A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Every skill needs honing.
Word Count: 4,2k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, medieval era expectations and viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Being the lady of the castle was no easy task even under normal circumstances, and these two weeks had been nothing but chaos.
But in your opinion, you were getting much better at it.
You and Robb made quite a successful team in Lord and Lady Stark’s absence. Everything in Winterfell was being handled quite effectively; the lady guests were welcomed and entertained while the lords held meetings with Robb. Preparations for the coming winter continued in the background not only for the bannermen and their families, but also for the small folk in Wintertown and all over the north. While most northerners still saw you as an outsider, you were beginning to prove yourself, and you were certain that Silas and your father would’ve been very proud if they could see you now; you had already sent both of them ravens to tell them all about it.
And in happier news, Bran had woken up last week. Though Maester Luwin said he could never walk again, you were thankful to the gods that he was alive, everything else could be sorted out.
Needless to say, Bran didn’t see it that way.
“Have you two seen Rickon?”
Both Jon and Theon stopped eating their breakfast and looked up at you at the same time.
“Wasn’t he with you and Robb?” Jon asked and you shook your head.
“Robb went to visit Bran in his room, I figured they would want to talk alone. The last time I talked to him, he wasn’t really…” you trailed off and shrugged. “Which is expected.”
“Aye, he wasn’t really interested in talking to me either.”
“He just needs time,” Theon said. “That’s it—oh, there’s Rickon.”
You turned your head to find Rickon absolutely covered in mud, making you gasp. The little boy didn’t seem like he minded the mud on his clothes at all, judging by the toothless smile he gave you when he reached the table.
“Hello!”
“What’s happened?!” you asked, covering your mouth with your hands and he looked down at himself.
“I was playing with Shaggy.”
“In the mud?”
“Aye!”
You seemed to be the only one who was shocked at the state of him, because instead of reacting in any way, Jon just ruffled his little brother’s hair while Theon let out a laugh. Rickon grabbed a piece of cheese from Theon’s plate without even wiping his hands, then darted through the hall before you could stop him, almost crashing into Robb’s legs on his way out. Robb looked over his shoulder to check where his little brother was rushing off to, then approached you and pressed a kiss on your temple.
“Here you are,” he said and touched the small of your back before he sat down, so you took the seat next to Jon’s. “Where’s he going?”
“To the yard, I’d say,” Jon answered while you stared at the entrance, your mouth half agape.
“He’s covered in mud,” you managed to say, “and he ate food without cleaning his hands.”
“He does that.”
Your eyes widened. “But that’s not healthy!”
“He has never fallen ill his entire life,” Jon said and Robb nodded.
“Besides, it’s Rickon,” he stated as if that was enough of an explanation, and reached out to steal a piece of bread from Jon’s plate, but Jon swatted his hand away.
“Go get your own plate!”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Then keep your hands off my food!”
“So you’re saying you won’t share your bread with me? Your brother? Your blood?”
“Aye, that’s what I’m saying—”
“Did someone at least tell Rickon that it’s not good manners to walk around covered in mud?”
“Multiple septas did.” Robb filled himself a drink and offered you, but you shook your head. “He doesn’t listen.”
“Besides, he’s northern,” Theon said. “He’s not gonna grow to be one of those flowery Reach knights with their southern manners and poems—”
“What is it with your animosity toward poetry, Greyjoy?” you asked with a frown. “Is it because you can’t read?”
“Your brother asked me the same thing—I can read!”
“Allegedly,” you pointed out, and Robb and Jon exchanged glances, both biting back identical grins. “I’ve heard Ironborn look down on literacy to the point of accusing people who can read as sorcerers.”
“Well, seeing the raids on the Reach, we’re still better fighters than—”
“None of that,” Robb interrupted him while you glared at Theon, and Jon heaved a sigh.
“How’s Bran?”
“As expected,” Robb muttered. “I don’t think staying in that room is going to make him feel better. I’ll get him out to the yard the moment Maester Luwin says we can.”
“That should help.”
“I hope so.”
“Has father written back yet?”
“No ravens arrived,” Robb said while Jorelle made her way to you. “Should be any day now, though.”
“My lady, you wanted me to remind you about your meeting with Lady Sabitha,” she said. “She’s waiting for you.”
Theon nodded at Jorelle with a smirk.
“Lady Jorelle,” he greeted her. “Hello.”
Robb and Jon both looked from Theon to Jorelle with the exact same expression of boyish wonder on their faces, and Jorelle raised her brows, eyed him up and down, then chortled.
“Absolutely not, Greyjoy.”
Robb stifled a laugh and kicked Jon under the table while Jon pressed his fist on his lips to hide his smile. Theon sat up straighter, clearly not discouraged as he puffed his chest.
“But I’m…”
“Greyjoy, I understand that you lack subtlety so I’m going to be as direct as my manners allow me,” you told him and stood up from your seat. “If you ever bother my ladies-in-waiting, I’ll make sure you can never speak a word to them or anyone else ever again. I’m sure the whole castle will thank me for it.”
There was a proud grin on Robb’s face as you pecked him on the cheek, then you threw an arm over Jorelle’s shoulder and you both walked away from the table, giggling.
After your small meeting with Lady Sabitha, the rest of your day was considerably idle. You visited Bran, you spent some time with Rickon, and now you and your ladies-in-waiting had nothing to do but remain in your room and gossip until dinner time. You laid in your bed, with Jorelle by your side and Wylla laid on her stomach at the foot of the bed, reading a book. Alys was braiding Lyra’s hair and Barbrey was embroidering something for her new gown on the sofa across the hearth, occasionally holding it up for Alys and Lyra’s opinion.
It reminded you of the Reach, back when you and Margaery and your friends would spend time together before the jousts.
“Jo?”
Jorelle turned her head to see you better. “Hm?”
“What kind of husband do you want?”
The question gathered everyone’s attention in the room. Alys stopped braiding Lyra’s hair, Lyra’s head snapped around and Barbrey looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening. Wylla pursed her lips without pulling her gaze off the page, but you could tell her ears perked up with the way she stopped following the lines. Jorelle craned her head to see you better.
“What brought this on?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” you said. “You know, when Greyjoy tried to talk to you earlier today—”
“Gods no!”
“No, obviously not him!” you said in a rush. “None of you will wed him, are you jesting? I hate him, he’s vile.”
“He’s your lord husband’s best friend,” Wylla pointed out and you shrugged.
“I still hate him, Robb knows it,” you said. “But it made me think, it’s clear you have admirers, all of you.” You motioned around the room. “Silas fixed my betrothal, and it took him such a long time to make a decision. And you’re my ladies-in-waiting, it’s my responsibility to find you good suitors. I’m determined to find you the best men in the realm, but I can only do that if I know what kind of husbands you want.”
Alys thought for a second. “Perhaps we should make a list.”
“Good idea!” You jumped from the bed and rushed to the desk to grab the inkpot and the quill, and parchments. You dipped the quill into the inkpot, then wrote all their names on different parchments and pointed at Lyra with your quill.
“Lyra, are you certain—”
“I won’t wed, I’m certain,” Lyra cut you off. “Men can be so annoying.”
“She’s not wrong on that one,” Jorelle muttered and Lyra gave her a grin.
“I can also fight Greyjoy if he bothers you.”
“Not needed at this point, but thank you Lyra.”
“Me next!” Barbrey said, sitting up straighter. “I want a southron husband.”
“Where in the south?” you asked and Barbrey frowned as if the thought hadn’t hit her before.
“Um, the Reach?”
“The men of the Reach are full of audacity, I’ve found,” Jorelle grumbled and you shot her a smirk.
“I think you mean the men of Dorne.”
Jorelle bit back a laugh and held up her hands. “All the same to me.”
“And I want him to be a knight,” Barbrey added, her nose stuck in the air. “Like…like that knight you danced with on your wedding.”
You blinked a couple of times. “Loras?”
“Yes, The Knight of Flowers!” Barbrey said. “Oh he was so handsome!”
“Barbrey.” You tried to control your expression. “You would not want Loras as a husband.”
“Why did you not?” Alys asked and shifted her weight. “I mean I know Lord Robb is the love of your life, but before that? The Knight of Flowers is your best friend’s brother, and you two looked like the perfect southron lady and the knight when you danced.”
Well, there were many reasons; the main one being that your brother was Loras’ type and not you, regardless of how you two looked while you were dancing.
“Loras is like a brother to me,” you said. “We could never see each other like that. How about you, Alys? What kind of husband do you want?”
“I don’t want a southron,” Alys said. “I don’t want to be so far away from my family. I want a brave northern fighter, but he must be handsome, and my age.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
Her cheeks got pink and she averted her glances.
“…No.”
You arched a brow. “Alys.”
“I don’t have anyone in mind, I just—”
“She admires the heir of House Ryswell,” Wylla sang without looking up from her book, making Alys gasp.
“I do not!”
“You danced with him at the wedding and you were flustered afterwards.”
“Wylla!”
“How else are you going to get the husband you want if you keep it a secret?”
“What kind of reading is that?” Jorelle asked her, gesturing at the book in front of Wylla. “You keep chiming in.”
“Yes well, while you are all listing your requirements for suitors…” Wylla wiggled her brows and turned the page before she held it up so that all could see the vulgar illustration. “I’m learning how to keep my future husband under my spell.”
The room exploded into chaos in a second. Alys jumped from her seat at the same time with Barbrey, who nearly face planted on Lyra in her haste to rush to Wylla. Jorelle sat up in bed and snatched the book from Wylla’s hands, holding it out of her reach while she all but wrestled her to get it back.
“Jo!”
“Where did you find, this?”
“Let me see! Let me see!”
“What does it say?”
“Oh it says everything.”
“Barbrey, stop pushing!”
“You won’t even wed, Lyra, no need for you to see!”
The title of the book was familiar to you; it was very famous all over the south. Of course all the septas and the maesters forbid it, saying that it was not appropriate for ladies, but that had never stopped you or any of your friends. All it required was a couple gold dragons given to the right maid, and a ball thrown in someone’s honor so that you and your friends could gather in one of your bedchambers while the rest of the household was busy with the guests.
Though, you were rather surprised to see it was famous enough to be found in the north as well.
“That’s disgusting!” Barbrey let out a squeal as she leaned in to grimace at the drawing. “So very disgusting!”
“Then stop looking?”
“I cannot!”
You pressed your fist on your mouth so that you could hide your smile, leaning back to the table while they all gathered around the bed and turned the page.
“But I don’t—but—” Alys stammered. “My lady mother said, on my wedding night, I’m to just lay there.”
“So did mine! My husband will know what to do, she said.”
Gods, the north really was different than the south, this was yet another proof of it. All your ladies-in-waiting were the same age as you, women grown, and yet they were clueless when it came to certain things because the north was incredibly strict on such matters.
Jorelle turned the page again and yelped in surprise, a scowl twisting her beautiful face. “Seven hells, I’m not doing that!”
“Let me see—”
“I’m a lady,” Barbrey insisted. “I care not what the book says, I’m not putting my mouth anywhere near…that thing.”
“Do all men know about this?”
“I’d say so.”
“Do you suppose there’s a book for them as well?”
“A book?” Wylla asked with a scoff. “They have no need to read about it. What do you think they do in brothels, hold hands?”
“Lady wives don’t do such things,” Alys insisted while Jorelle lifted her head as if she just remembered your presence in the room. “I’m sure of it.”
“I still don’t understand the—the physics of this?”
“You know what Lyra, you were right. If this is what will be expected of me, I’m not going to wed either.”
“My personal feelings aside, it does sound very uncomfortable, I’m not going to lie.”
“Is it?” Jorelle asked you, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Is it very uncomfortable?”
Stunned silence fell upon the room as all the girls turned their heads to stare at you while you bit back your grin.
“Hm?”
“Oh but she doesn’t do that!” Alys said in a haste. “She’s the most graceful lady of the south, Jo.”
“And she’s been quiet since the beginning of this conversation,” Lyra pointed out, narrowing her eyes at you. “Too quiet.”
Barbrey held up the book and pointed at the illustration on the page. “Did you do this?”
Wylla elbowed her. “Barbrey!”
“What? Lord Robb is mesmerized by her, everyone knows it!”
“Because she is beautiful, you idiot, not because she does such tricks!”
You dragged the tip of your tongue on your lip, then heaved a dramatic sigh.
“You see, I would tell you,” you said. “But since such conversations are unladylike, you’d have to swear—”
“I swear it! I swear on my honor!”
“Me too!”
“So do I, on my honor and house!”
“Aye, on my house too!”
“I will never breathe a word, I swear it.”
“…That it doesn’t leave this room,” you finished your sentence with a laugh. “Very well then.”
They all plopped down on your huge bed, their attention fully on you as you jumped to sit on the desk.
“Lady Olenna, my best friend’s grandmother always said the marital bed is the way to keep one’s husband mesmerized,” you said. “It matters even more than how you look, how much wealth your family has, or what your house is; that right there is the key, she would say.”
“So you knew about all these things?”
“I did,” you said airily. “The south isn’t as strict as the north, and though I lacked practice, I didn’t lack knowledge.”
“Yes well,” Alys grumbled. “In the north we lack both for some reason.”
Barbrey raised the book again, pointing at the page without a word and you nodded, making all of them gasp.
“You did that?!”
Well, they didn’t need to know how you did exactly that in Robb’s solar the other day.
“I reacted similarly when I first heard about it,” you admitted, “It sounded intimidating, the idea of doing that with some faceless husband in the future that I couldn’t even imagine. And unlike what everyone keeps telling women, you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t want to. However, Robb is…” You tried to find the right words. “I desire him so much that sometimes I feel like I can’t even think or breathe. I don’t speak for all married women obviously, but for me it wasn’t uncomfortable.”
“I’d be so embarrassed to do that though,” Wylla muttered and you cleared your throat.
“At first I was too, but then—” You fixed your skirts just so that you could do something with your hands. “He’s never made me feel uncomfortable, no matter what we’re doing. That’s why I find the marital bed so much fun.”
“Fun!?”
“Of course,” you said. “It can be very pleasurable you know? For women as well, not just men.”
“I heard it’s terrible for women.”
“It’s not terrible.” Your laugh echoed in the room. “Not even close. When you wed someone who loves you, they simply want you to be happy. Not only outside, but also in your bedchambers.”
Barbrey pointed at the next page, making you hiss in a breath.
“Um, no.” You grimaced and shook your head. “Not that, I would not.”
Jorelle leaned over to peek at what it was before Barbrey showed you another illustration.
“How about this?”
“Oh.” Your face grew hotter. “He does that. A lot.”
Jorelle’s jaw dropped. “You’re jesting, surely!”
“I thought at first his beard would be a problem, but as it turns out—”
“Your lord husband kisses you there?”
“Yes.”
“Why? That doesn’t lead to an heir.”
“Well.” You pressed your palms on your cheeks to soothe the fire. “Not everything is about siring heirs.”
“But how come no one said it’d be fun?” Wylla asked to the room. “All I kept hearing was the importance of heirs, why was I not told it could be fun?”
“I think unfortunately many women don’t know,” you said. “But thankfully I know, because I wed the love of my life, and so will all of you. I’ll make sure of it.” You winked at Lyra. “As long as you want to wed, of course. There’s always the option not to.”
“I’ll take that option,” Lyra stated. “I’m uninterested.”
“I’m interested,” Barbrey pointed out and shuffled the pages before she held up the book again. “Not the other thing, but I want to try this.”
You leaned in with the rest of the girls to see the illustration better. Jorelle narrowed her eyes while Wylla tilted her head, Lyra’s lips curled downwards and Alys put a hand on her hip, letting out a hum.
“Oh I haven’t tried that one yet either,” you said after a beat and held out your hand to motion at the book. “But as my best friend would say, every skill needs honing. May I?”
An hour before dinner, you had already changed your gown and had your maid do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting went to their own bedchambers to get ready. You had dismissed your maid to read some more in secret, so engrossed in the book that you had lost the track of time, hence why you didn’t even hear Robb’s approaching footsteps until the door opened. Your head whipped up and you jolted in bed as if someone pricked you with a needle, a gasp catching in your throat.
“My love!” you squealed, closing the book and pushing it under the bed in haste. “You’re back!”
“I am.” He came closer to peck you on the lips before he flung himself on the bed, and tilted his head. “Why are you out of breath?”
Seven hells.
“I was reading poetry,” you said after a pause, waving a hand in the air. “It always evokes feelings in me, I get very emotional.”
Confusion pinched his brows and you took a deep breath to calm yourself, then pushed yourself from the bed to make your way to the big table, earning a groan of displeasure from him.
“Come back.”
You let out a giggle and held up a cup, but he shook his head, so you only filled one cup with wine before you returned to bed. After taking a sip, you put the cup on your bedside table and let him pull you back in the bed so that you could straddle him while he wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your bosom.
“Gods, you smell so good,” he murmured and you stifled a laugh.
“How was your day?” you asked, playing with the auburn curls at the nape of his neck, and he hummed.
“Busy. Yours?”
“Not as busy,” you said. “What’s happened?”
“There’s some unrest between two families up in the mountains,” he said, his voice muffled against your skin. “Norreys and Burleys. Both too stubborn to speak to each other without drawing swords.”
“Oh my poor love,” you cooed, a smile curling your lips when his shoulders relaxed. “And you must be the peacemaker?”
He nodded. “In person, probably.”
The simple sentence was more than enough to wipe your smile off your face, your body tensing up. The memory of what had happened the last time he was away flashed before your eyes, your stomach doing a painful flip as you gulped. You knew that he had no idea, you had made sure that he would have no idea, but it didn’t mean you were ready for him to leave once again, this time for more than just one week—probably for a moon, with how far the mountains were from Winterfell.
But what were you supposed to say?
I don’t feel safe here when you’re away?
That was out of the question. Lady Olenna would’ve reprimanded you if she heard you even consider saying such a thing; a lady didn’t demand or plead, she made people think they wanted what she wanted all along.
In the subtlest manner, of course.
“Oh my,” you said. “Well, I’m quite excited to meet them then. Do you suppose their wives will come with as well? When you invite those lords here?”
He pulled back to give you a fond smile.
“You misunderstand me, sweeting—”
“I suppose they will, considering the distance,” you cut him off. “And I understand why, if you went off to the mountains to settle such dispute, it’d take what? Almost a moon for you to come back? Gods, it’d break my heart so terribly.” You curled your fingers over the back of his hand so that you could press his palm on the soft swell of your chest where he could feel your heartbeat. “To be away from you for that long. I’d miss you so, so much.”
Robb’s eyes darkened with desire as they lingered on your cleavage, then snapped up to your lips again. “Would you?”
You knew you were supposed to come up with a seductive remark as an answer, this was the perfect moment; and yet what you ended up saying was more of a heartfelt confession rather than some southern wordplay.
“I know the whole north says it’s just because we’re newlyweds, but…” You lowered your glances, your heart skipping a beat at the heat of his gaze alone. “Robb, I don’t believe anyone understands how much I crave you, all the time. It’s intimidating sometimes.”
He swallowed thickly, his other hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, tracing the line of your bottom lip with his thumb as he tilted your head up.
“And why is it intimidating, my beautiful wife?” he asked, the deep rumble of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through you before he pressed open-mouthed kisses on your chest while tugging at the front laces of your gown. “My heart is at your command forever, you know this.”
You had to try really, really hard to focus and pull yourself together through the haze of want, especially with the way you could feel the proof of his desire under you.
“I thought, for—” A curt laugh escaped you. “I feared for a moment just now, that you would go to them and not the other way around. But you would not, surely?”
He paused for a second, then he lifted his head to look at you; his eyes heavy-lidded like he was as intoxicated with your presence as you were with his.
“Of course not.”
You nodded, batting your lashes. “They’ll come here instead?”
“Aye,” he murmured. “They’ll come here instead.”
You couldn’t stop the proud smile lighting up your face before he grabbed your waist and flipped you under him, making you squeal.
“Robb! My love, we have guests for dinner—”
“They’ll wait,” he growled as he trailed his lips down your neck, untying the laces of your gown. “The whole castle, the whole north, the whole realm. If my wife craves me, they’re all going to wait.”
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
“That should do.” Mr. Shelby’s voice slowly seeps into your mind.
As you look down at your hands, him tucking the end of a bandage into place by your wrist, the words finally register. That pain in your palms pulses and you strain to recall how it came to be. How can the heat of a pan hurt more than the death of your own husband?
You stare at the neatly bound bandage. You bend your fingers and hiss then let them fall limp. “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”
He hovers his hand over yours then touches your forearm, squeezing lightly. “Not at all. Those burns were not nothing. You’ll need to be easy, lamb. Rest.”
You blink and let your hands slide inward and fold together gingerly. “Lamb… Stuart… called me that.”
Shelby sits back slightly, resting his elbows on his thighs. His jacket is off, he remains in his vest and shirt, his tie tucked in tidily. There’s a strand of black hair sticking up crookedly.
“I didn’t mean…”
“When he was annoyed with me. Or wanted something. S’pose I don’t need to worry for it no more. For him.”
You straighten on the cushioned bench though your shoulders hang heavily. You lift a hand shakily and brush along your cheek. Not a tear for the man that took up more than a decade of your life. You peer around the room and your lips tug down.
“You said you’d take me home.” You utter quietly.
He clucks and grabs his jacket. He digs out his cigarette case. “Ma’am, you’re in no state. Your hands. Dare I say, your head, isn’t right for it.”
“I’m fine.” You insist. “You’ve done a good job.” You look at the bandages again.
“No. You will not chance infection. Or worse. Those burns… I saw men with lesser wound in the trenches. They made a great deal more fuss over it too.” He traces his lips with the end of his cigarette then rests it between them. He tucks away the silver case of tobacco and strikes a match.
“May I trouble you?” You watch the end of the match turn to smoke.
He lifts a brow. He looks down and pulls the cigarette from his lips. He examines it for a second before turning it and placing it before your mouth. You take it between your lips. He lets it go and once more removes the case from his jacket.
“Didn’t think you were of the sort.” He tamps the case on the heel of his hand before he opens it.
“Not. Hate the smell.” You bring your hand up and delicately take the cigarette between your fingers. “I only suddenly had the yearning.”
You let the smoke furl in your mouth and throat and let it free. It’s hot and acrid and bitter. He watches the plume as he repeats the gesture of running his own around his lips. You sit and puff on the smoke in silence as he lights his own.
“You been having dreams?” He asks abruptly.
You watch the embers at the end of the cigarette then reach to tap it over the tray. “Everyone dreams.”
“Yes, but only certain people have dreams that mean anything.” He dusts off his cigarette in turn.
You hum. “Magpies. A watch. Storms.” You shrug. “It’s all vague.”
He’s quiet again. Thoughtful. He slowly rotates the cigarette.
“What did you really see in those tea leaves?” He prompts.
You stare at him and can’t help but scoff. You push down the cigarette and put it out. You recoil as your hands radiate with heat.
“What’s happened. That’s all.”
He nods.
“That aunt of yours…”
“Witch.” You hiss softly. “So they said.”
“Hm. A name people give when they are scared. Or ignorant.” He muses then sucks on his cigarette. “Is that why you don’t care? Because you knew he was dead already?”
Your brow crinkles. “I didn’t know. And who are you to say I don’t care?”
“Who am I?” He repeats the question lowly. “Ma’am.”
“You aren’t wrong. But I don’t think you’re right either. I can’t feel it but it does matter. He’s gone…” You shake your head and sigh. You go to push on the bench but you stop yourself. You bend forward and stand. “I should go.”
“I told you, you’re staying.” He insists.
“I’m fine. Besides, there are things to sort out. I will need to inform his mother. Arrange the burial.” You look around. “Sir, where is my handbag?”
“I don’t usually give the same order more’n once.” He drawls as you hear him stand. “I’ve a telephone. You can call his mother or the closest postal service and get the news to her. I’ll see to the funeral.”
“It’s not your responsibility.” You argue as you face him. “You’ve taken on more than you should, as it were.”
“As it were, I watched him walk off that day. He’d just snitched on some very lowly types. I knew it wasn’t smart but I didn’t stop him.” He shrugs.
“Not your fault.”
“Even it if it were. He made a stupid decision. No. He’s not my responsibility. You are. You burnt your hands in my kitchen. You are my employee and I’ll need a full recovery.” He puts out the cigarette and dusts of his hands. “So you,” he approaches. “Will rest.” He grips your shoulders and guides you so your back is to the chaise. “Here.”
“Mr. Shelby–”
“You won’t disappoint Charlie, will you? He wanted another story.” Shelby says.
Your eyes meet and you deflate. You sit beneath the weight of his hands. They linger.
“It’ll do you both some good.” He drags his hands away.
🖤
You close your eyes but don’t sleep. Your mind isn’t racing, it’s just blank. You can’t muster a thought or a feeling. You’re keenly aware of everything wrong yet you just don’t care.
You clench your hands without meaning to. You wince and let them open. You exhale as you try to picture Stuart’s face; living or dead. You can’t.
A knock breaks through your desolation. You sit up and turn your legs over the edge of the chaise. You cough before you find your voice.
“Yes? Come… in.” You croak.
Margaret, the maid, opens the door from the other side and peeks in. “Miss, you’ve a visitor if you’re well enough.”
“Visitor?” You murmur.
“It’s me!” Charlie hollers. “Miss, it’s me!”
“Oh. Oh.” You feel your nerves soften. “Right, then, you can let young Mr. Shelby in. It is his house, after all.”
Margaret retreats and holds the door open for the boy. He toddles in, wearing a grey vest and shorts with long socks. His confidence is more than one ten times his age.
“Good morning, Charles.” You greet.
“Morning? It’s afta’noon!” He claps. “Time for tea and biscuits.”
“Oh, yes.” You smile. “I fear I lost time.”
“Ma’am,” he nears and tries to climb up next to you. You help him up. “I like your biscuits.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Not Margaret’s?”
“Margaret doesn’t cook!” He harrumphs. “She only tells me go to bed or stay in my room. Like Papa.”
You suppress a frown. You can only imagine how lonely the boy must be. His mother’s gone, and in her place, only maids who can’t be expected to fill her place. And a father who is too busy to truly give him more than a safe house and all his materials wants. You were once a child with neither.
“Biscuits sound delicious. And tea,” you reach and gently nudge his hand with your bandaged one.
“Oh! Missus!” He claps his cheeks dramatically. “Your hands hurt.”
“A little but… not so bad as before.”
Truthfully, they do. A lot. But you’ve dealt with pain before and the physical sort is easier to ignore.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his Rs more like Ws. “Papa didn’t say… he only says you are ill.”
“I’m well enough.” You assure him. “I can make biscuits. It is only, you might need to hold the whisk again. Can you do that, Charles?”
He giggles. “I like that you call me Charles. It makes me feel big!”
“You are a big boy and you won’t grow if you don’t get your biscuits, right?” You tease. “Well, then, let’s go. The longer we sit around, the longer we must wait for our tea.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He reaches for your hand but grabs your wrist instead. “Come on!”
You help him off the high chaise and he holds onto your skirt as you leave the room. You pause outside. “You’ll need to be my guide. This is a rather big house you have, Mr. Shelby.”
He laughs again and points ahead. He drags you by your hem to the grand staircase. You descend and he takes you to the kitchen.
Mildred is there. You say hello. She notices your hands and asks if you’re well. You assure her you are but ask that the could help Charlie with the biscuits. She agrees and you guide her to gather what you need; bowls, sifter, wooden spoon.
You get Charlie sifting flour into a bowl. He dusts some up his nice vest. Mildred cracks the eggs and separates the whites from the yolk. You feel useless with your bandages.
“Do you make cookies for your son?” Charlies asks as you have him add honey to the eggs and Mildred whisks.
“I don’t have a son.” You say.
“Oh… I don’t have a mama so… suppose we have each other.”
“That’s a very sweet way to think of it, Charles.” You feel that. Nothing else, but that. It’s not just regret or mourning for what could have been. It’s anger. For all the years and effort Stuart cost you and for what? Nothing to show for it. Not even love.
You continue through the steps. Mildred rolls out the dough and you suppress the pain as you help Charlie press the cutter down. The maid carefully sets them onto a floured tray for baking.
“Do not let her touch that.” Shelby’s rigid tone jolts you all. “She is not to be near anything hot. She should not even be here.”
“Mr. Shelby, apologies–”
“Put those in the oven and set the time for fifteen minutes, Mil,” you say gently. “Nothing you need be sorry for.” You step past her. “It was my idea. Not anyone else.”
“Hm, I’m sure,” he glances past you to his son.
“They did all the work,” you show your bandaged hands “Not as if I can.”
“Mm, suppose not.”
“There’s enough for you too, papa!” Charlie chirps. “We’re gonna have tea!”
“Ah, well, then, let’s do it proper. Mildred, the fine china.” He demands.
She twists the small metal time and places it down. “Yes, sir.”
You step closer to him and lower your voice. “I was bored. It isn’t the boy’s fault.”
“No, no. Thank you for looking after him.” He says. “And tea sounds rather nice.”
You stare at Shelby, gauging his temper. When people were around, Stuart would conceal his agitation well. Hell, even if it was even just the two of you, he never was outrightly cruel. He’d only do things he could excuse as unintentionally cruel.
Mr. Shelby goes to step around you and you wince. Just a twinge. You stop yourself and turn to Charlie as he claps his hands.
“Papa, can she be my friend?” He asks.
Shelby picks him up from the counter, “Isn’t she?”
“I hope so. Is she yours?” Charlie cheeps.
“Well, of course,” Shelby answers. “So, what kind of biscuits have we made?”
“Lemon shortbread.” You answer.
“Sounds wonderful. Is it another from your recipe book?”
“No, standard shortbread from my gran’s kitchen. Though, she never let me do more than watch.” You say, rubbing your fingertips along the back of the bandages.
“I’ve yet to taste anything less than delightful from you,” he says. “Oh, Charlie,” he swipes a dishcloth. “You cannot have tea with flour all over.”
🖤
You stand and reach for the empty tea pot. Shelby tuts. “No, you will not dare think of tidying up.”
You stop and sit back down. “Habit.”
“Mm, yes,” he intones. “Those bandages will need to be redone.”
You look down. They’ve come loose already. You chew your cheek.
“No matter.” Mr. Shelby takes his final gulp of tea and pockets a biscuit as he stands. “I’ll have Mildred clear this away and Ellie will take Charlie for playtime.”
“Ellie! She’s no fun. She won’t play with my train cars.” Charlie pouts. “Can’t miss come play?”
“How can she without hands, boy?” Shelby chides. “Come, she needs to get better.”
Charlie huffs. “What happened to her hands? Did you hurt them, papa?”
Shelby drags his sole slightly but quickly recovers. “Only an accident in the kitchen. Now, Charlie, I’m sure you might convince Ellie to let you be conductor…”
You remain at the table, restless. You would usually busy yourself with cleaning but it isn’t permitted. You will not press your constraints, not in another’s home.
You look down at your hands. You’ve already done too much. Certainly, you were only trying to be kind to the boy but you did disregard his father’s own kindness. You can tell Mr. Shelby is not one to offer it so easily.
Mildred comes to take the pot and cups, putting them all on the painted tray. You thank her and she nods with a smile. You insist she takes a biscuit for herself.
Alone, you look round at the wooden panels and beautiful chandelier. Mr. Shelby’s home is immaculate. You think of your own and the dingy wallpaper and yellowed bulbs. Yes, you are a pathetic creature.
“Right then,” Shelby enters with a roll of bandage and pot. “We’ll clean you up then.”
He comes around and sets down the handful. He pulls a chair to face you then grabs the arms of your chair. He turns you as the feet scrape on the carpet. He sits.
He reaches for your hands. You stiffen. He stops.
“I scare you?” He wonders.
You shake your head.
“You tense when I’m near. You did so earlier.” He counters.
You shove your hands toward him. “No, it only… conditioned.”
He stares then pulls his attention to your hands. He unravels the bandages gently. You stay still.
“I’m sorry for riling the boy, if I did.” You say. “I do not mean to overstep.”
“He likes you. He doesn’t like everyone.” He insists as he bunches up the soiled bandage.
“Then I’m honoured.” You say.
He takes a folded cloth from beneath the roll of bandage and uncaps the jar of salve. “He’s a good boy. Lively. A gentle soul.”
“You’ve raised him well.”
“He doesn’t get it from me,” he grits as he leans over your hands.
“No? You say this as you tend to my hands diligently,” you muse.
“That he gets from me.” He says as he gently dabs on the cooling salve. “I don’t like everyone. Just some.”
synopsisyou just wanted to be helpful, robby's helpful girl, you didn't realise that helping out might've exposed robby in an un-expected sort of way... (2.1k words)
warningssmutish, mention of sex, mention of big dick (it's robby, duh) condom, language
authornotei just absolutely was obsessed with this ask, i loved it so much. it's a big short, just a little thing, lowkey i think it's ass but it was fun. (gif credits to @timothyolyphant)
Pitt masterlist. Last Robby fic!
“I need a condom,”
It wasn't the typical greeting you were used to, really, it wasn't a usual sentence you heard in the ED. Especially not from Samira, flushed in the cheeks with her hair scraped back into a bun.
She'd rushed to you and Santos as you stood outside exam room three, discussing a patient when she joined the two of you, making the statement a little louder than she probably intended. Samira looked around the space behind her and besides you.
Trinity smirked, eyeing Samira up and down. “Okay, Mohan.”
“No, no, not for me, my patient,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Please, I wish it was for me.”
“Why do you need a condom for a patient?” you asked, amused almost. “Is he hot?”
“What? No? My patient, he's HIV but apparently very, very active and he doesn't have condoms. He says he-he prefers it without and I've explained everything to him but there's no condoms in the draw where we keep them!” explained Samira.
“We have a condom draw?” asked Trinity, taking only that as the necessary information from Mohan's ramble.
You handed her the chart. “You sleep with women.”
“What? So I'm not allowed in the condom draw?”
“It's for sex ed teachings, people who are young and having sex,” you shrugged. “Stuff like that. Come on, I can help you out.”
The nurses desk was practically vacant. Around you everyone busied themselves with greeting the nigh shift and getting them out, taking away patients like the changing of the guard. It was almost too early to be dealing with tough patients who wouldn't protect themselves.
You led the way around the counter, Mohan and Santos (who took an invitation for herself) followed you over to the desk as you reached down for Robby's bag, propping it up.
It was no surprise to them that you were reaching for his bag, reaching for his stuff like it was yours. What was Robby's was yours. The real surprise had been when Mel found the two of you eight months ago making out in the storage room, shrieking and dropping a bag of blood that then splashed all over you.
And obviously at the scream everyone ran over and found the two of you rather compromised and covered in blood. You still weren't really done living that down.
You fished around in Robby's bag, the owner somewhere not there to see as you brought out an opened box of condoms. “Here,” you said handing her a thick strip as Santos laughed.
Samira took them wearily, a small dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Won't you... miss these?”
“No,” you said, rocking on your heels, suddenly feeling the familiar creeping heat of embarrassment. “We have... more.”
Santos smirked. “Keeping Robby in shape, huh?”
Samira shuddered. “I really don't want to think about my boss like that, but thank you!” you said, waving the strip like it was a flag and rushing off before her patient could walk off. She was a good doctor, dedicated you knew and you were just happy to help her reach her potential.
Distracted by watching her leave you failed to notice Trinity sneak over to Robby's bag, peeking inside like a nosy cat.
“Hey!” you lectured, pulling the zipper shut on her hand.
“What? Just wanted to know what else you got in there? Does he keep a pair of panties? Vibrator if it gets quiet,” she teased.
You blushed, shaking your head and looking down to the bag. “You have no shame, that's your boss you're talking about.”
She made a pfft noise. “You're the one screwing him.”
Yes, you were. Proudly and happily.
Javadi slid up next to you, practically shoving you a tablet and asking for your advice. You were somewhere deep in your residency, one of the first they were introduced to on their hell of a first day. Not as scary as Robby, easier to talk to than Langdon. It was typical for the Pittlings and Mohan to come to you when they needed advice. You liked it really, as much as Santos teased you and as much as Mohan and Javadi doubted themselves.
“Hey Crash,” said Trinity, all but giddy with the new knowledge she had about Doctor Robby's contents in his bag. “You wanna know what's in this bag of secrets.”
“No,” you chastised.
Javadi's eyes lightened up. “Is that Doctor Robby's bag?”
“It doesn't matter,” you said, pushing it back down to your feet.
“Hey,” Samira joined the group of you again, handing you back the strip of condoms. “He said he can't take these.” The rest of the doctors and nurses hustled around the Pitt, un-knowing of the personal dilemmas being aired out.
You lifted your shoulders. “You needed condoms, those are condoms.”
“Yes but they're not the right size,” said Mohan. “He says they wouldn't fit, they're too big.”
Oh.
Perhaps at some point you'd been shocked at the size of Robby. Before you'd only had your imagination and hints of him beneath his scrubs. The times when he'd brush past you in the teasing beginning of your relationship and you'd feel something prod at you. The first time he'd dragged you to his bedroom, lips seething in heat and teeth nipping in want to only lay you out on his bed and drag his pants and underwear down to show all of him- then you'd been shocked. Mouth watering so.
Over the months the shock transformed to desire, reaching hands and an eager mouth that you stopped thinking about the size.
You didn't think anything of it when you handed Mohan a strip of five extra-large condoms.
Standing at the nurses station it may as well have been a deserted island and you stared down at the condoms like it was your first offering of food.
“Uh-”
Javadi snatched the condoms from Samira first, staring down at them with mouth agape. “Oh my god.”
“Javadi-”
“Holy shit!”
You looked back and Santos had pulled out Robby's bag again, pulling out the box and staring at the size stamped on the front. “Santos!”
“No wonder you walk in limping.”
“I do not- I do not walk in limping!”
“Well, there was that one time-” said Mohan.
“No, there wasn't!” you argued. “I'd bruised my ankle.”
Mohan chuckled to herself. “Sure.”
Trinity smirked. “Bruised something.”
Javadi was still staring at the strip of condoms in wonder. “How do they even get this big?”
You snatched them away from her the way you might have if a child found them. Quickly you stuffed them in the box, threw them back in Robby's bag and kept it behind your back.
“Wait, why do you have a box of condoms for work?” asked Javadi.
“Oh please,” said Santos with a groan. “They're always at it in work. Better safe than sorry.”
“We are not always at it at work,” you defended.
“The storage closet?” asked Mohan, apparently abandoning the venture of finding fitting condoms for her patient.
You held up a finger. “That was one time.”
“The toilets,” added Santos, sadly remembering the time you and Robby had hid yourselves in the bathroom for a break. A break that was only supposed to be comforting touched turned hot and reaching quickly.
“That one time in the exam room where we thought we were examining a broken hip for a Mrs Driscoll-” began Javadi.
“Okay! Okay, I get it!” you interrupted.
“I think it's nice,” Trinity quipped her lip, arms crossing over her chest. “Get some dick when you can right.” She patted your shoulder like a proud sister as she left the group of you, laughing quietly to herself.
Victoria and Samira followed suit, leaving you with the ramifications of your own embarrassment. So what your boyfriend was largely endowed, wasn't it a compliment? Weren't you the luckiest girl in the world to have Robby with soft and tender touches turned to almost hateful thrusts with how hard he loved you.
You made sure Robby's bag was tightly closed before sliding it back under the desk.
The day brought the same usual storm the ED always brought. Enough to distract you from the mornings events and the package sitting inside of Robby's bag. You were left with only a creeping heat crawling up your neck, the last dregs of your doctors eyes on you and their giddy smiles.
You'd only managed to make it to the staff lounge for a coffee by mid day, taking the mug that was yours, marked with an inside joke and given one secret Santa round.
“Hey.” Robby slipped into the room, leaning his back against the sink and standing next to you.
“Hey yourself.”
For a moment there was a silence where you poured coffee for the both of you, handing him his mug.
Robby's fingers grazed yours, the simplest touch sending shivers through your skin. “Can I ask you something?”
You hummed, head tucked away. He wouldn't have heard about the mornings teasing's, would he?
“Santos has been... off today,” he said.
He would.
You gulped, a feign of concern falling to you. “She has?”
“Keeps looking at me and smirking. She's doing this thing with her hands where she-” he demonstrated, spreading his hands to different distances, some small, some bigger. His hands wavered around the imaginary object between his hands.
You were left groaning.
Robby's head tilted toward you. “Do you know anything?”
In attempts of hiding away the story your head ducked and shook side to side.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” you said.
Robby's fingers were slightly calloused but no less humble as he pinched your chin, realigning his gaze with yours. His brows rose, gaze pouring into yours. He didn't even have to ask you again.
You sighed. “This morning Mohan had a patient with HIV and she wanted to give him condoms but there was none where they usually are so I gave her some of ours. But they weren't exactly... the right size.”
There was a small furrow of confusion in his face as he waited for you to elaborate.
You turned your body into his, lowering your voice. “Not everybody can fit into an extra large, Robby.”
The furrow gave and a small grin split his cheeks as he glanced down to your shoes, a pink blooming under his beard and to his cheeks. It was different from your own embarrassment. He was more pleased with himself.
Robby straightened, hands wavering. “So how does... this connect to-”
“Santos was there this morning when Samira asked.”
He chuckled, tongue poking out into his cheek as he shook his head in amusement.
“It's not funny,” you said, nudging him.
He rocked on his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
Your coffee was turning lukewarm in hand, the bitter taste suddenly too sweet as you made to walk away from him and stew in your own humiliation.
Robby's fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged, using you to pull himself in closer. “Oh, I'm sorry,” he teased, voice dropping into the low drag in his condescending way. The sort of voice he used to coax you down into bed with his darkening eyes and lustful approach. “Is my dick too big? Do I fuck you too good?” His hands grabbed at your hips, bringing you into him, tongue darting out to your neck.
Your body wriggled in his hold, trying to escape as his arms grew strong around you. “Stop!” You laughed.
“Make me.” He nipped at your neck, licking over the sting he caused.
The door was pushed open and Langdon stumbled in the doorway, catching sight of the two of you tangled in arms and laughter.
“Are you two doing it in the lounge now?” he asked.
You guessed you just should've been thankful Langdon wasn't there that morning, otherwise there would have been competitions between him and Santos on who could make the best jokes out of your misery.
Slowly, Robby moved away from you, pulling himself up straight and pulling at his hoodie before leading the way out the room.
McKay was wheeling a patient away to x-ray, Samira was giving aftercare instructions to an elderly couple and Mel was somewhere lurking in a corner talking to Dana.
Santos, however, was still being the most productive, sitting across from Javadi and still trying to make sense of some invisible size between her hands.
You watched, un-able to stop as Robby walked behind Santos and spread her hands apart just a little, enough to leave more than enough inches between her hands.
Robby walked away, satisfied.
taglist (if you want to be added or took off just say the word!): @oldbaddies, @mafercita101,@tiddieshakeshownu, @mismwaa, @annabethpotter221b
new thought: walder frey's newest wife who is like nineteen and Robb who sees her when he's meant to be picking from the daughters and decides she's the one he wants. But obviously he can't just demand her hand, she's already married. So he spends a week or two "getting to know Frey's daughters" before choosing but really he's just seeking out Frey's wife at every opportunity. He hates having to leave her when they eventually need to move on. And then the red wedding comes around, and he — not married to Talisa but instead still dreaming of his lady — spends quite a bit of time with lord frey's wife, who seems to spend as little time as possible with her husband. And Robb falls even HARDER, she likes Grey Wind and he thinks she's just perfect for him and that he could treat her so much better. He hates to have to watch her sit next to that man every night. And then Opportunity falls into his lap in the form of an attempted massacre (he and his men have been on alert, some things his lady mentioned making him suspicious) wherein he can demand his lady's hand as recompense. And if walder frey just so happens to lose his head before Robb has to make the formal demand? Robb already has his lady in his bed, it's just a matter of getting her in front of a heart tree. His men could use a proper wedding feast after the disaster of the last one anyway.
taking a small road trip with old man logan where you’re halfway to where you need to be, and you're bored out of your mind. unluckily for you, your boyfriend won't possibly give into your antics.
or, logan fucks you in a gas station bathroom <3
word count: 3.3k
WARNINGS/DISCLAIMERS:
(18+ only!) fem!reader, porn w/ slight plot lol, piv, unprotected sex, this shit is roughhh, degrading, filthyyy dirty talk, use of pet names, slight choking, coming inside/creampie, manhandling? i guess?, logan refers to himself as "your old man" bc i'm insane, anddd happy ending bc we all know how much i love those! :D
a/n: there aren't nearly enough fics abt old man logan & i need him Badly.
+ logan pictures from @divinesols incredible moodboard <3
ao3 link! | my masterlist
you’re 4 hours into your road trip, and logan, well, being the man he is, hasn’t let you drive a single second.
he tells you that you can just sit there n’ look pretty and that’s good enough for him. but, he’s getting tired, and the nearest hotel isn’t for another 50 miles.
you notice his eyes getting heavier, his body slouching more, his grip on the steering wheel loosening. so, you do what you do best. why not have some harmless fun with your old boyfriend?
your hands subtly inch over to his thighs, fingers trailing the clothed skin just above his knee, and he flinches surprisingly, glancing at you for a moment with that tired face of his.
“what are y’doing? huh?” he asks, with a quirk in his eyebrow and his voice rasping more than usual from his fatigue; it only makes it all the more arousing for you.
you grin, your head turned to look up at him with a sly expression. “just waking you up a bit. you’re practically falling asleep here.”
your fingers move upwards now, slowly but surely, and right before you can reach the spot just below his bulge, he sighs out, gripping your hand to lightly push it off of him.
“not here. got another hour left til’ we’re at the hotel. then, we can rest up, baby.”
you pout, looking at him eagerly. “are you even gonna make it there, lo?” you tease, “your eyes are getting heavier, you’re tired.. why don’t you just let me drive?” you attempt, but you’re knocked down the second you try.
he huffs, shaking his head. “don’t you try that shit. you know what m’gonna say to that.”
you groan at that, rolling your eyes fussily as your head turns to look up at the roof of the car. “you’re insufferable,” you sigh out, jokingly, of course. but, you were with logan long enough to know just how stubborn he could be. that he could almost always be.
which means, you knew exactly how to get what you wanted, in more ways than one.
let’s just say this way was more fun, anyway.
you let out an exasperated breath before turning back to face him, your eyes lighting up just slightly before you open up your mouth.
“guess i just gotta..” you trail off, hands now on your body with your fingertips grazing the skin on your chest; roaming around the loose shirt you had on. “..entertain myself for the next hour then..”
logan turns his head to you now, eyes fixing on your hand just long enough to catch you slip it underneath your bra, cupping one of your tits. you let out a low moan as you look into his eyes, fingers rolling the nipple there, and he scoffs.
it’s a sound that has your heart racing immediately.
“you’ve been a good girl so far, sweetheart. would hate for you to switch up when we’re almost fuckin’ there.” he warns you, turning his head back to the road, having seen enough. “don’t you start now. gonna make you regret it.”
a pang of arousal hits you just like that, pussy involuntarily clenching around nothing as he threatens you; a threat that you definitely need to see for yourself.
you merely pout at him again, but his words aren’t enough to stop you. not when you’re just getting started.
your hand leaves your breast, slowly inching down your stomach, then to the waistband of your shorts, all with your eyes still locked on him. you bite your lip as your hand breaches underneath the material, testing the waters before your fingers reach the hem of your panties.
fingertips aching to dip into the wet heat, you anticipate your own touch as your hands lower, but an immediate grasp at your wrist stops you completely, eliciting a gasp from your throat.
mouth falling open in shock, you turn to look at the man responsible with that gruff look on his face, and that snarl from him gives you more than enough of a warning.
you clear your throat, letting out a noise of frustration towards your boyfriend as he all but tosses your hand away carelessly.
“knock. it. off. don’t make me say it again.”
logan nearly growls at you, moving in closer to get right in your face; he isn’t playing around, and you know it.
but, god, does it only encourage you more.
it isn’t until logan’s focus is completely back on the road that you test the waters again; your fingers finally inserting themselves into your soft, warm folds, wet and waiting so impatiently.
it makes you moan, a hushed sound that you try your hardest to bite back from releasing, but you’re evidently unsuccessful.
so, before you know it, the truck is swerving, causing you to pull yourself back to hold onto the sides of the car, anywhere that you could grab onto. the wheels squeal loudly as the high pitch penetrates your ears, and logan makes a harsh u-turn without a second to waste.
“lo! what the fuck!” you exclaim loudly, wild eyes reaching for his own, but it’s no use. he’s dead set in front of him, shaking his head furiously as the white of his knuckles present itself from holding onto the wheel so tightly.
he’s had enough of your shit.
his eyes never leave the road in front of him once, never returning to you. no matter how much you talk or try to get him to respond, he doesn’t budge.
instead, for the next 5 minutes, silence fills the space between you as your eyes shut from your frustration. it’s all you really can do at this point.
but, it’s only when the high screech of the wheels halting and the gear being put into park has your eyes opening again, eyes latching onto the bright lights in front of you.
a gas station, and the convenience store’s white luminescent glass reflecting on logan’s face. he’s out the driver’s side as soon as you can look at him, and before you can process it, he’s dragging you out of the truck, slamming the door shut as he does so.
you scramble against him, fists almost pushing their hardest into his chest as you whine loudly, increasingly dazed and confused.
“logan, what the fuck are you doing?! let go of me!”
you fight against him harder, but there’s nothing stopping him. not now.
he lets out an exasperated breath, his heavy footsteps embedding themselves into the loud gravel beneath them as he drags you along.
“don’t play that shit with me. actin’ like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he practically yells at you in a hushed voice, “you know what the fuck you’re doing.”
“walk.” he orders you instantly, and you don’t hesitate to obey. not when his voice gets like that.
most of all, because it makes your heart pound—pounding in your chest because he’s right. you know what you’re doing.. but, you can’t say you regret it. no, not one bit.
and if he’s gonna make you regret it, you might as well go all out. right?
his grip on your arm is tight as you walk side by side with him, leading you into the gas station with the door open for you. you can’t even acknowledge the cashier from how quick logan swifts the two of you past them; straight towards the bathroom, and it makes you gulp.
it’s too late for anyone to be around, too late for anyone to care, and you know that. but, the thought exhilarates you anyway.
he shoves the door open with a hushed whisper—one that’s almost incoherent as it escapes his lips. “you wanna act like a fucking brat?” he shuts the door hurriedly, shoving your body against the sink, “i’m gonna treat you like a fucking brat.”
you yelp at the sudden movement, his fingers digging themselves into your skin as you cry out at the feeling. it’s rough and brutal and it burns, but it’s so fucking good.
“lo.. lo, please,” you whine as your eyes shut tightly, the overwhelming sensation of his hands on you and his hot breath hitting your skin being too much to handle.
your body is flush against the sink as you attempt to squirm, to try to get him to do something, anything.
that cruel laugh of his fills your ears—quiet yet booming in your head as it sends chills throughout your entire body, eyes flashing open to look at him in the mirror in front of you. “please? please?” logan mocks you, “do y’even know what you’re asking for, baby? nah.. you don’t.”
“you just want..” logan trails off, his hands mindlessly reaching for your shorts, “to get fucked.. like the whore you are.”
without a single warning, he yanks them down along with your panties, and your whines are impossible to stop when the cool air hits your bare skin. when his filthy words are the only thing you can think about.
“can’t keep these pretty hands to yourself, you gotta rile me up to do it for you?” you hear the clank of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his jeans sliding down, “gotta piss me off every goddamn time you get so fucking needy? i mean,” he laughs harder now, “not that i really blame you..”
logan pauses, and his eyes that were once staring directly at you now shift to look straight ahead, latching onto your mirrored reflection instead. as if he was looking right into you now. “pretty girl like you.. would be a shame to let this cunt go to waste. so, i’ll do you a favor..”
your jaw falls open in complete shock as your face contorts, as the tip of his cock breaches your tight hole, making your eyes roll back instantaneously with a sob from your lips.
“i’ll use her real good. for what she’s made for, yeah?”
your hands grip the sink in front of you as tightly as possible, body trembling as logan groans into your ear, his hands on your body never loosening.
instead, his grip only tightens as his hips become flush against your ass, his entire cock piercing you to the hilt with a satisfied moan.
“that was easier this time, wasn’t it? gettin’ used to me now. just needed to..” logan takes a moment to pull himself out of you, the tip resting against your entrance as he groans. he slams himself back inside of you so hard that your body fails you, your hands landing on the mirror to hold yourself up, bent over.
“break her in real fucking good.”
your body shakes against him as you cry out at his intrusion, stammering out a string of noises as your walls involuntarily clench around him over and over again. it’s almost as if you’re rapidly adapting to him; the way he stretches you out so much that it hurts in the best way possible. you’re pulsing around him, increasingly growing wetter by the second as your eyes water from the intense sensation.
your words slur with a few whines of what seem to be logan’s name as your hands move back to the sink, attempting to push yourself back up against him, but he stops you. grabbing one of your hands, he places it right against the mirror again, holding it still as he grinds himself into you. it makes you breathe out rapidly, body bent over the sink completely now.
“keep em’ right there. right fucking there. you don’t get to do that. y’don’t get to make any choices here.” he grunts in your ear, his thick beard grazing along your jaw as his eyes flicker from your face back to the mirror. he notices the way you’re trembling, eyes filled with those pretty tears of yours, and it makes him smile—a chuckle leaving him shamelessly.
he takes a moment to admire you, whispering out, “what i’m gonna do to you, baby..” and it makes your eyes flutter shut, warmth filling your core.
his other hand trails up the front of your body now, and it practically covers you completely because of how big it is—your stomach, your breasts, your chest, then finally, your neck. your gasp is loud; heavy, as his fingers wrap around your throat, holding you still for him.
all of you in the palm of his hand—all in his control.
you moan eagerly as he looks into your eyes through the mirror, grinning almost maliciously, “isn’t this what you wanted?” he laughs, his hips stirring a bit as he agonizingly pulls out of you, making you wince, “you wanted my attention so bad, wanted my cock so fucking bad..” he growls in your ear, his hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck, pushing you down hard, and it makes you grip onto the side of the sink even more.
“well, now you fucking got it.”
the sound of his rasping grunt hits you first; before you’re sobbing out on his cock, pelvis hammering inside of you with a tight hold on your neck, keeping you there with no chance of stopping, no squirming, no escaping.. no running away from this.
all you can do is take it as he pounds into you, the agonizing ache of his cock sliding in and out of you rapidly increasing the coil in your core, your loud cries and moans enough to make him go harder.
“there you go, there she is..” logan grits out, hands now grasping at your hips, smacking your ass, eliciting a grunt from you, “better fuckin’ hope no one walks in here, or else all they’re gonna see is some whore gettin’ used.”
you cry out as you feel the tip of his cock reach the deepest parts inside of you, nudging your g-spot suddenly as a tear slides down your cheek, your knuckles white from how tight you were grasping at your surroundings. your cheeks grow hot from the idea of that happening, stomach tightening as heat pools your core.
“what’d they think, huh? you think they’d wanna join in on the fun? bet they’d wanna fuck you too after i’m done with you. tightest fuckin’ hole i’ve ever had.”
you whine out now, shaking your head desperately in retaliation as you deny it. you couldn’t ever have another man like this, not now, not ever—only him.
logan sighs out, “no, no, no, i’d never let em’ baby, don’t you worry,” he reassures you, pressing his lips against the top of your head, “this,” he murmurs, his hand reaching to cup the front of your cunt, the rough skin on his palm grazing your clit just enough to make you squeal, “s’all fuckin’ mine. you hear me? not a single soul gets to use her like i can.”
“not like she’d want it anyway. only wants my cock in her. s’the only way she can really be filled up.. fucked stupid and cryin’ for me. ain’t that right? never got fucked by a man like me before y’met me, and i’m sure as hell no one will ever get her trembling like i do.”
you shake your head again, tears continuously spilling out of your eyes as your stomach tightens repeatedly, “n-no, lo, only you—” you stammer out as logan buries himself inside of you to the hilt, plunging into the warm heat of your walls, and he slows, relying on pure power than pace now. the harsh drive of his hips has your head fogging up, so close to reaching your peak with your cunt shuddering.
“ohh, there we go, she’s doing it now. shaking all over this fucking cock, squeezin’ me so tight,” he hisses, “that all you up in this pretty little head, or can you even control it? can’t even control it, can you, baby?”
a string of noises leaves your lips, breathless and mixed with whines and a few tears in your eyes as your core spasms out, his cock hitting deep inside of you repeatedly.
“what was that? can’t really.. understand you, baby, y’gotta speak up..” he teases, a mean laugh escaping his throat, “c’monnn, use your words, really think em’ out, say em’ clearly.”
“c’mon, show me that you’re still my good girl. my good little girl. speak up for your old man, honey.”
you yelp out at his filthy words, “m’.. i c-can’t.. control it, ah!” your moans involuntarily stringing out, eyes fluttering shut and rolling to the back of your head, your pussy convulsing around him intensely. “g-gonna–c-cum, lo, oh—” you spit out, your chest grasping for as much air as possible.
he hums in your ear now, fingers reaching for your clit and fastening tight, harsh circles at it, making you shudder, your cunt throbbing around his cock—pulsating over and over again as you start to see white. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart, gonna make you take it, fuck.”
you can’t even register him anymore as he talks you through it, the “come for me, baby,” muffled in your ears as you listen to him, cunt constricting around him tightly as you soak him, and the sound is filthy as logan chases his release, squelching loudly from your climax.
you let out a muffled sob as logan finally reaches his peak, slamming himself deep inside of you as he holds you there, the spurts of white hot spilling & coating your walls. all you can hear is the ringing in your ears, along with the mixture of your heavy breaths and logan’s rasps surrounding you.
logan’s strong arms pull you up against him as you catch your breath, heart rate slowing as your back leans against his chest tiredly. he mutters sweet nothings to you, praising you with kisses along your neck, cheek, then to your lips.
“my good fucking girl, my sweet girl—oh, baby,” he hums in your ear, eyes shut as he takes you in. you sigh out, breathing him in as your hand reaches behind, landing on the back of his head to pull him in closer, “god, i love you.”
you laugh, pressing a mindless kiss on his skin, “i love you more, lo, i–i’m sorry for acting out, for being such a—” you begin to apologize, but he just shuts you up with another peck to your lips. “shh, you hush now. i appreciate it.. you riling me up all the damn time. s’ the only way i can still feel so young.”
you giggle, eyes opening up to turn your head to him, taking in his disheveled look—tired, old, grumpy. the man you loved, as handsome as ever.
“always young in my eyes, lo..” you smile, “besides.. it’s the only way i can get you to fuck me that good.” you tease.
he huffs, rolling his eyes. “i fuck you that good every goddamn time, n’ don’t you deny it.”
you laugh, nodding. you can’t deny that fact. but, your eyebrows furrow slightly, suddenly thinking back to the previous events.
“did you really fuck me in a gas station bathroom, babe? what if someone walked in?!” you groan, pushing your forehead into his chest, embarrassed.
he chuckles, “locked it the minute we got in here, baby. wouldn’t let anyone see you like that,” he reassures you, gently gripping the side of your head to make you look up at him, “you got that?”
his face is stern now as he looks into your eyes, and those butterflies in your stomach erupt as if it were the first time you ever got them from him. you nod though, gleaming up at him.
“got it.”
he grins, “good. now, let’s get you cleaned up n’ back on the road. back’s killing me even more now n’ that bed’s calling my name.”
Logan’s losing it; his thoughts are spiralling to the point where he wonders if he should be locked up.
At least, that’s what he thinks is happening as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. You’re standing near the edge of the mansion's garden, laughing softly as the kid—Johnny, a younger teenage mutant—tries to hand you a bouquet of hastily picked flowers. His face is flushed, eyes wide with admiration, and he’s practically vibrating with nervous energy as he looks up at you.
This punk, this moron, this lovesick blockhead, has been glued to your side ever since you saved him during the last mission.
It was supposed to be a standard run-of-the-mill rescue operation, but when things went south, and he was cornered, you swooped in like the hero you are and got him out unscathed. Now, the kid’s been following you around like a lost puppy, trying to win your attention, your approval—your everything. And it’s infuriating.
Logan can feel his hands clench into fists as he watches Johnny offer you the worst attempt at a bouquet he's ever seen, and sees the youngster's face turning a deeper shade of red as he mumbles something the older man can’t quite hear. Probably some dumb compliment, he thinks bitterly. The kid’s got no game.
You smile at Johnny. It's that soft, kind smile that always makes Logan’s heart skip a beat. But this time, all it does is fuel the fire raging within. He knows that smile isn’t just for him, but damn it, he wishes it were.
He wishes you’d tell the kid to scram, that you’re already spoken for, that you have a lovely boyfriend who could put together a way better bunch of flowers, but instead, you take the flowers with a gentle laugh, thanking the goblin like he’s just handed you a priceless treasure.
And somehow, the torment is never ending, it seems. Because later in the day he find’s himself lurking at the doorway of the mansion library, watching as you and Johnny sit together, heads bent over some book he know knows the little gremlin is just pretending to be interested in. That brat is soaking up every second of your attention, hanging on your every word, and it’s driving Logan up the wall.
“He’s just a kid,” you keep saying whenever he grumbles about it, but you don’t see it. You don’t see the way the bastard’s eyes light up whenever you smile at him, or how he leans in just a little too close when you’re explaining something to him. You don’t notice the small touches—the way his hand lingers on your arm when he’s pulling you somewhere, the way he looks at you like you’re the centre of his universe.
Logan sees it all, because he’s been there before. He knows exactly what Johnny’s feeling because he felt the same way when he first met you. Still does. It's that intense, all-consuming crush that makes you do stupid things just to be near the person you can’t stop thinking about.
“Logan, you’re staring,” Jean’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and he turns to see her smirking at him from across the hallway.
“I’m not starin’. Just keepin’ an eye on things,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You’re jealous.”
He scowls at her. “I ain’t jealous of some kid.”
“Sure you’re not,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”
Clenching his jaw, he knows she’s right but not wanting to admit it. “She doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s cute.”
“Maybe if you told her how you’re feeling, she’d understand,” Jean suggests gently, though there’s a knowing look in her eyes.
Huffing and turning away from the library, Logan has decided that he’s had enough of standing on the sidelines. He needs to do something before he loses his mind entirely. But it seems he can’t escape this torture, because he can’t even get five minutes alone with you.
He tried to get your attention after you finished up teaching your class, but before he could, the little devil ran in front of him and got it first. His eye twitches as he watches Johnny offer you another “gift,” this time a poorly folded paper crane. You take it with a smile, thanking him kindly, and Logan grits his teeth so hard he swears his molars might shatter.
“Hey, kid,” He grumbles, stepping forward with a growl in his throat that would send most people running. “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”
Johnny looks up, momentarily startled by the sharp tone, but then just gives a nervous chuckle and scratches the back of his head. “Uh, no, sir. I was just, um, hanging out with her.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got things to do. Don’t you, darlin’?” Logan’s eyes flicker to you, hoping you’ll catch the hint and send the kid on his way.
But you don’t. You just laugh. A musical sound that makes him want to clamp his hand over your mouth because why should that devil's spawn get to hear your beautiful voice? He’s truly about to lose it.
“It’s fine, babe. Johnny’s just being sweet.”
Sweet. Logan wants to snort. Sweet is one word for it. Obnoxious, irritating, and clingy are a few others that come to mind.
“You got a crush or somethin’, boy?” His tone is laced with a dangerous edge as he crosses his arms over his chest, towering over the knucklehead. He’s trying not to outright scare him, but damn, he’s close to it.
Johnny turns beet red, stammering, “N-no, I just… she saved me, and I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all!”
Narrowing his eyes, a low snarl rumbles from his chest, and Logan takes a deliberate step forward, but before he can do more, you place a hand on his arm, pulling him back.
“Logan, that’s enough,” you say firmly, giving him a pointed look.
Well, there goes another piece of his sanity.
You’re too kind, too understanding. You just don't get it. To you, it’s just an innocent crush, something harmless, something that makes you smile. You think it’s nothing, and that only makes his blood boil more.
“Fine,” he finally mutters, stepping back, though his eyes never leave the teenager’s. Johnny seems to take that as some kind of begrudging acceptance and gives you another shy smile before scurrying off, likely to find the next token of his gratitude to bring to you.
Once he’s gone, Logan lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is drivin’ me nuts, you know that?”
You just chuckle again, stepping closer to him and slipping your arms around his waist. “It’s just a phase, I’m sure. He’ll get over it.”
Wrapping his arms around you tightly and pulling you in close, he feels a little bit better in your embrace, but his eyes still track where Johnny disappeared into the mansion. “He better. ’Cause if he doesn’t, I might lose my damn mind.”
You tilt your head up, kissing his jaw softly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
He huffs, not wanting to admit it, but the truth is written all over his face. “Maybe a little.”
Smiling, you lean up to kiss him properly. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Logan kisses you back, a little more possessively than usual, as if to remind himself that you’re his. And even as you melt into him, he can’t help but keep one eye open, scanning the garden for any sign of that kid returning. He might be crazy, but he’ll be damned if he lets some lovestruck teenager get between him and the woman he loves.
—
The next morning, the mansion is buzzing with its usual activity. You and Logan head to the dining hall for breakfast, with him looking a little more relaxed after a night of holding you close. But the moment you step into the room, he spots a certain demon sitting at a table, eyes locked on you as if he’s been waiting for this very moment.
Groaning under his breath, Logan mutters, “Not again,” before guiding you to a table near the windows, hoping Johnny won’t follow.
You take your seat, smiling up at your boyfriend as he pulls out his chair, and for a brief second, he dares to believe that he might actually get to enjoy a quiet breakfast with you. But just as he’s about to sit down beside you, Johnny swoops in out of nowhere, plopping down in Logan’s seat with a grin like he’s just won the lottery.
“Morning!” He chirps, completely oblivious to the thunderous look on the other man’s face.
Freezing in his place, Logan glares at the kid who’s now sitting where he was supposed to be. He mentally cycles through a list of unflattering nicknames—Useless Idiot, Captain Obnoxious, Motherfu—but none of them seem quite strong enough to capture his current feelings. “You’re in my seat, kid.”
Johnny blinks up at him, feigning innocence. “Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t see your name on it.”
You can practically see the self-control it takes for Logan not to pick the kid up and toss him across the room. His fingers twitch at his sides, his claws itching to come out, but he holds back. For your sake, and only your sake.
“Johnny,” you start, trying to keep your voice gentle but firm, “you do know he is my boyfriend, right? And even if he wasn’t, I’m a bit too, uh, old for you?”
The young mutant's eyes widen, and for a split second, you think you might have gotten through to him. But then he glances over at Logan, his face scrunching up like he’s just eaten something sour.
“Yeah, but he’s, like, hella old,” The idiot blurts out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if the mutant standing right there can’t hear every word.
Logan’s expression darkens, a storm brewing in his eyes as his jaw tightens to the point where you can almost hear his teeth grinding. Hella old? Is this guy serious?
He's dealt with all kinds of enemies—mutants, monsters, government assassins—but nothing, nothing has tested his patience like this hellspawn has been. “What did you just say?” he growls menacingly.
Johnny, either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, doesn’t back down. “I mean, no offense, but you’ve got a lot of… uh, experience, you know? And you’re like centuries old. Maybe she needs someone closer to her age.”
That’s the last straw. Logan’s eyes flash with anger and something else—something more vulnerable that you rarely see. A part of him knows the gremlin’s just talking out of his ass, but the words hit a little too close to home, stirring up old insecurities he usually keeps buried deep.
Without another word, he slams his hand down onto the table, the sound echoing through the dining hall like a gunshot. The room falls into stunned silence as he then storms out, his footsteps heavy and his anger radiating off of him in waves. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge the whispers that follow in his wake. He just needs to get away before he does something he’ll regret.
“Logan, wait—” you call after him, but he’s already halfway out the door.
You turn back to Johnny, who’s now looking a little less confident and a lot more like he might have made a mistake. Sighing, you lean forward with a serious expression. “You can’t just say things like that. He’s not just my boyfriend. He’s the person I love.”
Looking down at the table, his face falls, and he begins fiddling with the napkin in his lap. “I didn’t mean to make him mad. I just thought—You saved me and I felt something…I thought maybe you’d feel something for me too.”
You soften, reaching out to pat his hand. “Johnny, you’re a sweet kid, but you’ve got to understand that Logan’s the one I’m with, and no one can replace him.”
He nods slowly, the reality of the situation finally sinking in. “I get it,” he mumbles. “I just…”
A small smile tugs at your lips. “You’ll find someone your own age who’s perfect for you. But for now, you need to give us some space, okay?”
Johnny nods again, this time more resolutely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just… try not to instigate anything else. I’ll go talk to him.” You give him one last reassuring smile before heading toward the exit.
When you step out into the hallway, you barely have a second to process your thoughts and decide where to look before you’re suddenly pressed up against the wall. A gasp escapes your lips, but it’s quickly swallowed by Logan’s mouth on yours. The surprise melts away as the intensity of his kiss overtakes your senses, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
His kiss is possessive and fierce. You can feel the frustration, the jealousy, the need to claim what’s his, pouring out of him with every movement of his lips against yours. For a moment, you lose yourself in the heat of it, letting the world around you fade as you focus solely on him.
Then, through the haze of the kiss, the practical part of your brain kicks in. You pull back just enough to murmur against his lips, “Logan… we’re gonna get caught.”
He growls softly, his lips trailing down to your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Let them see,” he mutters between kisses. “Maybe then that damn dunce will get the hint.”
You laugh, though the sound is cut off as he captures your lips again, his hands gripping your waist as if he’s afraid to let go. “Babe, really,” you whisper, trying to sound serious but failing as your body responds eagerly to his touch. “People are gonna see…”
“I don’t care,” he grumbles, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you involuntarily shiver against him. “Shoulda thrown that little shit out on his ass… let him know who you belong to.”
“You’re jealous of a teenager,” you tease, though the words come out breathless and almost lost in the intensity of the moment.
Logan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark. “Don’t like him sniffin’ around you, thinkin’ he’s got a shot.”
You smile up at him, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him back down for another kiss. “You don't need to feel threatened by him. You’re the only one I want.”
He huffs softly, his lips brushing against yours as he mutters, “Damn right I am.”
“C’mon,” you murmur, gently pushing against his chest. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private, huh?”
He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering back toward the dining hall, as if half-expecting Johnny to come barreling out any second. But then he nods, taking your hand and leading you down the hallway, away from prying eyes. His grip on your hand is tight, territorial, and you can’t help but smile as you follow him.
As you walk together, you give his hand a squeeze. “Logan?”
“Yeah?” He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly.
“I love you, you know that?” You say it with that pretty grin of yours, and the way his eyes warm in response makes your heart flutter.
“Yeah,” he replies, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I love you too.”
The remaining tension melts away, leaving just the two of you walking hand in hand, ready to steal a few more precious moments together.
cw:fingering, cursing, dirty talk, mentions of motherhood, fluff
masterlist
logan should've known when he accepted the mission to come go back in time to stop the sentinels that you would still be here.
"is there an issue here, hank?"
the sound of your voice made logan's heart flutter. you were barely peaking out from behind the door but logan could see you just fine. he couldn't stop staring.
"no, everything's fine." hank assured you. just as you turned to return to charles's office, you heard the door burst open. this handsome stranger hits hank right in the nose before continuing up the stairs to you.
logan had to take you in for a second. his beautiful future wife stood in front of him and had absolutely no clue that they were married because she was only twenty-five years old.
had you always been this gorgeous? was that even fair? all of these were questions that floated around in his mind.
"who are you and what do you want?" you asked as he reached out to touch you.
"so you've always been this beautiful, huh, princess?" he purred, tucking away a piece of your hair behind your ear.
sure, he was attractive in his brown leather jacket and sunglasses but this man looked in his mid-forties. logan was too busy staring down at your frilly yellow babydoll dress to notice where you were looking at him. his left hand; more specifically the gold band on his ring finger.
"i don't mess with married men." you glare at him. he can't help but chuckle darkly down at your innocence.
"oh, my wife wouldn't mind."
god, logan felt like such a pervert for coming on to you but he couldn't help it. your ethereal beauty was unreal. not that you have aged much since the present day, as you two have the slow aging processes in common. older hank would always tell logan that he should be lucky that you agreed to date him because there were plenty of people who would love to take his place. sure, logan believed him but now, he really understood what hank meant.
"where's charles at, sweetheart?" logan asks, inhaling your floral sent.
before you can respond, charles comes barreling down the stairs drunkenly calling after you.
"where've you been?" he asked you then turned to logan. "who the hell are you?"
this should be good.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
"how do we know that you're actually from the future?" you asked, sitting atop charles desks, swinging your legs. hank and charles stood outside in the hallway discussing whether or not to trust logan.
"you've always been this stubborn?" logan says under his breath, rolling his eyes.
"how do we even know each other in the future?" you finally asked.
for the past hour, this man has tried to sell this absurd story about how future charles and magneto sent him here together to save mutants from sentinels. so far he's managed to convince charles but hank and you were still on the fence.
there was absolutely no way that you two were married. this man is grumpy, mean-looking, and wears dark brown leather. you are an academic scholar who adores pastels and helping other mutants. he had to have you mistaken.
you squint up at him and laugh, "we are married?"
logan nods, walking over to you until he's standing between your legs.
"tell me something only i would know then."
"your favorite ice cream flavor is strawberry, you hate the cold and winter, anytime you drink coffee you get nightmares, your favorite color is green, but your favorite shade is the color my eyes get when i look at you." logan could see the way your eyes widen, slowly starting to believe him more and more. he couldn't help but feel cocky. "would you like me to continue?"
"im not sure... think you're gonna have to prove it. another way." you challenge him. logan's hand trails up your thigh, playing with the soft yellow material.
"c'mon sweetheart, this is too easy." he mutters against your neck, placing soft kisses and nibbling on the skin.
logan knew you like the back of his hand. he knew exactly what you liked and disliked. sometimes you would even tell him that he knew you better than you knew yourself.
"you like when i pull your bottom lip when we kiss. you blush every time i offer for you to sit on my face. one of your favorite ways to fuck is pressed up against a wall or bent over a table..." logan could go on and on.
"we do that...?" you whisper embarrassed by this version of yourself, trying to avoid his burning gaze.
"oh, all the time. sometimes you pull me down on the floor when i come home, begging to ride me right then and there." logan says, once he captures your attention again. you chew on your bottom lip adorably.
a small whimper passes your lips before you remember that hank and charles aren't that far away from the room. one of your hands comes up to logan's chest, slightly pushing him back despite not wanting to.
"w-we should stop." you warn him. "they can hear us."
this was when logan knew that you hadn't discovered part of your mutation yet. he had already assumed that you hadn't but this confirmed it.
"need you to relax, princess," he says, moving higher up to your jaw. your body betrays everything your mouth says, eating out of the palm of his hand. "i promise once you relax, it'll feel like time has stopped."
logan's lips taunt yours; not quite giving you what you want. fed up, you overpower him and push his lips into yours. the only word floating around in your head was 'relax'.
carefully, logan lays you back on the desk. something about being held in the stranger's arms set you at ease; maybe he was your husband?
"you don't know this yet..." logan huffs. "but you can stop time."
you scoff, thinking that you caught him in a lie. "no, i can't."
"if you relax like i said, then you can." logan mutters against your collarbone.
one of his hands slides up your thigh while the other rubs circles on your hip bone. was this wrong of you? if he is telling the truth –and it seems like he is– then technically he is your husband and it's not wrong to mess around with your husband.
"open up for me, babydoll." logan mumbled against your collarbones, placing wet kisses and nibbling on the delicate skin.
your legs spread with ease as his callused fingers rub over your cotton panties. the soft material of your dress is bunched at your tummy as he tugs your panties off, pocketing them for himself. his thumb returns to rub your button.
"p-please..." you whimper, looking up at logan with bambi eyes. "need more."
"anything for you, princess." he groans, slipping two fingers inside of you as gently as he can. this earned a loud moan from you when he nudged that spot deep in your gummy walls with ease.
"see how well i know my wife?" logan gloats, pressing soft kisses to your lips but never letting you catch him. "you usually prefer it rougher than this but i'm not cruel."
"y-you can go... can go faster." you pant, never having anything quite his size yet.
"i don't want to hurt you, baby." he says in a condescending tone. "wanna know something 'bout the future?"
it was difficult but you managed to nod your head despite how clearly fucked out you were at this point.
"a couple weeks ago, you came home telling me how much you want to be a mom; how you've always wanted to be a mom." he pulls back to look at your pretty face, lust darkening your eyes and slick pouring out of you, practically dripping down his palm onto the desk. "so, every chance we get alone you've been begging for me to go raw inside of you."
logan loved how even as you're all spread out for him, you're still blushing at his filthy words.
"look at you, blushing while you soak my hand." he mocks with a smirk.
"i'm s-so close, please!" you beg so politely.
his thick fingers pick up the pace as you clench down on them; jaw dropped and head thrown back. logan's other hand supports your back while your cute painted blue nails dig into his wrist as your climax starts to wash over you.
"hey sweetheart, look out the window." he chuckles, moving your chin to stare hazily out the glass window.
you couldn't believe it. every car, bird, street light, everything was stopped. everything but you and logan.
"how did you know that i could...?"
"you can't always control it but when you calm your mind, it's easier for you to do it."
"does it always happen when we...?"
"when we have sex...?" logan chuckles as you hide yourself in his chest. you nod. "no. over time you've found ways to control it. sometimes if we need more time, you might manipulate it."
"future me sounds cool." you giggle, lifting up to look at him. "how do we meet?"
"i can't tell you that." he smiles.
"well, then where are you in this timeline? how can i meet you sooner?"
"i'm not a very good man during this time, baby. you'll meet me when the time is right."
"what if you don't want me then? how do you know we will still get together?"
logan looks down at your pouty lips, swiping his thumb across it.
"i'll always come back for you. no matter the timeline or where we are in life; i'll find you again."
"promise?"
"i promise you, sweetheart. don't worry that beautiful mind of yours." he assures, kissing the tear strolling down your cheek.
logan reaches down and kisses you tenderly, pulling you out of the time freeze. suddenly the door swings open on the two of you. thank god, logan had quick reflexes, pulling your dress back down to cover you.
charles calls your name and then asks, "what are you doing?"
"it's okay, he's my husband."
a loud laugh escapes logan at your lovey-dovey tone, almost making hank and charles eyes fall out of their heads. you couldn't wait to meet logan again in the future.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your amazing support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Even the most chaotic days can have relaxing moments.
Word Count: 5,1k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, mentions of blood, periods, medieval era viewpoints on marriage and gender. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Seven hells, he had missed his wife.
When Robb passed through the gates on his horse, with Jon and Theon following him close behind, it was nearly midnight. They had been on the road for nearly three days, and though his visit to Castle Hornwood had been necessary, he was not planning on leaving Winterfell for a while if he could help it; being away from her this past week had been nothing but torment. Judging by the harsh wind for the last two hours, there was going to be a storm soon, so he wasted no time to bid Jon and Theon good night once he dismounted his horse, then made his way into the Inner Keep with Grey Wind following him.
The whole castle was asleep, to no surprise. He climbed the stairs and went down the hallway; the torches his only source of light since the moon was hiding behind the clouds tonight. He walked past his door to approach his wife’s bedchambers but when he peeked his head in, a frown pinched his brows. Not only did the room look completely different than what he remembered—no doubt per her orders to redesign it in his absence—but she was also nowhere to be found.
Where was his lady?
It seemed that he was mistaken to assume she would’ve taken to her own bed like she had the last time he left the castle. Grey Wind curled up at the door when Robb reached his room and opened the door, the sweet flowery scent swirling around him like some sort of invisible magic, warmth caressing his face. His lady, who was perched on the window seat and watching the stormy sky turned her head like she snapped out of a haze, a gasp leaving her.
“You’re back!”
He didn’t even notice the smile pulling at his lips.
“And you’re awake.” He closed the door behind him as she darted across the room and flung herself into his arms, coaxing a chuckle out of him. He lifted her, earning a surprised yelp before he carried her to bed, both of them falling on the mattress with him on top of her.
Her giggle echoed in the room, sweeter than any melody he had ever heard. He couldn’t help but dip his head to kiss her, a sigh leaving her lips when he pulled back to feast his eyes on the sight of her beautiful face.
“Good evening, my lady wife.”
“Good evening, my lord husband,” she played along, tracing the direwolf clasp of his cloak. “I thought you’d be back earlier.”
“So did I,” Robb admitted. “Why are you awake at this hour?”
She pouted. “Sleep evades me.”
“Nightmares?”
“I had a nightmare, but it’s gone now,” she said after a beat while he absentmindedly played with her hair. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from her before his lips trailed down her neck, her sweet scent luring him but she held her breath.
“Robb, we—um, we cannot, I got my moon blood.”
He grinned against the soft skin of her neck.
“A man who’s afraid of getting his sword bloody is no man at all—” he was cut off when she smacked his shoulder with a gasp, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s an old northern proverb.”
“It is not an old northern proverb!” she whined, pushing at his shoulder again when he lifted his head to smirk down at her.
“Aye, it is.”
“It’s not.” She scrunched up at her nose in the most adorable manner. “Proverbs are supposed to be wise.”
“It is very wise,” he argued. “It’s applicable to every moon. What is that if not wise?”
She looked like she was trying her hardest to fight back her laughter, yet a giggle escaped her before she took a deep breath.
“It’s rather uncomfortable,” she admitted, her voice quiet as her smile faded. “The cramps.”
That was enough to make Robb snap out of it.
“You’re in pain?” he asked, his gaze darting over her face. “Did you take any remedy? I can wake Maester Luwin—”
“No,” she cut him off, her hand cradling his cheek as he turned his head to kiss her palm. “No need for that, my love.”
“But are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Is that normal?”
“Very much so, I’m afraid,” she said and swallowed thickly. “Will you just…will you just hold me?”
Robb could swear his heart melted inside his chest. He stared at her for a brief moment, warmth filling his veins before he gave her a chaste kiss on the lips.
“I’ll hold you until the end of time if you wish it so,” he told her as he got off of her to take off his cloak. “Just let me change first.”
It didn’t take him long to change into loose breeches, deciding to forego his nightshirt as usual due to the heat of the room. It was rather hot if he had to admit, yet his lady was not used to the cold of the north, and she liked it that way. Raindrops started pattering on the window, wind outside getting stronger as he slipped into bed, pulling his lady close to him so that she could curl into his side to rest her head on his chest. He nuzzled into her hair, her scent the only remedy that could soothe the ache of being apart from her for days.
“I missed you,” she whispered into the silent room and Robb pressed his lips on top of her head.
“I missed you too,” he muttered. “How was it? Here?”
“Um—” She cleared her throat. “Nothing of importance took place.”
“Bran is still…?”
“Asleep,” she finished his sentence for him. “But Maester Luwin says he will wake up, we just don’t know when.”
He heaved a sigh, exhaustion creeping up on him slowly. “And Rickon?”
“He loves taking care of Frost, you should see him. Every morning we bring her breakfast, he finds it hilarious.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Better than nightmares, I suppose,” he said. “What was yours about, by the way?”
“Oh, I…” she trailed off. “I don’t remember exactly, but it was painful.”
He let out a hum, his arm tightening around her waist as he kissed her forehead.
“I’m here,” he murmured. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.”
Her whole body tensed up, and she went quiet before she pulled away from his grip so that she could sit up in the bed. The room was rather dark; his lady must’ve blown out the candles before, and since the flames in the hearth were the only source of light, he could only see the glimmer in her eyes, rather than her whole expression.
Her voice was calm when she spoke: “Robb?”
“Hm?”
“Would you kill someone for me if I asked you to?”
The lightning flashed outside, illuminating her beautiful face for a brief moment before the darkness claimed the room again, followed by a loud boom. Despite the exhaustion, Robb felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, how did she not know?
The whole north knew at this point.
“Of course.” He frowned when the thought hit him. “Has someone offended you in my absence?”
“No,” she was quick to assure him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the nightmare, if someone hurt me—”
“That’d be the last thing they ever did before I sent them to the gods, old or new.”
“No matter who?”
“No matter who,” he swore as he reached out to drag his knuckles over her arm before he grinned. “Except your moon blood; that I cannot kill. I can put it to sleep for nine moons though.”
It took him a mere second to understand she was in no mood for a jest, even before she let out a shaky breath like she was on the verge of tears. Robb cussed at himself under his breath and sat up while she sniffled so that he could pull her into his arms. She buried her face to the crook of his neck as he cradled her head with one hand, the other rubbing her back.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her temple. “I’m sorry, my love. Was the nightmare that bad?”
She nodded and sniffled again.
“Someone—” She gulped. “Someone hurt me. And I bled out. Alone.”
“That will never happen,” he cooed at her. “I’d never let that happen, lamb. Just a nightmare, it’s not real.”
A curt laugh escaped her and she took a deep breath.
“No,” she murmured after a beat. “No, it’s not real. Just a nightmare, nothing more.”
Though it had taken his lady a while to go to sleep, the next day she woke up in better spirits. The storm continued outside, and Robb’s morning wasn’t so busy for once, so he was able to convince her to stay in bed and have breakfast there. It was rather cozy; the sound of the wind and rain locked away outside while the hearth warmed up the room, Grey Wind taking a nap at the foot of the bed. His lady was wrapped up all snug in his robe while Robb rested his head in her lap, holding one of the ledgers that she had asked him to check above his face, but he could barely focus with the way she was absentmindedly playing with his hair.
It felt so peaceful that Robb wanted to stay like this forever.
“So what do you think?” she urged him and he tried to focus on the numbers on the page.
“I think it looks great.”
She gave him a bright smile, and—much to his displeasure—stopped playing with his hair so that she could grab the pair of earrings that he had forgotten to give her last night off her nightstand.
“They’re so pretty,” she chirped. “I cannot wait to wear them tonight to dinner!”
He blindly reached up to put her hand back in his hair, coaxing a laugh out of her before she buried her hand into his curls and ran her nails over his scalp, making him close his eyes with a sigh.
“Lord Mollen doesn’t like my idea,” she told him, causing him to open his eyes again to look up at her. “Lady Lynara told me as much. Neither of them think it wise.”
“What they think isn’t of importance.” Robb turned the page. “It’s for a good cause, and you want it done, so it will be.”
She shifted her weight as if she was too excited to sit still.
“Thank you!” she said. “I’ll imply it in a polite way tonight if she asks again, let’s see how she will react.”
He stole a glance at her. “Are you sure you can attend dinner tonight? We can eat here if you’re still in pain.”
“No, it’s better now,” she said. “It’s bearable.”
Robb frowned. “Is it ever unbearable?”
“Sometimes, but this is not an appropriate topic for a lord and lady to speak of, you do realize that?”
“We’re man and wife now, we can talk about such things,” he said. “For example, is it as painful as—”
“I’m going to stop you right there because I think you’re going to compare it to something men go through during sparring,” she said. “Yes. It’s more painful than that. Any of that.”
“Any of that, really?”
She puffed up her cheeks and looked up at the ceiling like she was straining her mind for the right words.
“Imagine somebody sets a sword on fire.” She held up a fist, mimicking holding a sword before she slammed the imaginary sword into the mattress. “Then drives it down your spine!”
Robb blinked up at her.
“…I don’t want to imagine that.”
“And while you’re trying to breathe, someone else shoots an arrow through your stomach.”
“That’s—”
“And then they twist both the sword and the arrow, and then yank them both out.”
“Why do I feel like you’re enjoying this very vivid description?”
“And there’s blood everywhere but it matters not, because you’re still expected to attend feasts and jousts and such,” she mused. “And dance and make small talk and smile and entertain people.”
He made a face. “How do women not walk around screaming?”
“Not from a lack of desire to do so, I’ll tell you that much,” she said airily as if they were talking of the weather. “My septa used to say—”
“M’lady?” Her maid knocked on the door. “A raven from Dorne has arrived.”
“Come in Kyra!” she called out and the maid opened the door, then came over to the bed to hand her the scroll, then scurried out of the room while Robb turned his attention to the ledger. His lady broke the unfamiliar seal—it probably belonged to her mother’s house in Dorne—then skimmed the lines.
“Silas?” he asked and she shook her head.
“Perce,” she muttered. “Silas wrote to me the moment he set foot in Dorne.”
“How was their trip?”
“Well, Cliff is an excellent sailor so it—oh he has to be jesting!”
That was enough to pull Robb’s attention away from the ledger.
“What’s happened?”
She threw her head back in exasperation, then frowned down at the scroll.
“Perce wants me to ask Silas about his new lady on my next letter.”
“Hold on.” Robb sat up with a smirk. “Silas has a lady?”
“Mm hm.”
“Already?” he asked. “They’ve been there for what, two weeks?”
“Three.” She pursed her lips. “A young widow, whose husband died under…questionable circumstances.”
“Did they check for a dagger in his chest or was that too questionable?”
“Perce says Silas goes to her castle each night.”
He let out a laugh. “So she’s his mistress?”
“It sounds to me that Silas is her mistress, to be completely honest,” she muttered, her eyes darting over the lines. “Unbelievable.”
“Is it though?” he wondered aloud, earning a slight shove at his arm. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised, Silas is very fond of ladies.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but there was another knock on the door. Robb pushed himself off the bed to make his way there, assuming that it was either Jon or Theon, but instead, it was his youngest brother. Rickon’s eyes widened when he saw him.
“Robb, you’re back!”
“I am,” he said with a small chuckle as Rickon clutched at his leg in an attempt to hug him. “Missed me?”
“A little, but it was only for a week.”
“It was.” Robb ruffled his wild curls. “Are you hiding from Maester Luwin?”
“No.”
“Rickon, if you stuffed a dead crow in your septa’s pillow again just because she hit your knuckles—”
“I did not!”
“Then did you need me for something?”
“Um, not you.” The little boy walked past him to step inside, making Robb look over his shoulder. “Good morrow!”
Robb tilted his head in confusion.
“Good morrow to you too my sweet!” His lady crossed the room, then crouched down to Rickon’s eye level. “How did you sleep?”
“I had a dream with—with me and Shaggy, and we were on a mountain, and then Shaggy was going after another wolf, but then it wasn’t a wolf, because it turned into a bird!”
His lady gasped. “That sounds like a very interesting dream! What sort of bird?”
“A blue one—can we give Frost breakfast, please and thank you?”
“I was away for a week and he says please and thank you now?” Robb asked, getting a reprimanding glare from his lady while Rickon nodded.
“We say please and thank you to ladies,” he pointed out in a very proud manner, and Robb stifled a laugh.
“Do you know what those words mean?”
“I do!”
“Of course he does,” his lady said. “And we can give Frost breakfast after I get ready, thank you for asking so nicely.”
“Wait,” Robb said, the smile wiping off his face in a second. “Now?”
“It’s her breakfast time,” Rickon told him and Robb shook his head.
“You’re nearly a man grown, you can feed her by yourself.”
“But we do it together!” Rickon argued. “We go to the kitchens and get carrots and apples and go to the barn to feed Frost first, and then Silk.”
“Rickon my sweet, can Robb join us today?”
Rickon looked up at the ceiling with a dramatic sigh while Robb frowned at him.
“What, you have to think?”
“He can,” Rickon muttered. “I guess.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice, Rickon.”
“But you cannot leave the castle in this attire,” his lady told his little brother, motioning at his clothes. “You need a cloak, there’s a storm outside. How about Robb takes you to your room so that you can get your cloak, and then we’ll go to the kitchens?”
“Okay!” Rickon rushed to his side. “Let’s go.”
“He knows where—” Robb started, but gave Rickon a little shove when he sunk his teeth into Robb’s hand, tugging at his sleeve. His lady gasped.
“Robb, don’t push him like that!” she chastised him and Rickon gave him a big grin.
“Aye, don’t push me like that!”
“You’re fine,” Robb deadpanned. “You’re more wolf than child.”
His lady shook her head and pointed at the door. “Out.”
“You heard her, Rickon.”
“I’m talking to you!” she insisted. “Go make sure he has a cloak on, and I’ll meet you in the kitchens.”
“Fine, fine…” Robb muttered and grabbed his own cloak to put it on. “You can stay, Grey Wind.”
The direwolf only plopped on his back when his lady approached as if he was asking for belly rubs, and Robb closed the door with a sigh.
“Come on.” He gently pushed Rickon, who wasted no time to jump and grab his arm to hang from it, his cackle echoing in the hallway.
“Onward!”
“See what I meant?” Robb grumbled as he made his way down the hallway, swinging his arm while Rickon cheered. “More wolf than child.”
Much to his displeasure, he barely had any time to see his lady after their little visit to the barn. He went to Bran’s room, but he was soon pulled away from there when Maester Luwin reminded him that there were many scrolls that he had to reply to; a lot of ravens had arrived in Winterfell in his absence from different parts of the north. At least the storm had passed, so once he managed to find some free time, he joined Jon and Theon in the yard to spar with them while his lady attended to her own duties.
But there was something off.
He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was something off.
Perhaps it was because of people’s criticism of her new plan while he was away, or the nightmares keeping her up last night, but judging by how curt her smile was while she was talking to others when he caught a sight of her on his way to the rookery, Robb could swear she wasn’t her happy self in the crowd of ladies surrounding her.
After an hour of sparring, he decided to catch his breath and grab some water while Theon stretched, and Jon sat down beside him on the bench to sharpen his sword.
“I’m so glad to be back,” Theon said. “I don’t like Castle Hornwood.”
“Why not?”
“Everyone is so quiet there.”
“It was a nice change,” Jon said with a grin and Robb scoffed.
“Nah, I missed home too.”
“You missed your lady,” Theon corrected. “More than you missed home. You kept sulking.”
“Aye, you did.”
“I was right to do so, because apparently she—” Robb paused when he saw Lady Jorelle crossing the yard. “Give me a moment. Lady Jorelle?”
She spun around on her heels as he made his way to her.
“Hello.”
“Hello, my lord,” she said. “Welcome back.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I uh…this is going to sound rather strange, but is my lady wife alright?”
She blinked a couple of times, then raised her brows. “Hm?”
“Has something happened while I was away?”
She frowned and looked up as if she was trying to remember, then shook her head.
“Nothing happened,” she said, her voice calm. “Why?”
“She seems rather distressed,” he said. “And she mentioned some people disagreeing with her about her plans for mothers and children for the winter. Has someone disrespected her in my absence? Because she refuses to tell me, but I’d like to put an end to it if such a thing took place.”
“And admirable thought,” she said. “But nothing took place, I assure you. If anything, it was a rather dull week.”
Robb bit inside his cheek, then gave her a curt smile and nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d better leave you to it then. I appreciate your help.”
“Of course,” Jorelle said and curtsied, then went into the keep while Robb returned to the corner Jon and Theon were watching him from.
“What was that about?” Theon asked and Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“My lady is distressed, and I do not know why.”
“Well, her family is away,” Jon pointed out. “And then you went away. Can’t be easy, being alone in a new place.”
That could explain the nightmare, now that he thought about it.
“But Silas will visit often, he said so himself,” Theon said. “A couple moons after the honeymoon, he said.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robb said with a shrug. “Silas is rather busy in Dorne with a lady.”
Jon’s head shot up from his sword. “Silas has a lady?”
“Aye, a mistress.” Robb grinned. “A young widow who killed her husband, apparently.”
Theon let out a laugh, and Jon stared at Robb in silence for a couple of seconds, then took a deep breath.
“He—how do you know this?”
“Perceon sent a raven to my lady.” Robb gulped down his water, then put the flask to the side. “Are you ready?”
Jon swallowed thickly, then feigned a cough.
“You go ahead, I’ll uh…” He motioned in the direction of the Godswood. “I’ll find Ghost.”
“Now?” Robb asked but Jon ignored him, making his way through the yard to go into the Godswood. Robb turned to Theon to see whether he knew what was happening, but Theon held up his palms with a shake of his head.
“You two know direwolves better than I.”
Robb looked over his shoulder, then heaved a sigh and grabbed his sword.
“Very well then,” he said. “Come on. I haven’t sparred in days, I must catch up.”
Eventually, he had to go back to his solar to hold audience with some of his vassals, but once Lord Poole left and someone knocked on the door, it wasn’t yet another vassal but his lady wife who peeked her head in.
“Am I interrupting anything?”
“Never,” Robb said, a smile pulling at his lips as he stood up. “Come in!”
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I know you’ve been busy, but I sent the ledgers with Kyra, and I wanted to ask—”
“They’re over here,” Robb pointed at the top of the pile. “I’ll be done with them by the dinner time, is that alright?”
“More than alright!” She beamed while he rounded the desk to lean back to it, then grabbed her hand to pull her closer. A giggle climbed her throat and she stepped into his embrace, heaving a sigh when he cradled her cheek in his palm and brushed his lips against hers.
“Do you have much to do?” she asked, playing with the laces of his shirt and he nodded.
“A little,” he admitted. “But stay.”
“Gladly,” she said. “I miss you during the day.”
“I miss you too,” he said, caressing her cheekbone. “And are you feeling better? Last night…”
“Oh.” She paused, looking down at the floor before she raised her gaze to his again. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t,” he said in a haste. “Don’t apologize for it. I just want to make sure you’re alright, that’s all.”
“I’m alright,” she assured him. “It was just a nightmare, nothing more.”
“And is…” Robb trailed off. “Is someone driving a burning sword down your spine and shooting arrows into your stomach?”
That coaxed a laugh out of her, the pleasant sound echoing in the room.
“No.”
“No urge to walk around screaming at people?”
“Aside from very specific people, no,” she said. “But ask me again after dinner. I have a feeling the urge will be back then.”
“We can take our dinner in our bedchambers.”
“You just came back,” she reminded him. “We cannot do that I’m afraid. Your vassals want to see you.”
“And I want to see my wife.”
“I’m right here.”
“Aye, but you’re dressed.”
Her jaw dropped and she pushed at his arm. “Robb!”
“What?” He gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you rather if I were dishonest?”
“I would rather if you weren’t so—” she started, but was cut off when someone knocked on the door.
“Lord Mollen, m’lord,” the footman at the door announced and his lady rolled her eyes at the name.
Ah.
The infamous Lord Mollen who did not approve or like her plans.
When the footman opened the door to let him in, his lady made an attempt to step away no doubt to leave the room, but Robb was quick to grab her wrist to tug her back to his side, making her head shoot up.
“You’ll stay,” he muttered and turned to the man. “Lord Mollen. Good afternoon.”
Lord Mollen lingered in his spot, his eyes darting between him and his lady before he bowed his head.
“My lord,” he said. “If you’re busy, I can come at another time.”
“We’re not busy.”
“But the lady—”
“My lady wife will remain here.”
She looked like she was fighting off a smug smile but managed to school her expression into composure.
“Hello Lord Mollen,” she said. “How wonderful to see you. I’ve had the chance to talk to Lady Lynara the other day.”
“She mentioned it, my lady,” Lord Mollen said. “That was actually what I wanted to talk to you about, my lord. This…carpenter business.”
Robb gave a short nod. “I’m listening.”
Lord Mollen cleared his throat.
“It’s clear that your lady wife has a soft heart for children,” he started, “And may the gods grant you both many.”
A shadow crossed his lady’s face, but it was gone as quick as it came.
“However,” the man continued. “Expecting the carpenters to teach the craft to absolute strangers on top of their usual work has caused some unrest between them, at least in my castle. Most of them teach their own children their craft.”
“Orphans don’t have fathers who can teach them anything, Lord Mollen,” she said. “And those carpenters will be compensated for their work. Surely adding one more apprentice cannot hurt. Or do they fear competition?”
Lord Mollen turned his glances to Robb as if he expected him to step in, but Robb stayed quiet for a deliberate couple of seconds before he pushed himself off the desk.
“The question was directed to you, my lord.” He went back to take his seat behind the desk, so that Lord Mollen would have to address his lady while Robb was still present and could glare at him without her noticing. “Not to me.”
“No,” Lord Mollen answered in a rush. “Not competition, but they find it rather trivial. All that work for toys for children, who will mostly come from mountain clans. We have our own people to worry about for the winter, and while I’m sure it’s normal to give such instructions back in the south, in the north—”
“Lord Mollen, there must’ve been a misunderstanding in my absence,” Robb cut him off. “Which is expected, seeing that this is rather new for everyone. But from now on, you can safely assume that whatever instructions my lady wife gives, as polite as she makes them sound, come from me.” He crossed his arms over the desk and leaned forward, his jaw clenched. “And I do not give trivial commands.”
Since his lady was still leaning back to the desk, he couldn’t see her face, but Lord Mollen’s discontent was clear as day. Silence fell upon the room, and Robb let the veiled threat linger in the air without another word while Lord Mollen gulped, then took a deep breath.
“A misunderstanding indeed,” he said, and bowed his head. “I’ll make sure they follow your command, my lord. My lady.”
“Have a nice day, Lord Mollen!” his lady chirped while she walked him to the door, then closed it behind him once he left. Robb threw his head back.
“That prick…” he grumbled while his lady stood there for a moment, her hand still on the handle.
“Do you have some free time?” she asked after a beat, leaning back to the door. Robb ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m supposed to hold meetings with four more people until dinner.”
She let out a hum like she was lost in her own thoughts before she shrugged and bolted the door.
“They’ll wait.”
“What’re you—?” Robb was cut off when she flung herself into his arms for a kiss, letting him pull her into his lap with a squeal. He grabbed the side of her neck to tilt her head, the feeling of her melting under his touch intoxicating as ever when he deepened the kiss, the fire of desire coming to life with a stir.
Gods, it had been so long…
His lips trailed down the column of her throat down to her bosom, her lovely scent filling his lungs, her skin softer than the silk of her pretty gown. Her fingers buried into his curls with a gasp to tug at the roots, drawing a moan out of him as she shifted in his lap, the mere friction against his hardness enough to drive him mad. He blindly reached down to push her skirt up, but she grabbed his hands to entwine their fingers, trying to catch her breath, her lips swollen with his kiss.
“Robb, we cannot do that—”
The sound that left him sounded awfully like a whine. “But…”
“Not that.”
“Does my wife mean to torment me, then?”
A giggle climbed up her throat and she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, looked over her shoulder at the door, then turned to him again.
“No,” she said, “my husband misunderstands me.”
He could’ve come up with a retort if all the blood in his body hadn’t gone south, but any hope of even half a thought disappeared from his mind when she easily slid off his lap to kneel before him, the realization knocking the breath out of his lungs.
“I said we couldn’t do that,” she said, eyes gleaming with mischief as she looked up at him. “I never said we couldn’t do something else.”
𑣲⋆ THIS IS ME PRAYING THAT THIS WAS THE VERY FIRST PAGE.
— soulmate robb stark x fem!arryn!reader.
— canon divergence (everybody lives au.. mostly. well. every stark lives au, at the very least 😬)
enchanted, 10.1k part i.
꒰ summary. you always knew soulmates were real, but you never thought you would find yours. travelling to the north with your father to learn about the berries you loved so much led you to a man you felt an undeniable connection with. but was he a true gentleman . . or were you being fooled by the heir to the north?
enchanted, 9.1k part ii. (coming soon)
꒰ summary. a wedding between jon arryn's daughter and ned stark's son was sure to be the most important event of the season, right? the days leading up to your wedding are filled with nerves, fun and royal scandal. preparing to marry the man the gods chose for you, your soulmate, while the kingdom is at stake is no easy feat.
let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"That's a big yawn, little sir." You say as Charlie's eyes droop. "I think your father might be right. You might be due for bedtime. As I might, if I'm most honest."
"No. If I go to sleep, you'll be gone." He pouts.
"Well 'see each other again." You promise. "But it won't do to lose anymore sleep. Me either. And your father."
He harrumphs and crosses his arms emphatically. You gently pat his shoulder. "How about a bedtime story, then? If Papa permits?"
Shelby shifts, and shrugs. "Course. He's not very fond of mine." He moves closer, brushing against you as he picks up his some. "Come, Charlie Boy, listen to the kind woman and sleep."
Shelby turns to you and gestures you ahead of him. He carries Charlie as he directs you from behind, into the corridor, through to the foyer, and up the grand staircase. Another corridor and several doors, and you reach the boy's room. You stand by the door as he enters and takes Charlie to the bed. It's bigger than your own.
He lays down the boy as he yawns again. You near from the other side. "What would you like to hear? The story of Lancelot or the princess and her kitten?"
"I like kittens." Charlie says.
"Alright, then. But when I'm done, you must sleep." You sit and pull the blanket over him.
"I will." He nods eagerly.
Shelby hovers across from you then slowly sits. You begin. "There was a princess who lived in the forest. Not many knew she was a princess for she'd been hidden there for many years..." You pluck deep into your mind to recall the story of the kitten that leads the princess to the truth. But before you can get to the end, you pause and smile at the sleeping child.
"You have a soothing voice," Shelby intones quietly. "You've almost put me to sleep."
You laugh softly. "Dull, I suppose."
"Musical," he assures. "Like poetry. I'm rather fond of a verse or two."
"Well, I should hate to wake him," you stand cautiously. "And I should be back home. In case Stuart has returned."
Shelby dips his head and exhales. He rises rigidly. "Yes, I suppose, a wife errant so late into the night might worry a man." He bends his arm and tugs his sleeve back to check his very modern wrist watch. "I'll have the car readied."
🖤
You wait at the door with your jacket and hat on, purse in the crook of your elbow. You shield a yawn in your palm and lean forward to peek through the dark slate of window next to the door. It's late. Later than you think you've ever been out. Though, you're not exactly living the high life of the flapper. You're only doing what needs done to keep house and home.
"Right then, I hate to keep you waiting longer." Mr. Shelby appears from behind the grand staircase. "I think you've had quite the day as it were."
"Sir. I... Was expecting Benjamin." You push the tired slump from your shoulders.
"I'm a disappointment?" He teases.
"Not what I meant. Or said." You assure him. "I do appreciate the trouble to take me home."
"No trouble. Not so much as you've gone to." He adjusts his coat.
"Hm. Well, I cannot say that I am not in need of the compensation." You muse.
"But I never offered any for tending my son." He returns.
"He's a good boy. I don't mind." You sway slightly, impatiently.
"Mm, I suppose then we should go. Or it'll be morning and you'll be due back at the kitchen."
"Yes, another busy day." You agree.
You go out to his car. He opens the door for you. You get in and patiently watch him stride in front of the long hood. This isntisthe same car as Benjamin. It's nicer. Luxurious with its leather and wood finish.
He gets in the driver's side and turns the engine through a series of twists and flicks. The headlights cast two yellow beams across the midnight gloom. Fog mists in their aura.
He sets off quietly. You sense the haze of fatigue over you both. Your content in the silence.
You watch the road ahead, sensing as he slows with the thickening condensation of the English eve. You fight to keep from slouching, to keep from drifting. For once, you don't fear a struggle in bed. You could sleep then and there.
The night stirs in the arcs of the headlights. You pass dormant windows and shadowy archways through the city. When he stops on your street, you take a moment to realise.
"Thank you," you make certain you have your purse. "I very much appreciate, Mr. Shelby."
"Not at all." His voice his raspy.
"I do hope you have a safe return." You say.
"And I hope you get a restful sleep." He drawls and leans across the seat to peer past you. "Shall I escort you to the door?"
"Sir, you've done enough. Please. Go be with Charlie."
"As you wish," he relents and sits back.
You sidle across the seat. He reaches over and taps your knee.
"Ah."
You pause and he points up. He lets himself out and swiftly struts around to open your door. He offers his hand to help you onto the cobblestones.
You thank him again. You face him.
"Good night, Mr. Shelby."
"Good night, ma'am." His hand slips off yours. "Until the morning."
🖤
You sleep so heavily, you feel and think nothing. So lost in your unconscious that the buzz of the door chime jars you like a ship on storming tides. You grunt and open your eyes, disoriented with drowsiness.
You blink several times to clear the glaze from your eyes. The buzz comes once more. You sit up. It's still early. You can't slept long at all. The windows are still grim.
You get up and stumble into the hallway. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands. It could be Mary Lynn, drunk again. You've never judged her for her indulgence but she's never spared you the same.
You get to the door and hide behind it as you unlock it. You pull it open just a little. Your eyes round and you're awake at just the sight of Tommy Shelby.
"Sir?"
"I've a phone call, ma'am. Important business. You'll need to come. Now." He says urgently.
You see the lack of sleep lined around his eyes, shadowed in the deep sockets.
"What is it?" You let go of the door and it falls a bit wider.
"I think..." His eyes skim you. "You should dress."
You blanch and look down. You're in your shift and nothing else. The linen is worn enough that some parts are starting to turn sheer.
"Apologies. Let me... Sir, come in." You beckon him inside and quickly flit away.
His soles click onto the scratched hardwood. The door shuts with a snap. You retreat to find a proper dress and set yourself right.
You hide in the bedroom and put on the brown dress with the flattened pleats. You sit to roll up your stockings. You take only seconds to battle your reflection.
You come out, apologising again. Then you stop short. It can only be one thing.
"Stuart?" You gulp.
"Ma'am. I've got a call from the station."
"The station?" You eke out.
"Perhaps it is best we go down and hear it straight from them," he suggests.
"Perhaps," you agree uneasily.
You search for a semblance of certainty in yourself. It takes a moment before you can figure what to do next. Cost. Shoes.
He lingers close as you dress for the weather. You pull on a wool cap. You face him and clap your hands down to your side.
"Ready... I think."
"Yes, ma'am. This way."
He opens the door and let you out first. The world around you is foggy for more than the rainy aftermath. Your ears pound and your heartbeat radiates to your fingertips.
It could be alright. Maybe they found Stuart doing something foolish. Gambling as he does. It might be he just needs a night in a cell to sober up.
You're sat in the car before you can even register getting in. You wring your hands as Shelby drives. It'll be fine. It has to be.
He cranks the gears and the car halts. You jerk and look up. You glance over at the precinct. You've never been in one though you always feared it. With the husband you have...
Mr. Shelby walks you in the front door. He's like your shadow. He greets an officer in a helmet with a club on his waist.
“This is her.” Shelby says and you wince. You look at him.
“Ma’am, I’m Corporal Hensen. So sorry ta bring ya here like this. We believe we’ve found your husband.” He says.
“My… Husband?”
“Not sure yet but we’d appreciate if ya might have a look and let us know.”
“A look?” All you can do is repeat his words as your head refuses to accept them.
You nod. Corporal Hensen tells you to go with him but your feet don’t move. There’s a weight on your back urging you forward. Mr. Shelby’s hand.
You follow the officer through the corridors. There are others in uniforms, men in shackles scowling in chairs or held by their arms. On and on you go until you’re taken into a desolate room.
There you’re faced with a shrouded slab. A figure hidden behind a sheet. An unmoving lump once full of life. A man in a white coat awaits you and nods to Shelby and Hensen.
“Ma’am, we… have found a body and hoped you might be able to identify him.” He prompts.
You frown. “How could I…” you begin. You know what they mean, but you want so badly not to understand.
Again, Mr. Shelby urges you forward with that small touch on your back. As you near the table, the doctor pulls the sheet back. You stare down at the grey face unveiled from beneath the cotton.
You can’t move. You can’t think. You have to be asleep still. You move your hand to your wrist and pinch. Wake up.
How many times did you curse your husband? How many times did you wish him gone? You should feel bad for his fate and yet, you don’t feel anything at all. You only feel bad for that.
“That is Stuart Wilbur Cress.” You state. “My husband.”
🖤
“Ma’am,” Mr. Shelby says as he escorts you once more to his car. “I’ll take you home now.”
“Home? No. I believe we’re overdue at The Garrison–”
“Ma’am. Don’t you worry about service. We can–”
“I am worried, sir.” You insist plainly. “I’ve a job to do.”
He watches you. He’s hard to read. “I could walk. Or find a tram–”
“No, ma’am, it is only that… Stuart–”
“You found him. What else is there to worry for?” You say.
“He’s dead–”
“So he is.” You utter. “It means I must work my way on my own now. So, let us go and do so.”
He hesitates but acquiesces. He opens the door and gently holds your elbow as you get in. You sit and stare at the road; the people crossing back and forth, the tires spinning by, the horses clomping over the stones. So much life all around; it never stops, not even for death.
The ride is quick. You think. Time doesn’t mean much to you.
You enter The Garrison ahead of Mr. Shelby. Ruth has already begun on the sausage rolls and Dierdre is showing the early birds to their tables. You put on the kettle and ready a pot for brew. Shelby lingers at the edge of the kitchen.
You go through it without a thought. Toasted buns; sizzling back bacon; eggs flipped one after the other. You wipe your face with your sleeve as the timer erupts. You open the stove and take out the hot pan of rolls.
It isn’t until you put them down that you feel the burn. That you realise you’ve not used a cloth to do so. You stop and stare at your smoldering palms. You shake but don’t make a noise.
“Dammit,” Shelby startles you as he grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the counter. He turns you around to the sink as he turns the faucet. Water sprays out and he guides your hand beneath the cooling stream. “Are you alright?”
You watch the water as it spreads over your burnt skin. So what? You’re hurt but still alive. Just a burn. Could be worse. Could be dead like Stuart.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” Shelby grits. “I think you should go home.”
You look at him. “I don’t. I think I should wrap my hands and get back to my job.”
the world was on fire, and no one could save me but you
(titus danforth x reader)
Titus has always been there to protect you. Your entire life. He'll sleep with you, tell you he loves you, but tells his family he's seeing the hottest new socialite in town. You get sick of it, and hit the apps in a desperate attempt to get over him.
But when the guy you're seeing starts to show red flags that make Titus look like the world's most well-adjusted man, you start to worry that you're about to become a statistic.
OR: the one where you go on a date and don't tell titus, before coming to regret the decision immediately
inspired by a true crime tiktok i saw lmao
warnings: 18+, mdni! evil men (not titus), genuine fears of being murdered, reader makes bad choices in this (don't go on hikes with strange men!), dread, there will be smut and violence in the second part w/c: 3.6k
main masterlist // titus danforth masterlist
Keep your location on at all times.
Tell at least one person where you’re going, and where you’re expected to be.
Don’t ever let them take you to a second location. Risk the injuries to stay where you are.
In the event that you are in a second location, leave as much evidence behind as possible. Hair, nails, jewellery. Take pictures and videos if possible, so your phone becomes an asset.
And most importantly: never trust anyone.
You’ve known Titus Danforth your whole life - you’ve loved him, you’ve loathed him, you’ve done everything in between. As one of the lesser Families, you weren’t subjected to quite the same rituals as him. Your family worked to serve the others. Do the grunt work, and be spared from the hunts and challenges.
Protection and networking with the most powerful people in the world.
Your parents hadn’t planned on you falling in love with the Danforth heir.
As teenagers, the Danforth twins sought you out, as one of the only other people their age at each boring dinner party. Ursula became a confidant, Titus a lover.
He was your first everything.
If it had been up to you, he would have been your only everything.
But the third daughter of a second-tier family was never going to cut it. Not when Titus stands to inherit everything once his father passes.
By your twenties, he’s actively seeing other people. In private, he insists that it’s all for show, to appease his father, but you’re not so sure. You’ve seen the paparazzi pictures - full of the most gorgeous women in the world hanging off of his arm each night.
It eats you alive.
Of course, you still come when he calls.
When he turns up on your door, bloodied and bruised from a tough hunt, you tend to his wounds and kiss it better. When he invites himself into your bed, you let him do it each and every time.
When he tries to teach you self-defence, you laugh in his face.
I don’t do hunts.
You might someday.
Your only shot of that happening would be if Titus marries you. An event which looks less and less likely with each passing day. Sure, Titus has never married - unusual for a Family member well into his thirties - but he’s also made no attempt to solidify whatever it is that he has with you.
Instead, he has rules.
If you won’t learn how to throw a punch, you have to know how to keep yourself safe in a world like this. Even knowing Titus puts you at more risk than most people.
And he’d never forgive himself if something happened to you.
*****
You think you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. Ankles crossed, you glance over at Tony, and try to tell yourself that you know him.
You’ve already been out on three dates, you’ve been in his apartment before, and you’ve seen his Instagram account.
He’s not a catfish.
And yet.
After meeting on Hinge and chatting for a few weeks, he’d taken you out for dinner, and things had looked hopeful. You were out to get over Titus once and for all, while he was ready to get back into dating after his divorce a few years back.
When Titus had asked who you were meeting that night, you’d told him it was a friend from college.
The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, but it’s a necessary evil. Titus always gets strange whenever another man is in your life. You didn’t see him for a whole year while you were dating your college boyfriend. Of course, he was on your doorstep the very night that you broke up.
Quite how he knew, you’ll never know.
You’re never going to build something new if he’s hovering over you at all times. Date two with Tony had been at some upscale bar - exactly the kind of place Titus would usually take you. You hate that it makes you like him more.
Date three felt more domestic: a quiet Italian spot downtown where he split his tiramisu with you and told you the truth about his marriage ending. They were on good terms, but after five years together, there was just no spark anymore.
No red flags.
No psychotic exes.
Just a lonely man, looking for companionship. The exact way you are.
"So," Tony had said, setting his wine glass down on the table. "For next time, I’m thinking hike. More of an activity - to see how we gel outside of the wining and dining.”
You’re a little surprised. Tony doesn’t seem like the hiking type. Maybe he’s just trying to appeal to your interests. “Yeah, that would be nice. Any thoughts on which one?”
“Ah, let me surprise you, okay? I know a great one quite nearby. Incredible sunsets.”
An instant alarm goes off in your head, ringing with Titus’s voice. Never let a guy you barely know take you to a second location, let alone isolated woods, without a pin dropped. Unfortunately, your most recent experience with Titus involved watching him stick his tongue down some model’s throat ‘for the sake of appearances’.
You haven’t spoken to him since, despite the many texts and voicemails left.
Titus doesn't get to dictate your safety metrics anymore - not when he’s the one who left you stranded in this emotional limbo.
Patience wearing ever thinner, you consider Tony’s words. “Not even a hint?”
“Wouldn’t that ruin the surprise?”
Over the next week, you tried in vain to get some more information out of him, to no avail. He wouldn’t even tell you what type of terrain it was likely to be.
Sneakers are fine, don’t overthink it.
He’s picking you up at 4:00 AM, so that by the time you drive out to the trail, the sun will be beginning to rise, and you can catch the views from the top.
In theory? Super romantic.
Titus only hikes if there’s the promise of murder at the end of it.
Tony has a normal-person job, and you’d be able to leave all the LeBail business behind you with him. Which is how you end up in his car when it’s still dark, trying to discern where he’s taking you. You’re pretty familiar with all the trails in the city’s vicinity, and this highway doesn’t lead towards any of them.
You’re trying to ignore the anxious buzzing in your stomach, making polite conversation until Tony asks, “So, did you tell anyone what you were doing today?”
An answer slips out before you can consider your words. “No.”
Shit. Why did you say that?
“Well, I mean-” You stall a little, unsure of what to say, but suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Think we could stop for coffee on the way? My treat.”
“Nah,” He shrugs. “I’d rather just get there, if that’s okay - we still have a decent drive, and I don’t want to miss the sunrise.”
Your mind races through the geography of the area, desperate to find a logical explanation for this route. None exists. The highway is empty, swallowed by the thick fog of the pre-dawn hours, and his profile in the dim glow of the dashboard looks sharper and colder than it did over tiramisu.
"So," Tony says, his voice abruptly slicing through the quiet. The sudden shift in tone makes you jump. "You never finished telling me about that project at work. The one with the crazy deadlines?”
"Oh. Right," you lie, your throat dry. You force out a brief anecdote of your awful boss, leaving out how you’d rather be having your worst day at work than be here with him right now.
Five minutes tick by. The road narrows. The highway lines fade from bright white to a weathered, neglected yellow. Every instinct is screaming at you to do something. Anything - before it’s too late.
"Hey, Tony?" you say, keeping your voice light, aiming for casual but landing on brittle. "Actually, could we pull over at the next gas station? Or even just a rest stop? I really need to pee. Especially before we start a hike.”
Tony doesn't look at you. His grip on the steering wheel doesn't shift, his knuckles white against the dark leather.
"Nah, we're making great time right now," he says, a small, dismissive shrug of his shoulder accompanying the words. "There’s nothing out here for miles anyway. You can just do it when we get there. It won't be long.”
The dismissal hits you like a physical blow. You can do it when we get there.
You have to let someone know where you are. But who?
You’re not sure that any of your friends are even awake right now. Except…
Titus.
It always comes back to him. You weigh up your options - the smugness when he realises that he has to come and rescue you again. That he can mingle with movie stars and socialites, while the only men that are interested in you turn out to be losers and psychopaths.
When the alternative is death, the decision seems easy.
You slip your phone out of your pocket, and click on Titus’ number. You don’t even tell Tony you’re making a call.
Come on, you think. Please pick up. Please still be awake.
Please please please please please please-
“Hello?”
His voice is groggy and tinged with sleep, and the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
“Mom!” You say immediately, barely sparing a glance at Tony. You’ve already decided that if Tony is as dangerous as you worry he might be, then phoning another man is not a good idea. “I’m so sorry to call so early, but I saw that you’d called last night.”
“What? It’s Titus, kid. Is everything okay?”
Your heart is thumping against your chest as you will him to catch on. “I know! It’s been too long - but I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. Just thought I should tell you that Dad’s gift is ready to be picked up. I was thinking maybe you could get it, since I’m hiking today.”
There’s a moment of dead air on the line, and for one agonising second you worry that he’s hung up, or you’ve lost signal. You stare straight out the windshield, watching the headlights cut through the pitch-black void, praying that the sharp, calculating mind that makes Titus so formidable in the LeBail circle is firing through his sleep-deprived haze.
"Hiking," Titus repeats. The grogginess vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, razor-sharp focus. His tone drops an octave, all business now. "Where exactly are you?"
"Exactly! The weather is supposed to be beautiful," you say, your voice bright, breezy, and entirely unhinged from the terror clawing at your throat. You slide your thumb down the side of the phone, blindly feeling for the volume buttons, desperately trying to click them down so Tony can't catch the low rumble of a man's voice.
"Give me a location," Titus commands. His voice is low, but you can hear the rustle of sheets, the sudden shift of weight as he swings his legs out of bed. "Drop a pin right now if you can. What road are you on?”
“The cell service isn’t great out here, Mom,” You reply, continuing to smile even though your cheeks ache from the effort. “But I’ll try and send some photos! We’re headed east, so I think the views are going to be really great.”
"I can't track your signal," Titus says, his voice cutting through with an urgency that scares you. "The connection is degrading. It's dropping to a single bar. I need landmarks, or you need to get out of-”
“Is everything okay?” Tony interrupts, and you flinch slightly.
“Fine,” You chirp. “Sorry - it’s my dad’s retirement party tonight, and I just needed to tell my mom to go grab his gift.” Turning your attention back to the phone, you swallow. “Gotta go, mom - I’ll call you later? Bye, love you!”
Titus’ voice comes immediately. “Don’t hang up the phone-”
You don’t. Instead, you drop it to your lap, with the screen turned inwards so that Tony can’t see. “Sorry about that.”
Tony’s foot hits the brake, and the sudden deceleration jerks you forward. The car swerves right, leaving the asphalt of the highway behind, replaced by an uneven dirt trail.
"Wow, it’s really dense out here," you say, forcing your voice to stay loud and clear for Titus. "It looks so dark under all these massive oak trees. And that dried-up creek bed back there - is that part of the state park border, or are we on private property now?”
“I own this land with a couple of buddies - that’s why it was such a surprise. Nobody else gets to use these trails, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
Great. Your heart sinks a little further.
The car crawls forward another hundred yards before the headlights illuminate a heavy, rusted iron gate blocking the road. A thick chain and a massive padlock hold it shut.
Tony cuts the engine. “Just gotta unlock it.”
He pops the door open, and you consider your chances of making it if you start running now. Probably not great. Through the windshield, you watch his silhouette move into the beam of the headlights, his hands working at the heavy chain.
You whip the phone out of your pocket, bringing up the screen to check the call status, ready to scream a real landmark to Titus.
No signal.
Call failed.
You think you might cry.
All you can do is pray that Titus has enough information to find you. Nails digging into your palms, you force another smile at Tony, as he drives you further into the woods.
After what feels like a lifetime, he pulls into an opening, and you immediately start cataloguing all the information you can.
There’s another truck down at the end - hopefully a vehicle they leave here. Because if it’s not, you potentially have another assailant to deal with. The ground is a pale, hard-packed dirt ringed by towering, skeletal trees that completely shut out the sky. Dead leaves carpet the edges, and directly in the centre of the clearing sits a massive, looming stack of logs. They’re piled easily ten feet high - thick, weathered trunks of pine and oak, rough bark peeling away.
“You bring all the girls up here?” You joke feebly.
“Only the really pretty ones.” He offers a small, boyish grin that, just yesterday, you would have found endearing.
Getting out of the car, you note the direction of the highway. It’s past about fifty metres of woodland, but you hope you could make it in a sprint. Maybe if you catch Tony off-guard. “How long do you think the hike will take?”
“Maybe an hour? Hard to say - but we shouldn’t rush.”
Terrifyingly, the cold Tony of the car ride is gone, and he’s back to date one Anthony. Maybe the LeBail paranoia has finally eroded your sanity, twisting a sweet, outdoor surprise into a psychological thriller. Maybe he really is just a corporate guy who wants to show you a sunrise. Maybe you’ve been mis-reading it all, and actually-
Out of the corner of your eye, peaking out from under the logs, sits a shoe. A New Balance trainer, pale pink, and far too small to be a man’s.
The illusion of Date-One Anthony shatters into a thousand jagged, lethal pieces. The normal job, the Hinge profile, the vulnerable story about his divorce - it was all bait.
"Hey," Tony says, the heavy thud of his car trunk snapping shut behind you. You hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel, moving steadily closer to your back. "I grabbed the backpack. You ready to head down the trail?”
If you were to run now, he would undoubtedly catch you. He’s taller, stronger, and far more familiar with this place than you are. Your only option now is to bide your time. “Shall we take a pre-hike selfie? Compare it to the top?”
Your camera is open already, and you snap a few blurry shots of him. If you don’t make it out of this, at least your evidence might stop it happening to other girls.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” He laughs. “We can just do one at the top Ladies first.”
He gestures down the trail, and you have to fight back a wave of nausea. This is it. You’re going to die, all because you wanted to get back at Titus for seeing other women.
What a silly thing to lose your life over.
You’re hyper-aware of each and every footstep, checking for service at every possible second. Still nothing. “I’m actually kind of tired,” You try, one last time. “Didn’t sleep too well-”
“We’re here now.” Tony’s tone invites no conversation.
You turn to keep an eye on the trail behind you, pretending to adjust the collar of your jacket, and the air leaves your lungs completely.
A shadow is moving through the trees. It isn't an animal. It’s a man, wearing a dark canvas jacket, stepping silently off the main dirt track and into the brush, mirroring your pace. The driver of the mud-caked truck.
You have to get out of here. Now.
Biding your time is no longer an option. If you walk any deeper into these woods, you will be sandwiched between them, entirely cut off from the fifty meters of woodland that separates you from the highway.
You don't say another word. You don't make an excuse. You think you might die if you do.
Instead, you pivot on your heel and break into a blind, desperate sprint toward the direction of the highway.
"Whoa, hey! Where are you going?" he calls out, his tone mimicking normal, polite confusion for a split second. But as the distance between you grows, the fake concern twists into a venomous, roaring rage. "Hey! Stop! Get back here!”
You don't look back.
"Marcus!" Tony screams, his heavy footsteps crashing through the brush behind you, terrifyingly fast. "Marcus, she's running! Cut her off! Grab the bitch! I fucking told you she knew something!”
Your lungs burn like hot ash as you charge through the final thicket of briars. The trees begin to thin, and through the tangled branches, you finally see it: the steep, gravel embankment leading up to the highway. You know you only have one shot to get up. Tony is hot on your heels, and any mistakes will mean that you’re not making it out of these woods.
You throw your weight forward, scrambling on all fours, your fingers clawing at the gravel to pull yourself up.
"Get back here!" Tony’s voice is a guttural roar directly behind you.
Just as your hands find the flat edge of the highway shoulder, a hand wraps around your ankle, tugging harshly. His nails dig sharply into your skin, pinning you to the dirt. The sheer terror infuses your muscles with a sudden, feral strength. You twist your body, kicking backward with your free right heel as hard as you can. Your shoe connects squarely with something solid - maybe his nose, maybe his jaw, you don't care.
He grunts, his grip slipping just enough. You wrench your ankle free, scrambling the last two feet over the lip of the embankment and onto the cold, hard pavement of the highway.
You stumble to your feet, spinning around. Tony is already rising over the crest of the hill, his eyes wild, sweat slicking his hair, Marcus just a few paces behind him in the shadows of the treeline. You are trapped on an empty road with nowhere left to run.
And then, a light.
From around the corner, a car appears. It blinds you, but you know that if you can’t get this person to stop, there is no doubt in your mind that Tony and his friend are going to drag you back into the foliage and kill you.
You don’t realise that it’s a Danforth sedan until it screeches to a halt a few feet away, door swinging open immediately.
The moment Titus leaps out of the car, the adrenaline that was keeping your legs moving completely evaporates. Your knees buckle, and you burst into heavy, violent tears, the raw sobbing racking your entire body as the pure terror of the last hour finally crashes down on you.
"Titus, oh my god-"
He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his powerful arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He holds you with a crushing, protective grip, one hand cupping the back of your head, pressing you into his shoulder.
"I've got you," He mutters, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your ear, thick with what might be worry? You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Titus worried before, even after twenty-five years of friendship. "I've got you, sweetheart. You're safe."
Safe.
You blink through your tears, looking over his shoulder toward the edge of the embankment where Tony had been standing just a second ago.
The shoulder is empty.
They're gone.
It should fill you with relief, but all you can feel is a complete and utter dread. They're still out there.
mhmmmmm part two perhaps with some smut and titus dealing with tony and marcus?
Ormund Hightower x Targ!reader, Daeron x sister!reader (maternal relationship)
summary: And what is the eldest sibling, but a shield for the younger?
words: 2k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest (Ormund is technically her cousin and I guess that does not count in GOT terms, but I am warning it anyways), allusions to sex, toxic relationship themes, co-dependent dynamics, manipulation, slightly OOC Ormund?, religious themes, talks of blood “impurity”, reader rides Silverwing, reader is Aegon’s twin, but no physical description is used, not proofread, lmk if I missed any
Most forget that you came out first. It was something that nobody truly talked as it would send a few of Otto's plan out of motion. It would make Aegon seem like he deserved it less. So, it was something that was pushed under the rug and never truly talked about.
But you knew it. All your siblings knew it purely based on how you treated them. You were the eldest. You were always the protector from the world, and suddenly that posed an issue in Otto's plan once more and you were sent off to Old Town.
To be raised in the way of the starry sept. To be forgotten that you would technically inherit a throne over Aegon. To Ormund.
You thought your days of playing protector were over, but you were wrong. And though your methods had changed, and so had the threats. The goal was the same. You were a shield. For Daeron.
You kept Ormund at bay. You took his frustration and his anger instead of Daeron. He still saw it. He still heard it all, but he never handled the brunt of it. You did, and you always would to protect him.
He was a boy, and most days he felt as if he was your boy rather than Alicent's or Viserys.
Yours and Ormund's son.
Your skirts, whispered against the ground, as your feet moved quickly through the halls. No one stopped you. No man dared spared you a second glance in fear of Ormund. And no woman let their eyes analyze you in fear of you.
A steward had come sprinting in worry, carrying Daeron's quick need of you, and the closer you approached you knew exactly why. You could hear his outburst before you had even pushed open the doors.
You paused, seeing Daeron's frightful expression, listening as Ormund screamed of craven cunt's, lifting his sword before slamming it down against the table. Marking it time and time again.
"Ormund. "
He did not stop, continuing to yell. Striking the table with his blade repeatedly. You closed your eyes letting out a sigh.
"Ormund!" you yelled louder, more sternly finally poking through the anger.
He stopped abruptly, his ragged breaths filling the room as he sheathed his sword. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Daeron stared at you wide eyed, and you smiled at him. Your composure remained calm, "Daeron why don't you leave us," you suggested.
The Hightower's wild expression met yours, "He should know—"
You cut him off, "We can tell him afterwards," you held his burning, gaze watching as his face changed slightly.
Before he nodded, "Leave us, Daeron. You as well," he said nodding Jon Roxton. Your brother hesitated, but you smiled at him once more, and finally he left.
The solar was now empty beside the two of you, and your kind smile dropped from your face in a flash, "What has happened?" you asked, calmly.
Ormund's composed demeanor had once returned, "Gwayne has sent word. Aemond will not be joining us after all," he told you, and you watched his jaw clench momentarily.
His eyes swept across your form taking in your appearance. Your dress was the colors of his house, like he preferred. Your hair was styled the way he liked. Every single visible thing about you was the way he liked down to the tiniest aspect and that was on purpose.
"And Gwayne? Are they joining us here?" you asked, taking a step across that line like you did time and time again. It was an invisible boundary and you knew him well enough to know he would make the next move.
He moved toward you quickly now standing in front of you as if the space between you was previously unbearable. You knew he liked to be as close as possible when given the chance. As if you were one whole rather than two individuals. He reached forward gripping your chin. Not harshly, but merely forcing you to meet his eyes.
"We must alter our scheme," he told you.
You hummed, "If anyone can come up with a solution it is you," you fed into his ego, with a gentle smile. "We have time. We have Silverwing, and you know I will do as I must for you."
For you. That was purposeful. Not for Aegon. Not for the Throne, but for you because he mattered more than it all. As if everything in your life was replaceable, but him.
He nodded, letting go over your chin. His large hand moved petting down your hair until it moved to rest against your neck tilting your head upwards. His head then moved to rest against the crook of your neck as he breathed you.
"What would I do with you, my girl?" he whispered.
"You will never have to find," you assured him.
Ormund pulled back, with a smile still holding you, having you meet his eyes as if you would turn away, "You shelter him," he then said, referring to Daeron.
"I want what is best for him," you whispered.
"Are you saying I do not? I have done nothing, but help you both. Saving you from the sully of your kin," he told you, his voice started to rise, but he was still calm. He had not allowed the violence that filled him to fully take over.
Not yet.
You did not reply at first, searching for the correct words, because any wrong footing and you would be in dangerous territory. You had learned how to steer away from that. To control the controller without him knowing.
"Of course not. You are our savior, my love, but Daeron…He needs to be our shining boy, and if you push him before he is ready then he will dull," your hands, moved up his face the way you knew he liked. His eyes closed, moving into your touch, closing his eyes as if you soothed away all the wrath slowly.
It would not kill it completely, but it would be soon enough. When he remembered his favorite ways he liked to use you in dulling the rage that burned inside him. One that would cause your mother to weep, or mayhaps not. What would truly appall her was more that you enjoyed his rage.
"Tell me what you are thinking," you whispered, wanting to know what was going through his mind. Needing to know what you were working with to start formulating a plan, the proper words, and what he needed from you.
"Aegon and Aemond are tainted. They are…"
"Unfit to rule?" you asked, causing him to nod.
"And who do you think shall take their place then?" you asked, treading the line carefully.
You did not want to lead him to a place that you did not want him to go. Not Daeron. You did not want to suggest Daeron. You did not want him to choose Daeron. The sweet boy, who held a kindest that was so often not found in your life anywhere. He was a boy, and a crown would do nothing, but weigh him down.
You would protect him if you must, but—"You are the eldest," he whispered, bringing you from your thoughts. Your eyes met his face, and you watched an idea click into his mind.
Your stomach churned. It was something that you had heard him whisper about in passing. When he rutted into you, talking about breeding you. That he would bring a purity to your blood. His children could sit the throne. Because you were the eldest not Aegon.
You could feel him harden against your stomach at the thought, "You are the rightful heir, and…" he smiled, his lips turning up wickedly, as his hand drifted down resting on your hips, "Oh, my brilliant girl. Think about it now. What we could have…"
You knew this was better. This was what you were meant to do. Take the burden form your younger siblings, and you would do it for Daeron. You would do it for Ormund.
"Do you think I could do it? That they would accept me as a ruler?" you asked, looking away in pretend bashfulness. As if you could not believe the idea.
"Oh, my beauty. I would not leave you in this alone. I will help you, just as I always have," he pressed his mouth to yours, before letting his mouth trail down your throat.
"I will restore your Throne." He kissed at your throat, his teeth grazing against the soft flesh.
"Our children will rule," his hands moved, pulling your skirts up, and you could feel your arousal dripping out of you.
"Then we must be wed finally," you told him, and you could feel him grin against your skin as if he was victorious. As if he had convinced you as if he were in control.
"I will make the arrangements, and our true campaign shall begin."
You smiled softly to yourself as you finally found Daeron despite your shaky legs, from Ormund’s ceaseless breeding “celebration.”
"I knew I would find you here," you called out. His head laid against his beautiful blue mount, whispering reassurance that they would soon be allowed to take flight.
It was what made everything you had done worth it. His happiness. His innocence. His protection.
Tessarion's head snapped up toward you, but she did not growl in warning. If anything she looked almost happy to see you. Your brother turned to face you, "Is he still angry?"
You shook your head. You clasped your hands in front of you as you then approached the pair. Your hand lifted slowly allow the dragon time to react, but she never did. Finally you moved against her scales petting her slowly.
Your own dragon Silverwing, flew constantly around the town. In warning, to your half-sister, to the folks of what laid outside their gates. She was also too big to keep chained up, but you would have allowed that anyways. As it was you were slowly working on getting Terssarion that same freedom.
"Not so much," you told him. You lifted your arm without sparing him a glance, knowing what he needed.
He slipped into your embrace quickly allowing you to hold him as you continued to show his mount affection. "I am sorry you had to witness him like that," you told him pressing a kiss to his head.
"Aemond is not coming is he?" he then asked, instead of replying to apologies.
You let out a sigh, dropping your hand from the dragon as you pulled Daeron from your embrace gently. He stood in front of you as you cupped his cheeks, "No he is not."
He stared at you, with big sad eyes that caused your heart to ache, "What then?" he asked.
You swallowed, "Ormund has decided he wishes to appoint a new Heir… Aegon is thought to be dead…and Aemond has abandoned the throne," you pushed your lips together, "He has decided he wants me to sit the throne."
"What of our brothers?" he questioned, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You know what he thinks of our brothers. Of our family, and this…" You closed your eyes, "This is the best option for all of us. For you. I am the eldest. It is my job to protect you," you assured him.
He stared at you for a moment, before nodding. Because he believed you. That is what you always had done. Protect him. Do what is best for him before yourself. Though he was young he knew this at his very core, because it was all you had ever shown him. Maternal love he never received anywhere else.
"You know I will not let anything happen to you?" It was a statement, as much as question. You wanted him to know how much you cared for him. You needed him to know that you would protect him no matter what. That you would do whatever it took to keep him safe.
"I know."
You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "Good. Let us get some food into you and then you should sleep. The days that come will be long."
"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader
Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.
Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)
Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture
Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!
Word Count: 11.6k
You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.
It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.
Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.
“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”
You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.
While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”
There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.
Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”
Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”
Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”
“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”
She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”
“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”
“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”
“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”
Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”
When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.
A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.
You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”
“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”
His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”
As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”
Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”
You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”
As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”
Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”
That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.
Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.
Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”
“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”
Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”
He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”
Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”
“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”
“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”
They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”
Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”
You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?
“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”
You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”
“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”
From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”
Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”
At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”
“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”
Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”
“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”
She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”
Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”
Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”
Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”
Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”
It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.
All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.
When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”
But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”
Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”
“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”
Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”
He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”
“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”
“What’d you say?”
Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”
“Very tactful.”
You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”
Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”
Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”
“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”
You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”
“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”
The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.
When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”
You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”
His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”
Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool.”
He chuckles, “I’m cool?”
“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”
“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”
“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”
Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”
You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”
“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”
Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”
“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”
You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”
“I can see that.”
You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”
“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.
“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”
He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”
You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”
He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”
Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”
Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”
You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.
After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”
“Am I?”
“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”
“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”
“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”
Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”
The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”
The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.
With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”
His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.
Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”
It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”
“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”
And, god, is that sexy.
You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.
Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.
After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”
You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.
You eat lunch together.
You talk.
You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.
It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.
Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.
He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”
Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.
Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest. With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”
His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”
Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”
“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”
You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”
His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”
That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”
“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”
You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”
“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”
“Sorry again for-”
“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”
“Then thanks.”
“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”
“I can tell.”
As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.
That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.
It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.
The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”
Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”
“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining”
Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”
Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”
Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”
Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”
When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”
The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…
When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.
You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.
After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”
He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”
“So what was all the yelling for?”
Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”
A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”
Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”
All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”
With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”
“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”
Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”
“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”
“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”
“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m begging you.”
You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”
For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”
That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”
A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”
“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”
Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”
Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”
You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”
“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”
It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”
“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”
“I have the whole weekend.”
Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”
“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”
“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”
“Ten.”
“Pick me up at 9:30.”
“I could take you to breakfast first.”
“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”
“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”
“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”
Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.
He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”
You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.
Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”
Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”
“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”
He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”
“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”
“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”
“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”
“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.
Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.
When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.
“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”
“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”
Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.
When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”
With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”
His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”
You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.
By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”
Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”
He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”
He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.
“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”
You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”
He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”
Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”
“Yup, absolutely.”
You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”
He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”
You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”
“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”
You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”
Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”
It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”
You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”
“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”
Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.
Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1
Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”
Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”
“Okay, but what if I-”
Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”
You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.
Then it finally starts to get good.
Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.
It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.
Possessive.
The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him.
When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.
Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”
“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”
He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”
“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”
You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”
“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”
He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”
“Now that makes me feel sexy.”
“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”
As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”
“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
And he does.
All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.
With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.
“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”
You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”
And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.
Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”
Summary: Steve spends one afternoon discovering you have no sense of self-preservation, which means following you around with water, sunscreen and increasingly specific instructions not to walk directly into the blazing sun.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, heatwave, protective steve harrington, mildy incompetent reader with no survival instincts, everyone say thank you steve harrington (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 3.7k
A/N: this one is inspired by an outing with my boyfriend a few days ago because this is exactly what ended up happening 😭 every five minutes he was handing me water, putting my sunglasses back on my face, moving me into the shade and reminding me to put sunscreen on... despite the fact i was the one complaining about how hot i was. genuinely no idea how he puts up with me <3
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
The county fair is already busy by the time the two of you arrive.
Children dart between food stalls clutching candyfloss nearly as big as they are, music drifts lazily from somewhere beyond the rows of games, and the unmistakable smell of fried dough, popcorn and sun-warmed grass hangs heavily in the air. It's one of those perfect midsummer Saturdays where everyone seems to have had exactly the same idea, the pathways crowded with families, teenagers and couples wandering aimlessly from one attraction to the next with absolutely nowhere urgent to be.
Unfortunately, it's also unbearably hot. The sort of heat that settles stubbornly over everything before midday and shows absolutely no intention of leaving any time soon.
You make it approximately four minutes through the entrance before stopping dramatically beneath a string of bunting, pressing the back of one hand to your forehead with theatrical despair.
"I'm melting."
Steve barely looks up from unfolding the little paper map somebody had insisted on handing him at the gate. "No baby, you're warm."
"I'm becoming one with the pavement."
"You've been here five minutes."
"I've suffered enough."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "You'll survive."
"I don't know..." You fan yourself dramatically with one hand as though the movement might somehow generate a breeze. "I think this might be the end."
Steve folds the map shut, reaches across without a word, and slides his sunglasses from the top of his own head onto yours.
"There."
The world immediately becomes several shades darker. "...Oh."
"Better?"
You reluctantly nod. "...A little."
"I know."
He reaches for your hand as naturally as breathing, intertwining your fingers before leading you towards the first row of stalls, already smiling to himself as you become distracted almost immediately by somebody selling homemade lemonade the colour of sunshine.
The next hour disappears exactly the way summer afternoons are supposed to.
You share a paper cone of fresh doughnuts while wandering between rides, watch teenagers trying - and failing - to win enormous stuffed animals at impossible carnival games, spend far too long debating whether the queue for the Ferris wheel is actually worth it, and lose an embarrassingly competitive round of ring toss to two children who can't have been older than eight.
By the time you've wandered towards the food trucks at the far side of the fairground, Steve glances across at you and stops walking.
"...Where are the sunglasses?"
You blink. "My what?"
"The sunglasses."
Instinctively, your hand flies to the top of your head. Nothing. "...Oh."
Steve waits patiently.
"They're..." You rummage absent-mindedly through your tote bag before eventually producing them from somewhere beneath your purse and the half-finished packet of strawberries you'd insisted on buying ten minutes earlier. "...In my bag?"
He stares at you. "...Why?"
You look down at the sunglasses as though seeing them for the first time. "I forgot I was wearing them."
"You took them off."
"I did?"
"You absolutely did."
"When?"
"I have no idea."
For a long moment, Steve simply looks at you with an expression hovering somewhere between fond exasperation and quiet disbelief.
Then, with a sigh so gentle it's impossible to mistake for genuine annoyance, he plucks the sunglasses from your hand. "Hold still."
You obediently do as you're told while he settles them carefully back onto your face, nudging them into place with the sort of unconscious tenderness that makes your chest ache just a little. "There."
You smile up at him. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me."
You laugh. "Why?"
His lips twitch. "'Cause I'm gonna be doing this all day."
You grin, reaching automatically for his hand again as you continue further into the fair. "You're exaggerating."
"I don't think I am."
"Oh, come on."
"You've already forgotten your sunglasses once."
"That hardly counts."
"It absolutely counts."
"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."
Steve raises one eyebrow. "You've been here an hour."
"So?"
"You've complained about the heat six times."
"I have not."
"You've forgotten your sunglasses."
A beat.
"You've almost walked into a fountain."
"I was looking at the ducks."
"You nearly walked into a stroller because you were watching the ducks."
"They were cute ducks."
He can't help laughing.
You beam triumphantly. "Aha."
"What?"
"I knew you'd smile eventually."
Steve shakes his head, slipping his fingers more securely between yours as the two of you disappear into the crowd again.
"You think this is funny."
"It is funny."
He glances sideways at you, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself.
You think he's joking.
Steve, on the other hand, is already quietly preparing himself for the increasingly inevitable realisation that, for the remainder of the afternoon, keeping you out of direct sunlight is apparently going to become his full-time occupation.
The first couple of times, Steve assumes it's coincidence.
The fair is busy enough that the two of you are constantly weaving between crowds, stopping every few minutes to watch something new or join another queue, and he doesn't think much of it when you pause beside the ice cream stand while standing squarely beneath the brightest patch of midday sun.
He simply steps into the shade himself, figuring you'll wander over in a moment.
You don't. Instead, you continue chatting quite happily while the sun beats relentlessly down onto your shoulders.
Steve glances from you, to the enormous oak tree casting a perfectly good patch of shade barely three feet away, then back again.
"Huh."
Eventually the queue moves, and so do you.
He forgets about it. Until ten minutes later.
You're waiting to have a go on the Ferris wheel, and somehow - despite the shaded queue snaking comfortably beneath a row of canvas awnings - you've managed to stop in the single stretch of path left completely exposed to the sun.
Steve looks around. There is shade. Everywhere. Except where you're standing.
He quietly reaches for your hand. Without a word, he guides you three steps to the left. You follow without resistance, continuing your story as though nothing has happened.
"...and then Robin actually told him-"
Steve nods absent-mindedly. "Mhm."
You don't even notice.
The third time is while you're deciding between lemonade and slushies. The fourth is outside the haunted house. The fifth happens while you're watching a street performer juggle flaming batons, where you've somehow positioned yourself directly beneath the hottest patch of sunshine in the entire fairground despite an enormous striped parasol casting cool shade less than an arm's length away.
Steve begins to suspect this isn't bad luck. It's instinct. An incredibly inconvenient instinct.
By now, he's stopped mentioning it altogether.
Instead, every time you come to a halt, he automatically reaches for your hand, your elbow, or the small of your back and gently steers you a few feet sideways before you have the chance to settle wherever you've decided to stand.
You never question it. You simply shuffle along with him, entirely engrossed in whatever you're looking at.
After the sixth or seventh relocation, Steve realises he's developed something of a system.
Spot shade. Locate girlfriend. Move girlfriend into shade. Repeat.
It's almost frightening how naturally it comes to him.
Eventually, somewhere between sharing a paper cup of frozen lemonade and watching children shriek their way around the bumper cars, you finally begin to notice.
You stop halfway through a sentence, looking around with a puzzled little frown. "...Steve."
"Hm?"
"Why do we keep moving?"
He glances at you. "What do you mean?"
"You keep..." You gesture vaguely between the two of you. "...relocating me."
"I am."
"...Why?"
Steve looks at you for a long moment, as though he's trying to work out whether you're genuinely asking. "You keep trying to photosynthesise."
You blink. "...What?"
"You are constantly standing in direct sunlight."
"I am not."
"You absolutely are."
"No, I'm not."
He simply raises an eyebrow before slowly turning his head.
You follow his gaze. Directly above you, the sun blazes down without a single cloud in sight.
Then you look to your left. The shade is approximately two steps away.
"...Oh."
Steve folds his arms with quiet satisfaction. "Exactly."
You hesitate. "I didn't even realise."
"I know."
"I wasn't doing it on purpose."
"I know."
"So why didn't you just tell me?"
His expression softens into something quietly amused. "I figured it was quicker just to move you."
A laugh escapes before you can stop it. "You've just been... repositioning me?"
"Pretty much."
"How many times?"
Steve pretends to think about it. "...I've lost count."
You stare at him for a second before laughing properly, shaking your head as you reach for his hand. "You know that's insane."
"I know."
"And slightly overprotective."
"I know."
"But..."
You glance down at your feet, only now noticing that, yes, you're standing right back in the sunshine again.
Steve notices too.
Without breaking eye contact, he gently tugs your hand, three steps to the left, back into the shade. "There."
You can't help smiling. "...Okay, maybe keep doing it."
By the time you've made it halfway around the fair, Steve has quietly stopped pretending this is a temporary situation.
At first, it had only been the sunglasses.
Now, somewhere between the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars, he's produced a bottle of water from his tote bag and pressed it into your hand without so much as breaking stride.
"Drink."
"I only had some five minutes ago."
"I know."
"So I'm not thirsty."
"You will be."
You look at him suspiciously before taking a sip anyway.
Steve nods once, evidently satisfied with your decision-making, before relieving you of the bottle again and slipping it back into the bag slung over his shoulder.
The next addition arrives twenty minutes later.
You pause to watch somebody painting caricatures when Steve notices the faintest hint of pink creeping across your shoulders.
He sighs. Not dramatically, just with the quiet resignation of a man who had, somehow, found himself solely responsible for another fully-grown adult's wellbeing.
"Sunscreen."
You look over. "What?"
He's already rummaging through his bag. "Arm."
"My arm?"
"Both of them."
You hold them out obediently, trying very hard not to laugh while Steve squeezes a generous amount of sunscreen into his palm before rubbing it carefully into your shoulders and forearms with the concentration of somebody restoring a priceless work of art.
People wander past without paying the slightest attention. To Steve, it's the most normal thing in the world.
"There."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me."
"You've said that before."
"I'll probably say it again."
Half an hour after that, you stop in front of one of the little souvenir stalls selling everything from novelty keyrings to oversized floppy hats.
Steve stops too.
His eyes drift from the display, to your face, then back again.
Five dollars later, a wide-brimmed straw hat is being settled gently onto your head.
You look up at him under the brim. "...Steve."
"What?"
"You bought me a hat."
"I did."
"I already own hats."
"You didn't bring one."
"...Fair."
He adjusts it slightly until it shades your face properly before stepping back to inspect his work with quiet approval. "Better."
"You know," you say, smiling despite yourself, "this is getting a little ridiculous."
"No."
"No?"
"Ridiculous would've been buying two hats."
You snort. "I hate that that's almost logical."
The final addition comes courtesy of one of the gift stalls near the exit.
You're absent-mindedly fanning yourself with the fair programme while waiting for fresh lemonade, when Steve quietly disappears for all of two minutes.
He returns holding something behind his back.
"For you."
He reveals a tiny battery-powered handheld fan decorated with cheerful little daisies.
You stare at it. "...For me?"
"For you."
"You bought me a fan."
"You've complained about the heat twelve times."
"Twelve?"
"I've been keeping count."
You laugh so hard you nearly drop the lemonade. "I don't believe you."
"It was actually thirteen."
He switches the fan on before placing it carefully into your hands. The little blades whirr to life immediately, sending a wonderfully cool stream of air across your face.
Your eyes widen. "...Oh."
"I know."
"It's amazing."
"I know."
"You were right."
"I know."
By now, none of your belongings are actually being carried by you anymore.
Your tote bag hangs from Steve's shoulder alongside his own. The water bottle disappears into one pocket between regular hydration checks. The sunscreen lives permanently within easy reach. Every time you wander into the sunshine, he adjusts the brim of your hat before quietly steering you back towards the nearest patch of shade, while the little fan somehow keeps finding its way back into his hand whenever you become distracted by something shiny.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you consciously deciding it, Steve has stopped behaving like your boyfriend and started behaving like your own personal travelling field hospital.
Unfortunately for him, it's at precisely this moment that Robin spots the two of you.
She's apparently been at the fair with Vickie all afternoon, though neither of you have noticed her in the crowds.
Robin takes one look at Steve, one look at the ever-growing collection of supplies hanging from his shoulders, then one look at you happily wandering along beside him, completely oblivious to the fact that you aren't carrying a single thing.
She stops dead. "...Steve."
"What?"
Robin gestures helplessly towards the two of you. "...Why do you look like you're escorting somebody through the Sahara?"
Steve doesn't even hesitate. "Because apparently I am."
Robin stares at him for a full second.
Then she doubles over laughing.
"I am literally fine," you protest.
Both of them look at you.
Then Steve quietly raises a finger. "You're sunburnt."
You frown. "...No, I'm not."
He reaches out and gently taps the end of your nose.
You blink. "...Oh."
Robin makes a strangled sort of noise that suggests she'll never recover from this. "I cannot believe this is your life now."
Steve looks over just in time to find you've already become distracted by somebody selling giant stuffed animals and are beginning, once again, to drift slowly out into the sunshine.
Without missing a beat, he reaches over, takes your hand, and guides you three steps back into the shade.
Then he looks at Robin with the expression of a man who's accepted his fate hours ago. "Neither can I."
Robin laughs too hard to answer.
By late-afternoon, Steve quietly decides he's had enough.
Not of the fair.
Of you. Or, more specifically, of your ongoing campaign to lose a fight against the sun.
Without announcing his intentions, he takes your hand and gently steers you away from the busiest part of the fairground, weaving between families and food stalls until you reach a row of wooden picnic benches tucked beneath the enormous oak trees near the edge of the field.
The difference in temperature is immediate. A cool breeze stirs through the leaves overhead, dappling the grass with shifting patches of sunlight, while the relentless afternoon heat softens into something almost pleasant.
Steve points firmly towards the bench. "Sit."
You look between him and the empty seat. "...Are you telling me off?"
"I'm helping you."
"That's not what I asked."
He simply raises an eyebrow. "The bench."
You can't help smiling as you lower yourself onto it anyway, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. "There."
"There."
Steve nods once, apparently satisfied, before slipping the tote bag from his shoulder and immediately beginning what has become an almost comically familiar routine.
The water bottle appears first. He presses it into your hand. "Drink."
You obediently take a few sips while he switches on the little handheld fan and places it carefully beside you on the bench, angling it towards your face before adjusting the brim of your straw hat for what has to be the tenth time that afternoon.
You watch him with growing amusement. "...Steve."
"What?"
"You know I'm a grown woman."
"I do."
"I can look after myself."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looks at you. Then at the bottle still in your hand. Then back again.
"I have my doubts."
You pout dramatically. "I wasn't even that hot."
Steve doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he fixes you with the sort of look usually reserved for people who've said something demonstrably untrue.
"You told me seventeen minutes ago you were 'withering away.'"
You blink. "...Did I?"
"Mhm."
"I don't remember that."
"You also informed me your soul was evaporating."
A beat. "I was being dramatic."
"You looked like you were gonna faint."
"I absolutely did not."
"You asked me if pigeons get heatstroke."
"...That's unrelated."
"It really isn't."
"It was just a question."
"You were genuinely concerned for them."
"I care about wildlife."
"You were worried because one of them looked warm."
"He did look warm."
Steve finally loses the battle, a laugh escaping him before he can stop it, quiet at first, then fuller, warmer, until he's shaking his head to himself with that wonderfully unguarded smile you love so much.
Not the polite laugh he gives strangers. Not the amused little huff you usually get when you're winding him up. A proper one. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him duck his head for a second as though he can't quite believe this is his life.
You find yourself smiling back almost automatically. Not because you've won the argument. You know perfectly well you haven't. Simply because that's been your goal all afternoon.
"There it is," you murmur.
He looks up. "What?"
"That smile."
His expression softens almost instantly. "You've been trying to make me laugh?"
"Obviously."
"You've spent the last four hours slowly cooking yourself alive."
"It was all part of the plan."
"So the heatstroke was... strategic?"
"The best comedy requires commitment."
Steve lets out another helpless laugh, reaching across the table to intertwine his fingers with yours. He can't tell if you're joking.
"I swear," he says, shaking his head affectionately, "one day you're gonna be the death of me."
You squeeze his hand. "No."
"No?"
"The sun's apparently trying to get me first."
Steve groans so dramatically that a couple walking past glance over curiously. "You see?"
"What?"
"This." He gestures vaguely towards you. "This is exactly what I'm dealing with."
You grin up at him from beneath the brim of your hat. "And yet..."
"And yet what?"
"You still packed sunscreen."
He doesn't even hesitate. "Yeah." A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his thumb absently brushes across your knuckles. "...I'm gonna keep packing it, too."
By the time the two of you finally leave the fair, the worst of the heat has begun to ease.
The afternoon is slowly giving way to evening, the fierce white glare of the sun mellowing into something warmer and softer as it sinks lower behind the trees. Families begin drifting back towards the car park with oversized stuffed animals tucked beneath their arms, children trail sleepily behind their parents clutching the last sticky remains of candyfloss, and somewhere behind you the Ferris wheel continues its lazy circuit against a sky beginning to turn pale gold.
You reach for Steve's hand almost absent-mindedly as you fall into step beside him. He threads his fingers through yours without looking, the movement so familiar neither of you really thinks about it anymore.
For a while, neither of you says very much. The sort of comfortable silence settles between you that only seems to exist after long summer days, when you've spent hours talking already and simply being beside one another somehow feels just as nice.
Then, without so much as glancing in your direction, Steve slips his free hand into the tote bag hanging from his shoulder.
A second later, he places the water bottle into your hand. You stop walking for half a beat before looking up at him, already laughing.
"I wasn't even going to say anything."
"I know."
"So why?"
He shrugs. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
He smiles to himself. "The one that means you're about to say..."
He waits.
Almost exactly on cue... "...God, it's hot."
Steve hands you the bottle. You burst into laughter. He looks impossibly pleased with himself.
"You already knew."
"I've spent enough summers with you."
"You've profiled me."
"I have."
"Should I be offended?"
He shakes his head. "No."
He slips his fingers between yours again as the two of you continue down the pavement, the late afternoon sun finally beginning to soften behind the trees.
"I just know that every June, July and August..." He glances across at you, his expression settling into that familiar mixture of fondness and long-suffering affection. "...my full-time job becomes making sure you don't accidentally let the sun win."
Warmth spreads quietly through your chest.
You grin. "And yet..."
"And yet what?"
"I'm still your favourite patient."
Steve laughs, bringing your joined hands up to press a lingering kiss against your knuckles before answering without the slightest hesitation.
"Yeah." A beat. "...Unfortunately."
You nudge his shoulder with your own. "You love me."
"I really do."
"Enough to carry sunscreen around all summer?"
"I'll carry the whole pharmacy if I have to."
You glance sideways at him, trying very hard not to smile quite so much, but it proves to be a losing battle. Somehow, over the course of a single afternoon, he's acquired a straw hat, a tiny handheld fan, sunscreen, sunglasses and an increasingly ridiculous collection of supplies, all because he'd quietly decided that your inability to coexist peacefully with direct sunlight had become his responsibility.
You aren't entirely convinced it needs to be.
You are, however, quietly touched that he's never once made it feel like an inconvenience.
As though sensing exactly where your thoughts have wandered, Steve reaches up with his free hand to adjust the brim of the hat he'd bought you earlier, nudging it down just enough to shade your eyes again. "There."
You glance up at him. "I wasn't even standing in the sun."
"No," he agrees easily. "But you were thinking about it."
A helpless laugh escapes you. "You are unbelievable."
"I've been told."
The walk home continues at the same unhurried pace, your shoulders brushing every so often as the evening settles comfortably around the two of you. Tomorrow would probably be just as warm. There would almost certainly be another bottle of water waiting in Steve's bag, another reminder to reapply sunscreen, another gentle tug back beneath the nearest patch of shade.
Neither of you minds.
Some people chase the sun all summer long.
Steve's job, apparently, is chasing you out of it.
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