hard to enjoy the holiday season when it’s really just…flu season.”
“And RSV, covid, noro,” You add, rattling the diagnoses off, already envisioning the way the board will look when the two of you arrive.
Cough. Congestion. Shortness of breath. Nausea. Vomiting. Wheezing. Fever.
“Maybe we won’t get sick three days before Christmas this time,” He says, squeezing your hand. “I’d like to actually make it to the farm for a bit.”
You think about last holiday season, both of you sucuumbing to the same virus within five hours of each other, quickly devolving into feverish delirium. You exhale, leaning your head back, closing your eyes.
“Oh my god,” You say, laughing through the words. “We were so fucking sick.”
“I was convinced a racoon had broken into the apartment,” He says, making you laugh harder, recalling the number of times he tried to convey that concept to you, all without actually saying the word ‘racoon.’
“You never said it was a racoon!” You exclaim. “I thought you were trying to tell me there was a man in our home, but I was too fucking out of it to actually process that.”
He chuckles. “I remember saying ‘he’s here’ over and over again.”
“That’s exactly what you were saying,” You confirm. “I asked ‘who’ like…one time and then gave up, accepting our fate of being murdered by this unknown man.”
“I had accepted that the racoon was going to get us,” He says. “My face was basically the surface of Venus with how high my fever was.”
“Ugh, and we were so sweaty,” You say, grimacing a little at the memory of sticky sheets and hair sticking to your face. “Then people were trying to Facetime us, we looked disgusting, and I’m sure we were completely incoherent.”
“My mom really wanted us to go to the ER,” He agrees.
“We basically are the ER,” You counter.
“That’s what I said!” He exclaims. “Or…at least I meant to. I probably said something incomprehensible.”
“Yeah, probably,” You say, running your thumb along the back of his hand. “Let’s not do that again this year.”
“Great idea,” He says, pulling into the hospital lot and into his usual parking spot.
You spend the first few hours in the zone, running the occasional code, making eye contact while charting across the central hub, purposefully bumping shoulders as you walk past each other. You send him a secure chat just after eleven, watching him from across the department as he types on a computer.
can you spare five minutes?
DENNIS WHITAKER, MD
Yes :)
He doesn’t need to ask what you want.
You log off the computer, slipping into the locker room and grabbing a granola bar, apple slices, and crackers from your backpack, all of which Dennis packed for you this morning. You head through the double doors, into the back hallway, setting yourself up on the marble staircase while you wait for him. He rounds the corner a few minutes later, a tired smile on his face, his hands reaching for you first as he takes the seat beside you. One lands on your lower back while the other touches your forearm, his head resting against your shoulder briefly.
“Tired?” You ask, passing him a slice of apple, raising your own and tapping it against his before taking a bite.
“Very,” He says, sighing, shoving the entire piece into his mouth. You grin, cocking your head to the side, watching as his cheeks puff out for a second. He shrugs, swallowing, raising his finger up for a moment.
“Sorry,” He says. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Oh, okay, yeah, that’s very efficient,” You say, giving him another piece, watching him do the same thing again. You laugh, knowing that he only did it to make you smile.
The two of you eat as much as you can within five minutes, then Dennis stands up, brushing his pants off and adjusting his badge. He kisses your forehead, his hands resting on your cheeks for a second.
“I love you,” He says. “See you in there.”
“I love you,” You say. “Good luck.”
You’re dying to go home by the time three o’clock rolls around, the day consisting of never-ending respiratory and stomach viruses, just like you thought it would. Your hands are raw and sore from the number of times you’ve sanitized them, the shitty lotion at the nurses station doing nothing to fight the dryness that seems to seep down to your bones.
Dennis stops beside the desk you’re working at, setting a small container down in front of you, pulling your attention away from the screen. You glance down at the object, gasping when you see that it’s your favourite shea butter, not one that he’d be able to get from the hospital gift shop.
“Did you bring this from home?” You ask, already opening the lid and starting to slather it onto the back of your hands.
He nods. “They were cracking last night, wasn’t sure they’d make it through the day.”
“Do you have a crush on me or something?” You ask, teasing, watching as his cheeks heat up.
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” He says, but he stutters slightly, and you grin.
“Thank you,” You say, then glance back towards the computer, remembering something. “Can I grab a VBG instead of ABG for thirteen? She’s been poked like, a million times already, and the VBG won’t hurt as much.”
It takes him a second to remember exactly who’s in thirteen, considering he’s spent the last two hours doing back-to-back traumas, but then he nods.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a good idea,” He says. “Thanks.”
“Cool, I’ll do it right now,” You say, standing up, your hand finding his for a split second. “Four more hours.”
He sighs. “Four more hours.”
For once, Dennis is ready to leave before you, waiting for you to finish up your conversation with Cassie before actually walking over. He’s bundled up—his jacket zipped up to his neck, blonde curls poking out from beneath a grey beanie, thin gloves covering his hands. He’s holding the car keys, spinning them around his finger a few times.
“Hey, sorry, I’ll be like fifteen,” You say, grabbing a tablet and logging on as you talk. “McKay needs an urgent neb and whoever’s supposed to be here after me is clearly running late.”
“It’s okay,” He says, giving your arm a quick, reassuring rub. “I’ll go get the car warmed up, text me when you’re done?”
The sun is long past the horizon by the time you get back home, limbs aching from the chill outside, each of you carrying a bag of groceries. Dennis has both your backpacks slung over his shoulders, and you’re tucked into your jacket, eyelashes starting to freeze as you race towards the door to your building. You yank it open, holding it for him, quickly shuffling in behind him.
“Thanks,” He say, hitting the elevator button with his elbow. You press yourself into his side, shivering, wanting nothing more than to cuddle up beside him on the couch and watch movies until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. The elevator doors slide open, as though they’re protesting the cold themselves, and both of you step inside, hitting the button for the fourth floor.
Neither of you speaks, you just stand side by side, shoulders brushing together. You unlock your door, finally, kicking your shoes off into the corner and setting the bag of groceries onto the counter. Your cat screams at your feet, twisting around your legs, making you grin as you bend down to pick him up.
“Hi,” You say, kissing the top of his head. Dennis comes into the room, putting the other bag on the counter, then coming to your side, stratching the cat’s chin. He shoves his face against Dennis’ hand, nuzzling into him despite how frigid both of you are. You put him back on the floor after a bit, opening one of the grocery bags and starting to pull out ingredients for dinner.
“Go shower, I’ll get dinner started,” You say, sticking your hands under the tap as he comes up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, burying his face into the sweater you’re wearing. He says something that you can’t quite hear, his voice muffled against your clothes, but you take a wild guess. “I love you too, baby.”
He sighs, holding you for another second before letting go, trailing off into the bathroom to wash the day off. You roll your sleeves up, pulling out a cutting board and putting it onto the counter. You grab a frying pan, lining it up with the burner on the stove, turning the knob to the right temperature.
Dinner is almost finished by the time Dennis comes back out, wearing plaid pajama pants and a black crewneck, his hair wet and face slightly flushed from the hot water. He leans back against the counter farthest from where you’re working, knowing better than to try and offer any help, certain that you’ll usher him away, insisting that he works too hard already. He watches you with a fond smile on his face, admiring the way your hair has started falling out of the updo you put it in this morning, how your left sleeve has fallen back down to your wrist while the right is shoved up past your elbow, the way you’re standing entirely on one foot, the other pressed against your thigh like a flamingo.
This is his favourite part of his life.
If he only had ten minutes left to live, he’d ask if he could watch you like this, one last time.
He’s so fucking lucky.
You finish up five minutes later, and the two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, fancy wine glasses filled with juice beside both your plates.
“Thank you for cooking,” He says. You raise an eyebrow.
“Should we start charging for ‘thank you’s now, or…”
He smiles. “Let’s just call it even.”
You smile back. “Fine, if you insist.”
His eyes fall past your face, landing on the shelf behind you, his brows furrowing. “When did that plant die?”
You don’t have to look to know the one he’s referring to—the brown, limp fern that sits beside your books and a few other knicknacks.
“It’s not dead,” You counter. “It’s…dormant.”
He squints. “Dormant?”
“Obviously,” You insist. “I just need to re-pot it. I think.”
He scoffs, smiling again. “Okay, whatever you say, lovely.”
Conversation drifts between topics until you’re both finished, but neither of you move to get up. You bring a foot up onto your chair, leaning back, holding your glass of juice as you talk about the gifts you still need to buy for your nieces and nephews and when you’ll actually get around to decorating for the holidays, which somehow devolves into a heated debate about the best Christmas movie, one you’ve had many times throughout the past six years.
It’s only when you both start getting quieter that you actually stand, taking your plates into the kitchen, you starting to clean the mess from the day. Dennis stands off to the side for a moment, then opens his mouth, but you’re quick to cut him off.
“Absolutely not,” You say. “I’ve got it, you can sit down.”
He frowns, but he knows you won’t budge, so he takes a seat on the couch, picking up the remote and looking for a movie to watch.
You load the dishwasher, wash and refill your water bottles, tidy up your abandoned jackets and boots by the front door, and wipe the counters off before going down the hall and into the bedroom. You pick up the basket of dirty laundry, hauling it over to the washer, putting a load on before folding into him on the couch.
He catches you, like he has a million times, sliding his legs apart and letting you take the spot between them, your knees tucked up and cheek against his chest. He holds you, rocking back and forth gently, kissing your temple.
“Tighter?” He asks. You nod against him, shoving your face into his neck, closing your eyes as he squeezes a little more. He feels the way your breathing slows, how your grip on his sweater loosens, your muscles slowly relaxing as his hand trails up and down your back. He sits with you, not speaking again until you shift, kissing just below his ear.
“Better?”
You hum. “Thank you.”
The rest of the night goes the way it usually does—you watch a movie, switch the laundry over, take a quick shower, then get into bed. Dennis brings your water bottles with him, setting yours on your nightstand, quickly getting under the covers after switching the light off. The reflection of the street lights in the falling snow glows orange outside, the typical drone of the city muffled by the weather. You lay your head on Dennis’ chest, pulling the blanket up to your chin.
“I think we should actually take that trip to the Poconos,” You say. “Now that you’re an R2 maybe you can actually get a weekend off.”
He laughs a little. “Yeah, that would be great, angel. I’ll uh, I’ll check with Robby tomorrow, see what he says.”
“Okay,” You say, smiling. “Maybe this spring?”
He nods, kissing your hairline. “Let’s do it.”
*BONUS*
Despite how early it is, you’re up and out of bed before Dennis, flitting around the apartment as the early spring sun trickles in through the windows. You’re wearing a sundress, bags already packed and over by the door, trying to finish the final things that need to get done before your trip. Dennis stands in the bedroom, putting the last of his belongings into the suitcase, his eyes drifting over to the door before he steps towards his backpack, unzipping the front pocket. He freezes when he hears your voice from down the hall.
“Are you almost ready?” You call. “We should get on the road soon!”
He swallows. “Be there in one minute!”
The sound of the front door opening suggests the coast is clear, and he reaches into the pocket, fingers grazing over a white box. He tries to convince himself that that’s enough, but his anxiety spikes, and he pulls it out, lifting the lid up to reveal the diamond ring that he had been saving for for years. He hears your footsteps come back inside, and he slams it shut, tossing it back into the bag and zipping it up. You poke your head into the doorway half a second later, smiling.
“Good to go?” You ask. He nods, returning the smile and hoisting his bags off the bed. He stops to kiss you on his way out, lingering for a second, his heart pounding against his ribcage.
“I love you,” He says, touching his forehead to yours.
“I love you, Denny,” You say, brushing a few stray curls back. “Ready?”
He nods. “Absolutely.”
A/N - surprise! she's back :) i missed u guys :)))) i probably won't get back into the full swing of things for a little while longer but i'll be responding to all ur lovely comments and messages and DMs soon! also if you’ve left a comment to join my everything taglist within the past month ish or so i promise u will be added!! i just haven’t had time to update it. okay love u see u later bye bye!!!
Summary: For once, June and Dennis are good. Healthy, steady, almost suspiciously happy. But when June’s ex unexpectedly walks into the ED during an ortho consult, old wounds resurface fast and Dennis proves, in the softest and loudest way possible, that June never has to shrink herself to be loved
Warnings: past toxic relationship, cheating ex, emotional manipulation, workplace confrontation, police/custody mention, ankle fracture/dislocation, medical setting, brief panic/trauma response, protective sibling behavior, soft hurt/comfort, love confession.
Part1•Part2•Part3•Part4•Part5• Part 6•Part 7•Part 8•Part 10•Part 11
Main Masterlist <--- check out my other stories
For a few weeks, nothing bad happens. Since you started dating Dennis it feels like something has happened. That alone is a suspicious feeling, bubbling in your gut.
But somehow, life is good. Actually good,
Good in a way that still starters you some mornings, like you wake up and expect the universe to correct itself. Like there is no way you, June Langdon, can be this happy without someone somewhere filing an official complaint.
But Dennis Whitaker keeps proving you wrong. The Nebraska farm boy turned Pittsburgh MD, is proving that relationships can be healthy.
You two are actually doing well. Not fake-well. Not “we are both pretending we are normal because we are afraid to scare the other person off” well. Not “one of us is one bad day away from locking ourselves in an on-call room” well.
More often than not he stays over your apartment now.
Not in the accidental way from the first time, when you were too tired and too raw and too embarrassed to admit you did not want him to leave. Now he stays because you ask him to.
Sometimes directly.
Sometimes by stealing his shirt and climbing into bed without saying anything while he stands in your doorway, smiling like he knows exactly what you are doing.
“You want me to stay?” he asked one night, toothbrush in hand, hair tousled and wet from the shower. You peak out from under your comforter, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts. “I don’t know,” you say with a yawn. “I’m pretty busy.”
Dennis looks around your bedroom. “In bed?” “It’s a very demanding schedule,” you say while plugging in your phone. “Of sleeping?” “mmh, very important.”
He gives you one of those stupid smirks that make your heart pound, while leaning against the doorframe. “Want company?” You glance up at him. “You’re already here.” “That isn’t an answer darling.”
You roll your eyes, but if you were standing it would make your knees weak with the soft and endearing way he calls you “darling.” “Yes, Denny. Stay.”
He tries to not look too pleased but Dennis is not subtle when it comes to you.
Other nights, you stay at his and Trinity’s apartment, which means you have somehow become part of Trinity Santos’s natural habitat. The girl who used to make upsetting comments about your brother. But now you coexist.
That is dangerous. Mostly because Trinity has decided your relationship with Dennis is the best live entertainment she has had in years.
The first time she walks into the kitchen at six in the morning and finds you in Dennis’s old T-shirt, barefoot, making coffee while Dennis stands behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder, she stops dead in the doorway.
“Oh,” she says. “Absolutely not.” Dennis lifts his head. “Good morning to you too.”
“No.” Trinity points at both of you with a protein bar. “This is my kitchen. I pay rent here. I should not have to see Huckleberry in his boxers fondling the Ortho barbie before sunrise.”
You raise your mug. “Morning, Trin.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re too comfortable here.”
“I do know where the mugs are now.” “Disgusting.” Dennis kisses your shoulder, soft and sleepy. Trinity makes a strangled noise and backs out of the kitchen. “I am filing a hostile roommate complaint.”
“You do that,” Dennis says. You laugh into your coffee. She turns about points at you.
“Put on some pants.” Yes, mother.” You say while standing on your tiptoes to kiss Dennis’ nose and walking off to his room to get dressed.
That has become your life lately.
Dennis’s apartment. Your apartment. Coffee cups traded like love letters. Sleepovers that are not always sleeping and mornings where you both pretend you are not late because leaving bed has become increasingly impossible.
He stays at your place after long shifts, his body warm behind yours, his arm heavy over your waist. You stay at his, curled under his sheets while Trinity bangs on the bathroom door and yells that if you two used all the hot water, she is putting both of you in a case report.
Dennis gets used to your life in a way that should scare you more than it does.
He joins family dinners at Frank’s and sits at the table like he has always belonged there, helping Abby carry plates, letting Tanner explain dinosaur extinction with great confidence and very little scientific accuracy, and allowing Penny to decorate his forearm with princess stickers.
“You know you can tell them no,” you say one night as Penny attempts to braid the hair at the nape of his neck despite there not being nearly enough of it.
Dennis is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Tanner climbing over his back with a plastic firefighter helmet on. “I can?” he asks. “No,” Penny says immediately. Dennis looks at you, helpless. “You heard her.”
Frank watches from the couch with the haunted expression of a man witnessing his sister’s boyfriend become beloved by his children in real time.
“I don’t like how easily he integrated,” Frank says. Abby pats his knee. “That’s because he’s nice.” “I’m nice.” You snort. Frank points at you. “Watch it.”
“You once told me Santa wasn’t real because I ate your Pop-Tart.” “You needed resilience.” “I was seven.” “And look at you now. Resilient.”
Dennis laughs, and Frank’s eyes cut to him. “You think that’s funny, Nebraska?” Dennis schools his face with incredible effort. “No, sir.”
You gasp. “Do not sir him. He’ll get powerful.” Frank looks mildly pleased. Abby rolls her eyes so hard you worry she might injure herself.
It is good.
Work is still work, obviously. Park is still Park. Bones are still rude. The OR still smells like cautery, betadine, and mild existential dread. Yolanda returns from PTO looking suspiciously rested and immediately declares that self-care is a scam unless it involves expensive candles and ignoring men.
“You left me with him,” you say, pointing at Park during morning sign-out. Park does not look up from the x-ray. “I was also left with you.” Yolanda gasps. “Were you two mean to each other without me?”
“Constantly,” you say. “I’m hurt.” “You were doing self-care.” “I was drinking margaritas in a robe.”
“That is not self-care,” Park says. Yolanda points at him. “That is exactly why you look like you sleep standing up.” Park turns to you. “Control your friend.”
You look behind you. “What friend?” Yolanda places a hand over her heart. “Betrayal.” Park mutters, “My strongest headaches are reunited.” You grin. “He missed us.” “I did not.”
Park pinches the bridge of his nose.
You and Yolanda exchange a look. Then both of you say, “Parkie.” “No,” he says immediately.
“Parkie the Sharkie,” Yolanda sings. “I will transfer both of you to podiatry.” “You say that like feet scare me,” you say. Yolanda points at you. “Feet should scare you.” “They do,” you admit. “But I’m brave.” Park stares at the OR board like it might save him. It does not.
For once, nothing is falling apart.
You still work too much. Dennis still worries too quietly. Frank still acts like your relationship is personally aging him. Trinity still threatens to spray you with saline when you kiss Dennis in her apartment. Yolanda still narrates every development like she is the host of a deeply invasive dating show.
But nothing is bad. No breakdowns. No locked doors. No old wounds split open.
Until today…
The day starts with a text from your brother. Dennis had stayed over at your place the night before, and Frank, unaware of this deeply relevant information, texted you at 05:58.
Frankie🧸 : I’m outside. Hurry up.
You: why are you outside
Frankie🧸: Because your car is getting serviced and I am a kind loving brother
You: that sounds fake but okay
You open the door wearing scrubs and one of Dennis’s hoodies. Frank’s eyes narrow immediately.
“Why are you wearing a Nebraska hoodie, are you cheating on Pittsburgh?” Dennis appears behind you with wet hair, brushing his teeth. Frank goes very still.
You say, “Good morning.” Frank points at Dennis with the hand holding his travel mug. “Why is he here?” Dennis freezes with the toothbrush in his mouth. You lean against the doorframe. “Because he spent the night.” Frank closes his eyes. “I hate everyone.”
“You’re the one who showed up unannounced," Frank signs, walking away, “You have five minutes or I’m leaving.” As you get into the car Frank announces, “I want to go back to when you were twelve and hated boys.”
“I didn’t hate boys. I hated your friends.” “My friends were boys.” “Exactly.” Dennis makes the mistake of laughing. Frank’s eyes snap to him. “Do not enjoy this.” “I’m sorry.” “No, you’re not.”
The rest of the car ride is good, almost peaceful. You lay your head against the window with your eyes closed, while you hold Dennis' hand that he stretched back from the passenger's seat.
Before you know it, you’ve pulled into the parking garage and the day needs to begin. Dennis holds your hand as you walk through the ambulance bay, arguing with you brother over one time when he locked you in the basement because you at his pop-tart.
Once you make it through the doors, you kiss Dennis’ cheek goodbye. You rush to the elevators offering Dana and Robby a “Good Morning!” on your way.
The day starts the same as every other day. Reviewing films, early morning floor consults for the overnight admits, and rounds before the day of using power tools on the human body begins. Scrubbing in and trying to prove to Park that you are actually worth keeping around.
You’re taking a break around 1300, in between surgeries when a consult comes over your pager.
ED consult: ankle injury. Adult male in police custody. Fall from the fence. Deformity.
.You glance at the message, then the time. “Suspect tried to run from police,” you read aloud. “Climbed over a fence, fell from the top, ankle deformity. Neurovascularly intact per ED note.”
Park does not look up from the x-ray on the monitor. “Gravity remains undefeated.” “Poetic.” “Go reduce it if it needs reducing.” “You’re not coming?”
“For an ankle?” “You’re going to miss me.” “I’ll survive.” “You say that now, but who will bring charm to your day?”
“Garcia is back.” “Rude.” Yolanda, sitting at the workstation nearby, lifts her head. “Did somebody say my name?”
Park points at the door. “Both of you. Out. And try not to flirt with Whitaker for forty minutes.” “No promises!” You call out, before heading down stairs.
Ankle fracture-dislocation, probably. Maybe bimalleolar. Maybe trimalleolar. Fence fall could mean axial load, rotational injury, maybe talar dome injury if he landed badly. In custody means you will have police in the room, which always makes everything more annoying.
You check the board as you hit the ED.
Curtain Four. Adult male. Thirty-two. Tried to flee police, climbed a chain-link fence, and fell from top. Obvious ankle deformity. Pulses present. X-ray pending.
Dennis is across the department with Mel, both bent over a chart. He looks up like he always does when you enter a room now, that quiet awareness that still makes your stupid heart do stupid things.
You lift two fingers in a tiny wave. He smiles. You are still smiling when you pull back the curtain. Then the world stops. Not because of the patient.
The patient is lying on the stretcher in handcuffs, one wrist cuffed to the rail, face sweaty and jaw clenched, right ankle visibly deformed with swelling already pushing against his sock. The foot is externally rotated in a way that makes you wince internally.
That is not what stops you. It is the cop standing by the foot of the bed. Dark hair. Same jaw. Same arrogant tilt to his mouth that used to make you feel chosen until it started making you feel small.
Jake.
For one wild second, you think your brain has invented him. Because Jake is not supposed to be here. Jake is supposed to be back in the old life. The one you buried under medical school and residency and Frank’s overprotective hovering and Park’s grumbling mentorship and Dennis’s soft hands on your waist in the morning.
You knew he was a cop. You knew that.
You had heard through the grapevine, through some girl from college who still follows everyone on Instagram, that he went into law enforcement. You knew he had moved around. You knew he had married and divorced or almost married and cheated again depending on which version of the gossip was true.
But you did not know he transferred to Pittsburgh. You did not know he would walk into your hospital. You did not know you would be standing in front of him in scrubs with your badge clipped to your pocket and your heart suddenly trying to crawl out through your throat.
Jake turns when the curtain moves. His eyes land on you. Recognition hits him slowly. Then he smiles. Not warmly. Like he has found something that used to belong to him.
“Well,” he says. “June Langdon.” Your fingers tighten around the tablet.
The patient groans. “Can somebody fix my ankle, or are we doing reunions?” The other officer beside Jake, older and broader, gives the patient a warning look. “Quiet.”
You force your face into something professional. It feels like trying to suture with numb hands.
“I’m Dr. Langdon with Ortho,” you say, looking at the patient and not Jake. “I’m going to examine your ankle.” Jake lets out a low laugh. “Dr. Langdon. Look at that.”
Your jaw tightens. You ignore him.
The patient is sweaty, irritated, and in pain. His ankle is swollen, deformed, skin tenting slightly over the medial side but not open. You crouch beside the bed, careful not to touch until you have warned him.
“What’s your name?” The patient glares. “Mason.” “Okay, Mason. I’m going to check blood flow and nerve function in your foot before we do anything else.” “It hurts like hell.” “I know. I’ll be quick
You check dorsalis pedis and posterior tibial pulses. Present, thankfully. Cap refill brisk. Foot warm. Sensation intact in the superficial peroneal, deep peroneal, tibial, sural, and saphenous distributions as best as he can tolerate. He can wiggle toes, though he curses the whole time.
“Neurovascularly intact,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Jake shifts at the foot of the bed. “Still talking to yourself when you work.” Your stomach turns. You keep writing.
“How’d this happen?” The older officer answers. “He ran from a traffic stop. Climbed the fence behind an auto shop, got one leg over, slipped, landed wrong.” Mason snaps, “Allegedly.”
You look at him. “Your ankle is very allegedly broken.” Despite himself, Mason huffs. Jake laughs like you made the joke for him.
You did not.
You look at Jesse. “Can we get pain control on board if not already? IV fentanyl or morphine per ED, and I need post-reduction films after we reduce. Has x-ray been done?” “Just came back,” Jesse says.
You pull up the images on the workstation outside the curtain. Your breath catches for a reason that has nothing to do with Jake this time.
Bimalleolar fracture-dislocation, maybe posterior malleolus involvement too. Talus shifted. Needs reduction now. Not a sit-and-wait ankle.
Frank appears beside you before you call him. Of course he does. He must have seen the consult pop up on the board.
“What do you have?” he asks. His voice is normal. Then he sees Jake through the gap in the curtain.
Frank goes completely still. It is subtle. Anyone else might miss it. You do not. Your older brother’s shoulders square. His jaw flexes once. His eyes go colder than you have seen them in months.
Jake sees him too. His smile widens. “Frank,” Jake says. “Long time.” Frank stares at him.
For one terrifying second, you think your brother might actually forget he is at work and launch himself across Curtain Four. Then Frank inhales slowly. “Officer,” he says.
Not Jake. Officer.
The single most professional insult he can manage. You step closer to Frank, lowering your voice. “Don’t.” “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing the face.” “What face?” “The felony face.” Frank’s eyes do not leave Jake. “I have many faces.
“Frank.” Finally, he looks at you. His expression changes immediately.
Protective. Worried. Big brother.
“Are you okay?”
You hate that question. You hate that the answer is no. You hate that Jake is here, standing in your ED like a ghost from your past with a badge, smiling like he has any right to say your name.
“I’m working,” you say. Frank’s mouth tightens. That is not an answer, and both of you know it.
He lowers his voice. “Park can take the consult.” “No.” “June.” “No,” you say again. “I can do my job.”
Frank studies you for a second longer.
Then he nods, even though every cell in him clearly hates it.
“I’ll stay nearby.” “That’s worse.” “Too bad.” You roll your eyes, but it steadies you.
A little.
You return to the room. Jake is still watching you. You focus on the patient.
“Mason, your ankle is fractured and dislocated,” you explain. “That means the joint is not lined up correctly. Right now you have blood flow and nerve function to the foot, which is good, but we need to reduce it, meaning put it back in better alignment, to protect the skin, blood flow, and nerves. This will also help with pain.”
Mason swallows. “Surgery?”
“Very likely, but not this second unless something changes. First we reduce, splint, get repeat x-rays, and admit you for operative fixation when appropriate.”
He looks at the cuffs. “Can these come off?” The older officer says, “One wrist stays secured.”
You glance at him. “For reduction, I need access and positioning. He is in custody, but he is also my patient. We can work with one arm secured if needed, but I need enough mobility to safely sedate and reduce him.”
Jake says, “He ran once.” You look at him for the first time directly. It is a mistake. His eyes are exactly the same.
Your body remembers before your brain can stop it. Dorm rooms. Fights in parking lots. The smell of his cologne on someone else’s sweatshirt. Him telling you that you were never around anyway. Him making his cheating sound like a scheduling issue.
Your voice stays level. “He has a fractured-dislocated ankle. He is not running anywhere.” Jake smirks. “You’d be surprised what desperate people do.”
The words land wrong. Too familiar. You turn away before he can see it hit.
Robby handles sedation because, mercifully, the ED is busy but not too busy for this. Dennis appears at the edge of the room with supplies, and the moment his eyes land on you, his expression shifts.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just alert. He notices Frank hovering. He notices Jake.
He notices that your shoulders are too tight and your voice is too clipped and you have not once looked toward him even though normally, by now, you would have made some joke just to see him smile.
Dennis says nothing. He just comes to the bedside. “You ready?” he asks you quietly. You nod. “Yeah.” “June.” You glance at him despite yourself. His eyes are gentle and grounding.
You inhale. “Yeah,” you say again, softer. “I’m ready.”
The reduction takes focus, and you are grateful for it.
Sedation on board. Patient monitored. Airway equipment ready. Time-out done. Pre-reduction neurovascular exam documented. You and Frank work together without needing much conversation because that is what years of being siblings and doctors around each other gives you.
You flex the knee to relax the gastrocnemius, apply longitudinal traction through the foot, correct the deformity, guide the talus back beneath the tibia. There is a palpable shift as the joint reduces.
Mason groans under sedation.
You hold alignment while Frank and the tech place the splint. Short leg with stirrup support. Molded carefully. Not too tight. Leave toes visible. Repeat neurovascular check.
Pulses still intact. Cap refill good. Toes are warm to the touch. You order post reduction films.
Work helps. Work is clean. Work has steps. Work has a sequence. Assess, reduce, splint, image, admit, operate.
Jake does not get to exist inside that sequence. Not until the reduction is done. Not until Mason is settled and the nurse is updating vitals and Frank steps out to check the films.
Not until Jake follows you into the hallway.
“June.” You keep walking. “June Bug.” You stop so fast your sneakers squeak against the floor.
Your whole body goes cold. That name does not belong in his mouth.
It belongs to Frank when he is worried.
It belongs to Abby and Yolanada when they’re teasing you.
It belongs to your parents, sometimes, in old voicemails you do not delete.
It belongs to Dennis when he applies soft sleepy kisses against your neck in the morning.
It does not belong to Jake.
You turn slowly. “Do not call me that.” Jake lifts both hands like you are being dramatic. “Relax. It’s just a name.” “No,” you say. “It isn’t.”
He looks you up and down, and you hate him for it. Hate that he does it like he still has the right to take inventory. “You look good,” he says.
You fold your arms. “You need to go back to your suspect.” “My partner’s with him.” “Then go help your partner.”
Jake takes a step closer. You do not step back. You refuse.
“So this is where you ended up,” he says. “Pittsburgh. Ortho. Still chasing a big respectable career.” Your throat tightens. “Knock it off,” you say quietly.
His brows lift. “What?” “You heard me. Knock it off and let me do my job.” He laughs under his breath. “It was always work with you.”
There it is. That old blade. Rusty now, maybe. But still sharp enough to find the scar. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.
Jake tilts his head. “I bet you haven’t found someone to stay with you after all these years. Not if you haven’t changed.”
For a second, you cannot breathe.The hallway noise blurs. Your body knows how to take a hit from him even years later. That is the humiliating part. That some old, pathetic part of you still flinches when he reaches for the exact place he used to press until you apologized for bleeding.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Then warmth appears behind you.
Not sudden. Not forceful. Just there.
Dennis.
One arm slides around your waist, careful but certain. His palm settles against your stomach, anchoring you against him. His chest meets your back. His other hand brushes your hip before resting there.
Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek.
Soft. Public. Deliberate.
Your heart stutters
Dennis Whitaker, a man who blushes when you touch his hand near the nurses’ station, who treats workplace PDA like it is a sterile field violation, has just wrapped himself around you in the middle of the ED hallway.
His voice is calm when he speaks.
Warm, even.
“How’s the ankle consult going, baby?”
You can feel Jake go still. You can also feel Dennis’s heart beating steadily against your back. For one dangerous, glorious second, you nearly laugh. Because Dennis knows exactly what he is doing. And he hates that he is doing it.
You can tell from the way his thumb moves once against your scrub top. A tiny apology. A tiny question. Is this okay?
You place your hand over his. Yes. Then you look at Jake. His face has changed.
Only a little. But enough.
Good.
You lean back into Dennis just slightly, not because you need to prove anything, but because you can. “Post-reduction films pending,” you say, voice steadier now. “Likely bimalleolar fracture-dislocation, possible posterior malleolus involvement. He’ll need admission and operative fixation.”
Dennis hums like this is normal. Like he regularly wanders up behind you to ask about fracture patterns while kissing your cheek. “Neurovascularly intact?” “Before and after reduction.”
“Good.” His lips brush near your temple, and this time his voice dips just for you. “You okay?” That almost breaks you. Not because you are fragile. Because he asks like the answer matters more than the performance.
You squeeze his hand once. “Getting there.”
Jake’s jaw tightens. “Oh,” he says. “So you did find someone.”
Dennis smiles politely. It is not a friendly smile. It is midwestern nice sharpened into something that could be cut.
Dennis does not offer his hand because one of them is still resting at your waist. Iconic, honestly.
Frank appears at the end of the hall, and the second he sees Dennis wrapped around you, his eyebrows shoot up.
Then he sees Jake’s face. Frank’s expression shifts into something deeply satisfied. “Oh,” Frank says. “Good.” You point at him. “No.”
He lifts both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” “You said good.”
“I support healthy relationships.” “You threatened to drive into a river three weeks ago because Dennis slept over.” Dennis mutters, “Still recovering from that, actually.”
Frank ignores him and looks at Jake. “Officer, your suspect is asking for you.” Jake does not move. Frank’s voice hardens. “Now.”
It is still professional. Barely.
Jake looks between the three of you, and you can see him trying to find a weak spot. Something to smirk at. Something to use.
He finds nothing. Not because you are untouchable. You are not.
Your hands are still cold. Your throat still hurts. Your skin still remembers. But you are not alone in the hallway with him anymore.
Maybe that is the thing Jake never understood. You were never hard to love. He was just bad at it.
Jake gives you one last look. “Good seeing you, June.” You hold his stare. “Can’t say the same.”
Frank makes a tiny choking sound that might be pride. Dennis’s hand tightens at your waist.
Jake walks away.
For a moment, nobody speaks.
Then Frank looks at Dennis. “Baby?” Dennis closes his eyes. You immediately start laughing. Not because it is funny. Because the adrenaline needs somewhere to go, and apparently it chooses hysterics.
Dennis’s face turns pink. “I panicked.” “You panicked and called me baby in front of my ex?” “I was aiming for casual.” “That was your casual?” “I don’t do this often.”
Frank crosses his arms. “No, no. I loved it. Horrifying. But effective.” Dennis looks pained. “Please don’t.” Frank grins. “How’s the ankle consult going, baby?” “Frank,” you gasp.
Dennis drops his forehead briefly to your shoulder. “I deserve this.” You reach up and pat his cheek. “You kind of do.”
He lifts his head, eyes softening when he sees your smile. “Was it okay?” he asks quietly. “Touching you like that?”
Your laughter fades into something warmer.
The hallway is still busy around you. Nurses passing. Monitors beeping. A transport bed rattling by. Somewhere, someone is calling for respiratory.
But Dennis is looking at you like the whole world can wait. “Yeah,” you say. “It was okay.” Frank pretends to study the tablet in his hands, but you know he is listening. Dennis nods.
Then, because he is Dennis, he starts to pull his hands away now that the moment has passed. You catch his wrist. He pauses.
You do not look at Frank. You do not look down the hall where Jake disappeared. You do not look anywhere except at Dennis.
“Stay for a second.” His face changes. “Okay,” he says. So he does.
Frank clears his throat roughly. “I’m going to check the films,” he says. “And not commit assault on a police officer.” “Personal growth,” you say.
He points at you without turning around. “Do not make me regret it.”
Dennis tugs you into the nearest stairwell, away from all the eyes pretending not to stare.
He lets the door fall shut, then stands two steps below you so you are almost eye level. “June,” he says softly. You laugh once, but there is no humor in it.
“Well. That was humiliating.” His face tightens. “No.” “I love a workplace confrontation with my cheating ex-boyfriend in front of my brother, my boyfriend, my boyfriend’s best friend, multiple residents, nurses, and possibly a psych patient who thinks his socks were stolen.”
Dennis’s mouth twitches despite himself. “They were stolen,” he says. You stare at him. He shrugs. “He kept throwing them at people, so we took them.”
A sound escapes you. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
Dennis hears both. His expression softens.
“Can I come closer?” he asks. That nearly breaks you more than anything Jake said. You nod.
Dennis steps up carefully and wraps his arms around you. You fold immediately. Face in his chest. Hands gripping his scrub top. The hallway is cold against your back and Dennis is warm everywhere else.
His arms tighten. “I know that too.” You close your eyes. “I hate that you heard that.” Dennis is quiet for a second. Then he says, “I hate that he hurt you.”
Something inside you cracks. Not in a bad way. In a tired way. In a final way.
“He said it was because I was never there,” you say, voice muffled. “Because I was always working. Always studying. Always trying to get somewhere. He made it sound like I abandoned him by not giving up parts of myself.”
Dennis’s hand moves slowly over your back. “You didn’t.” “I know that.” “Do you?” You breathe in. Then out. “I’m trying to.”
Dennis pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are steady. Sad, but steady.
“I love how hard you work,” he says. Your throat tightens. “I love that you care too much and stay too late and fight with Park because you think the plan could be better. I love that you bring stickers for kids and coffee for people who don’t ask. I love that you are ambitious. I love that you are impossible to move when you know you’re right.”
You blink fast. “Dennis.” “I’m not done.”
You press your lips together.
He cups your face gently. “You don’t have to shrink with me,” he says. “Not your career. Not your anger. Not your weird orthopedic shark thing with Park. Not any of it.”
A tear slips down your cheek. He wipes it away with his thumb. “And for the record,” he says, voice softer, “I am very happy to stay.”
You hate him. You love him. You are absolutely going to marry him someday if he keeps saying things like that, which is horrifying and not something you are prepared to examine in a hospital stairwell.
So you say, “You kissed me in front of my ex.” Dennis winces. “Yeah.” “And my brother.” “Also yeah.” “And Dana.”
“I am aware.” “And Trinity. Dennis sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You look up at him. “Don’t be.” His eyes open.
“I’m not property,” you say. “No.” “And I didn’t need you to save me.” “I know.”
“But…” You swallow. “It helped. Having you there.” His face softens. “You looked like you couldn’t breathe,” he says. “And he looked like he liked that.”
The words land hard because they are true. Dennis’s jaw flexes.
“I didn’t do it because I thought you belonged to me,” he says. “I did it because he needed to know you are loved now. Loudly. Even if it was wildly unprofessional.” You let out a watery laugh. “Wildly.”
“Robby’s going to say something.” “Dana will say something first.” “Frank might kill me.”
“No.” You lean your forehead against his chest again. “Frank is probably deciding whether to adopt you or murder you.” “Comforting.”
The stairwell door opens again. Frank sticks his head in. “Neither,” he says.
You lift your head. “Were you listening?” Frank steps in fully. “No.” Dennis gives him a look. Frank sighs. “A little.” “Frank.” “What? You’re my sister. Also, these stairwells echo like hell.”
You wipe your face. “I’m fine.” Frank’s expression says he does not believe you but is choosing not to fight in front of Dennis. Progress.
He looks at Dennis. Dennis looks back. For one long second, neither says anything. Then Frank says, “That was stupid.” Dennis nods. “Yeah.”
“And unprofessional.” “I know.” “And unfortunately kind of perfect.”
Your mouth falls open. Frank points at him. “Do not make me regret saying that.” “I won’t.” “I mean it. I still know where you sleep.” “Frank,” you snap.
He looks at you. “What? He sleeps at your apartment half the time. Unfortunately, I have keys.” Dennis chokes. You cover your face. “I’m going to transfer hospitals.”
“No, you’re not,” Frank says. Then his face changes, softening in that older-brother way that makes you feel small and safe and furious all at once. “Bug.”
You look at him through your fingers. “I’m proud of you,” he says. Your eyes sting again. “Don’t.” “You stood up to him.” “I really didn’t.” “You did,” Frank said, “You showed him you are doing fine without him.”
You laugh. Frank steps closer and pulls you out of Dennis’s arms and into his own. Dennis lets you go immediately. Your brother hugs you hard.
“I hated him,” Frank says into your hair. “I hated him then. I hate him now. But I’m really glad you know it wasn’t your fault.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yeah,” you whisper.
Frank kisses the top of your head in a way he has done since you were little. Then he lets go and clears his throat like he did not just experience an emotion.
“Okay,” he says. “Great. Horrible. We are done. Back to work before Park senses weakness.” The door opens again. Park appears. All three of you stare.
Park looks unimpressed and his eyes move to you. “Orca,” he says. You groan. “Not now.” He ignores that. “You good?”
“I’m fine.” His eyes narrow. “I’m not fine,” you amend. “But I’m functional.”
“Better.” Park looks at Dennis. Then Frank. Then back to you. “Callahan?”
You freeze. Of course he knows. Frank probably texted him. Or Yolanda did. Or Park simply absorbed the information from the walls like he was hunting for it like a shark looking for its next meal.
“My ex,” you say. “The stupid one?” Dennis makes a strangled sound. Frank says, “Yes.” You look at Park. “You knew about Jake?” Park shrugs. “Garcia talks.” “I’m going to kill her.” “She included diagrams.” “Oh my God.” Park folds his arms. “Do I need to make sure he falls down some stairs?”
For a second, nobody speaks. Then you laugh. You laugh so hard you have to lean into Dennis again. Park looks pleased with himself in the smallest possible way.
Frank points at him. “That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said.” “It wasn’t nice.” “It was an attempted homicide as emotional support. For you, that’s nice.”
Park considers this. “Fine.” Dennis’s hand finds yours. You let him take it. Park looks at your joined hands, then at the stairwell ceiling like he is asking for patience. “Disgusting,” he says. “Get back to work.”
“Yes, Parkie.” His eyes sharpen. “Do not.” You smile for real this time.
When you return to the ED, Jake is at the far end of the hall with his partner, no longer leaning like he owns the place. The suspect’s post-reduction films are up. The ankle alignment looks better. Still operative, likely unstable bimalleolar or trimalleolar pattern depending on final reads, but no longer threatening the skin.
You review the images with Frank and document the plan.
Admission if custody allows and OR timing permits. Elevation. Ice. Strict neurovascular checks. Non-weight bearing. Pain control. NPO after midnight if going to the OR the next day. If discharged to custody before surgery, clear return precautions for increasing pain, numbness, discoloration, swelling, or splint issues, but honestly you hate the idea and say so.
Jake does not interrupt you again.
Not once. When you finish, you turn to the two officers.
“His ankle is reduced and splinted. He will need operative fixation. ED will coordinate disposition with custody and ortho. He needs elevation and monitoring. If he has increased pain, numbness, tingling, cool toes, blue discoloration, or the splint feels too tight, he needs immediate reassessment.”
Jake’s partner nods. “Got it.” Jake looks like he wants to say something. You raise an eyebrow.
He does not. Good boy.
Yolanda appears beside you as you walk away. “I give Dennis eight out of ten for execution,” she says. You sigh. “Please don’t.” “Points deducted because Robby saw and now there may be a professionalism conversation.” “Yolanda.”
“Points added back because Jake looked like someone unplugged his ego.” You bite the inside of your cheek. She links her arm through yours. “And for what it’s worth,” she says more quietly, “you looked hot not giving into him to fuel his tiny man complex.”
You snort. “That’s your emotional support?” “Yes. And later we can slash his tires.” “No.” “Fine. Spiritually slash his tires.” “Acceptable.”
At the end of your shift, Dennis waits for you by the ambulance bay.
He has your bag over one shoulder. You stop in front of him. “I can carry my own bag.” “I know.” “You don’t have to wait for me.”
“I know.” “You’re very annoying when you’re being sweet.” “I know.”
For a second, you just stand there.
The ED moves around you. Staff leaving. Staff arriving. Ambulance doors opening. Someone was laughing too loudly near the bay. The automatic doors sliding apart and closing again.
Life continues. Even after Jake. Even after the thing you once thought would crack you open.
You are still here. You are still whole.
Dennis reaches out, then hesitates. You step into him first. His arm comes around your shoulders immediately, warm and steady, and you press your cheek against his chest because you can.
Because you want to. Because for once, you do not feel like you have to earn the right to be held. “You okay to come over?” he asks quietly.
You tilt your head back. “Are you asking because you want to watch me emotionally process or because you want to make out with me?”
Dennis’s ears turn pink. You smile. “There she is,” he murmurs. You poke his stomach. “Answer the question.”
“I want to make you dinner,” he says. “And maybe sit on the couch. And if you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you don’t, we won’t.” “And the making out?” His blush deepens. “I mean, I’m not opposed.” You grin. “How brave.”
You look up at him. The softness hits you again. Less scary this time. Or maybe you are just getting used to it.
“You really want me over?” you ask, quieter.
Dennis’s expression changes. Like he hears the question underneath. Like he understands you are not asking about tonight. Not really.
He bends and kisses your forehead, public enough that Trinity wolf-whistles from somewhere near the desk.
“Yes,” he says. “I really want you over.” Your throat tightens. “Even though it always work with me?” you ask, trying for lightness and almost making it.
Dennis does not smile. He takes your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. “Especially because it’s work with you,” he says. “That’s part of you. I’m not trying to love around it.”
The word hits you in the chest. Love.
Not said like a question. Not said like a trap. Just there. Steady and certain and terrifyingly kind.
You stare at him for a second too long. Dennis’s face softens with concern. “June?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you have thought about it before. Of course you have.
You have thought it in his apartment when he makes you toast after bad shifts. You have thought it when Penny falls asleep against his chest and Tanner insists Dennis is now part of the family because he knows how to do dinosaur voices. You have thought it when he drives your car with one hand on the wheel and one hand resting open on the console in case you want to hold it.
You have thought it in on-call rooms and stairwells and quiet mornings. You have thought it every time he lets you be sharp without flinching. Every time he stays. Every time he looks at you like your ambition is not something he has to survive, but something he gets to admire.
And maybe Jake walking into your hospital should have made you feel like the same girl he left behind. But it doesn’t. Because you are not her anymore.
You are loved now.
The realization lands all at once, not as a thought but as a feeling. It rushes through you so fast it steals the air from your lungs. Your pulse pounds in your ears. Your chest aches with it.
Loved when you are exhausted. Loved when you are difficult. Loved when you are scared enough to hide it behind sarcasm and schedules and twelve-hour shifts. Loved by a man standing in front of you with your bag on his shoulder and absolute certainty in his eyes.
Loudly. Carefully. By someone who does not ask you to be easier. Your fingers tighten around Dennis’s.
“I love you,” you say.
The words leave you in a breath, trembling and irreversible. Dennis goes completely still. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes the whole world seem to hold its breath with him.
The ED keeps moving behind you, but for one second, all you see is Dennis.
His eyes are searching yours. His mouth parted slightly. His hand still wrapped around yours like he forgot how to let go.
You can actually see the moment it reaches him.
Shock. Hope. Something so raw it makes your own heart twist.
You laugh nervously, suddenly horrified by your own timing. “That was probably a lot for the ambulance bay.” Dennis blinks. Then his face breaks open. Soft. Stunned. Beautiful.
“June,” he says, and your name sounds different in his mouth now. Like something he has been keeping safe.
“You don’t have to say it back right now,” you add quickly, because panic apparently has excellent reflexes. “I mean, obviously, say it eventually if you feel it. Or don’t. No, actually, please do eventually if you—”
“I love you too.” You stop. Everything inside you seems to seize.
Dennis steps closer, your bag sliding down his shoulder.
His eyes shine.
“I love you,” he says again, clearer this time, like he needs you to hear every word. “I’ve loved you. I just didn’t want to scare you.” For a second, you can only stare at him.
The noise of the ambulance bay fades into a distant blur.
Your skin feels too tight. Your heart feels too big. “Oh.” It is all you can manage.
Dennis smiles, and there is relief in it, affection, months of restraint finally giving way. His eyes are suspiciously bright. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Oh.”
Your vision blurs.
A laugh escapes you, shaky and breathless and dangerously close to a sob. Because he loves you. He loves you. The truth of it crashes through every old hurt, every doubt Jake left behind, every fear that you would always be too much or not enough.
Dennis loves you. You grab the front of his jacket with both hands and tug him down. Then you kiss him. Properly.
The second his mouth meets yours, something inside you settles.
His free hand comes up to your jaw. You can feel him smiling against your lips before the kiss deepens, warm and real and impossibly familiar.
Right there in the ambulance bay.
You smile into the kiss. For once, you do not care who sees.
Because Jake can transfer to Pittsburgh. He can walk into your ED. He can say your name like it still belongs to him.
But it doesn’t.
It belongs to you.
Author's note:I am so, so sorry that it has been three weeks since the last update. I really hope you can forgive me. As an apology, I somehow ended up writing an almost 7.5k word chapter because I felt awful for disappearing for a bit. Life has just been a lot lately, and I really needed a small break, but I promise I haven’t forgotten about June, Dennis, or any of you. If you’re still here, thank you. Truly. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and June finally realizing just how easy she is to love. She deserves that so much, and Dennis being the one to help her see it makes me so emotional. Thank you again for being patient with me and for understanding that I needed a little time. I love you all, and I hope this chapter was worth the wait. 🐞
Hii hope you’re doing well, I was wondering if I could request a criminal minds blurb where reader is Penelope’s best friend and they’ve met for lunch in a cafe near Quantico, and reader is telling Penny about this new guy she hooked up with a few nights ago, reader tells Penny how big the guy was and then a few minutes later Spencer walks in and reader is like “P omg that’s the guy!!” And gestures towards Spencer who’s the only person ordering at the counter? I just feel like Penny would be equal parts both shocked and horrified that her sweet innocent boy Spence has a sex life but also that he’s HUNG?? I literally love you and all your Spencer works and I feel like you’d write this perfectly 🫶🫶
this post is 18+, minors dni.
Penelope is absolutely enraptured by the play-by-play you're murmuring to her over the low din of the cafe's patronage. The whirring and grinding of the machines behind the counter only further aid in your attempt to keep your conversation private, and you can smell sweet strawberries on the bubbly blonde when you lean in to give her details.
"And he reached for his fly- ooh, Penny, the way his arms looked," You gush, remembering the thick veins that had corded his bone while he'd wrestled with his belt, "He whipped his belt out of the way, and- stop!" You urge her when she wriggles her brows at you, "He took his pants off, Penny, and I swear to god I've seen thighs thinner than that dick."
Her resulting squeal is much less hushed than you'd managed to keep the rest of your conversation, and you swat at the arm that's not holding her coffee. She gets the message but resorts to stamping her feet beneath the table instead, a repeated clicking that blends in much better with the mechanical whirring of the baristas' handiwork.
"He was so thick, and Jesus- Penny, he was long, too, just big all around," You recall, insides throbbing with a phantom ache at the memory of what you'd taken last night, "I swear he had me seeing stars," You sigh, glancing down at the pale pink ring of lip gloss around the mouth of your cup, "I'd beg him to come over again tonight, but I think I need a week to recover."
"A week," She breathes dreamily, "I could barely feel the last guy I had."
"Oh, I could feel him," You laugh, "It's like I still can, I'm pretty sure he bruised- oh fuck!"
"What?" Penelope's brow dips instantly, concern etched into her pretty features, "What's wrong?"
"It's him," You grip her hand, nails digging into her skin, "It's the guy from last night!"
"Big dick dude?" She asks, and your frantic nod confirms her theory.
She tries to be subtle, bless her, when she turns to see him, but when the only person that she sees standing in line for a drink is her coworker, her brain chugs along slower than normal.
Where's big dick dude?
Oh, Spencer's here!
I don't see big dick dude.
Spencer is-
You're not sure even the most talented actor could ever recreate the sheer horror swimming in her gaze when she turns to face you again. Her eyes are blown wide and her mouth, lined in a pretty fuchsia paste, is downturned in a grimace.
"Please tell me you're not talking about the skinny mess in the sweater vest."
"That's exactly who I'm talking about!" You gush, trying to avoid his gaze lest he thinks you're trying to follow him around, "Penny, isn't he dreamy?"
"That's- oh my god," She recalls your descriptions, thicker than thighs, longer than you've ever seen, "I have to resign."
