Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader (She/her)
Summary: As Daemon Targaryen’s only daughter without a dragon, you have never lacked for love, not when your father has spent your entire life ensuring you want for nothing, and certainly not when Caraxes has always treated you as though you belong to him, too. When you are betrothed to Ser Gwayne Hightower, Daemon is determined to despise the match. Unfortunately, Gwayne proves difficult to frighten away, especially when he begins loving you with the same gentle devotion you have always deserved.
Warnings: Protective father Daemon, excessive fluff, family teasing, arranged betrothal, brief insecurity about not having a dragon, one deeply inconvenienced Gwayne Hightower, and a very spoiled princess. caraxes being a spoiled brat
note: just a super long and fun one shot. mostly daemon pov, we die on the hill that he was born to be a girl dad.
masterlist
One shot
The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.
It was a Valyrian steel dagger.
“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.
Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.
“She will grow into it.”
“She cannot even hold up her own head.”
“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”
The dagger was confiscated.
The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.
The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.
The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.
By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.
By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.
By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.
“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.
Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.
“She is a princess.”
“She does not need a ship.”
“She liked it.”
“She liked the carving.”
“And now she has both.”
Rhaenyra sighed.
Daemon smiled.
There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.
You had always been one of them.
You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.
You apologized when servants bumped into you.
You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.
You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.
Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.
He protected it viciously.
The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.
An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.
It had never hatched.
A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.
It remained cold.
When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.
None did.
You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.
You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.
Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.
He lowered himself beside you without speaking.
For a while, you both watched the flames.
“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.
Daemon’s expression darkened.
“For what?”
“For disappointing you.”
The words were barely audible.
They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.
Daemon turned toward you.
“You have never disappointed me.”
“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”
“You are my daughter.”
You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.
“That should make it worse.”
“It makes it irrelevant.”
“But everyone else—”
“Everyone else is not you.”
Your lower lip trembled.
Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”
Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.
“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”
“You do not mean that.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
He rose and extended his hand.
“Come.”
“Where are we going?”
“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”
It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.
The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.
Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.
The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.
You stopped.
Daemon did not.
Caraxes had always known you.
When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.
Your first word had not been father.
To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.
You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.
Caraxes had never been yours.
Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.
That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.
You placed a trembling hand against his scales.
Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.
“He knows,” Daemon said.
“Knows what?”
“That you are upset.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I wish he had chosen me.”
Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.
“He did.”
You looked back at him.
“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”
Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.
Daemon’s mouth curved.
“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”
You laughed and obeyed.
The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.
“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.
You hesitated.
“Now?”
“The sky does not close at night.”
You looked from him to Caraxes.
“But I am not his rider.”
“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”
He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.
Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.
The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.
Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.
The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.
Caraxes climbed higher.
You laughed.
The sound carried into the night.
Daemon lowered his head beside yours.
“Still believe you have no dragon?”
You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.
“No.”
After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.
Which was often.
He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.
You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.
Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.
He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.
The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.
He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.
Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.
Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.
“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.
“I did nothing.”
“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”
“He showed restraint.”
“The boy wet himself.”
“I said restraint, not mercy.”
The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.
You never understood why.
You had Caraxes.
You had your father.
And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.
Then came Gwayne Hightower.
The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.
Daemon nearly overturned the table.
“A Hightower?”
King Viserys closed his eyes.
“It is a politically advantageous match.”
“It is an insult.”
“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”
“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”
“Daemon.”
“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”
Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.
“This is not about my ambitions.”
“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”
“Father,” you said softly.
Daemon turned.
You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.
Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.
You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.
Daemon’s face softened by a degree.
“You do not have to marry him,” he said.
Viserys sighed.
“She has not even met him properly.”
“Then she is already better off.”
“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.
“What?”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“I am behaving like a father.”
“A deeply irrational father.”
“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”
Otto lifted his chin.
“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”
“He wears green.”
“Green is our house color.”
“Exactly.”
You pressed your lips together.
Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
Your shoulders shook.
The sight did nothing to improve his mood.
The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.
Entirely on purpose.
“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.
Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.
“Has he?”
“You know he has.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Father.”
“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”
“Being married to me?”
“Being married beneath my supervision.”
When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.
He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.
“My princess.”
“Ser Gwayne.”
His eyes met yours.
For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.
Gwayne smiled.
It was not the polished smile of a courtier.
It was warm and slightly nervous.
You smiled back.
Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“So,” he said.
Gwayne looked at him.
“So?”
“You wish to marry my daughter.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Gwayne glanced at you again.
Daemon noticed.
His scowl deepened.
“I have admired the princess for some time.”
“Admired what?”
“Her kindness.”
Daemon blinked.
It was not the answer he had expected.
Gwayne continued carefully.
“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”
You stared at him.
You had not known he had noticed any of those things.
“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“I believe loving her might.”
The room fell silent.
Daemon leaned back.
“You have met her twice.”
“Four times.”
“You were counting?”
“Yes.”
“That is unsettling.”
“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.
“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.
Daemon glared at both of you.
“No one asked.”
The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.
Daemon tried.
He tried with admirable dedication.
He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.
Gwayne returned the next morning.
Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.
Gwayne listened patiently.
When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.
You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.
Daemon did not find it amusing.
Gwayne remembered the names of servants.
He thanked cooks.
He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.
He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.
He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.
When you spoke, he listened.
When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.
He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.
He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.
He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.
Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.
“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because you liked it.”
The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.
Gwayne’s brows rose.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.
Rhaenyra followed his gaze.
“You like him.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“I tolerate his continued existence.”
“He reminds you of yourself.”
Daemon looked offended.
“He does not.”
“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”
“The lord deserved it.”
“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”
Daemon turned back toward you.
Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.
He looked perfectly content.
Daemon frowned.
“He is holding it incorrectly.”
“Of course.”
Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.
Gwayne was less enthusiastic.
It was not that he was a coward.
He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.
Daemon took great pleasure in this.
The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.
Gwayne stopped walking.
Daemon smiled.
“Something wrong?”
“Not at all.”
“You have gone pale.”
“It is warm.”
“It is never warm in here.”
You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.
“He will not hurt you.”
Caraxes released a rumbling growl.
Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.
“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”
“He is only curious.”
“He appears hungry.”
“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.
Gwayne glanced at him.
Daemon smiled wider.
“Mostly.”
“Father,” you chided.
Caraxes lowered his head toward you.
You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.
Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.
You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.
Caraxes was careful with you.
Almost impossibly so.
“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.
Daemon’s smugness faded.
“Yes.”
“Did he ever try to bond with her?”
“No. His bond is mine.”
Gwayne nodded.
“But she is part of you.”
Daemon looked at him.
Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.
“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.
Daemon studied the knight for a moment.
“You understand dragons better than I expected.”
“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”
“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”
You turned.
“Gwayne, come closer.”
He hesitated.
Caraxes stared.
You held out your hand.
Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.
Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.
Still, he moved toward you.
Slowly.
Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.
Gwayne stopped.
You reached back and took his hand.
“He is protective.”
“So I have gathered.”
“He needs to know I trust you.”
“And how do we convince him of that?”
You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.
“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.
Gwayne shot him a look.
“That is tremendously helpful.”
Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.
Caraxes’s growl faded.
Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.
The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.
Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.
He remained standing.
After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.
You beamed.
“He likes you.”
“He tolerated me.”
“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”
Daemon crossed his arms.
“He has poor judgment.”
Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.
Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.
You did not bother disguising yours.
A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.
Daemon had invited him to observe.
Invite was perhaps the wrong word.
Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.
The implication was clear.
You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.
Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.
Daemon looked over his shoulder.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.
Gwayne’s heart stopped.
The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.
Your laughter reached the cliffs.
Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.
You looked small against him.
Small, but not afraid.
Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.
As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.
You looked radiant.
Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.
Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.
When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.
Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.
Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.
“Well?” you asked Gwayne.
He stared at you.
“Well what?”
“What did you think?”
“I think I understand why poets struggle.”
You blinked.
Daemon groaned.
Gwayne stepped closer.
“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”
Your cheeks turned warmer.
Daemon moved between you.
“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”
“Father.”
“What?”
“You invited him.”
“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”
The days passed more quickly after that.
Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.
It felt like walks through the gardens.
It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.
It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.
It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.
It felt like laughter.
It felt, increasingly, like love.
One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.
Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.
You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.
“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.
You knew immediately whom he meant.
“Caraxes?”
“Yes.”
You considered the question.
“When I was younger.”
“And now?”
You smiled.
“No.”
Gwayne leaned beside you.
“Why not?”
“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”
His gaze settled on your face.
You continued watching the sky.
“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”
“But you love him.”
“Very much.”
“And he loves you.”
“In his own terribly loud way.”
Gwayne smiled.
You turned toward him.
“Does it concern you?”
“What?”
“That I have no dragon.”
“No.”
“Your family may prefer—”
“My family is not marrying you.”
His answer came without hesitation.
Gwayne reached for your hand.
“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”
Your eyes stung.
“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”
You lowered your gaze.
Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.
“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”
He kissed your hand again.
“I would choose you if you had none.”
Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.
He looked up.
Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.
And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.
The wedding was held on Dragonstone.
Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.
“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”
Otto objected.
Daemon was delighted.
The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.
Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.
Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.
“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.
Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.
“It is.”
“There are six hundred guests.”
“I excluded several houses.”
You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.
Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.
Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.
A gift from your father.
When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.
You smiled nervously.
“Is something wrong?”
He said nothing.
His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.
For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.
“Father?”
“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.
Your expression softened.
Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.
“I can still end this.”
You laughed.
“No.”
“I could.”
“I know.”
“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”
“Because you will send him away?”
Daemon looked toward the window.
“Something like that.”
You took his hand.
“I love him.”
His jaw tightened.
It was not anger.
Not truly.
Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.
Now you had found something beyond his keeping.
A life that would carry you away from him.
“I know,” he said.
“And he loves me.”
“I know that, too.”
“You admit it?”
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
You kissed his cheek.
Daemon closed his eyes.
For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.
“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“If he displeases you, come back.”
“Father.”
“If his family displeases you, come back.”
“I will.”
“If Oldtown is too cold—”
“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”
“Then if it is too warm.”
You laughed against him.
Daemon sighed.
“Visit often.”
“I promise.”
When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
Rhaenyra stood nearby.
“What?”
“He looks frightened.”
“He looks in love.”
“Similar conditions.”
Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.
He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.
As though the music had faded.
As though you were the only thing left in the world.
Daemon placed your hand in his.
He did not release it immediately.
Gwayne waited.
Daemon tightened his grip.
“Father,” you whispered.
“I am considering my options.”
Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.
Finally, Daemon released your hand.
“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”
Gwayne nodded solemnly.
“I assumed as much.”
“If she is unhappy—”
“Father.”
“—Caraxes will find you.”
“You already said that.”
“It bears repeating.”
The vows were spoken.
The cloak was placed around your shoulders.
When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.
Daemon did not clap.
He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.
At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.
He brought you wine, though you had not asked.
He moved your chair away from the draft.
He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.
Daemon watched all of it.
Rhaenyra leaned toward him.
“You approve.”
“I do not.”
“You cried during the vows.”
“There was smoke from the torches.”
“You were standing outside.”
“It traveled.”
“Of course.”
Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.
The sea spread dark beneath them.
Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.
Gwayne approached cautiously.
“I wanted to thank you.”
Daemon did not turn.
“For threatening you?”
“For trusting me with her.”
“I do not trust you.”
“You allowed the marriage.”
“Viserys allowed the marriage.”
“You could have stopped it.”
Daemon glanced at him.
They both knew this was true.
Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.
Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.
“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”
“No one is.”
“I agree.”
That earned Gwayne his full attention.
“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”
Daemon remained silent.
“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”
“Home?”
“Here.”
Daemon’s expression shifted.
“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”
The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.
Gwayne swallowed.
Daemon stepped closer.
“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”
“There is nothing missing from her.”
Daemon studied his face.
“No?”
Gwayne looked through the open doors.
You had noticed them now.
Your eyes found his across the distance.
You smiled.
Gwayne smiled back.
“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”
Daemon followed his gaze.
His daughter.
His little girl.
Still smiling.
Still safe.
Still loved.
“Take care of her,” Daemon said.
“With my life.”
“If she misses Dragonstone—”
“I will bring her.”
“If she wishes to stay for months—”
“I will wait.”
“If she asks for a dragon—”
“I will remind her that she already has one.”
Caraxes released a low rumble.
Gwayne glanced toward him.
“Two, perhaps.”
Daemon almost smiled.
Almost.
“Welcome to the family.”
Gwayne’s expression softened.
“Thank you.”
“I was speaking to Caraxes.”
The dragon huffed.
Gwayne laughed.
Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.
Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.
“Gwayne!”
He turned immediately.
You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.
“Come dance with me.”
Gwayne bowed to Daemon.
“Prince Daemon.”
“Hightower.”
Gwayne returned to you.
You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.
Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.
You whispered something that made your husband laugh.
Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.
“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.
The Blood Wyrm crooned.
“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”
the end.
-----------------
Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor
Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.
It was not Oldtown—not yet.
Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.
He pretended the decision had been practical.
You knew better.
The estate was beautiful.
The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.
He had filled one room with books.
He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.
He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.
You loved your new home.
Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.
On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.
“You miss them,” he said one evening.
You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.
“A little.”
“Your father or the dragon?”
“Yes.”
Gwayne laughed.
“You know we can return whenever you wish.”
“We visited last week.”
“Then we will visit again.”
“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”
“Your father already thinks that.”
You smiled.
Gwayne kissed the top of your head.
A deep roar shook the sky.
Every bird in the trees scattered at once.
You sat upright.
Gwayne went still.
Another roar followed.
It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.
Your face brightened.
“No.”
Gwayne stared toward the horizon.
A red shape moved through the clouds.
“No,” he repeated.
You were already on your feet.
“Caraxes!”
The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.
Servants screamed.
Guards scattered.
Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.
Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.
Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.
“This cannot be happening.”
You ran toward the courtyard.
Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.
He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.
You laughed.
“Caraxes!”
The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.
You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.
Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.
“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.
His golden eyes drifted closed.
Gwayne approached with extreme caution.
Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.
“Lower those,” he ordered.
One of the men stared at him.
“My lord, the dragon—”
“Belongs to my wife’s father.”
Caraxes opened one eye.
Gwayne corrected himself.
“And apparently also to my wife.”
The guards lowered their weapons.
Gwayne stopped beside you.
“Did your father send him?”
“I do not think so.”
“You think he escaped?”
Caraxes huffed.
The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.
You looked up at the dragon.
“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”
Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.
Gwayne stared.
“Is he answering you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What did he say?”
“That he has no regrets.”
“You cannot possibly know that.”
Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.
Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.
“Never mind.”
A rider arrived less than an hour later.
He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.
“My princess!”
You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.
The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.
The messenger stumbled toward you.
“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”
Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.
“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”
“The prince is on his way.”
Your eyes widened.
“My father is coming here?”
The messenger nodded breathlessly.
“He said—”
The pounding of another horse interrupted him.
Daemon entered the gates at speed.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.
His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.
Daemon placed his hands on his hips.
“Caraxes.”
The dragon did not move.
“You disobedient beast.”
Caraxes closed his eyes.
“Do not pretend to be asleep.”
You covered your smile with your hand.
Daemon pointed toward the sky.
“Dragonstone. Now.”
Caraxes remained exactly where he was.
Gwayne looked between them.
“Does this happen often?”
“No,” Daemon snapped.
You raised a brow.
“Father.”
“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”
“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”
“An oversight.”
“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”
“Poorly secured chains.”
Gwayne stared at the dragon.
“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”
Daemon looked offended.
“Obviously.”
Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.
You laughed, placing both hands against his face.
“I missed you, too.”
The dragon purred.
Daemon sighed.
“You have spoiled him.”
“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”
“They deserved it.”
Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.
“How do we convince him to leave?”
Daemon studied Caraxes.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For her to tell him.”
You looked at the dragon.
Caraxes looked at you.
“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”
Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.
“Of course.”
“He can remain for supper.”
Gwayne stared at you.
“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”
“He was excited.”
“He also crushed the roses.”
“They will grow back.”
Caraxes released a pleased trill.
Gwayne looked toward Daemon.
Daemon shrugged.
“She wants him to stay.”
“You are her father.”
“Yes.”
“Tell her this is unreasonable.”
Daemon’s expression became confused.
“Why would I do that?”
Gwayne closed his eyes.
By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.
Daemon remained for supper.
He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.
“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.
“You married my daughter.”
“I married a woman without a dragon.”
Daemon took a drink of wine.
“And yet.”
Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.
Gwayne watched through the window.
“I will have a platform constructed.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Thank you.”
Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.
Daemon noticed.
“Hm.”
After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.
The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.
“I am happy here,” you assured him.
Caraxes rumbled.
“Gwayne takes good care of me.”
The dragon glanced toward your husband.
Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.
Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.
“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”
“Caraxes is thorough.”
Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.
“Come.”
You turned.
“Where?”
“Caraxes will not leave without you.”
Gwayne’s brows rose.
Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.
“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”
Gwayne stepped forward.
“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”
Daemon stared at him.
Gwayne stared back.
You looked between them.
Caraxes growled softly.
“No one is fighting,” you said.
Neither man moved.
You sighed.
“Gwayne may come with us.”
His face went pale.
Daemon smiled.
“Excellent idea.”
The three of you mounted Caraxes.
You sat before Daemon.
Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.
“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.
“I am holding on.”
“To something secure.”
“I am.”
Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.
“That strap is decorative.”
Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.
You burst into laughter.
Daemon looked deeply offended.
“Remove your hands.”
“You told me to hold something secure.”
“Not me.”
Caraxes launched into the air.
Gwayne shouted.
You laughed harder.
The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.
You looked back at Gwayne.
His eyes were tightly closed.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Is it not beautiful?”
“I have not looked.”
Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.
Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.
“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”
“Fly straighter!”
“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”
Caraxes roared in agreement.
You laughed until tears filled your eyes.
Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.
Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.
Your father’s arm was secure around you.
Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.
Caraxes flew happily beneath you.
Perhaps the court had been right.
You had never claimed a dragon of your own.
But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.
Summary: A hot doctor rescues you from a creep outside of your gym and it turns out you have a lot more in common than your choice of workout venue.
Or, the D/s universe getting together fic I've been yapping about for months!
Story Tags/Notes: girly!sub!reader, dom!brendon, reader is a kids' ballet teacher, brendon is a trauma surgeon in the ED, getting together fic, slow-ish burn, kink dynamic/relationship negotiation, communication porn, sugaring/spoiling/gifts, reader is mentioned as not shaving body hair, full aftercare
NSFW Tags/Notes: its a lengthy smut so, panty sniffing, teasing, face slapping, light punishment, black nitrile gloves, inspection kink, breast play, pain play, biting, marks, fingering (f), fisting (f), squirting, multiple orgasms (f), dacryphilia, scent/armpit/musk/sweat kinks, one single line of degradation, lots and lots of praise/affirmation/pet names, choking/breath play, piv (unprotected, discussion is implied), creampie
Content: sexual harassment/intimidation, broken wrist
A/N: everyone say a sloppy slutty thank you to @honestlystop for their generous donation to my birthday fundraiser which led to this being completed! and a personal thank you for always being so lovely and supportive
Word Count: 18.3k
Brendon Park’s noticed you at his gym before, of course. It’s hard not to. You always wear pastel pink sets with tiny little tennis skirts that barely cover your ass or those partially sheer pilates outfits with the waist-emphasizing tie. Like most of the guys at the gym, much as he hates to be lumped in with them, Brendon’s eyes drift up when your evening yoga or pilates or barre or pole class gets out, watching the sea of sweaty women in tight outfits flitting past with satisfied giggles.
Unlike an unfortunate number of the other men there, though, Brendon is at the gym to work out, not try to get a girlfriend, so he’s never interacted with you more than the occasional ‘good workout?’ when you’ve passed each other going into the locker rooms at the same time.
Tonight changes that.
It’s a 24-hour gym, but it’s usually dead this late. Brendon’s used to being one of maybe three guys who always work insane schedules getting in his last arm curls before crashing for eighteen hours straight. For some reason, though, you’re here. It looks like you’ve had a long day – you’re in a cropped baby pink sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, cute but definitely not aiming for sexy the way you usually do – but you’re still committed to your daily gym time the way Brendon is. He has to admit he admires the dedication; it’s not a common trait these days. He gives you one of those hunky smiles on his way past as he goes to the locker room, nodding and wishing you a good night.
But, once he’s showered and changed, beyond ready to go home and flop into bed after downing 12,000 calories of leftovers, he sees you hurriedly trying to collect your things as one of the few other guys in the gym hits on you. And he’s not being casual or subtle. In fact, he’s got one arm lording over you as you bend down to shove things into your bag, completely ignoring him.
The hairs on the back of Brendon’s neck bristle as you push past the guy into the night – and the fucker follows you. Brendon’s moving before he can even think, much less overthink. He’d do the same for anyone. Of course he would. He only has to hear a few words out of the bastard’s mouth – c’mon, baby, you know you want a real man – before he decides he has to get involved.
“Hey, man, leave her alone,” Brendon barks. You whip around with gratitude already written on your features, taking over the fear and annoyance that had been there a split second ago. He grabs the guy’s elbow and tugs him away from you. “How about you head home and then change your gym schedule?”
The asshole rolls his eyes and squares up against Brendon, chest to chest, as you shrink back toward the sidewalk. “What are you, her boyfriend?”
Brendon scoffs back, “Just a guy with a moral compass. Fuck off before I make you.”
Then he tries to maneuver his body between yours and your harasser – but the guy grabs you so that he can’t. His bruising grip wraps around your forearm and he tugs you toward him. You realize for the first time that you can smell liquor on his breath, sharp and aggressive. Had he wandered into the gym from a bar just to get to you? Did he drink so much he’s always drunk? Your mind races around the possibilities as he baits Brendon with a laugh, “You really wanna play knight in shining armor, pretty boy?”
Brendon rolls his shoulders.
The first time he’d been told he had to get his temper under control, he was in the fifth grade. A boy a few grades up from him threw pebbles at his sister on the walk back from the bus after they went to daily summer camp together. His sister told him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t. He managed to simmer on it for three whole days before he broke the kid’s jaw and two of his ribs. The boy was too embarrassed to admit he’d had his ass handed to him by an eleven-year-old, so all Brendon got was a lecture from his mother when his sister ratted him out.
In high school, he joined football and wrestling to get his aggression out. Every time his shoulder collided with someone else, every time he slammed a body on the mat, it let him clear his head of all the frustration and indignation and anxiety and everything. Of course, he still earned a handful of suspensions when he couldn’t keep it under control, the occasional fist knocking into someone’s orbital if they wouldn’t leave his skinnier friend alone or refused to back down when he defended a cheerleader.
Through college and med school, he learned that control was just as good as acting out. Professionally, being at the top of his class gave him the same ego high. He kept his thoughts in line with a rigorous workout schedule and even more demanding academic schedule. Personally, he found kink. The holy catharsis of someone giving themselves over to him completely. Trusting that he could handle them and himself at once. Of course, surgery is the best outlet he’s ever found. Just him, his subordinates, his orders, his hands. The world narrowing into a set of problems with clear, measured solutions that only he knows. He gets to be god in the OR.
But the kid who couldn’t handle watching his sister get hurt? He’s still very much in there.
So, tonight, Brenton launches one of his half-million-dollar hands into the face of the guy who’s just grabbed you, aiming to avoid cracking any of the bones while inflicting maximum pain and shock.
As the guy’s grip falters from staggering backward, you wrench out of his grasp and fall to the ground with a shriek, catching your weight squarely on one palm. Sharp pain cracks through your wrist. It reverberates up your arm and across your entire body. You’re so wrapped up in the pain that you barely register Brendon flagging down the gym’s security guard to come out and take the asshole away, telling him what happened as he shakes out his hand from the punch.
Once it’s just the two of you, Brendon kneels down and reaches out, careful not to scare you, like you’re a rabbit who might dart. “C’mon, let me see that wrist; I’m a doctor.”
With shiny eyes and a sniffly nose, you ask, “You’re a doctor?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he confirms as you gingerly present your swollen wrist, already darkening and swelling around the impact point. He’s so careful as he examines it, but you still wince with every motion. He hates himself for noticing just how pretty you are when you cry. Sighing, he tells you, “This looks like a break to me. You’ll need some imaging done and you’ll probably need a hard cast. Is there someone I can call to come get you?”
Swiping your tears away with your uninjured hand – more fall anyway – you ask with so much hope in your eyes he knows he’s going to fold no matter what, “Can you drive me? You can bring me back to my car after, promise.”
Brendon rewrites his entire night in a split second. What is he doing? His brows furrow. He’s not nice. He’s not helpful. Certainly not to strangers who could be serial killers as far as he knows. But, looking at your wobbly lip and twitching chin, he can’t help nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Brendon helps guide you to your feet, one hand on your waist and the other clasping your free hand as you cradle your broken wrist to your chest. His hands are really big. Maybe it’s the adrenaline making you woozy, but he does look a hell of a lot like a knight in shining armor leading you down the street toward his car with one hand on your back and a posture like he’ll kill anyone who approaches.
You’re not much of a car person yourself, but you are a luxury person, so you can spot a Corvette Stingray from a mile away. When you realize that Brendon’s leading you toward a gorgeous cherry red one with the top down that you’d admired before arriving at the gym, your jaw drops. “This is your car?”
“Like I said, I’m a surgeon.” He chuckles as he takes out the keys and unlocks it. “They pay me too much not to drive some sexy sports car, right?”
“Sexy is right,” you whistle, taking a second to admire the sleek Corvette’s cream leather interior as he opens up the passenger side door for you. “You’re a spoiled brat, huh?”
“I only drive her during the summer,” he tells you seriously as he helps you into the front seat, his arm protective around you as you get settled. Your stomach flutters as he reaches across your body and clicks your seatbelt into place, one of those large hands brushing over your bare abdomen and the other bracing his balance on your headrest, his bicep ginormous, still pumped from his workout. It’s painfully mortifying how good his sweat smells. He touches the back of your neck sweetly and checks, “You comfortable? Want the seat warmer on or anything?”
“It’s eighty degrees out.”
“Right.” He closes your door, drums his fingers on the side, and sighs, “Sorry, I’m not used to…”
With a teasing smirk, you suggest as he trails off, “Human interaction?”
“Yeah, that about covers it, actually.” He shakes his head and hops over the driver’s side door like a real asshole before sliding easily behind the wheel. As the quiet engine hums to life, he adds, “I spend eight hours a day in surgery; the only real speaking I do is to give orders.”
“That’s hot.”
Something twitches inside of him. You’re joking, but there’s a shade of truth in it, clearly. Interesting.
“Ow ow ow,” you keen pathetically as he pulls into traffic, the slightest movement jostling your wrist. With tears welling up again, you plead, “Distract me. Tell me about your other car.”
He scoffs, “That’s your ideal distraction? Not my cool job or our shared interests or-” Your adorable mean glare cuts him off. “Okay, okay. Promise you won’t make fun of me first.” You shake your head ‘no’ as tears slip over your cheeks. He laughs and concedes, “Fine, you can make fun of me until your arm’s patched up. It’s a G-Series.”
“God, you’re even worse than I thought,” you force yourself to laugh as you cringe again. “You’ll have to take me for a drive sometime. I’ve never been in one.”
“It drives like a dream,” he replies, giving a concerned glance as he tries to placate you with the distraction. Thank fuck he goes to the gym closest to the hospital. “Do you like actually driving or just going for drives?”
With a grimace as the convertible pulls into a reserved space close to the Emergency Department doors, you tell him, “Definitely a passenger princess. I like sightseeing.”
“I figured,” he teases lightly as he rounds the car again to help you out. “That’s good, though; I like doing the driving. You can focus on enjoying all the features.”
Outright crying now, you ask, “Does it have the heated cupholders for coffee?”
“Yeah, it does,” he half-laughs, “and cooling if you have water or something, too.”
Voice wobbling, you reply weakly, pain radiating through your whole arm, “That’s so luxurious.”
Brendon has to bite back the urge to laugh. You’re painfully cute in this state, fighting hard to stay calm but clearly completely unable to. “It really is. Great car.”
With your pink gym bag over his shoulder, Brendon walks you into the ED, shooting glares at every single one of his coworkers who dares to cut him even a curious glance, much less a surprised one or one laden with gossip. He gets you checked in quickly and efficiently as the space buzzes around him; you get the sense that his presence makes everyone…maybe not nervous, necessarily, but alert. There’s an expectation that he’s going to take charge of every conversation. He always talks first to someone who’s completely prepared to listen and jump at his marching orders.
The whole time, you shrink next to him. You’ve always hated hospitals. The smells, the bright lights, the mix of groans and wails and heavy silence. It makes your skin crawl. Brendon can tell; unconsciously, he rubs your back between your shoulder blades, fingers soothing down your spine, occasionally resting at the small of your back where your skin is bare. He’s not even thinking about it, just following his instincts and letting himself bend to your needs without questioning it.
Once you’re comfortably settled in a room, Brendon oversees the creation of your chart and then bends down to meet your eyes. He brushes your tear-stained cheek with his thumb and starts to explain, “Someone’ll come in and take you up to get an X-ray soon. Do you want me to stay or-”
“Don’t leave,” you whimper, catching his forearm. When you touch him, his heart pounds in a way it hasn’t in a long time. It’s the way those shiny eyes look to him so effortlessly. Needy. You’re so pretty when you cry. Your voice drops to an embarrassed whisper as you admit, “I really, really hate hospitals. I’m scared shitless. Please stay.”
The shame on your face that only he can soothe is too delicious to deny. He holds your unharmed hand and sits down on the stool next to you. Rubbing the back of your hand, he assures you gently, more gently than any of the nurses or doctors here have ever heard, “I’m right here. I’ve got you; I don’t have anywhere to be.”
“Promise? I’m not, like, ruining your whole night or anything?”
Your eyes are so damn wide and innocent. Completely irresistible to a deep, prickly part of his brain. He’s quick to shake his head and assure, “I’m off tomorrow. I was gonna go home and sleep in. I’m a big boy; I can push my bedtime back by a few hours.”
With a soft, teary smile, you squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
Faster than you can believe, you’re pumped full of painkillers and in for X-Rays, certain that Brendon is pulling strings for you without making a show of it. Once the imaging has confirmed a break, another doctor joins you, tall and gruff with kind eyes and crows’ feet. Very handsome. You glance at his badge as he goes to introduce himself, but he’s taken aback when he sees Brendon behind you. “What’s going on, Park? You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
Brendon attempts to sum up the night: “Ah, no, but this one took a tumble right outside of my gym.”
“Can’t resist a damsel in distress. Got it.” Before Brendon can intervene on that line of thought, the doctor turns to you with a warm smile. “Hi, I’m Dr. Robinavitch, but you can call me Robby. I’m gonna be applying your hard cast, okay?”
Perhaps a tad loopy on the painkillers, you tap on the badge clipped to his chest with your now-chipped manicured nail, amused by the satisfying clicking. “Attending Physician. You seem kinda important to be doing my cast.”
Robby shrugs and chuckles, “The Shark calls, I answer.”
“The Shark?” You grin wide and stare at Brendon. “They call you that here?”
Brendon grimaces. “Ah, yeah. It rhymes.”
“Obviously it rhymes,” you giggle, turning your attention back to Robby, “but why do you guys call him that? Is he super duper scary when he’s at work?”
“Something like that,” Robby snorts as the nurse prepping his station also stifles a laugh. When Brendon absolutely glares, Robby clears his throat and straightens up. “Alright, let’s get down to business about that wrist. I just had a look at your X-Rays and you’ve got what’s called a Colles’ fracture, a minor break that happens when you fall on an outstretched hand. We treat about a million of these a week down here, so you’ll be out of the joint in no time, but you’re looking at six to eight weeks in a hard cast.”
“Shoot,” you sigh. Lip pouted and voice grumpy (so cute Park almost blacks out), you check, “Can I at least get a pink one?”
“Absolutely, you can,” Dr. Robby laughs and opens up the box of fiberglass tape options. “I’ve got Flamingo Fuchsia-” he shows you a classic neon pink cast color, then a paler option “-or Bubblegum Blast.”
You smile and confirm, “Bubblegum, definitely.”
He flashes you a charming smile. “I had a feeling, Barbie.”
Brendon interrupts gruffly, “Keep it in your pants, Michael.”
Heat crawls up your neck at how protective his voice sounds. Dr. Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you, clearly amused at seeing his coworker in a new light. “My apologies; I didn’t know Park the Shark had a girlfriend.”
Voice all teasing and lilting, you reply, “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, Dr. Robby.”
“Seems like maybe he wants to be,” Robby snorts as he carefully preps your arm. While methodically applying your cast, he tries to distract you from the pain of your wrist being handled breaking through the IV by offering up, “What kind of dog do you have? I can see the hair on your pants.”
You wince anyway, jumping a bit from the pain. Brendon slings his arm around your shoulders and rubs your back gently. With a deep breath, you tell him, “I have a Cane Corso. Big black mastiff. If he’d been with me tonight like he is when I go running, you’d be amputating the other guy’s arm right about now.”
Brendon straightens up with a laugh, imagining your sweet, bubbly, girly self with a giant, mean-looking dog. “Seriously? Don’t those things weigh, like, 100 pounds?”
“Duke weighs 120,” you reply with a sheepish smile. Whenever anyone finds out about your dog, they look at you differently. And it does stop you from focusing on the pain to talk about him, so you explain further, “My big brother used to live in the city and spend lots of time with me. He’s always been really protective, so when he was getting ready to move away, he wanted to make sure I’d be safe. We went on a road trip to get him as a puppy and worked with a trainer here so he’s, like, the perfect protection dog. We’re AWDA certified for bite work and everything.” With your free hand, you take your phone out and click it to life to show off the background photo, you and Duke wearing matching Louis Vuitton fleeces while posing in the snow. Sighing affectionately, you tell them, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a total softie when I tell him he can trust someone, but he’d rip a guy’s throat out if they tried to attack me.”
“I like him already,” Brendon says as he admires the massive dog on your phone. With his eyes once again locked on your wrist, he sharply chastises, “Watch the angle on that, Robinavitch, you want her arm to heal as crooked as your teeth?”
“I didn’t wear braces for five years to deal with your bullshit, Brendon,” Robby bites back. He leans back and admires his own work, remarking, “Straight as a damn arrow. That’s textbook. What do you think, Barbie, up to your standards?”
You examine it as if you’d even know what to look for, trying to suppress the loopy little giggles that threaten. Being your friendly self, you squeeze Robby’s forearm and tell him, “Thank you so much; it looks really good.”
Something ugly and new tightens up in Brendon’s chest when he sees your hand on Robby’s arm. Not new, actually. Familiar but forgotten.
Robby just smiles and says, “You sat like a champ; it should heal up no problem. You need to sit tight here for about half an hour so it can harden. Someone’ll come in with your discharge paperwork and hopefully this’ll be the last time you have to see my ugly mug.”
“Awww no, stop,” you pout, patting Robby on his scruffy cheek, “you’re so handsome, doctor.”
Brendon nearly growls.
Robby laughs at his obvious displeasure and gives you an earnest smile. “You take care, okay? Sorry in advance that you’re gonna have to deal with Park’s insane physical therapy schedule. I have to imagine he’ll be twice as bad when it comes to his girlfriend.”
You cover your smile as Brendon sets his jaw. “Mike, I’ve already thrown one punch tonight; let’s not make it two.”
As Robby leaves the room, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, you whip toward Brendon with a horrified realization on your face. “I forgot about your hand! Is it okay? Is it bruised? Oh god, you’re a surgeon. Did I ruin your hand? Is someone gonna not get their heart fixed because of me?”
“Woah there,” Brendon laughs, “it’s alright, I promise. I know how to tuck my thumb and everything.” He flexes his fingers in front of you for good measure. There’s some light bruising along his two center knuckles and tears once again brim at your waterline. “I’ll be good as new after some leftovers.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Plus, I mostly do bones, not hearts.” Then he lies that he has to run to the bathroom, assuring that he’ll be right back, and beelines to the hub as he rummages around his pockets. Brendon surreptitiously leans over the counter with his heavy black card dangling from his fingers. Keeping his voice low, he mutters, “I’ll cover the patient in two, alright?”
Perlah narrows her eyes at him. “You’re not her doctor, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
She raises an eyebrow and pulls up your paperwork. “You know she has shit insurance?”
“It’s America.”
“The bill’s over four grand.”
“Like I said, America. And?”
“Alright, then.” Perlah takes the card and runs it, letting out a long breath. “She must be something special.”
“I barely know her.”
“Whatever you say, Shark.”
You watch Brendon through the glass next to the exam room door, knowing exactly what he must be doing. Eyeing him up, you take out your phone and open Tinder, letting it refresh for a second to load new options. Then you go to your settings and switch the distance to the closest possible. After swiping through a couple of faces, you see exactly what you’d been hoping for: A beefy set of biceps in a pair of dark scrubs. No face because of course not.
Park. 35. Private. Dom. Check out my Fet to see if we’re a good match: hammerhead.md
You have to suppress a squeal.
Game, set, match.
It’s a couple of days before Brendon sees you again. Even if it’s not surprising that you skip a few gym sessions with a broken arm, or even if you changed gyms altogether after that guy bothered you, he still finds himself strangely disappointed at the lack of you. So, when you skip into the ED the following Monday morning with a big smile and a fresh manicure, Brendon lets out a sigh of what feels weirdly like relief. He’d chastise himself for already getting attached if he didn’t like seeing you smile so much.
With a quick nod to the hub to check that he can take a minute, Brendon slips away toward you, meeting you in a quiet corner off the main lobby. You’re wrapping him in a hug before his mouth is even open, careful not to knock him in the head with your hard cast as you do. Once you let go – he lets it linger for longer than he probably should – in lieu of a greeting, he furrows his brow and takes your cast in his hands, examining it carefully. “How’s this feeling? Nice and stable but not too tight?”
“Feels totally fine,” you assure him. “You don’t have to kill your doctor friend for me, I promise.”
“You’re only knocking off one of many reasons to kill him, gorgeous.” Not even realizing he’s said it, much less the swooning heart eyes you give him in response, Brendon smiles at your heavily signed cast. With a grin, he says, “I see you’ve got lots of friends on the playground.”
“I teach at a ballet school,” you giggle as you show off the myriad of names in silver Sharpie, most of them haphazard. “I have five- to seven-year-olds now, so they thought the cast was just about the coolest thing in the entire world.”
“You’re welcome, then. I’ll stop feeling so bad about it.”
You nudge him in the shoulder and glare, ultra stern, so cute it makes him sick. “You don’t have anything to feel bad about.”
He sighs sharply as he remembers the sight of you crying on the cement. “If I’d stepped in about ten seconds sooner, or if I hadn’t been so aggressive with the guy, then-”
“Don’t, Bren. Seriously. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t even want to think about what might’ve happened,” you cut him off. You open your large purse, dig around for a moment, and present him with a small box. “Make it up to me by very graciously accepting the gift I got you to say thanks without being a stupid boy about it.”
“I’m actually not allowed to accept gifts from patients.”
Only shoving it further into his grip, you insist, “I’m not a patient; you weren’t doing any doctoring. I’m just your friend from the gym.”
“My friend, huh?”
“Well, yeah, you took such good care of me.” Your choice of phrase makes Brendon’s head spin in that same forgotten way. It’s been a long time since he had someone to take care of properly. When he doesn’t immediately open the box, you nudge, “C’mon, I picked it out special.”
With a sigh and a playful eye roll, he opens the hinged box to reveal a golden-edge watch mounted on a navy leather band with a soft brown interior. He drops his act as he admires the luxurious but understated piece. It suits him. Admiring it, he croons, “Jesus, this is gorgeous. You have a good eye.”
Glittering under the praise – it’s your favorite kind of compliment – you reply, “I’m sure you already have something much fancier to wear when you’re out in the real world with your Corvette and your surgeon money, but you should still have something nice-ish for the gym and work.”
Brendon shakes his head and closes the box simply to resist temptation. “I appreciate the gesture, really, but I can’t accept a gift I know cost an arm and a leg.”
“Well,” you go in, arms crossed over your chest (revealing eye-popping cleavage) to make it clear you have no intentions on taking it back, “the arm alone cost a few thousand dollars and I caught you paying for it already, so you’d better take the leg.” He purses his lips and relents, checking out the pretty piece again with a soft smile. Dropping your voice somewhere tender and secretive, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs simply. “I wanted to.”
You poke him in the chest. “I have my own money.”
“You teach ballet to toddlers. I don’t mean that disrespectfully at all – in fact, I think that’s awesome; I’ve watched you in pilates and I bet you’re a fantastic dancer too-”
A huge, pink-glossed smile splits across your face. “You’ve watched me in pilates?”
“The studio has a glass wall,” he almost stammers out. His cheeks tinge pink. Caught. Then he swallows hard and redirects, “I just mean that I wouldn't expect you to have four grand to spare lying around.”
With a pout, you tell him, “I could’ve covered it just fine, so keep the watch.”
“How?”
“I have my secrets.”
“Promise me that secret isn’t credit card debt?”
“Promise.” You lift up your pinky, a clear challenge to him: To indulge or not to indulge. Wiggling it as an invitation, you add, “Not a penny of debt to my name.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, checks over his shoulder, and then links his pinky with yours. “Good girl.”
Your breath catches in your throat for a moment before you clear it. Flustered at how those two words go right between your legs and up your spine, you squeak out, “I should get back to the studio. I just, um, wanted to say thank you so much for looking out for me.”
“I’d do it for anyone.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
His eyes bore into yours. There’s a beat of charged silence as he decides how to acknowledge the truth of your observation. There’s a sharpness to your soft, feminine expression that he doesn’t miss. At last, before he can come up with anything to say, he takes his prescription pad from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands the note over.
It’s his number. After another moment or two, curiously observing the way you smirk at his digits like you’ve earned them, he says, “Someone needs to teach you to defend yourself when you don’t have Duke around. I box for half my workouts; I’ll show you some moves once your arm’s better.”
Swaying gently, you ask, “Does that mean I have to wait six weeks to see you again?”
He’s studying you so carefully it makes you squirm. It almost feels like an interview, the way he’s looking at you. “Not necessarily.”
You’re head over heels for Brendon by the time the tension between you actually reaches a boiling point. He’s been going on runs with you until you can get back in the gym, both of you talking and joking as you jog around the park across from the hospital early in the morning before each of you heads off to your job. He tells you about his surgeries, his students, his countless responsibilities. You tell him about your students (much cuter and less frustrating), your dog, your passions. All of it comes out during the slower parts of your time together when you catch your breath in the misty fountain closest to the entrance to the hospital.
On the handful of days where you’re both off, the jogs turn into walks around the city. You live in the same neighborhood, you in an okay-enough garden apartment and he in a bona fide luxury penthouse only two blocks down. Your mind always supplies just how convenient it would be if you did go out with each other. Despite the obvious disparity in your lifestyles – his money, his education, his intensity – you never get the sense that Brendon sees you as less than. He doesn’t intimidate you the way he does other people. To you, he’s like Duke, your protection dog. Big and strong and scary but secretly craving good company and a pat on the head.
As soon as your cast is off – Brendon makes a point of personally overseeing the orthopedic resident who removes it – he’s quick to get you back in the gym, specifically in the boxing ring. It’s your third time trying out some self-defense movies with him when the dam finally breaks.
Firstly, all this boxing has resulted in a hell of a lot more touching than Brendon anticipated. Part of him wonders if he’s self-sabotaging, dangling a carrot in front of himself for some unconscious reason he’s not privy to. Secondly, you swish into the gym wearing a skin-tight, tiny baby-pink singlet, yet another one of your outfits designed to drive him insane. Watching you peel off the matching cropped sweater once you’re in the gym has him swallowing hard as he tries to focus on the task ahead of him. It’s the way your nipples nudge the fabric, he thinks, that’s the worst of all. The most torturous. Or maybe it’s the slope of your waist into your hips. Or maybe it’s-
“Bren!” You launch yourself into his arms hard enough to knock half the wind from him. He holds you tight as you tell him, “I have, like, the most amazing news in the history of the world.”
He lets out a laugh as he pretends for his own sake that he can’t feel your tits pressing against his bare chest. Letting his hand linger on your lower back, he checks, “Yeah? What would that be?”
“My class got picked to be the Polichinelles in The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre this winter!” You hug him again, like the excitement is just too much for you to bear, and this time you jump up and down, too. He wants to spin you around and kiss you hard just to taste an ounce of that enthusiasm for himself. You’re still smiley when you go on, “Obviously, a lot of the city’s ballet schools get to send dancers for different performances and everything, but getting picked is a huge honor for me and it’ll be so special for all the girls to get to feel what it’s like to be on a real stage in front of a big audience and it’ll be my first time getting to teach and direct and choreograph at that level and-”
“Take a breath, sweetheart,” Brendon interrupts with a chuckle. He melts under the glow of your smile for a second as you giggle at yourself, fanning your face. He hasn’t been that excited about something in, Jesus, maybe forever. It’s infectious. Inadvertently still cupping your cheek with one hand and holding you with the other, he confirms, “That means your students will be the little kids who come out from under the big lady’s skirt?”
“Yes!” You squeal, “You’ve seen The Nutcracker?!”
“Of course I have; I’m not some uncultured jock,” he scoffs. (In fact, he’d watched it on his laptop for the first time – the one where Macaulay Culkin is the prince – after you told him you were submitting your class for the part in the ballet a few weeks back, hoping he’d be able to impress you with it if it ever came up.) Realizing that he’s standing like he’s about to make out with you, he takes a step back and clears his throat before saying, “That’s really great; congratulations. Hope I can manage to score a ticket.”
You pout out your lower lip as your eyes get watery. “You’d come to my kids’ ballet?”
He looks down at his feet and shrugs modestly. “I’m sure my mother would love to go for Christmas or something.”
“That’s so sweet, Brendon, thank you.” And there’s one more hug. Of course there is. This time, he notices the sweet floral scent of your shimmery body spray, the one you spritz on before morning gym sessions to justify putting off your shower until after the workout. He wants to lean into it, to breathe deeper, to fall into the gentle edges of your life where your biggest news is making little girls’ dreams come true. Everything good in you is everything missing in him. When you pull back, you give him a determined nod and offer, “Ready to get started? Today’s the day I pin you, big boy.”
He grins and lifts the rope for you to step into the ring. “I seriously doubt that.”
But he can’t resist how damn concentrated and serious you look as you jab him with punches, some of them even landing correctly after a few sessions of training. A few times, he gets so distracted with watching you that he forgets to defend himself and you really manage to get him in the ribs. You get this proud expression that’s bright and sweet whenever you do something right. So he maybe, just a little, to indulge himself more than anything, lets you pin him.
When he sees you breathing heavily above him with a big smile, seated on his chest, hands on his shoulders, it’s definitely worth it for the brutal teasing he has to endure the rest of the morning. He touches your waist gently and praises, “Good job. Really great strike – getting me off balance. That was good work.”
You erupt into a fit of self-satisfied giggles as you watch him catch his breath and tease, “You left your tummy wide open.”
He cracks up at that, throwing his arm over his forehead. “My tummy?”
God, his sweat smells good. You’ll go insane if you stay on top of him any longer. You finally stand up, stretch out your arms, and reply, “Occupational hazard of working with kids. It’s all tummies and bottoms and magic toes.”
Brendon does a full kip up back to his feet because he’s an asshole and too sexy to take your eyes off of for even a second. As he stretches himself out, too, he snickers, “Magic toes?”
“Tendu,” you explain, extending your leg out in a neat line, “and glissé.” You glide your pointed bare foot along the boxing mat floor, the delicate gesture out of place and eye-catching compared to Brendon’s bulk and grit. His eyes lock on the extension of your thigh, the flex in your calves, the sleek lines you easily craft after a lifetime of practice. He can’t help imagining how lovely you’d be in your proper ballet attire. Catching him watching a little too closely, you nudge him in the knee with your foot and say, “Those are ‘magic toes.’ Some of the foundations you have to master to do any movements, but they’re a little young to always nail it en français.”
As the two of you exit the ring and grab your waters and towels, he says ever-so-casually, “I’d like to see you dance for real sometime.”
Your heart flutters. “Yeah?”
He nods, drinking from his water as an excuse to avoid elaborating on the truth of how much he loves to watch your body move no matter what you’re doing. His adam’s apple bobs tortuously in his throat. You try not to ogle him too much, but it’s fundamentally unavoidable when he leans back against the wall and lets out a deep breath, his chest and shoulders and abs all moving with his lungs.
“So,” you begin, slow and absent, like you’re about to compare schedules with him, “are you really gonna make me ask you out? Because I think it should be the other way around.”
He chokes on his water and sputters a bit, making you laugh at having caught him off guard. After a second of coughing, all he can muster is, “What?”
You roll your eyes, nudge his pec, and explain, “It’s so obvious we’re supposed to go out with each other, Bren. Hell, we’re practically dating already. I mean, c’mon, the meet-cute where you rescued me from danger, the rising action of you helping to heal my broken arm, the climax of you letting me pin you while we’re both half-naked.”
“I didn’t let you-” At your adorable glare, Brendon lifts his hands in defeat. After letting himself think for long enough to make you nervous, he says, “Alright, alright. I wanted to build your confidence; sue me.” He runs a hand through his sweat-wavy hair. Procrastinating. “Look, I like you a lot – you’re beautiful, you make me laugh, you’re easy to be around – but the thing is,” he sighs, a certain darkness taking over his voice, “I don’t do normal relationships.”
You stare him down just to torture him by dragging it out, not wanting to show your hand too early. You’ve been waiting to play it too long to reveal your cards a moment too soon. As if innocently, you ask him, “What do you mean?”
He chews on the words for a minute before awkwardly deciding on, “I have certain…needs, I guess, that typical relationships don’t satisfy. That sounds stupid. I’m not sure how to say this.”
You give him a ‘just you wait’ look, hustle over to your gym bag, and take your phone out. Then you walk back, open up your photos, and present a screenshot of his own FetLife page – specifically your favorite photo of him sweating through a cut-up tank top after a workout, which you’d saved for…reference. His eyebrows raise, amused and suspicious, as you poke him in the chest and inform him with a self-satisfied sing-song voice, “You’re not as mysterious as you think. So let me be clear here: I think you should take me out.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not surprised, are you?”
“Of course not,” you reply. “Even the first night you stayed with me at the hospital, I could practically smell it on you. The way you barked orders and protected me. Made me feel safe because you knew I was scared.” His gaze has gone intense now. You’d expected him to look caught and embarrassed the way he usually does when you tease him for flirting, but suddenly he’s snapped into his element and it’s making you nervous. You remember what his colleague called him. Shark. He looks like he’s hunting you as you admit quietly, “When you’re like me, it’s easy to notice.”
He takes a step closer and lowers his voice. You’ve got him now and you both know it. “Like you?”
You give him a bashful smile and avert your eyes. “You really couldn’t tell?”
Brendon studies you carefully for a minute. Your fluttery lashes when you’re nervous. Your softly parted lips when you gaze up at him. The way your tears are nothing short of angelic and your smiles nothing short of honeyed perfection. He steps forward, closing the space between you, glances around the empty gym, and lifts his large hand to your neck. No pressure, no grabbing. But you gasp anyway. Your pupils dilate. And he knows. He pushes his hand up your neck until it’s right beneath your jaw, his pinky and his thumb able to encompass the whole width of your throat.
As he releases you, suddenly seeming twice as tall and broad and confident as usual, Brendon offers, “Let’s go out, then. Dinner tonight? So we can talk things through properly.”
Struggling to ignore the throbbing between your legs, you tell him, “I’m done at the studio at four.”
“Text me your address. I’ll pick you up at six.” He checks his watch and shoulders his bag, touching your lower back to guide you toward the locker room, and instructs, “And as soon as you get home this afternoon, send me some options for what you want to wear. I’ll choose for you.”
You’re about due for a cold shower.
you: you didn’t give me a dress code for dinner so i picked out a variety…even some non-pink, non-girly options if you want me to be all sophisticated. let me know what you like 😇
you: and jsyk I treat first dates with potential play partners more like job interviews. too many fake doms out there. too many bad experiences.
brendon (hot gym guy): I have nothing but respect for that approach. More than happy to show how seriously I take my sub’s safety and well-being. I hope I can pass all your tests.
you: vice versa. you’re too sexy to miss out on.
brendon (hot gym guy): Mutual.
you: yeah?
brendon (hot gym guy): Don’t bait me.
you: never.
brendon (hot gym guy): Wear the pink. I like how girly you are.
you: thank you!! i will 💕💕
you: okay I need to get ready now if I’m gonna be all cute in an hour and a half. see you soon!! don’t be late
brendon (hot gym guy): I never am.
you: that’s hot.
Getting ready for your first date with Brendon Park is nerve-racking in the best way. The butterflies in your stomach are less a cute fluttery array and more an absolute swarm overtaking the meadow of your consciousness. Even though he picked your gingham-style pastel pink dress, you still have to arrange a pristine makeup look and accessories. You land on fairly simple makeup by your standards – sheer foundation, a delicate lip tint a few shades pinker than your natural lips, soft dewy blush, generous tinted highlighter that brings out your undertones, light glittery shadow packed at your eyes’ inner corners to brighten every smile – wanting to let your features shine without having to excuse yourself to reapply gloss every other bite.
Once you’ve got your makeup set, you style your hair just-a-bit-but-not-too-much fancier than you usually would for ballet class and add a few accessories. A layered pearl necklace that should draw his eye to your chest, matching earrings, and, ugh, shoes. You have no idea which shoes are right.
Feeling perhaps a little mischievous, you decide to ask for Brendon’s input by sending him a couple of pictures. It’s by pure coincidence that you’re still getting ready, wearing only cheeky underwear and a cropped old tee. And it’s simply practical to take the photo over your shoulder in your floor-length mirror so he can get a good view of your ass the heels.
you: which shoes do you like better?
brendon (hot gym guy): Fuck.
brendon (hot gym guy): Processing. Recalibrating. Remembering language.
you: sorry bren i didn’t mean to distract you 😇
brendon (hot gym guy): Like hell you didn’t.
brendon (hot gym guy): The ones with the bow.
you: you really do like my girly stuff huh?
brendon (hot gym guy): Guilty. I like the contrast.
you: because you’re such a big mean masculine beefcake?
brendon (hot gym guy): 🙄
brendong (hot gym guy): Something like that.
you: omg did you just use an emoji
you: im already making progress on you
brendon (hot gym guy): You’re lucky this is a first date or you’d be getting bent over my knee tonight.
you: don’t threaten me with a good time 😘🍑
brendon (hot gym guy): Is the peach supposed to be your ass?
you: oh my god. yes grandpa
you: you’re so lucky you have me
brendon (hot gym guy): I am, actually.
brendon (hot gym guy): See you soon, gorgeous.
Brendon picks you up in that ridiculous, gorgeous Corvette exactly when he told you to expect, ringing your doorbell at 5:58. He’s in a suit. Navy blazer and slacks perfectly tailored to his every muscle, no tie to leave the top few buttons of his shirt undone, soft pink check pocket square – to match your dress, you realize dreamily as he extends a hand to guide you out of the doorway. Having only seen him in scrubs and gym clothes, you’re pretty damn impressed.
Right there on your building’s front stoop, he grabs you by the hips and stares you down like he’s already canceled your reservation so he can eat you for dinner instead. He spins you around slowly, devouring every slope of your body hugged by the sweet feminine dress. His hands are on your stomach, your lower back, your hips, as he turns you like you’re a piece of furniture he might buy.
Under his breath, a secret just for you, Brendon murmurs, “You’re beautiful.”
Not ‘you look beautiful.’ No, you are beautiful.
“Thank you.” Toying with his shirt collar, you reply, “You’re not so bad yourself, stud. Can’t believe you clean up so nice.”
He chuckles and shakes his head and threads his fingers with yours. It occurs to you that he might be a little bit nervous; you know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, so maybe he’s as stupidly giddy as you are, just in that strong, stoic way of his. The two of you are awkward in a sweet first date way on the drive to the restaurant, accidentally interrupting each other and laughing and making too much eye contact. His hand is on your thigh, almost jittery, thumb absently rubbing the fabric like a grounding device.
By the time you arrive at the swanky place in a low-lit brick building, though, Brendon seems to have shaken out his nerves while yours are still a live wire. He’s in his element with eyes on him, hand on your lower back, giving a charming smile to the manager who leads you to a cozy, more private table by the open screen windows that join the patio to the restaurant, a gentle warm breeze uniting the spaces.
Brendon pulls your chair out, his fingers skating between your shoulder blades as you sit down, making you shiver despite the perfect temperature in the restaurant.
Once Brendon’s seated across from you, the manager says, “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Park; I’ll be taking care of you personally tonight.”
Just as he’s about to hand you both menus, Brendon stops him. “I already know what we’ll be having, thank you.”
“Perfect; go right ahead.”
“We’ll start with the heron point crab toast paired with that pinot grigio from Medici. The 2012, if you have it, if not the ‘22. Add the ossetra, too. Then I’ll do the roasted garlic rack of lamb and she-” he eyes you carefully, savoring the awestruck look on your face “-will have the ahi tuna with the spring onion dashi. And we’ll finish with the pistachio Basque cheesecake.”
The waiter finishes scribbling in his pad and confirms, “Excellent choices, Dr. Park. I’ll be right out with your wine and appetizer.”
The moment you’re alone again, you click your tongue while Brendon looks at you expectantly, his eyes giving you a shit-eating grin even as his lips stay flat. You observe, “You just ordered for me.”
He tilts his head ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”
After a beat, cheeks burning from the truth, you let yourself admit, “It was really hot, actually. Nobody’s ever done that to me. I always thought it was kinda chauvinistic, but you made it…simple, I guess. Like you’ll do the thinking for me.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a high-risk move,” he replies, all amused and satisfied with himself, “but it was worth it to see you make that face.”
“What face?”
“Your eyes wide and your lips parted,” he muses, running a finger along the condensation on his water glass. Your eyes lock to the easy, tiny gesture. Then he reaches across the table and touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your gaze upward to meet his as he purrs, “Like you’re about to drop to your knees and sit pretty for me.”
You blink maybe a thousand times as your brain stutters over his words. When did his voice get so sexy? He touches the pad of his thumb to your lower lip, watching with a sadistic kind of glee as you gasp in softly. You both realize at the same moment that you’d suck on his fingers right then and there if he asked you to.
Which means he doesn’t. He’d never abuse the trust you’re already starting to give him in small pieces. Brushing your cheek a moment, just letting himself indulge in the softness of your cheek’s delicate peach fuzz, Brendon pulls back with eyes so warm you’re melting beneath them.
Your appetizer arrives and Brendon takes care to prepare a perfect half for you, spreading the warm crab salad over crisp buttery sourdough and adding dollops of caviar. When you take your first bite, it’s borderline orgasmic. You have to fight to suppress a moan as your eyes roll back, the mix of mild, almost sweet crab alongside something nutty and savory in its sauce, and the salty tang of caviar working together in a harmonious symphony. Brendon sucks in a deep breath as he watches your tongue dart out to chase a bead of sauce at the corner of your mouth. When he doesn’t drop his eyes after your second bite, you tease him, “You’re staring at me.”
Unbothered, Brendon shrugs. He never loses that familiar almost-cocky smirk as he replies, “I am. I like staring at you.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“You’re beautiful and you’re on a date with me. Do I need a better reason?”
“I guess I’ll allow it. You should know, though, that I don’t play on the first date,” you tell him, “so if you’re going out with me to tie someone up and get off for the night, you should leave before the expensive entrees get here.”
“In that case, you’re perfectly safe to stay with me through dessert,” he chuckles fondly, reaching across the table to take your free hand in his. He lowers his voice and meets your eyes sincerely. “I’m not just looking for some plaything. I date to keep. And what I keep, I take care of. That’s why it’s taken me so long to go out with you; I wanted to wait until I was certain.”
You flutter your lashes and tease, “So you must really, really like me.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. Now that we’ve had a little wine, shall we get down to business?”
He straightens up and grins at just how serious you look while still being so damn cutesy. “Absolutely.”
You reach into your bag and remove a glitter pen and the little pastel purple Moleskine notebook you always carry around. First, you tear out a page and hand it over to him. “That’s a list of my limits. You can look over that on your own time and text me any questions.”
Brendon glances over it, folds and tucks it into his blazer’s interior pocket, and laughs, “Christ, I’ve finally met my Type A match. You just have to keep being perfect, don’t you?”
“Yep,” you answer with a sweet giggle. Pen poised, you prompt him, “I wanna know what you expect from a sub. I know you’re looking for something serious, something that’s not just in the bedroom, so I want all the dirty details.”
Brendon leans back a bit and considers it. Really considers it, as if he hadn’t been rehearsing how to explain himself the whole time he got ready to see you. “I want obedience, first and foremost. Make my life better, not worse. Don’t be another problem for me; I already have too many. I don’t tolerate brattiness. I want my girl to sit pretty and obey and be good.”
Writing some half-sensical notes just to make him sweat, you ask, “And what do I get out of it?”
That one comes easy to him. As your entrees arrive, he thanks the waiter earnestly (hot) and then turns back to you with warmth and honesty all over his expression. “Everything you need and anything you want.”
You slice into your mouthwatering dinner and push, “Details, Brendon.”
“I don’t like to worry about what’s mine,” he explains. The way he cuts his food and eats is pornographic. Is there a sub-genre of porn that’s just well-dressed, attractive men having dinner while communicating about needs and boundaries? You might have to create one. Bringing your attention back to his words, Brendon goes on, “Once you’re certain about me, I’ll ask you to put your rent and all your bills on my accounts. That way you can save your money. Hopefully it goes without saying, but I’d add you to the accounts so it still builds your credit and you maintain financial freedom. I don’t want to trap you; I want you to choose to give yourself over to me completely.”
He expects you to push back, to challenge, to not understand. But you just hum and nod and write it down in your notebook with that damn pink glitter pen with its feathery end. Fuck, he wants to shove his cock down your throat right then and there.
Brendon rolls his shoulders and goes on, “I’ll always make sure you’re taken care of in every way. You’ll be safe and secure, pampered and protected. Your own car, a new place in a better building, designer shopping sprees, meal services or private chefs or- Anything, truly. I have too many resources for one man and they’ll all be yours. What I want in return is eager, complete submission. I want to be a guide, a protector, a leader. The person you look to when you need help or safety or, y’know, orgasm after orgasm after orgasm,” he finishes, lightening his tone as he gets a bit insecure listening to himself and how intense he knows he sounds. So he turns inward, to his own worry that he’s going to blow this, and presses, “Your turn, then. What do you need in a dynamic?”
Breathless and lightheaded because it’s like he’s reading your mind, you take a long pause and whisper, “You, I think.”
He glances down at the table to hide the silly smile that parts his lips, innocent and boyish relative to what you’re discussing. You feel his foot lock with yours beneath the table, a silent reassurance. Then he lifts his gaze and needles, “Details, pretty girl. Details.”
After a few more bites that Brendon intently watches you take, you sip your water and tell him, almost coy about it, “I need a dom who doesn’t just make me feel safe but is safe. I never want to doubt them for a second – and if I do, I want them to be self-aware enough to analyze their behavior and apologize and adjust. All I want is to trust someone enough that I can turn my brain off and not worry about all the stupid things that distract me from being happy and carefree. That means they have to respect me as an equal, too, because my limits and boundaries are sacred to me. I’m not going to let someone push them just because of a title.” Finally, you give him the sweetest flirtatious smile and cheekily add, “And, if I have the right dom, the forever one, I want a very pretty and subtle and expensive day collar.”
“I think we’re on the same page here, then.” Brendon lifts his wine glass and says, “To something new and something real.”
You roll your eyes but clink your glass with his anyway, smiling ear to ear at the idea that you might’ve found what you really want. Brendon’s thinking the same. You’re exactly what he needs: Thorough, disciplined, self-confident. Not some girl in over her head. A woman, sure and steady, who wants to fulfill her role with knowledge of what it truly means. No doubts, just enthusiasm. He won’t have to teach you or turn you the way he has with past partners who never quite clicked. You know your limits and your needs and your wants. You’re certain. That, to Brendon, is the sexiest thing a woman can be.
When he asks to kiss you at the end of the date, you say no. Instead, you press your lips to his cheek and murmur, “If I let myself kiss you now, I’m going to break my own rule about playing on a first date.”
Brendon drags his hand down your neck and then places it on your waist, pressing you against your apartment’s front door, his eyebrows pinched together with want. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “The second one will be very, very soon if I have anything to do with it.”
The next morning, still high on your date with Brendon, you waltz into the ballet studio – and nearly fall over when you see what’s in front of you. The whole lobby is covered in flowers, bouquets of roses and carnations in whites and pale pinks, each wrapped in sheer lace-patterned paper and secured with a baby pink chinoiserie-style ribbon. There are so many that every flat surface is full.
Georgia, the receptionist, raises her eyebrows suspiciously at you as she explains, “Someone donated a bouquet to every single one of our students for good luck at their recital this weekend.” Toying with a folded white note from the florist, sealed by another pink ribbon, she asks, “Totally unrelated, obviously, how did your date with that uber-rich surgeon go last night?”
You snatch the note from her hand and read it greedily. Thank you for a lovely evening. Be at my place at 5:30. Eat dinner and feed Duke beforehand. The concierge will let you in and give you a key to keep. Make yourself comfortable and I should be home by seven at the latest. B. As a slow grin spreads over your features, heart thundering eagerly in your chest, you tell her, “It went really well.”
She squeals with you, “I figured it was that or he’d royally screwed up and these were apology flowers. Glad it’s the former.”
“No, no, he’s…a prince, apparently.” Then you bite your lip and narrow your eyes as you look over the spectacular display. “You don’t think this is love-bomby, do you?”
“It’s intense,” she concedes, then reasons, “but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Your frontal lobe is done cooking. And you’ve gotten to know him pretty well, right? Plus, you pursued him first, didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes,” you reply, finally letting the thoughtfulness of the gesture actually take over your body, making you feel loose and sweet and floaty. “God, he’s so good, you have no idea.”
She waves her arms around dramatically. “Clearly I have some idea.”
“Yeah, fair point.” Taking the largest bouquet meant for you, already planning where it’ll go in your apartment once you’re home, you tell her, “Make sure all the parents get a bouquet, alright? I don’t want any of my kids feeling left out.”
“On it, boss.”
“You know I hate it when you call me that.”
She just shrugs, gives you a teasing smile, and, just to be annoying, salutes you before returning to her computer and ringing phone. And you laugh instead of rolling your eyes because you’re too smitten and delighted to pretend to be irritated.
you: most people would’ve texted
bren: Did you want ‘most people’?
you: definitely not 🥰 this is so sweet. the girls are all gonna be so excited for their first show bouquets. and carnations are my favorite!!!
bren: Should I pretend I somehow figured that out in a very romantic way or should I admit it was a lucky guess?
you: lucky guess is just as cute. thank you thank you thank you!!
bren: I wish I could’ve seen your face when you saw them.
you: ill do a really good recreation for you tonight
you: I can’t wait to see you 💕💕💕
bren: Me too, beautiful.
bren: And don’t bother wearing something fancy. I’m going to take your clothes off as soon as I’m inside.
you: that a promise?
bren: Yes.
you: good. I have to go get changed and get ready for class. thank you again!!
bren: Text me when you have lunch. I’ll be in surgery until about two, but I want to know you’re taking care of yourself during the day.
you: yes sir
bren: Careful.
you: rarely 😘
Stepping into the lobby of Brendon’s swanky high-rise, you immediately feel out of place, wishing you’d worn something cute and designer instead of something comfy like Brendon suggested. But you swallow hard, square your shoulders, and approach the concierge’s desk like you belong there – because you do. To be an independent woman is to assert your worth, as your ballet instructor from your teenage years would often say.
“I’m here for Brendon Park,” you tell the woman in a severe black skirt suit behind the desk, swallowing nervously. “Um, he’s in 2600.”
“Of course,” she hums, tapping on her computer and confirming your name. She disappears into the small administrative room behind a frosted glass partition and reemerges with a keyring holding a fob, a delicate enamel ballet slipper keychain, and a pink key. “His assistant dropped these off for you. You’ll need to use the fob in the elevator to access both Dr. Park’s floor and the amenities on the roof level if you’d like to use them while you’re here.”
Turning over the keys in your hand – and processing the idea that Brendon has a personal assistant who knows about you already – you ask, “What sort of amenities are there?”
“There’s an indoor and an outdoor pool, hot tub inside, along with a bar and cafe open 24 hours a day. Full-service gym with fitness classes, wood-burning sauna, game room. You should definitely check it all out for yourself when you have some free time.”
“A full gym?” You chuckle almost to yourself, “We met because we go to the same gym.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. “Dr. Park is a very private man; he doesn’t do much mingling with the neighbors.”
Another person approaches the desk, then, so you excuse yourself toward the elevators. Inside, you have to press the fob to a small panel, which lights up the button for his floor: 26. The ride up is so fast and high that your ears pop. You’ve always loved luxury and elegance, but it’s always been a treat. You work hard to splurge on the occasional designer piece. Brendon’s life is drowning in details that could only ever be on the periphery of yours. It’s intimidating, to say the least.
The elevator opens directly into his condo, which takes up the entire 26th floor. With the sun slowly setting, the space is genuinely breathtaking. While it’s definitely not your style – you’re soft and cozy and pastel, not black and wood and stone – you can absolutely admire the intentionality that went into the place. It’s easy to imagine Brendon with all his masculine angles and sharp barbs reclining in the oversized suede couch as he reads or leaning against the expansive kitchen island while he sips coffee. You’d bet good money he hired a designer. It’s all sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows ringing the open-concept living space.
You slowly spin around and let out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bren.”
Making your way tentatively into the condo, you realize that lights slowly come on as you move through, following your steps. You manage to resist the urge to snoop more than feels appropriate for being here alone, noticing the details that he chooses to display. Everything is unique and tasteful, hand-crafted, no Ikea crap or mass-produced decor. There’s even a black and white work by Robert Motherwell that you realize with something that blends both horror and glee is an original.
Yeah, you definitely can’t process that kind of money right now.
Deep breaths.
In the kitchen, there’s a curated care package at the center of the island in the form of a large bag from Saks Fifth Avenue. Your throat goes dry when you see your name on a small envelope pinned to it. Inside, there’s a handwritten note. Seriously, make yourself comfortable. I mean it. I’ll be there soon.
Hardly able to breathe, you unpack the bag to find a flat box from Kiki de Montparnasse and a shoebox from Balenciaga alongside a few smaller goodies. Opening the flat box first, you unfold a stunning baby blue silk robe with lace details that would hit on your upper thigh, ultra soft and fluttery. The fabric is as smooth and rich as butter. In the shoe box, you’re greeted with cloud-fluffy slippers in the same color.
Once again, you mutter to yourself, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
The last few things in the bag are clearly a suggestion for how to spend the hour or so before Brendon arrives home: Bergamot bubble bath, L’Occitane almond lotion, and a couple other self-care offerings. You take your haul through the apartment toward what you assume is the primary suite, given the imposing double doors. It’s marginally softer in there, at least. Just as militantly neat and tidy, but there are books laden with tabs sticking out, an oversized plush chair with a permanent Brendon-sized indent, and other signs of life that make it different from a showroom.
In the en suite bathroom, across from a massive walk-in closet (half-full, yearning to be filled with pink designer clothes, you think), there’s a huge tub with a telephone-style faucet built into the floor, literally the size of a jacuzzi. He’s even left a handwritten note explaining how to use the jets on the wall-mounted control panel.
Comfortable, indeed.
One more time: “Jesus fucking Christ.”
You take one of those baths so delicious that you feel like a different person afterwards, losing track of time and space and being until you’re in a happy dreamy fog. Once you’ve dried off and slipped back into your bra and panties, you wrap yourself in the slinky robe, not tying it, and walk into Brendon’s adjacent bedroom. Perched on the end of his bed, you work the divine lotion into your feet and legs until you’re so relaxed you debate flopping down onto the California king and calling it a night.
While you’re tending to your skin, you hear the elevator ding, followed by Brendon’s long, deep sigh as his day starts to simmer off. Then you listen with growing anticipation as his footsteps trail through the kitchen, stopping briefly to notice your presence, and then speed up to the bedroom door. Excited, you realize. You sit up straight on the bed, legs slightly parted, the robe framing out your darling matching bra and panties set, nothing crazy but enough to make you feel sexy.
When Brendon pushes open the bedroom door, his heart nearly stops. His heavy hospital bag falls from his hand and thuds to the floor. Running a hand through his hair, he groans with outright relief, “Yeah, I could definitely get used to coming home to this.” He stalks across the room until he’s right in front of you. But he doesn’t touch you. Not yet. The smell of harsh hospital overtakes the room. While he’s objectively sexy in his scrubs, you can tell he’s beyond ready to get them off. He confirms it by cupping your cheek and telling you, “I’m going to go take the fastest shower in human history and be right back for you, okay? Don’t miss me.”
“Too late.”
Brendon sighs, completely overloaded with desire. Only the sight of your nose wrinkling ever so slightly when the surgical scent hits you convinces him to hold his willpower and clean himself off before he eats you alive. He makes good on his word, at least. In the space of seven minutes, he showers, shaves his face, and does his skincare routine.
And the first words out of his mouth when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped low around his waist are, “Give me your panties, baby.” When you don’t immediately move, he snaps his fingers and extends his arm. “You don’t wear any when you’re at my place; I need to be able to have you when I want you.”
Your eyes widen at the total authority in his voice.
You’re in the shark’s den now.
Standing up right away as your brain recalibrates, you step out of your underwear and place them into his outstretched hand, beyond embarrassed at how hot it is that he’s so immediately his dominant self. There’s no small talk, no mask. Just you and Brendon. He lifts your panties to his face, inhales deeply through his nose, eyes rolling back, and then tosses them into his nearby hamper.
“Much better,” he tuts once he can see your neatly trimmed, inviting bush. He closes the space between you and skims the silky robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, a total afterthought. When he realizes that you’ve chosen a front-clasp bra, his eyes burn with lust. He doesn’t waste time teasing; you’re naked in the next breath. As your chest rises and falls quickly, Brendon takes a step back and rakes his eyes all over you, quietly admiring, “Fucking perfect. Every inch of you.”
Eyes trained on your pedicure, you quietly reply, “Thank you.”
Brendon’s having none of it. He takes your jaw in one hand and pushes your face upward, his expression dark and amused. “So coy all of a sudden. Just have to get you naked and all your attitude goes away?”
You give a tiny nod. “Pretty much.”
“Mmm. That works for me.” For a moment, Brendon steps away from you, disappearing into the closet. He returns in a pair of gray sweats presumably designed to send you into cardiac arrest; even soft, even after a shower, you can tell his dick is something to write home about. You stay quiet, but the change in your breathing is obvious and amusing to him. He drags his first two fingers down the center column of your throat, over your sternum between your breasts, and then along your stomach before he settles both hands on your waist. “Tell me your safe words and gestures.”
“Stoplight system for basics,” you answer easily, “and if I can’t talk, I’ll snap once to slow down and twice to stop.”
“That’s right,” he praises with a wolfish smile – a phrase you didn’t fully understand until now. Predatory but confident. Knowing he has the kill in sight. “How are you feeling? Comfortable?”
You almost laugh because, god, can he not read your mind and see that you’re soaked? It certainly feels like he can read your mind with how much he turns you on. “Neon fucking green.”
And he slaps you. It’s light, you can tell, meant to test and not to punish. Not really. But it still makes you gasp as your cheek stings ever so slightly. “Good girls don’t swear. It’s an ugly habit and you’re too pretty to do it.”
Memorizing the new rule immediately, you reply, “Thank you for telling me. I won’t do it again. Promise.”
He kisses your forehead tenderly and praises, “So obedient already. You’re going to make such a good pet, aren’t you?”
You nod eagerly, shifting your weight gently from side to side as you await more attention, more sensation, more. “I’ll always do my best for you.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
And, finally, he kisses you. He’s so soft at first, cradling your cheeks in his hands, letting you learn the way his mouth feels against yours. The moment he hears your breath catch, he deepens it, pressing his hand to your lower back to draw you tight against his body. He touches you without any rush. Every curve of your back and plane of your arms bristle beneath his adoring fingertips until you’ve forgotten how to kiss at all. So you just follow his lead. His tongue claiming yours. His teeth on your lower lip. His breathy, low groan infecting your synapses. You let out a genuinely embarrassingly loud moan when he grips at the nape of your neck, where your scruff would be if you were a kitten, the tiny grab so dominant it weakens your knees.
When he breaks the kiss, Brendon chuckles to himself at your responsiveness and curses under his breath. Despite your opinion, he must not fancy himself pretty enough to keep his vocabulary clean. While you reel from how tingly and perfect your lips still feel, he goes to his hospital bag, rummages around a moment, and removes a pair of black nitrile gloves. He snaps each of them on with tactile precision. At your curious eyes, he smirks and explains, “If I’m going to inspect my new toy, I’m going to do it right.”
You whimper.
He laughs.
Again.
Bastard.
“Lie back on the bed, against the pillows, over toward one side. Arms above your head.”
You maneuver yourself into position, making sure you’re actually comfortable so that you can be fully present with him. Then he manhandles you to be exactly how he wants, arms straighter, wrists crossed over each other, knees bent upward. Your skin burns under his complete, total focus. He lifts his hands as if to touch you but then seems to think better of it. After a moment of thought, he tells you, “This is our first time together, so I promise I won’t do anything that at all pushes your limits or we haven’t talked about you wanting already. I just wanna build trust with you and make you feel good tonight. Same page?”
Breathless and exposed, you agree, “Absolutely.”
So he gets to work.
First, Brendon touches you everywhere – except where you want. It’s not so much sensual as it is clinical, which makes it a thousand times more intimate. Especially with the gloves creating an infuriating, erotic barrier between your bare skin and his, you feel like one of his patients. One of his absolutely drenched, fast-breathing, hot-cheeked patients, yes, but still. He holds your arm in one hand as the other draws along your goosebumps. He kisses each of your fingers, each knuckle, even, and then your palms and wrists for good measure. His tongue plays across your chest, along your collarbone, and he presses a kiss over your pulse.
Then he buries his nose in your armpit and breathes deeply. You squeal out a surprised laugh and squirm a bit, but he’s unfazed by it. He holds you down easily – your wriggling only makes him fantasize about restraining you – and observes, “You don’t shave.”
“I have sensitive skin and I don’t perform anymore,” you reply. “You never noticed?”
He shakes his head. “Too busy staring at your gorgeous tits and ass to think about your armpits.”
As he resumes touching you, now running up and down your waist, you ask, “Is that a problem?”
It’s his turn to laugh. Almost a bark, surprised and bright. “Sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing on your entire body I would categorize as a problem.” He takes your breasts in each of his hands, expression dreamy and warm, and opines, “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I couldn’t handle a grown woman having hair wherever it naturally exists.”
Before your quickly melting brain has to come up with something clever, Brendon slaps one of your tits, testing, and tilts his head to one side when you barely react. So he gives you another, this one much harder, and gets the reward of a sharp gasp and an arched back. When he gets the same on the other side, he murmurs, “There we go. Just gotta learn how much you like to take.” Another set of slaps to each side. Much, much harder. You realize with a zing of delectable fear that he’s nowhere near his full strength even as tears well in your eyes and you let out a completely involuntary shriek. “And how much you’re capable of taking. That’s a good girl.”
After a deep breath, you manage to tell him, “Thank you.”
And you earn a slap across your face. You suck in a breath as he presses seriously, “Thank you what?”
Your eyes glow with fuzzy delight; it’s been way too long since you let someone have you like this. Like you crave down to your core. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s right. Perfect.” Brendon cups your tits, then, and rubs his thumbs over your nipples in careful circles as he checks, “How about here, though?” He massages gently, all the while studying every single twitch of your face as you dip deeper toward that submissive headspace he yearns to get you to. “More than that, right?” The pressure increases until your toes curl into the sheets. He keeps it there for a minute, precise, controlled, twisting back and forth, pinching side to side. When your brows are pushed together hard, every wrinkle in your forehead tight from pleasure and want, he purrs to himself, “Yeah, that’s about it, I think. That’s your favorite. But I bet you’ll take more if I want you to.”
He lowers his head, holds you down at your hip, and bites on your breast. You cry out as his teeth bully your nipple. On the other side, the tips of his forefinger and thumb come together to match the mean, sharp sensation. Electricity sings from your tits to your core, sparking life between your legs, making your stomach contract, turning your thighs tense.
Right before you know he’ll draw blood if he continues, you break and gasp, “Yellow.”
And he eases up. Immediately. Licks your nipples so fucking gently. Kisses them with a prayerful reverence. He raises his mouth to yours and kisses you. Soft. Sure. You whimper into him and he places small kisses all over your face. Then he breathes cool air onto your swollen nipples to soothe them and affirms, “Good job, kitten. I always want you to use your safe words when you need them. That’s the only way I can make sure I have you right where you really, really love. Do you need a break?”
“No, I’m good,” you assure him. “So, so good. All I need is more.”
Brendon nods and kisses you again. He starts at your lips but gradually drags his mouth away from yours and further down. His tongue lathes along your jaw and throat, chasing a bead of sweat down your sternum. He nibbles along your sides and stomach. Some of the gentle bites turn into mouthfuls, teeth digging in, earning his workplace moniker. But you never call yellow through it and, frankly, he’s fucking impressed by the time he’s ready to spread your legs. He’s left all kinds of nasty bites and bruises over your torso and you’ve moaned through each one, begging for more, an altar for him to feast upon.
Finally joining you on the bed, Brendon pushes your knees apart. A sharp breath parts his lips and you have to avert your eyes because you know exactly what he’s reacting to. You can feel the mess between your thighs like honey, a tangible reveal of precisely how much he’s affecting you no matter how bashful you might act.
“You’re gorgeous, baby.” He bends down and kisses each of your thighs, lazy and open-mouthed, before murmuring, “Just need a little taste of you or I won’t be able to focus the rest of the night.”
Your legs are twitching with anticipation as he nestles between them, bringing your knees over his strong shoulders, and wraps his arms around your hips. He’s got you completely pinned and spread with his broad body. You couldn’t move if you wanted to – and you definitely don’t. He laps up your wine and gets drunk with just one sip. It’s not for your pleasure, really, the way he’s purely and simply tasting you. The fact that he has you trembling and whining is secondary to the way your tangy pussy coats his tongue.
Brendon’s fingers dig into your hips as he pulls away from your cunt. He looks almost on the verge of grief as he resists the part of his mind that just wants to eat you out for the next hour. He laments, “How am I supposed to function knowing this pussy’s all mine? How am I ever gonna get any work done again?”
You cover your eyes and giggle, “I dunno.”
“I’ve already got you stupid,” he chuckles as he straightens up again, sitting between your legs instead of lying. Rubbing your thighs with his thumbs, he sighs happily, “You’re so easy.”
“Just for you.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm.” You grind down toward him, craving anything he’ll give, and admit with a pathetic whimper, “Want you so bad. Wanna be good for you. Be your girl.”
He moves and kisses just beneath your ear, at the hollow of your jaw, and promises, “You’re being so good. I’m gonna see how much this pretty pussy can take now, okay? You just breathe and let me know if it’s too much. Sound good?”
You wiggle playfully and beam, “Sounds so good, sir.”
“God, you’re cute,” he muses as he opens up his bedside table and removes one of several different bottles of lube. “I’m gonna start with two of my fingers and then give you more when I can tell you’re ready. Trust me.”
“I do.”
“Good.” With a kiss to your cheek, he teases, “Usually I’d tie you up for this so you wouldn’t squirm and annoy me, but I’m being gentle tonight.”
Your head spins with how much you want him to tie you up. Still, Brendon’s two gloved fingers are bliss. You’re so slick and aroused that they slide in easily, no resistance at all, and he lets out a shaky groan at the same time as you do. He thrusts them in and out patiently, letting you get acquainted with the way he touches you, and brings his other hand to rest above your clit, thumb just hovering, waiting for the right moment to join. His palm adds pressure to the part of you he’s curling back against, where you feel so full already you can hardly imagine how much more he’s going to give you.
Your body’s overcome with pleasure when he does touch your clit, having already endured so much touch with so little relief. The brilliant agony of thorough foreplay. When he feels you beginning to clench up, your pussy not just adjusted to him but really into it now, he drives in his third finger. That stretch is easily as much as being fucked. Your toes curl into his back and you instinctively grab his forearm – not to push him away or pull him in but just to- to- to have something in your hands. Something to keep you rooted as desire starts to make your body smolder and wind up.
Stupid little sounds escape your lips as he massages right against the perfect spot inside of you. Your eyelids are heavy. Your abs twitch and flutter. Your thighs begin to tremble. And, suddenly, almost out of nowhere, the words are tumbling off your bitten lips before Brendon can even instruct you to say them, “Can I cum, sir? I’m really close but I- I can try to-”
“Already asking for my permission. Good fucking girl. So good, baby.” He slows his fingers to work the orgasm out methodically. You tighten around him, slow and constant, until he orders plainly, sternly, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the planet, “Cum for me. Show me how good it feels.”
Your cunt grabs him hard at the peak of pleasure. You turn from sparks to bonfire in a split second, heat crackling through you. The pressure is enormous, his palm pushing down against you and his thumb insistent on your bud and his fingers unrelenting. While you’re still pulsing and moaning and tensing, Brendon begins to flatten out his fingers instead of holding them together in your stretched cunt. He’s spreading you as wide as you’ve ever been and you whine out, “Bren, it’s so- so much.”
“Don’t complain,” he grunts back. Simple. He’s completely stern, ready to punish. “You can take more; I can tell. She’s nice and wet and relaxed; you’re just in your head.”
Tears prickle at your eyes as you admit, “I don’t- I don’t know if I can. So much.”
He slows down and lifts his thumb from your clit. He reaches up and touches your chin so you’ll look at him. “Do you need to use your safewords, kitten? Being honest is being good.”
You take a second to think, to breathe, and tell him, “I don’t think so.”
“And does it still feel good?”
You whimper pathetically and nod through the tears.
“Then shut the fuck up and take it like a big girl.” He pulls his hand back from your face, takes the lube, and dribbles a few cold droplets onto your hot pussy. You whine at the contrast and he instructs, “Now say sorry for questioning me.”
You sniffle back the tears and blink them away and promise, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s better.” He can’t believe how pretty you are with those wet lashes and tear streaks down your cheeks. He’s never seen something more beautiful and it makes him soften. As he once again flattens his fingers, stretching and scissoring them while toying with your clit, he lowers his voice to a possessive purr and praises, “You’re almost there, kitten, I know you can do it. You’ve already got all four fingers. Just a little more and you’ll have everything I can give you.”
Your eyes find his. You give a wobbly smile when you see how dark his baby blues have gone, almost no color left. He really loves seeing you like this, completely vulnerable and at his mercy. “You really think I can do it?”
“I do,” he confirms with a tender and warm voice. Seeing your need for his words, his affirmations, plain as day, he goes on, “You’re such a good girl. Being so brave. So fucking pretty, too, taking me like this. I know you can do it.”
You sniffle again and nod and, more determined, reply, “Keep going. I’m ready.”
“Poor little thing just needs some more encouragement,” he sighs lovingly. Nudging the very tip of his thumb into your cunt, he urges, “Show me how much you can take. Show me what a good girl you can be. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby, you’re doing it. Gonna take all of me. Nobody’s ever done that before, you know?”
Brendon feels your pussy spasm around his hand at the praise. You sound so damn adorably proud of yourself as you check, “Really? You mean that?”
“Really, princess,” he swears. You imagine him sounding like this in the OR, completely certain, guiding, a teacher who knows everything, including his student’s potential. While he slowly, slowly works his thumb upward with the rest of his fingers, he goes on, “You’re my best girl. So obedient. Listening to me and listening to your body. I can’t believe I’m getting to do this; you’re perfect. You’re gorgeous. I’m gonna make you cum so hard so soon, baby, I promise. It’s gonna be the best thing you’ve ever felt when I finally get you there.”
When you take the first knuckle of his thumb, you let out the dumbest sound he’s ever heard, a crooked high-pitched moan that makes his cock twitch. Brendon ruts against the bed a bit to chase any modicum of relief, sure he’s going to ruin these sweatpants if you keep sounding like that. You don’t stop, every single breath and moan so broken and divine he can hardly stand it.
“There it is,” he croons, clearly proud of himself and you, as your cunt finally lets in the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the widest part of his hand inside of you. “How’s that feeling, baby?”
“So much,” you whimper. Your chin wobbles and your breaths are ragged and your neurons are bright and alive. Struggling to even speak with how good and how much and how perfect it all is, you cry out, “Feel so full.”
“That’s right. You’re fucking stuffed. So goddamn pretty. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He snatches his phone and takes a picture of his four fingers spread in your wide cunt, your juices and the lube making the whole black glove shiny in the bedroom’s low light. Tossing it aside again, he turns all his attention back to you and instructs, “Now, I’m gonna make you cum again, and you’re gonna squirt all over my bed while you do. Got it?”
“I- I’ll try.”
“No.” His voice is lethal. No room for questions. “You’re going to do it. I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not leaving this spot until you cum.” His hand starts to move again, twisting and thrusting, keeping your muscles so taut that it’s like a real workout. Your forehead is dewy with sweat as he goes on, “I can tell it’s gonna be a big one, too, baby. So overstimulated, so aching, so swollen, so much, right? All that pressure building up, needing somewhere to go.”
He presses down on your bladder as his thumb strums your clit and you genuinely, earnestly weep, “Brendon, oh my god, fuck!”
That earns you a cruel slap straight to your already throbbing clit. Pain and pleasure rocket through you in equal parts. A sob rips out of you and you’re trying to squirm away from the intensity, not even intentionally because it does feel so good, but your body just instinctively fights for control while Brendon’s trying to force it to let go.
“No, no, no,” Brendon admonishes like you’re a disobedient dog. His thumb is on your clit, hard, unforgiving, unrelenting. He shoves forward, his muscular torso looking massive, pressing you back against the bed frame. With you on the brink of supernova, he commands like a sergeant, “don’t you dare hold back with me, you useless fucking slut. Never, ever hold back from your dom. Don’t resist it or I’ll make it so much harder for you.”
You’re half-thrashing back and forth, feeling your brain fighting to stop your cunt from simmering and boiling and steaming into pleasure. It’s all so pent up and tight, begging for something to rend it apart and let in some relief. You’re using muscles you’ve never even felt before as Brendon recklessly defuses the bomb of your body. There’s always going to be a version of you that exists before this moment and a version that exists after. It’s the moment when Brendon Park makes you his. When you give over completely, unafraid and unabashed, to his control.
His voice.
The universe narrows into the pinprick of his voice.
“Cum. Now. That’s an order.”
You snap. You’re a live electrical wire in a thunderstorm, struck by lightning, breaking into splinters and whipping out with pure force. You don’t even realize that you’re grabbing his forearm, his shoulders, his hair, literally anything you can, clawing with full force as all your muscles turn from steel to smoke in a matter of seconds. You're barely aware of the uncontrollable gush from your cunt. There’s nothing to see or hear or taste or smell. There’s only him.
When you start to resurface somewhere close to personhood, it’s only because Brendon’s withdrawing his fingers, leaving you gasping and gaping as the muscles that make up your cunt knit back together from being pushed to their limit.
Then his tongue is on your slit, not touching your clit so that you can begin to relax. You’re on fire to the point that his mouth feels cold against your flesh. Satisfied that he's lapped up as much of your release as possible, Brendon mouths at your thighs, nuzzles at your hips, kisses your stomach.
Kicking out of his sweats, Brendon slots himself between your legs. His agonizingly hard cock rests heavy against your lower belly as he strokes your cheek. Your eyes drift lazily up to his. His thumb crosses briefly over your lips and you catch it and suck. His cock throbs as your blissed-out lids close and you swirl your tongue around his skin. Choking on his own words a second because of how damn pretty you are, he murmurs, “You still with me, baby? I know that was a lot.”
With totally empty eyes – empty like a clear blue sky, empty like a blank page full of potential, empty like your mouth when you’ve finished tasting a perfect bite – you lilt, “Feel so good. Just want you, daddy.”
Brendon softens despite himself. It’s not his usual moniker – he’s always seen himself as hard and stern, not soft and guiding, sir and master – but it slips so easily from your lips that it suddenly suits him. He bends forward and kisses you, pressing his forehead to yours as he makes sure, “Color?”
“Green as spring,” you reply sweetly, kissing the pink apple of his cheek. You bury your forehead in the crook of his neck and ask him sheepishly, “Can I have your cock now?”
“Don’t hide from me, princess,” he says, voice low and tender as he turns you to face him again. “Are you just saying that to make me happy or do you really want it? Because it’s okay if you’re done.”
“I know it is,” you reply. Your voice has never sounded so effortless and breathy with him; it’s like he’s seeing the real you for the first time. The self that nobody else gets. You twine your fingers in his damp hair, wrapping a curl around your pointer finger, and tell him softly, truthfully, “I wanna make you feel as good as I feel right now. Show me how you like it. Take me however you need.” You meet his eyes and hope he can see the want in yours. “Please, daddy. Let me be your good girl a little longer.”
“You’re my good girl no matter what,” he murmurs against your ear, “but I’ve been dreaming about that perfect pussy for weeks, so who am I to deny her if that’s what she really wants?”
“All I want,” you reply, eyes shiny with lingering tears that threaten again. Wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, you beg, “Give me your cock, Bren. Need it so bad.”
Brendon’s fully aware that he’s not going to give his best performance the moment he feels how slippery and swollen your entrance is on his tip. If he’s not careful, he’ll cum before he’s even all the way inside of you. Especially with you constantly keening beneath him, acting like every nerve ending is raw, each inch of his cock met with a shudder or a sob. Brendon hangs his head and tries to take a deep breath as he bottoms out inside of you. He grips the headboard like it owes him money as a full-body shiver runs down his spine. “Fuck, baby. Shit. Oh my god.”
Feeling full and floaty, you hum something vaguely like a question.
He bends down and clutches you close, hand on the back of your head, holding your bodies flush against each other. Shaky and rough, he tells you, “Not gonna last, angel, been waiting too long for this.”
“So don’t last,” you reply simply, “just be with me. Just use my pussy to feel good and later you can use it again or take my mouth or whatever the fuck you-”
His hand crashes across your face. The pain feels so good you want more of it. Dropping his hand to your throat, he chastises, “Just because your pussy feels incredible doesn’t mean you can get away with that.”
You totally unapologetically say, “Sorry, daddy.”
Hunger flickers in his eyes. He flexes the hand that had been resting casually on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse. “Remember what I said about brattiness?”
You shake your head with a smirk on your lips. “Uh-uh.”
“I don’t tolerate it,” he warns. He gives you a sharp thrust that reminds you just how overwhelmed your whole body is and you realize you’re in for it now. He’s got something to think about besides how perfect your cunt is, which means he can drag this out. As he starts to fuck you slowly, he gives you one chance: “You wanna apologize for real now, princess? Or am I gonna have to choke it out of you?”
Biting your lip, mischief takes over your expression and you shake your head again.
His grip tightens around your throat, stealing your ability to breathe. With how amped you’ve been since he started playing with you, it doesn’t take long for your vision to swim and your head to spin. The lack of oxygen goes right to your pleasure centers as your brain pumps in happy chemicals to combat it. Brendon’s cock speeds up, punching through you in a way that would steal your breath if he’d let you have it in the first place. You’re a match burning down toward darkness.
He lets up for a split second, just enough to let you gasp in a breath, and then starts back up again. His other hand goes down to your clit, which cries out for mercy. The ecstasy claiming your entire body won’t let up and it’s become borderline excruciating. Not painful so much as overwhelming and overpowering. Watching your eyes roll back as your back starts to arch and your thighs tremble, Brendon growls, “Ready to sorry yet?”
Still, you shake your head. This game is too fun for you.
But Brendon has the upper hand. He works your clit hard and fast, about to give you one of those brutally not-enough orgasms, edging you all the way to the top of it. Then he releases your neck, lets you breathe, and pinches your clit to kill all the pleasure at once.
He fucks you like he’d fuck a doll, chasing his own high, treating you like a piece of meat, holding your consciousness in the palm of his hand. And you realize you’ve never felt safer with a partner. Because Brendon is studying you every second that he’s choking you. His medical knowledge and his respect for you and his true care all mean he can bring you to the brink of losing vision without you feeling an ounce of true fear. He trusts that you’ll snap to stop him if you need to and you trust that he’ll listen if you do. Which means you don’t have to. You’ve never had such an intense dump of emotion during sex.
So you start to cry. Really cry. The tears break and you try to sob but it comes out choked since he won’t let you get any air in. Your cunt starts to tighten up and he grins at the feeling, knowing it’ll be impossible for you until he lets you breathe.
Holding you tight, he stares you down with sadistic glee in his blown-black eyes. “You can cum if you say you’re sorry. You understand?”
You nod hard as spots dance in your vision.
“If the very first words out of your mouth are anything but ‘I’m sorry,’ it’s going to get so much worse. Got it?”
You nod again, clawing at his hand and forearm now. Your stomach is turning as your organs spasm with desperation for air.
Brendon circles your clit harder, slower, yanking you up to the plateau of the orgasm he has complete and total control over. “I’m gonna let go now. Be good. Three, two-”
Air rushes into your lungs and you’re weeping and sputtering and cumming and wailing, “I’m sorry! God, oh god, daddy, daddy, please, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m- Ah, ah, thank you, Brendon, thank you, thank you.” And you babble off into sobs as your cunt tenses around his cock, holding on for dear life. He’s licking the salty tears from your cheeks and kissing them back into your mouth as he lets you breathe and breathe and breathe, his cock pounding into you without any attempts at holding off anymore.
In the final few moments after you cum, breaths hard and fast as you cling to him, as you adore him, as you mold to him, Brendon fucks you like aftercare. His hips roll close against you, keeping his cock inside of you, thrusts short, wanting to soak in every millisecond of your pleasure. His orgasm breaks through him in a shudder, reviving something in his soul. His lips lock onto yours and tears bite at his own eyes, too, and he’s never felt that before. Nothing’s ever felt so right as his cum coating you both as he collapses on top of you, spent, trying hard not to crush you under his weight.
Time stretches long and slow. All that exists is your shared breathing. Both of you on your sides. His lips to your forehead, kissing your sweat. Your leg over his hip. His soft cock slipping out of you as your bodies relax. You’re completely without thought. After a lifetime of anxiety, that’s Elysium. To be serene as a sea on a windless day, your body an extension of someone else’s, your minds drifting together.
Brendon whispers something soft and soothing that you half-catch in your ear. Then he stands up and leaves the room for only a few moments, returning with a tall glass of water. He sets it on the bedside table. For a moment, he gently rubs your arm, encouraging you to come back to reality fully. Helping you sit upright, Brendon takes your hand and wraps it around the cup. “Drink half of this. Nice and slow.”
You nod obediently. He has to hold the glass with you because your limbs are so weak and shaky; he does so happily, watching you drink the water the way a hummingbird might, tiny sips coating your now-dry throat. It takes a minute, but you get down as much as he wants you to.
“Good job, baby.” He kisses your cheek as he takes the glass for himself. Brendon finishes the second half in a couple of large gulps. Cupping your cheek in one hand, he soothes, “God, you’re a fucking angel.” When you just burnish your cheek against his hand, not a word on your tongue, he chuckles, “You don’t even know your name right now, do you?”
You give him a lovey-dovey, hazy smile that turns into an innocent giggle. With your chin in his palm, you say like you’re reminding him, “You know it for me.”
“That’s right, baby,” he purrs as he kisses your forehead. “No thoughts for you anymore, huh?”
You shake your head and bury yourself in the crook of his neck, smiley and spent. “Thank you for taking care of me, daddy.”
“That’s my job, princess,” he replies. You’re certain that this is a version of him nobody else sees, blushed and marked and sweet. “Let me get you cleaned up.”
You shake your head and counter, “Cuddle.”
“We’ll cuddle after,” he offers. “I can’t let my girl get a UTI, can I? Not when I’m a doctor; it would just be bad form.”
Nodding reluctantly, you try to stand up but wobble on your legs like a foal. Brendon chuckles as he quickly stands and tugs you to his body. “Hop up here; I’ve got you.”
That perks you up. You stand on your toes and give a tiny jump for him to catch you, arms under your ass, guiding your legs around his hips. This way, you can keep resting on his shoulder as he carries you off to the bathroom. He sets you on the toilet, moving your body around like you weigh nothing, and says, “I’m gonna grab you something of mine for pajamas, okay? I’ll be right back for you.”
A minute later, Brendon returns in a pair of maroon boxers, holding something for you. He dresses you carefully in one of his old college shirts, soft and well-worn. He doesn’t give you anything for underwear and you don’t ask. You’d love for him to wake you up by playing with your pussy, anyway, so there’s no point. Once you’re mostly covered, he tugs you into his arms and kisses your temple over and over.
“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” he coos against your ear. “Was anything too much? Anything hurting more than it should?”
You pull back just enough to kiss him, your eyelids barely cooperating with being awake as you lazily remember his mouth with yours. Into the kiss, you promise, “Everything’s perfect for me; how about you?”
“I’m happier than I’ve been in years,” he says honestly. Nipping a few kisses up your neck, he asks, “Do you need anything to eat? A warmer sweater, fuzzy blanket, anything?”
Leaning against his chest, you sleepily murmur, “Maybe a snack before bed.”
He strokes your back. “Seems like that might not be far off, sleepyhead.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s a really compelling point.” He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the bathroom. “Come on, I’ll make us some tea and something sweet to snack on before bedtime. Then we’ll get your teeth brushed and we can snuggle all you want. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds like a dream to me.” In the kitchen, you lean against the island while he puts on a pot of water and takes out a box of assorted pastries from a local bakery. Right away, you tease, “Did you get these just for me?”
“I stop by the bakery before my shifts in the morning anyway. I like to get a box of something for the night shift,” he explains with a shrug, presenting a handful of goodies arranged on a nice plate. “Figured I should have something to eat here if I was going to fuck you to the point of needing replenishment.”
You laugh as your stomach rumbles as if on command, your body finally normal enough to feel its hunger cues, “You definitely did.”
After nabbing a cheese danish and taking a few borderline ravenous bites, you stretch your arms above your head to loosen the muscles. Brendon’s tee rides up enough to show the soft curve of your stomach, where he catches a glimpse of some dark spots the shape of his mouth.
“You look good in my clothes,” he observes with a warm smile that he can’t contain. “Really, really good.”
“Yeah?” You do a half-teasing little spin for him, letting him admire the pretty curve of your ass and your supple thighs. “I might steal this shirt; it’s extremely comfy.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“You did say ‘anything I want,’ didn’t you?”
“And I meant it.”
When you smile, he swears he could look at you forever.
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
Summary: You bring your daughter into the world with Jack's help. Literally.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: MDNI, Al-Hashimi and Dana cameos, anxiety, labor (positive experience for Baby Mama ((with the exception of one ignorant nurse)) b/c I love her and could never let anything awful happen to her that doesn't serve the storyline), Jack is an excellent advocate/support person, epidural is used as well as other methods of pain relief, possible medical inaccuracies, childbirth, fluff, baby is named but is given a silly and cute nickname that she will be referred to as going forward (y'all voted on this)
Word count: 6,131
Series Masterlist | Read on ao3 here | dividers by @/lariesographic
Author's note: the things I know about labor and childbirth now... I'm not traumatized b/c I'm mature, but this is lowk more than I wanted to know at this stage of my life. some of this stuff is random things I learned from the TikTok for you page, and then some of it came from very detailed Google searches, and some is from birth stories I watched on YouTube. I tried watching birth vlogs, but some of these dads seemed evil, so I couldn't do it, plus it was kind of scary for me, so yeah. anyways I hope you enjoy b/c this series has lowkey become my baby so pls lmk what you think and here's your reminder that reblogs (empty or not) are good for your health! ily thank you for being here pls enjoy! <3
additional note: if you are on any of the taglists here and don't reblog this post after liking/commenting, you are getting side eyed hard.
40 weeks and two days. In other words, hell. That’s the state you’re currently in.
You just had to all but push Jack out the door to go to work, but he’s gone. Sure, you told him to go, but now you’re bored. You’ve watched all of Adam Sandler’s and Queen Latifah’s movies, so now you’re not even sure what to put on the TV.
Eventually, you decide to put on an episode of Shameless, and once you’ve got all your snacks and two drinks nearby, you’re ready to camp out on the couch for the foreseeable future.
//
At noon, Jack’s left hand can’t stop tapping against his leg while he fills out a chart on one of the computers in the hub. His mind can’t get off of you, and he was just a little uncharacteristically harsh on one of the residents. He prides himself on his stern but empathetic approach; he hasn’t snapped at anyone in years.
Al-Hashimi walks over, calmly, with no readable expression on her face. She leans over, elbows on the countertop.
“Whitaker will get over it,” she says softly. “So there’s no need for you to feel this bad about it.”
Jack looks up at Al-Hashimi through his lashes.
“You said your wife’s due date was September third, correct?” she asks.
Jack looks back at the computer and nods. “Yeah.”
“It’s the fifth.”
“I know,” he says, a little annoyed and snippy. He sighs and looks at her again. “Sorry.”
Al-Hashimi sighs and considers her words for a moment. “My ex was the same way before I had my son. This isn’t an abnormal reaction to waiting for your baby to be born. The doctor tells you the due date, and even though we all know babies come on their own schedules, you expect them to come when they’re ‘supposed to.’”
Jack finally logs out of the computer and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“Am I wrong to suspect your wife all but kicked you out today because you were maybe a little overbearing?” Al-Hashimi ventures.
Jack’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a passionate man, Abbot,” Al-Hashimi says, seemingly holding back a smile. “And while your wife definitely loves you, she’s uncomfortable, and at this point, overdue. The last thing she needs is a husband who won’t bend to her will because of his own anxiety.”
Jack frowns.
“I bend,” he mutters under his breath.
Al-Hashimi grins. “I’m sure. I just mean to say, she needs you to be relaxed and amenable, not tense and rigid.”
Okay, maybe she’s got a point. He can’t imagine what it feels like to have an entire baby pushing his lungs out of the way and fuck with his center of gravity. You need him to be calm and willing to do what makes you happy and comfortable.
Jack nods and sighs.
“You’re right. I need to relax more,” he says.
Al-Hashimi smiles softer now. “You’re going to be a great father. We’ll miss you on paternity leave.”
Jack perks up at that. “Eh, you’ll all manage. I might bring the baby by for you all to meet once she’s big enough.”
“We’d all love that.”
Just then, Dana calls Jack’s name.
“Abbot, I got your wife on the phone,” she calls out.
Without missing a beat, Jack’s out of his chair and heading over to Dana, who’s got the hospital landline in her hand.
“Sweetheart?” he speaks into the receiver.
“Hi, I didn’t want to take the chance of you missing the call on your personal phone.”
“That’s fine. Are you okay?”
You pause on the other line for a moment.
“Um,” you begin. “I think I’m in early labor. Contractions every eight minutes, 30 seconds long. I think I had the bloody show or whatever that stuff is.”
Jack’s heart is in his throat. When he tries to talk, he can’t. He clears his throat and sighs.
“Okay,” he says. “How’s the pain?”
You sigh. “Uh, like day two period cramps, but I’ll live.”
Jack rubs his temple. “Okay. You want me home, I take it?”
“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please. As fast as you can, but don’t drive like a maniac; I’m okay so far.”
Jack nods even though you can’t see him. “Okay, I’ll leave now. You got this, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
When you hang up, Jack hands the phone back to Dana, his eyes wild.
“Whoa, is it baby time?” she asks him, one hand on his forearm to steady him.
He nods, his body gearing up to be your rock for the foreseeable future.
“Yeah,” he says, panting like he just ran ten laps around the E.D. “She’s in early labor. Eight minutes apart, thirty seconds long.”
“Okay,” Dana says calmly. “Al-Hashimi can handle things on her own down here until another attending gets here. And besides, we’ve got all our best residents today, so you’re leaving everyone in good hands, Abbot.”
“Right. Yeah, I know,” he breathes.
Dana pats his arm.
“I’ll call Dr. Rosen in. Good luck, Dad,” she says as she steps back over to her workstation.
Jack mumbles a ‘thanks’ as he starts moving on autopilot. He makes a beeline for the locker room to grab his bag and then heads straight for the parking lot.
He’s prepared for this moment in his last few therapy sessions. He just has to drive back home, ask you what you want from him, and do exactly that.
//
When he pulls into the driveway, he takes a minute to compose himself. As soon as he walks through the front door, he’ll be a rock, completely steady and dependable for you. His only priority is you and the baby.
After some deep breaths, he shuts the truck off and grabs his things before heading inside.
“Sweetheart?” he calls out as he locks the front door behind him.
“I’m in the kitchen,” you call out.
Jack drops his bag on the floor and pads into the kitchen to find you making sandwiches.
“Are you hungry?” you ask, looking up at him momentarily.
He smiles softly and walks up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek.
“How’re you feeling?” he asks.
“Okay still,” you say as you cut both sandwiches diagonally. “I just had a contraction right before you walked in.”
Another kiss to your cheek. “Any progress?”
“No, it’s the same as when I called you.”
“Okay, um, do you want to sit at the table or on the couch?” he asks softly, stepping back to take both plates.
“Couch,” you decide.
He leads the way, setting both plates on the coffee table so he can help you get comfortable on the couch. Once you say you’re good, he hands you your plate and sits next to you.
After a minute of realizing what’s going on on the TV screen, Jack’s brows furrow.
“Wait, this fifteen-year-old is gay, and his hookup of choice is a 35-year-old?” he asks, looking from the screen to you.
You snort. “Yeah, but later in the show he gets with an age-appropriate guy, so it’s–” You sigh and clear your throat. “Fuck, that hurts. Anyways, this guy’s gonna be okay.”
Jack’s eyes go to his watch to time the contraction, his right hand offering itself to you, which you gladly take.
“I don’t even get to yell at you and tell you this is all your fault; I did this completely to myself,” you sigh as the contraction wanes.
Jack smiles sympathetically and brings your knuckles to his lips.
“Yell at me all you want,” he says softly. “You’re doing an incredible thing here for both of us,
After lunch, Jack changes clothes and removes his prosthesis when he gets back to the couch. The two of you stay there for a couple of hours, softly talking over the TV as the contractions grow more intense.
“You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he mutters softly when another one comes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you mutter softly, your grip easing up as the contraction lessens. “Can I sit on your lap?”
He’s a little surprised, but he nods anyway and scooches all the way back to the corner of the sectional, his legs straight in front of him. You lower yourself onto his lap, your back to the plush arm of the couch, one hand resting on Jack’s shoulder farthest from you, the other on your belly.
Jack joins hands with you on your belly and drapes his other arm around your shoulders.
“I’ve narrowed down my favorite names,” you say softly, head tucked under his chin.
“Let’s hear ‘em.”
“Vivian. Felicity. Colette. Amelie. And Charlotte has grown on me.”
“I’m happy with those,” he says softly.
You press a soft kiss to Jack’s chest. “We’ll know when we see her.”
Jack hums in agreement and kisses the top of your head.
//
Around 6:00 PM, things feel more intense. You’ve had contractions every 5 minutes, each lasting a minute, for the last half hour.
After asking what you want to do, Jack helps you to the car, triple-checking that the bags are in the trunk and that the baby’s car seat is in place. Before heading to the hospital, he goes through a Dairy Queen drive-thru, and the two of you eat dinner in your car.
When you’re done, you start really making your way to the hospital.
Triage goes well. Both you and the baby have good vital signs, contractions are consistent, and the cervical exam confirms that you are four and a half centimeters dilated.
Check-in is easy, but it causes some anxiety. It’s all real. This is really happening. The baby you’ve wanted since you were a little girl playing with dolls is about to come into the world. You want her. You wanted her so badly, you made her all by yourself, and she’s about to come.
You’re about to get hooked up to monitors that tell you she’s really coming.
Jack holds your hand as the two of you are led to a room.
You hand the hospital gown back to the nurse in the interest of wearing the birthing gown you bought online after it was recommended to you by your cousin after she had her baby. The nurse, Rhiannon, hooks up the fetal monitor to your belly, though this one is sticky and allows for movement rather than the belts you’d seen on TV shows before.
“Okay, last thing is an IV, or what we can do is an IV port that isn’t connected to any tubes or wires until you decide that maybe you need an epidural or we end up needing to administer a different type of medication,” Rhiannon says as she readies her equipment. “Either way, I’ve gotta poke you.”
“Port sounds good.” You hand Rhiannon your arm with the best veins and turn your head toward Jack, who’s looking at you with the same awe he had in his eyes the first time he saw you naked and when you put his wedding ring on him in the courthouse.
As Rhiannon gets to work, she asks, “Do you know what you’re having?” in an easy voice, clearly confident in her ability to multitask.
“A girl,” you answer, smiling at Jack.
He reaches out a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, his thumb caressing your cheekbone.
“Yay,” Rhiannon says, clearly smiling. “I love girls. I have two nieces. You guys are gonna love having a girl. Um, how long have the two of you been together?”
“Um,” both you and Jack say at the same time.
You laugh softly. “We got married about a month ago. We met, like, over three years ago when I moved in next door.”
“Neighbors to lovers, that’s so cute,” Rhiannon says as she finishes up. “Okay. I skimmed over your file before I walked in, but I think I remember seeing you wanted to wait on the epidural for freedom of movement, correct?”
You nod as you turn over to look at your nurse. “Yeah, that’s right.”
Rhiannon nods. “Okay, well, as soon as you do want it, if you end up wanting it, just press the call button, and I’ll come in, and we’ll find the anesthesiologist, okay? Perfect. Good luck, and I’ll check back in later.”
Then it’s just you and Jack, and a contraction hits almost as soon as the door shuts, and your fingernails dig into his skin.
He leans his forehead against yours, and with his free hand, he gently scratches your scalp.
Since you’ve stopped being able to talk through the contractions, he’s stopped talking to you during them. For one, you can’t answer, even if he is just praising you, and for two, he can only imagine how annoying the sound of his voice is going to get towards the end of this anyway, so he’ll keep his mouth shut as much as he can.
As the contraction wanes, you loosen your grip on Jack’s hand and let out a soft sigh.
“You okay?” he asks after a moment.
You nod and smile tiredly at him. “I love you.”
Jack smiles and pecks your lips. “I love you, too. I’m gonna dim the lights, okay? That sound good?”
You nod again.
He kisses your forehead before he stands and dims all the lights. It’s about 8:30 at night, so things are naturally winding down with the exception of your uterus and cervix.
When you’re satisfied with the lighting, you hold your hand out. Jack sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, putting his free hand on your belly.
“You’re doing really good, sweetheart,” he tells you, his expression one of sincerity and love. “You’re handling everything really well. I’m so proud of you.”
You smile and lean your forehead on his shoulder, sitting with your legs crisscross, your left knee brushing against his left thigh clad in soft sweatpants.
Jack tilts his head down to kiss your hair, his left hand gently brushing up and down your back.
“You wanna switch positions soon?” he asks softly.
You nod and look over at the birthing ball in the corner. He heads to the corner to bring the ball to the middle of the room, then helps you stand from the bed, a gentle hand at the small of your back as he leads you toward the ball. You take both his hands as you lower yourself onto the ball.
“Feel okay?” he asks softly, crouching in front of you, hands on your knees, fingertips brushing yours.
“Yeah,” you mutter softly.
You cup his jaw with both hands and lean in to kiss him. You can tell it surprises him at first, and you can’t really blame him, but after a few seconds, he starts reciprocating, his hands sliding up the length of your thighs to rest on your hips while you gently sway them on the ball.
When he hears you moan, out of pain and not pleasure, he pulls back, but you lean back in.
Jack lets you take the lead. As soon as you pull him back in, he’s back to kissing you with all the love in his heart. His hands on your hips press in, hoping the counterpressure will help.
Once the contraction passes, you pull back, eyes glazed over as you look at him.
“The article I sent you a few weeks ago,” you say breathlessly. “On kissing and oxytocin and labor and stuff. Sorry, I thought you remembered.”
Realization hits him quickly.
“Oh,” he sighs, smiling softly. “Okay, I remember now. I’ll kiss you all you want.”
//
A few hours go by pretty peacefully. At around 9:15, Rhiannon comes in to do a cervical check and tells you you’re at six centimeters. She cracks a few jokes, keeping things light, and when she leaves, you tell Jack to make a reminder to nominate her for a DAISY award when you get home.
Around 11:30, the contractions pick up in intensity. In the middle of the room, you stand with your arms around Jack’s neck, face buried into his chest. He keeps his hands on your hips to deliver counterpressure during contractions, now two and a half minutes apart.
There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse who walks through isn’t Rhiannon.
“Hi,” she says. “Rhiannon is otherwise occupied at the moment, so I’ll be doing your cervical check. My name is Jane.”
She snaps some gloves on, and as you try to peel yourself off of Jack to greet the new nurse, another contraction hits. This one steals your breath and pulls an almost animalistic moan from your throat. You dig your fingernails into the back of Jack’s neck, but he doesn’t waver.
“Oh, honey, why don’t you just get the epidural already?” Jane asks. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to feel the need to cause all that ruckus and scratch up your husband’s neck. I’ll call the anesthesiologist.”
All this from your knockoff of Rhiannon before the contraction is even over, mind you. Jack doesn’t miss a beat.
“There’s absolutely no need for that,” he says immediately, hands still steady on your body. “If my wife wants an epidural, she’ll ask for one, and she certainly doesn’t need you to make decisions about her body without even giving her time to think. Now, if you don’t mind, she’ll opt out of the cervical check for now. We’re happy to wait for Rhiannon.”
Eventually, you hear the door open and close, and once the contraction is over, you look up at Jack.
What a man.
“Am I really scratching up your neck?” you ask with a soft and feeble voice. “Or being too loud?”
He shakes his head. “No, of course not, and don’t worry about it anymore.”
You sigh softly and press your cheek to his chest.
“Could you do the cervical check?” you ask. “I feel like I should be further along, and I don’t wanna wait to find out.”
It’s a little bit surprising to hear this request, but if he’s going to catch the baby in a few hours, he can definitely check to see how dilated you are. Hopefully you’re nearing the end, and he can inspire some motivation with the news.
He nods and kisses your forehead.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s get you back on the bed for a second,” he says softly as he guides you back toward the bed.
Once he’s got you in a good position, he heads to the counter and takes some sterile gloves, then heads back to the bed where he takes a look, and for about a minute, he’s both your husband and a doctor.
“I do want an epidural,” you say breathily while Jack checks you. “I just want to be the one to ask for it. I’m asking for it, Jack. Unless you say I’m at a ten, I’m asking for a fucking epidural.”
Jack nods and looks up at you, simultaneously pulling the gloves off.
“You’re at a seven. Do you want me to step out and ask for you?” he asks.
If you press the call button, fucking Jane might come back in, and hers is the last face you want to see even if you didn’t get a good look at it.
You nod and reach for his hand, another contraction building. He lets you pull him in for a kiss, doing anything you can to minimize the pain before you get some real relief.
It’s somewhat strange, kissing you in this situation. It’s not doing anything for him in the way kisses this passionate usually do, but it’s causing another emotion entirely.
You’re so in control, and he’ll do anything to make sure you keep that. He’ll kiss you through the pain, he’ll rub your hips, he’ll let you scratch up his skin, he’ll tell off a nurse for you. Anything you want. The admiration he has for you right now is unlike anything ever before.
You’re such an incredible woman; he already knew that. But witnessing you bring life into this world and stay so strong through it all is strengthening his feelings toward you. Not that they ever faltered.
When it’s over, you pull back, and Jack exits the room as quickly as possible. Thankfully, the first nurse he sees at the nurse’s station is one he knows.
“Hey, Abbot,” she greets as he approaches.
He smiles but gets right to the point. “My wife wants an epidural. Where’s the anesthesiologist?"
“Uh, she’s finishing up with a patient right now, but there’s no one else waiting. Do you know how many centimeters she was at the last cervical check?”
“Seven, just a few minutes ago.”
The nurse nods. “Okay, I’ll send her in in a few minutes.”
He quickly thanks the nurse and heads back to your room, making it just in time for your next contraction.
Just as he walks through the door, you reach your hand out, whimpering softly. He grabs your hand and reaches around with his free one to rub your back.
This time, he kisses you, moaning softly against you every so often to get your mind literally anywhere else besides this room.
When it’s over, and you lean your forehead against his, he tells you that the epidural is on its way.
“You’re doing really good, sweetheart,” he says softly. “I’ve seen lots of labors and deliveries, but this… It’s incredible. You’re doing such a hard thing so amazingly.” He pauses and kisses your cheek. “I’m more in love with you, and I didn’t think that was possible. You’re gonna be such a good mom. I know it. Our baby girl’s so lucky to have you.”
A silent tear falls down your cheek, brow furrowed as you focus on his face, every wrinkle, every freckle, every short hair of his stubbly beard and the smooth and gravelly sound of his voice.
Jack doesn’t tell you not to cry. He just smiles softly and wordlessly wipes your tears with the back of his knuckle.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m so lucky to be here.”
You shake your head and reach out to cup his cheek.
“It’s not luck, Jack,” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. “I chose you. You chose me and this baby, and I chose you back.”
He leans in for another kiss. This one just because, not particularly for pain relief, even if that’s an added plus.
You breathe him in, and take his hand and guide it to the side of your bump. He feels your skin tighten underneath his palm with another contraction. He keeps his hand perfectly still, hoping not to overstimulate you, and keeps kissing you.
After it passes, you stand with Jack again, only this time with your back to his chest. He holds your belly up for you one last time, taking the weight off your back for you, his lips pressed to your hair as the two of you slowly sway. You rest your palms on his forearms and stare across the room at the baby warmer, empty for now.
Soon, the anesthesiologist comes in and sets up for the epidural. She lets Jack stay in the room for the procedure and instructs him to stand in front of you, hands in yours.
Once it’s administered, and you’re in a comfortable position on your side, and the room is cleared, Jack turns off almost all the lights. He brings one of the chairs up to your bedside and holds your hand.
Within a few minutes, the epidural kicks in, and your eyes start to droop.
“Feeling good?” he asks softly, bringing a hand to cup your belly over the blanket.
You nod, a happy smile on your face. “Yeah, I can finally sleep now.”
Jack pulls his phone out of his pocket and props it up against your water bottle on the side table to record a video.
You cover his hand on your bump and admire the sight of your wedding rings and hospital bracelets brushing against each other.
“What are you most excited about becoming a mom?” he asks softly.
You hum thoughtfully.
“Shaping a person,” you say. “Showing her things and watching her form her own opinions on them.”
Jack smiles and nods along.
“What about you?” you ask.
Jack sighs and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Probably the same. Just getting to witness her and see her grow and learn and experience the world.”
You smile brightly at him, and he leans in to peck your lips.
“Okay, last chance for betting,” he says.
You giggle softly and shut your eyes as you think, then open them again.
“She’ll come after 6:00 AM, seven pounds and ten ounces, 19 inches long. That’s my guess,” you say.
“My guess is before 6:00 AM, eight pounds and one ounce, 20 inches long.”
You smile. “Either way, I’m excited to meet her.”
“Me, too,” Jack says softly, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I already love her like crazy.”
Your smile widens, and you squeeze his hand. “I know. She’s gonna be perfect.”
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Just like you.”
He leans in to peck your lips, and before he pulls away, you mumble out an “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Then he stops the video and puts his phone in his pocket.
“You wanna get some rest?” he asks softly, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin.
You nod. “I love you, baby.”
Jack leans in for another kiss. “I love you, too, sweetheart. I’ll stay right here.”
“Take your prosthesis off,” you remind him.
He nods and leans back in his chair and pulls his pant leg up. Once it’s off, he places it out of the way but still in reach. By the time he looks back at you, your breathing is deeper.
He smiles and leans down to kiss your bump for possibly the last time.
“I’ll see you soon, baby girl,” he whispers.
//
At almost 3:30 AM, Rhiannon comes back in for another cervical check.
Jack wakes first.
“Hi,” she says, speaking softly. “It’s time for another cervical check.” She snaps on some sterile gloves. “I find that it’s better for you to wake her up than me.”
Jack nods and gently rubs your shoulder to wake you. He presses a kiss to your cheek and whispers for you to wake up.
Your eyes flutter and land on Jack.
“Rhiannon’s back to check your dilation,” he says softly.
You nod, and Rhiannon helps you turn over on your back while Jack puts his prosthesis back on.
When she’s done checking you over, Rhiannon smiles.
“It’s baby time,” she says as she pulls the gloves off. “I saw in your chart that you wanted to use the squat bar, lower your epidural dose to push, and that if there were no complications that you wanted Jack to catch the baby. Still good with all that?”
You nod, yawning softly.
Rhiannon gets everything ready, and soon the bed is modified to accommodate the squat bar. Your OB-GYN, who was thankfully working the night shift, comes in, along with a second nurse, and suddenly, you’re just waiting for the next contraction so you can push.
You were a little nervous that pushing would take hours, but after only about 40 minutes of pushing and grunting and Jack whispering praise in your ear, your doctor smiles.
“Abbot, it’s your turn,” she says as she steps to the side.
You turn your face toward Jack, sweat dotting your hairline but the biggest sparkle of excitement in your eyes. You lean in for a peck, and Jack whispers, “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too,” you sniffle, smiling brightly.
Jack gets into position, your OB behind him, clearly monitoring the situation, but Jack’s delivered hundreds of babies, even just delivered one last week, so she’s not too worried about him biting off more than he can chew here.
Once he’s got sterile gloves on, he gets his hands into position.
“Alright, sweetheart,” he sighs, letting the doctor inside of him take over just a bit, though it’s clear the man in front of you is still your husband first and foremost. “On the next contraction, give me a big push.”
Rhiannon counts for you as you push. You white-knuckle the squat bar and breathe deeper than you ever have as you bear down.
“Good, good, good,” Jack mutters softly, his hands on the baby’s head, holding back tears by the grace of God. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
With a soft whimper, you take a break from pushing.
“You’re doing great,” your doctor says from behind Jack. “Less than five pushes, I’d say.”
You nod and focus on your breathing.
“You wanna feel her hair?” Jack asks. “She’s got a lot.”
“Mhm,” you hum softly, the lack of sleep catching up to you.
Jack takes your hand and guides it between your legs.
“That’s not me?” you joke.
The entire room lets out a soft chuckle, with the exception of Rhiannon, who snorts softly into her shoulder.
“No,” Jack says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “That’s our baby; she’s got a lotta hair.”
You smile and take a steadying breath as another contraction builds.
“Okay, sweetheart, you got this,” he says softly, growing serious again as he focuses on the baby.
That push delivers the head.
“Perfect,” Jack praises. “Just a couple more, sweetheart, let’s get the shoulders out.”
Two pushes later, the air is pierced by a sharp but oddly beautiful cry.
“She sounds kind of like a bird,” someone remarks. “So cute!”
You let out a sob of relief and hold your hands out as Jack places her on your chest.
Looking down at the squirming infant is all it takes to fall completely in love with her.
“Hi, baby girl,” you coo at her, holding your hands over her back so she doesn’t get cold. “Hi. Hi, sweetie. I’m your mama.”
At some point, Jack has moved from your legs and peeled his gloves off because now you feel his hand on your shoulder and hear him whispering in your ear, “You did so good.”
The baby continues to cry, but seems to begin to settle on your chest.
“Wow, you’re really here,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face uncontrollably. “I love you so much, beautiful baby girl.”
You look up at Jack on instinct, and tears are streaming down his face. He kisses your temple, then gently gives the baby his finger so she can wrap her first around it.
“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “I’m your daddy.” He sniffs. “Wow, you look just like your mom, sweetie.”
At the sound of her daddy’s voice, the cries die down into softer whimpers, still mad about leaving her warm home, but obviously happy Mom and Dad are near.
You press your lips against her head, uncaring about all the gunk on her head.
“Oh, God, she’s amazing,” you sigh, eyes shutting for a moment as you soak it all in.
You look over at Jack, and he smooths your hair back.
“You did incredible,” he whispers, eyes red-rimmed as he lets his tears fall.
You smile and blink out your own tears. “I love you. Thank you for catching her.”
Jack smiles back and kisses your cheek, then you turn to kiss his lips.
After another moment, you feel the need to push again. You swear softly under your breath and gently push on instinct. After about a minute, you vaguely hear your doctor tell you the placenta’s out, and you sigh relieved again.
“You’re all done,” Jack tells you. “You both did amazing.”
Once the cord turns white, Jack cuts it, and a few minutes later, the second nurse takes the baby over to the warmer to do some testing.
You send Jack over after he takes his shirt off, excited to see him actually hold the baby for the first time.
Jack stands near the baby warmer, eyes following his daughter’s every move as the nurse weighs, measures, and does everything else.
“Okay,” the nurse sighs, smiling at the screen that says all the levels are good. “Baby Abbot is seven pounds and eight ounces and 19 inches long. Five-minute APGAR score of ten. Congratulations. Jack, you can hold her now.”
Excitedly but carefully, Jack reaches his hands around the baby’s body and brings her to his chest. The nurse helps him cover her with a blanket, then he walks over to the chair by your bed.
Once everything else is determined to be okay, everyone leaves the room with soft whisperings of congratulations.
Jack sighs and smiles at you with all the love in his heart.
“You’re both incredible,” he says. “I’m in awe of you.”
You smile tiredly and sigh contentedly. “I’m so fucking happy.”
Jack smiles again, then stands and hands the baby back to you.
Soon, a lactation consultant comes in and helps you and the baby figure out the latch. Once you get the hang of it, you’re left alone again.
“Charlotte,” you say softly, looking at the baby.
Jack nods, the back of his finger caressing her cheek. “Charlotte Vivian Abbot?”
He looks to you to gauge your reaction. You smile.
“I like that,” you mutter softly.
Charlotte Vivian Abbot. Seven pounds and eight ounces. 19 inches long. Born at 4:26 AM on September 6, 2026.
Perfection in a very small package.
//
You and Jack manage to sleep for close to an hour before the baby is restless. After nursing, you’re starving, but luckily, Rhiannon brings you some breakfast before her shift ends.
“It’s not the best food, so if you’ve got people coming, you should ask them to bring you some food. Though, you can get food delivered, too. Anyway, my shift is ending, but I wanted to tell the little birdie and her sweet parents goodbye,” she says.
You smile and look down at the baby.
“Birdie,” you muse. “That’s cute.” Then you look back at Rhiannon. “You’ve been really incredible. I can’t thank you enough.”
Rhiannon smiles and shrugs. “I’m just happy things went well. You three make a very cute family. Okay, I’ve got a breakfast date, so I’ve gotta go. Bye, guys.”
Then she’s gone.
“Birdie,” you sigh, smiling at the baby. “I like that, it’s cute.”
Jack sends the birth announcement to his parents, your mom and stepdad, his sister, then Robby and Dana.
After that, he puts his phone on “Do Not Disturb” and puts his focus on you and Birdie. A little later, though, he notices a text from his mom asking if it’s okay to call at some point. You say it’s fine, and Jack steps out into the hall, leaving you alone with the baby.
You had put her into a pink onesie so she wouldn’t get cold once the hospital AC started blowing a little too hard for your liking.
Your little pink baby is finally here. She’s tiny and perfect and yours.
You hold her up by her armpits for just a moment, still supporting her head. The two of you just look at each other for a moment. Her face is scrunched up, but she’s perfect.
It’s hard to put into words how you’re feeling right now. You wanted this baby enough to raise her on your own. Jack is outside the door, but there was once a very real reality where he wasn’t supposed to be.
And looking at her right now, it’s so clear to you that it would absolutely be worth it to be her mom by yourself. Anything hard that would come with raising her on your own would have been worth it, because the look in your daughter’s eyes that you can’t name is telling you that it all would’ve been okay.
You’re incredibly fortunate to have Jack by your side, but you could handle Birdie alone, and so could he. She’s worth all the pain in the world that got you both to the place of being her parents.
You bring her back to your chest and soak in her snuggly body and soft baby noises. You kiss her downy hair and keep your hands secure on her back.
“One day, I’m gonna tell you all about how you got here,” you say softly. “Just know for now that it was all very special and very precious, just like you, little Birdie, and that Mommy and Daddy love you very much.”
end author's note: wow the baby is here and I feel like I gave birth myself bc this series is such a labor of love lol. original Doctor Google was meant to be a one-shot, so thank you to everyone who believed in this story's potential and politely asked for more <3 pls let me know what you want to see from this story! (requests are open for that)
after hearing about when s3 of The Pitt is going to be set, it is safe to say I will probably never reference canon again (at least in a big way), so pretty much anything is possible over here. thank you guys so much for reading! I know I have no schedule for this series at all and that can be annoying, so anyone loyally reading along is a fucking G in my book. for anyone who ever feels like you're annoying leaving persistent comments, whether it's an emoji or a more thoughtful comment, I guarantee you that you are not annoying, and in fact are someone I look forward to getting notifications from. I'm crazy; I see everything. ily all and pls be well <3
p.s. for anyone who is curious: Birdie is a virgo sun, cancer moon, and leo rising
All works taglist: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @youknowiloveyou-so
All Shawn Hatosy works taglist: @realwhoreforfictionalmen @ezmina98 @hehehehahahohohuhu @janeety @jennataurus @esmemia16 @rumoured-whispers @1dhoe93 @dopeasope
p.s. if you would like to be removed from any taglist, just let me know! and if you would like to join a taglist or change your current preferences, click here! <3
Maybe reader is like a vampire hunter or like one of dracula's brides
Let me just point out how much time I spent researching this movie and everything related to Van Helsing. I've been editing this ever since I received your request, and I'm happy to say it turned out exactly as I imagined. I also want to mention that the GIF I used is exactly how I imagined Remmick in this movie—hence the long hair, oh my god. 😭 It just fit the vision perfectly. Scroll down to read!
The dreams started three months ago.
You told no one, of course. Your father, Gabriel Van Helsing, had raised you in the shadow of monsters—training you to hunt them, to fear them, to destroy them.
Dreams of a dark figure with pale hands and a voice like velvet wrapped around steel were not something you could confess.
You never saw his face.
In the dream, you stood in a grand hall of black marble and crimson drapery, and he would appear behind you, close enough that you could feel his breath against your neck, his fingers tracing your shoulder with impossible gentleness.
"Come to me," he would whisper, and you would wake with your heart hammering, your sheets tangled, and an inexplicable ache in your chest that felt almost like longing.
The monastery in Budapest was meant to be a simple scouting mission. Your father had gone ahead to track a group of strigoi in the Carpathian foothills, while you stayed behind to gather supplies and speak with the local priests.
You were in the cathedral's archives, dust motes dancing in the shafts of dying sunlight as you pored over centuries-old ledgers, when the temperature dropped.
You looked up.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the stained glass windows, and for a moment you thought he was merely a shadow given form—a trick of the light. Then he stepped forward, and the breath left your lungs in a rush.
Tall. Impeccably dressed in black that seemed to drink the remaining light from the room.
His dark hair was brushed back from his pale face, making his sharp features stand out.
But it was his bright blue eyes that caught your attention. They looked old, calm, and like they knew far more than they should.
Those eyes. You knew those eyes.
"Hello, little hunter," he said, and his voice was exactly as it had been in your dreams.
Rich. Smooth. Dangerous.
You reached for your weapons—your crossbow, your holy water, the silver stakes at your belt—but your hands wouldn't obey.
Your mind screamed run, fight, survive, but your body remained frozen, held by some force you couldn't name.
He approached slowly, almost leisurely, his boots making no sound against the stone floor. "Do not be afraid," he murmured, and you realized with distant horror that you were not afraid.
You should be.
Every instinct your father had drilled into you since childhood demanded terror, demanded action.
Instead, you felt only the same terrible, magnetic pull you had felt in your dreams.
"You have been waiting for me," he said. It was not a question.
"I don't—" Your voice came out breathless, barely a whisper. "I don't know you."
His lips curved into a smile that was almost tender.
He stopped mere inches from you, close enough that you could smell him—incense and something darker, something that made your head spin.
He reached out, and his cool fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet those impossible golden eyes.
"Your eyes say otherwise, draga mea," he whispered. "I have called to you for months. Night after night. Did you think I could not feel you reaching back?"
The dreams. He had been calling you. The realization should have terrified you, should have broken whatever spell held you motionless. Instead, you felt tears prick your eyes—not of fear, but of some terrible, twisted recognition.
"Who are you?" you managed.
His thumb traced your lower lip, and a shudder ran through you that had nothing to do with revulsion.
"I have had many names. The Order calls me monster. Your father would call me enemy." He leaned closer, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "But in my homeland, they once called me Domnul—Lord. And you, my beautiful dreamer, may call me Remmick."
Remmick.
The name resonated through you like a struck bell, and you felt the last of your resistance crumble.
This was wrong.
This was wrong.
He was vampire. Ancient. Deadly.
Everything you had been raised to destroy.
And yet when he stepped back and offered his hand, palm up, like a gentleman inviting a lady to dance, you found yourself reaching for him.
"Come," he said softly, his golden eyes burning with something that looked almost like hunger. "Let me show you what waits in the dark. Let me show you why you have dreamed of me."
Your fingers brushed his, and the contact sent electricity racing up your arm.
You knew, with the clarity of a blade's edge, that you were crossing a threshold from which there was no return.
"Please," you whispered, and you didn't know if you were begging him to stop or to continue.
His smile widened, revealing the sharp points of canines that gleamed in the dying light. "There is no need to beg, dragostea mea," he murmured, folding your hand in his. "Not tonight."
As he led you toward the shadows, you realized with distant horror that you were not his prisoner.
You were going willingly.
And worse still—you had never wanted anything more.
Summary: After you get back from your babymoon, you and Jack elope. When you get home from the courthouse, you get the idea to film your wedding night.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: MDNI, pregnancy, Jack has some grief over his first wife and deals with it appropriately (it would do his character a disservice to not mention it in this chapter plus it's very brief), amputee care performed by reader bc she loves Jack bad, mention of neglectful parents (patients at the Pitt), anti-Trump comment, elopement, spanking, humping, smut, wedding night sex, filming sex, pregnant sex, praise kink, Jack "Talks You Through It" Abbot
Word count: 5,141
Series Masterlist | Read on ao3 here | dividers by @/lariesographic
Author's note: first of all: Pittsburgh/PA natives, if I screwed up how courthouse elopements are done, I apologize. (I kind of felt like Jack wouldn't want to go the self-uniting route so we didn't do that.) second, feel free to imagine the rings as any metal and any stone as I didn't describe them and the pictures are purely for aesthetics. finally, Baby Abbot is making her appearance in the next installment, which I am posting tomorrow!! one last thing, the 1k followers milestone is near, so if you would like to tell me what you want to see for that in the comments of this post or this one, I'll love you forever <333 anyways let's get these guys married ty for reading I hope you enjoy pls don't be shy to tell me your thoughts! <3 reminder that fanfic writers write for free and reblogs are ALSO free
EDIT: READ THIS POST BEFORE CONTINUING
The day after you get back, you and Jack head to the Allegheny County Clerk’s Office to apply for your marriage license. You came straight from your 36-week appointment, so you’re a little tired.
You yawn about seven times throughout the process, but Jack decides against teasing you over it. At the end of it, you’re reminded of the three-day waiting period before you’re able to have a ceremony.
Back at home, the two of you eat takeout on the couch, then watch The Sopranos while Jack rubs your feet.
Halfway through the episode, you look over at Jack.
“Babe, what do you want in a wife?” you ask softly, mostly joking.
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the screen. “Just want you to use my cards. That’s it.”
You snort softly. “That’s it?”
Jack sighs and thinks about it for a second. “Yeah. We’ll set up a joint bank account. If you want to, you can keep your own personal account if that’ll help you feel more secure, but, like, when you go get your hair done or do grocery or clothes shopping, I want you to use my card. I want to take care of you.”
You smile and move your feet out of his lap so you can kiss his cheek. “I love you so much it makes me sick.”
He snorts at that. “I’m not worth getting sick over.”
“Sure you are,” you purr in his ear, pressing a soft kiss to his earlobe after nibbling on it.
You lean your head against his shoulder for a while, content to just watch TV with your fiancé for the time being. Eventually, you lean back again and shove your feet back in Jack’s lap for him to rub. Dutifully, he gets the hint, and you look on your phone for wedding bands for Jack.
As much as you liked his black wedding band he had for Helene, you don’t want him to have the same one twice, and you’d like the metals to match.
//
In the morning, Jack goes back to work. You have one showing in the late afternoon, so after your late breakfast, you head to the jewelry store you looked into online to buy Jack’s wedding band.
When you get there, you’re floored by the fact that a simple band can cost as much as $4,000. Lucky for you, the one you’ve picked is $800, but still.
“Shotgun wedding?” the cashier asks as she rings you up.
You choose not to dignify her with an answer and instead just stare at her as she packages the ring up, which only serves to make the cashier uncomfortable, which, in your opinion, is a good thing.
Jack doesn’t get home until 8:30 tonight. Something about a trauma going long or whatever, but what matters is that he is home, and you get to show him his ring.
He’s not in the best spirits when he gets home. You call his name from the kitchen, and his response isn’t all that enthusiastic.
You’ve got his plate of dinner in the microwave when you hear him shuffle into the kitchen and sit down at the island, brow pinched.
“You okay?” you ask softly.
He nods. “Just tired.”
He rests his head on his hands, both elbows on the counter.
When the microwave beeps, you take it out, quietly grab utensils from the drawer, and softly set the food down in front of him. You press a kiss to the back of his head, your fingers gently scratching over his shoulders through his scrub top.
Jack turns his head to kiss you, though with the angle of him sitting and how you’re leaning over him, he ends up kissing the side of your breast, his nose knocking into your armpit.
You chuckle softly and pat his back, then lean your head down to peck his lips.
“Got your ring today,” you say softly as you head over to the fridge to grab a beer.
“Oh, yeah?”
You nod and hand him the bottle.
“It’s simple, and it matches my ring,” you say, fiddling with your engagement ring. “It’s in the bedroom.”
He smiles, the bags under his eyes prominent while he eats.
“Can I do anything for you?” you ask softly.
Jack thinks about it, eyes fixed on the granite countertop. He’s probably too tired to ask for much, so you offer on your own.
“How about after your shower, I give you a massage and take care of all your leg stuff for you tonight?” you suggest, speaking softly.
His brow furrows slightly. “You’re 36 weeks pregnant; you shouldn’t be–”
You shake your head. “I feel good today; you don’t. You always take care of me, so I wanna take care of you tonight.”
He turns his head toward you and sees the sincerity in your expression, the love in your gaze.
“Okay,” he says softly.
You smile and tell him about your day while he finishes eating. When he’s done, you send him off to the shower and take care of his dishes for him.
After the kitchen is cleaned up, you check that everything’s locked and turned off, and once that’s taken care of, you head to the bedroom.
You listen to the water turn off and unmake the bed, then grab Jack’s lotions and wait on the bed, one hand mindlessly following the baby’s kicks.
He comes out a few minutes later, curls damp, boxers on his hips, elbow crutch in one hand, the prosthesis in the other. He sits down next to you, setting the prosthesis on the floor, the crutch leaning against his nightstand.
“C’mere,” you mumble, patting the space closer to you.
He shuffles over, and you squirt some lotion into your palm. You rub it together in your palms, then begin applying it to his stump, massaging gently and inspecting the skin in the way you’ve been learning to from all the articles you’ve read lately.
“Feel okay?” you ask softly, looking at him momentarily.
“Mhm, you’re doing good,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.
You smile, feeling a little proud of yourself.
Slowly, your hands work their way up to his thigh, not wanton, just completely focused on making sure his leg is drained of any soreness or lingering pain from wearing the prosthesis for nearly 14 hours.
“Did anything go particularly bad today?” you ask after a few minutes of silence.
Jack’s a talker, chatty. You don’t often see him quiet after work.
He shrugs. “This kid. His parents were too busy fighting over whatever girl was in the dad’s DMs to notice their two-year-old falling down the stairs. He broke his leg, and his parents were still arguing. I had to call the social worker, and she called family services. It sucked.”
You frown and gently squeeze his thigh. “Is that what kept you late?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “A motorcycle accident kept me late. Nothing too sad, but definitely gross.”
“Mm.” You focus back on the massage. “Hope that little boy’s okay.”
Jack hums softly and reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear.
“I love you,” he says. “I love that you like talking to me.”
You smile and swallow the lump in your throat. “I love talking to you. You’re my favorite person.” You look down at your belly. “You’re about to get bumped to second place, though.”
Jack huffs quietly at that. “That’s okay. She’s the priority.”
Once it seems like the lotion has fully set in, you slip off the bed and pull something out of your nightstand drawer. You turn back toward Jack and cuddle up next to him.
“My ring?” he asks.
“Mhm.”
You open the box, revealing the simple band that perfectly matches the band of your engagement ring.
“It’s perfect,” he mutters softly. “Can I try it on?”
You nod excitedly and take his hand and slip the ring on his fourth finger.
“Perfect fit,” you whisper. “Does it feel good?”
“Yeah, it’s great, sweetheart. I love it, you did good.”
He turns his head to peck your lips. Then he reaches into his nightstand, pulls out another ring box, and opens it.
“This is your wedding band. I got them as a set, so they go together. You like it?” he asks softly as he holds the ring out to you.
“I do,” you say, a big grin on your face. “Put it on me.”
You hold out your left hand. Jack removes your engagement ring, slides your wedding band into place, then puts the engagement ring back on.
“Yeah,” you sigh. “That’s great.”
You slip the wedding band off and hand it back to Jack, and he does the same for you.
The two of you turn out the lights, and Jack holds his arm out to you. Once you’re secure against his side, he kisses your forehead, one hand slipping under the covers to rub your belly, the first time all day.
“Fuck, I missed her,” he mumbles softly.
Those words bring the biggest smile to your face. Your daughter’s daddy missed her. She has a daddy that misses her when he goes to work. She’s the luckiest girl in the world, and she’s not even born yet.
“She hasn’t stopped kicking since you got home.”
“Daddy’s girl,” he mumbles tiredly.
//
Jack only worked an eight-hour shift today. It’s 3:45, and instead of going home, he’s sitting on the grass in front of Helene Abbot’s headstone.
“She said yes to my proposal,” he says softly. “Gonna do it tomorrow. We’re probably gonna have a proper wedding later. Tomorrow’s just legal. We wanted to be married before the baby comes, and she joked about getting to be an Abbot before the baby.”
He chuckles softly and wipes a tear.
“I never thought I’d be anyone else’s husband, Helene. I thought you were it. I thought I’d be lucky if I found a consistent booty call.” He cringes at himself for the joke. “Anyway, I just… I got lucky with you once; I figured you don’t get lucky twice, but here I am.”
Jack stares at the letters of his first wife’s name and sighs. He rubs the tears from his eyes and shakes his head.
“Not totally sure what’s appropriate to say here, but what’s important is that you know that I love you both. You were everything at one time, and now you’re gone, and I’m kinda jealous of you for that, but mostly because you don’t have to live through a second Trump administration.” Jack purses his lips. The stupid jokes are really on fire today. “I’m sorry. I never thought I’d ever have to do this. Um… I miss you, but I’m happy. I’m finally happy again, and I know that would make you happy, so… Yeah, next time we talk, I’ll be a married man again.”
He looks at the bouquet of flowers he brought and adjusts them in the pot.
“I hope you like this bouquet. There wasn’t a great selection this week.” He stands. “Bye. I’ll talk to you soon.”
//
You and Jack talked for hours last night. About his first marriage, how he’s coping, how excited the both of you are for what’s ahead, for the marriage that almost no one besides the two of you knows about, the imminent birth of your first child, everything she has in store for the two of you.
The two of you wake in the late morning. Your wedding is at 3:30. You have time to laze before you have to get ready.
To pass the time, Jack eats your pussy twice and makes sure you’re well fed in anticipation of consummating the wedding later tonight.
Despite your growing belly, you were able to fit into an old white dress you bought for a vacation last year. Is it the most comfortable? No, but you’ve called a friend who takes pictures for real estate and asked him to take your wedding photos, so you’d like to get as much of the full effect as possible.
Jack watches the entirety of Top Gun while he waits for you to get ready. When you come out just before it’s time to leave, his jaw is practically on the floor. Your makeup is perfect, your hair is styled flawlessly, and he’s in fucking awe of the woman before him, beautiful, full of his baby, and wearing his ring.
“You’re fucking stunning,” he says from his spot on the couch before he stands and puts his hands on your waist to pull you in for a kiss.
“You got my ring?” he asks against your lips.
You nod and pull it out of your purse. “Wanna put mine in there?”
He nods and drops it in next to his.
The drive to the courthouse is filled with anticipation. Jack’s hand on your thigh is warm and loving.
When you’re finally on the Grand Staircase in Allegheny Courthouse in front of Judge Daniels, you and Jack both can feel your heartbeats in your throat.
Your hands are joined as Judge Daniels delivers a few quick words. Then he looks at Jack.
“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”
Jack’s eyes fill with tears as he looks at you. He never thought the pretty neighbor who took her trash out at the same time he did every week would be his wife, but here he is, about to legally make you and that baby his, all because you really appreciated his medical advice.
He nods and lets the tears fall because he could never be embarrassed about being moved by his love for you.
“I do,” he chokes out.
You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze Jack’s hand before Judge Daniels turns to you.
“Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”
You nod and blink away your tears so you can see Jack clearly. You never want to forget how handsome he looks in this moment, and definitely not how much love you can see just in his eyes.
“I do,” you say softly.
Judge Daniels smiles. “Now for the exchanging of the rings.”
Jack had put the rings in his pocket for the ceremony. He takes yours out of his pocket and takes hold of your left hand.
“Alright, Jack, repeat after me,” Judge Daniels instructs. “With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love.”
Jack gently places your wedding band on your left ring finger as he says, “With this ring, I thee wed and pledge to you my love,” never looking away from you for even a second.
“Same thing,” Judge Daniels says to you with a smile as Jack hands you his ring. “With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love.”
You swallow the lump in your throat again and blink away more tears as you take Jack’s hand with your shaky one.
“With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to you my love,” you say as you place the ring on his finger.
Judge Daniels smiles at the two of you and says, “By the authority vested in me by the state of Pennsylvania, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The judge might say something more; you’re not sure, because Jack cups your jaw and kisses you with such passion, you can’t take in anything else besides the feel of your husband on your skin.
Your friend, Mikey, takes a few photos for you outside the courthouse, but Jack heard your stomach growl in the car before the ceremony even started, so he tries to Zelle Mikey the money plus tip, but Mikey only has Cashapp and Venmo, so Jack ends up shoving the two hundred dollar bills in his wallet in Mikey’s hand before whisking you off to the parking lot.
$200 made in less than ten minutes on his day off. Not a bad day for Mikey Diaz.
“What do you want to eat?” Jack asks as he opens the passenger side door for you. “Sit down? Takeout? Fast food?”
You sigh and think about it as he shuts the door and rounds the hood to get in the driver’s seat. He buckles and starts the car and looks at you.
“Kinda want Dairy Queen,” you say.
So Jack drives to Dairy Queen, and that’s your wedding dinner.
When you get home and kick your shoes off, you look over at Jack while he puts his keys in the catch-all bowl.
“Would it be weird if we filmed it? Our wedding night?” you ask. “At least the first round.”
Jack’s brows raise slightly. He never thought you’d want to film your wedding night, but as he really considers it, he thinks maybe it’d be nice to always remember your first time as husband and wife.
“On one of our phones?” he asks, one brow cocked in curiosity.
You shake your head. “I have a camcorder.”
The corner of his mouth quirks just slightly at that. “Okay.”
You smile and pull him closer by his belt loops. “Yeah?”
He nods and leans in for a kiss. You moan against him, and his hands grab at your ass. Just before he pulls away, he delivers a gentle slap to your ass.
“Mm. Okay, the camera’s in our closet,” you say breathily.
Jack follows you to the bedroom and watches from the threshold of the closet as you search a box for the camcorder.
You stand up straight and present the camera to him.
“Think I’m gonna break this in while you’re recovering,” he mutters before nibbling at your earlobe.
You scoff and gently smack his chest. “Your spank bank is getting too fucking big, baby.”
“Never too big,” he says, walking over to the bed. “It’s like my shrine to you and your perfect body.”
You snort and set the camera up on the dresser.
“Angle good?” he asks. “I want the whole bed to be in frame.”
“Jesus, what have you got planned for me?” you giggle as you adjust the camera.
“Nothing’s planned, per se,” he says. “Just wanna make sure we don’t miss a second of this.”
When you’re both happy with the camera angle, you press record and walk over to Jack.
He kisses you, one hand in your hair, the other gently pulling the skirt of your dress up.
You step back, and Jack slowly pulls the skirt of your dress up your legs, over your bump and breasts and over your head, leaving you in white lace panties.
“Look so cute, sweetheart,” he says, fingers toying with the lacey fabric.
You smile and bring your hands to his white button-up, eyes fixed on the rolled-up sleeves stretching across his thick forearms. You undo the buttons while Jack pulls his belt through the loops.
He drops the belt and shrugs the open shirt off.
“So strong,” you mumble, fingertips grazing his sculpted chest to his softer abdomen.
Your fingers fiddle with the button of his slacks, then pull the zipper down. You push the pants down and let them pull at his feet.
Jack’s hands go to your breasts to gently squeeze, pulling a pornographic moan from your lips, which he wasn’t expecting this early, but he’ll roll with it.
You sit down on the edge of the bed and direct him to stand in between your legs. You pull him closer, and with this angle, his half-hard cock rubs against your gravid stomach through his boxers.
He lets out a whimper and flexes his hands by his sides. Where the fuck did you even get the idea to make him grind against your bump? However you came up with it is irrelevant because Jack’s growing harder at a speed he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.
“Fuck, I’m gonna miss this when it’s gone,” Jack says, panting as he looks down at you.
You smile and lean back a little to play with your nipples, which has Jack grunting and rutting against your stomach.
“So pretty, sweetheart,” he rasps.
He takes your left hand and kisses over your ring.
“My gorgeous wife,” he pants against your hand.
You beam up at him and scoot farther back on the bed.
“Want my husband to eat my pussy,” you purr.
Jack smiles and sits down on the bed to remove his prosthesis.
“I love you, Jack,” you sigh contentedly while you watch his fingers move.
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
When it’s off, Jack helps you get propped up by the pillows, then lies on his stomach between your open legs. He presses an overly wet kiss to your soaking cunt through the lace of your panties, then hooks his fingers through them and pulls them down your legs, tossing them to the side.
Jack doesn’t waste time teasing you; he wants you to feel good as much as possible.
He licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, then delivers concentrated circling licks to your clit while one finger teases your hole before it pushes inside.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, you’re already fucking soaked,” he mumbles into your cunt.
“Mm, becoming a wife is a turn-on,” you sigh, your hands burying themselves in his hair.
He groans against you, and the sound reverberates through your entire body, causing your grip on his hair to tighten.
“So pretty,” he mumbles, licking up and down, side to side, just focusing on your clit like it’s all that matters.
“Fuck, I’m coming,” you mutter softly.
“Good girl,” Jack mumbles, his finger moving in and out of you quicker, tongue moving quicker against your clit until he’s slurping up your arousal.
“Did so good,” he says, leaning over your bump to kiss you.
When he pulls away, he pushes his finger in your mouth to make you taste yourself. He gets a little greedy and fucks your mouth for a few seconds, pumping his finger in and out of your mouth, his heavy cock twitching in his boxers against your bump.
“Fuck,” he growls as he pulls away.
You reach out and pull at his boxers, and he pulls them off as fast as he can.
Once he’s fully nude, Jack lies down next to you and helps you turn on your side. He lies behind you, his back to your chest. Slowly, he inches inside of you, hands on your breasts, flicking your nipples while you get used to the stretch.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jack whispers in your ear. “So gorgeous, growing our baby. Such pretty eyes, sweetest laugh, brightest smile. I fucking love you, sweetheart.”
You whine softly and cover his hands on your breasts.
“Love you, too, baby,” you whine softly.
He kisses the back of your neck and starts slowly grinding into you.
“Fuck, you’re all mine now,” he mumbles into your hair. “My gorgeous wife. Fuck, you feel so good, sweetheart.”
His hands knead softly at your swollen breasts, and his hips move slowly but with purpose. It’s possibly the most sensual experience you’ll ever have.
“I’m so happy,” you say as Jack’s hand starts rubbing your clit. “I gave up on this; I never thought I’d have it.”
Jack leans over your body and kisses the corner of your lips.
“I know,” he whispers. “You deserve it, though. I love you so much. I wanna spend the rest of my life making you happy. You’re amazing, beautiful, intelligent, and confident. I love you. I’m in awe of you.”
You’re truly the most incredible woman in the world. You didn’t like your office job, so you got your real estate license, and after years of hard work, you have your ideal hours and make huge commissions. You wanted a baby, and you were done waiting, so you made it happen all on your own. You wanted sex, so you flirted with Jack, and that spiraled into this, and he couldn’t be happier.
You kiss him again and moan into him.
“You’re so sweet,” you whisper. “You take such good care of your family. You make me feel like an angel.”
Jack kisses your cheek and picks up the pace of his thrusts.
“You are an angel; you’re my angel. You and our girl. You’re both perfect,” he babbles in your ear.
A tear slips down your face, and you bring Jack’s left hand to your lips, the metal of his ring cold against your skin.
“I love you. You’re an incredible human being,” you sniff.
Jack kisses you again.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks softly.
You nod and smile over your shoulder.
“You just make me so happy,” you explain. “You’re so good at fucking me, and cooking for me, and listening to me, and talking to me, and spending time with me, and touching me, and so sweet when you talk to the baby, and you fold her onesies just right, and you built all her furniture, and…”
You wipe your eyes and reach your hand behind you to bury a hand in Jack’s hair.
“You’re a fucking dream, and I’m hormonal,” you say.
Jack chuckles softly and kisses your shoulder.
“Do you need to stop, or should I just make you come?” he asks.
“No, I need to come; I’m throbbing through the tears,” you say, laughing at yourself.
Jack chuckles into your hair and picks the pace back up.
“I’m gonna make my wife come on her husband’s cock,” he rasps in your ear, hands groping your body, from your breasts to your belly to your clit to your thighs. “That sound good, sweetheart?”
You moan and clench around Jack’s cock.
“Sounds perfect,” you practically slur.
His fingers move deftly against your clit, and it’s not long before you’re a moaning mess.
“Shit,” you gasp. “Fuck, Jack, I’m gonna come, fuck.”
You come with a shudder, gushing around his cock as he fucks you through it.
“There you go, sweetheart. Good girl, taking your husband’s cock, huh?” he coos in your ear. “Look so pretty when you come, even from behind.”
You let out a tired sigh, and Jack kisses your neck.
“Fill me up, Jack,” you mumble.
That’s all he needs to hear. He growls in your ear, and his cock starts pistoning in and out of you at an almost selfish pace, but you asked him to fill you up, so that’s what he’ll do.
With a choked moan, Jack’s fingers tighten on your body, and he shoots rope after rope of his cum inside of your fucked out cunt, eliciting tiny moans from the back of your throat.
He comes down, panting, his arms still secure around you. The camcorder is completely forgotten at this point. Right now, you’re just newlyweds on their wedding night, happy to be in each other’s embrace.
//
The next day, Jack calls his parents to tell them about the wedding. They’re ecstatic and ask again when the time will be right to visit and meet you and the baby.
Meanwhile, you have brunch with your mother the next day and explain the situation to her.
“We’ll have an actual proper wedding with everyone later, I promise,” you tell her.
You can tell she’s not happy, but she doesn’t say anything about it.
“As long as you’re happy, babybug,” she says, flashing you a tight smile.
//
The last few weeks of your otherwise amazing pregnancy can only be described as not fun.
The only remotely fun thing is that the paperwork you filed to change your last name to Abbot cleared quicker than you thought it would.
However, it’s still hot out, you’ve finally started to notice Braxton-Hicks contractions, and the baby has decided to grow rapidly over the last few weeks.
At 37 weeks, you officially start your indefinite maternity leave, but that leaves you bored and alone around the house half the time.
What’s worse is that you’ve stopped having sex. It’s not that you don’t want to; you’re just too big to sustain it anymore.
Jack still eats you out almost every day, and you’ve blown him here and there, but his cock hasn’t been inside your pussy in what feels like forever.
You spend most of your time cleaning the house so you stay busy, do laundry here and there, and prepare meals for the freezer for when the baby comes.
When you’re not being productive, you sit on the couch watching movies while you compile a list of baby names you think might suit the baby.
At 39 weeks and five days, Jack sends you off to get a mani-pedi, a prenatal massage, and to get your hair done, all with the card that says you’re an Abbot now.
At your 40-week appointment, the doctor tells you you’re still only one centimeter dilated and 20% effaced.
You insist that Jack continues working even after you go overdue.
“You said it yourself: it’s perfectly normal to go overdue with your first baby, and it’s usually the case that your first labor and delivery is long, so you can go to work, and if it starts happening while you’re there, I’ll call you, and Al-Hashimi will cover for you until another doctor comes to cover the rest of your shift. We talked about this two months ago, Jack,” you remind him.
Jack chews on his bottom lip and stares at the floor when you finish speaking, clearly debating if arguing with you is even worth it. He could very easily call the hospital and claim he’s got the flu and go change out of these scrubs you practically forced him into.
“Jack, we’re about to spend two months together, every day, all day. As much as I love you, I’m going to get sick of you, so please go to work in the meantime,” you add.
He sighs, and you cup his face to pull him in for a kiss.
“All you’ll do is sit here and worry about me. Go take your mind off me with some lacerations and concussions, yeah?”
He sighs again and pecks your lips two more times.
“Yeah. Okay, sweetheart,” he agrees before bending at the waist to kiss your bump. “I love you,” he says as he straightens up.
“I love you, too. Now go make yourself useful,” you say, half-joking.
With one more kiss to your lips, Jack gathers his things and heads out the door.
hi! reminder that reblogs from those on a taglist are very much appreciated <333
All works taglist: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @youknowiloveyou-so
p.s. if you would like to be removed from any taglist, just let me know! and if you would like to join a taglist or change your current preferences, click here! <3
A/N: my good friend @crows-plague likes to drop nuggets of vampire lore and ideas on me at random that she knows will drive me into feral insanity, so you all have her to thank for this. My brain went in the direction of "what if instead of erogenous biting, you manually stimulated a vampire orally but in a submissive kinda humiliating way?" I DON'T KNOW, MY MIND IS IN THE GUTTER. Sorry you’re getting Remmick oral fixation fang smut before camboy!Cook pt. 2 LMAO
The heavy wood of the door, slots carefully into it's worn, splintered frame as Remmick steps over the threshold. He tries to be quiet as he makes his way through the kitchen, taking extra care not to wake you, who he thought was upstairs fast asleep. Tucked into bed just like he had left you.
Tracking blood down the hallway and towards the stairs.
The light at the bottom of the stairs flicks on, and highlights his guilt in it's spotlight.
His eyes close in defeat, and he huffs in realization that he's been caught, "Shit."
Your sleep soft voice meets his ears and his guilt multiplies as you make your way down the staircase, "Rem, what have I told you about leavin' your boots at the door. You're trackin' blood and dirt through the house an- oh." You stop in your tracks, bare feet halting on the hardwood floor, hand not left the railing yet, eyes darting from the mess he's made in the kitchen to the mess that stains his clothes and pale skin.
In the time that you had been with him, Remmick had been extra careful as to make sure that you didn't see him like this. Covered in blood and viscera. The spoils of his hunt painting his skin a different shade altogether. He had made sure you didn't see the way his fangs filled his mouth, taking up too much space to be human, or the way his digits grew like long talons rather than fingers. He hadn't wanted you to see all of that. See what a monster he turned into when you laid your head on your pillow at night to rest. You were too sweet. Too pure. Hadn't been exposed to the horrors the world had hid away from you the way that he had. He wanted to keep it that way. Make sure you weren't tainted by him.
"Darlin', I don't want you seein' me like this." His words come out muffled by the teeth that push against his gums and crowd his mouth. His hands fumble to clasp behind his back, like you hadn't just seen the way they stretched longer than their last knuckle.
"Oh Rem, I ain't a 'fraidy cat like you are." you yawned and chuckled, taking a step closer to him. He meets your step forwards with a step back of his own, trying his best to distance himself from you in this form.
"I know you ain't darlin', I just.. there's some things a lady shouldn't see." A clawed hand comes up to shield his mouth from you, drool beginning to collect at the corners of his lips like a dog.
You give him one last look before closing the distance and taking his blood coated hand in yours, not even flinching at the slick feel of it against your palm, "C'mon, let's getcha cleaned up so you can get some beauty sleep. Lord knows you'll need the rest when it comes time for your punishment for this damned mess."
He snorted and smiled as you lead him to the kitchen, urging him to take a seat at the table while you filled a bowl with warm water and grab a clean dish rag. You set it on the table beside him, and stand between his spread legs, wetting the corner of the cloth and bringing it up to his stained cheek. His big, clawed hands came up to gently rest on your hips as you work. Red iridescence lingers in his irises, his gaze slowly roaming over your features that focus on cleaning up his mess, while your fingers gently swipe the warm rag at the congealed blood on his chin, softly wiping at his neck and down the line of his throat.
"'Yer real pretty, ya know that?" he murmurs through the barrier of his fangs and past his pink, swollen lips.
You smile, just a twitch at the corner of your mouth, focus never straying from the work at hand.
"You never let me forget it." you say, just as quietly. Your fingers stop their cleaning, and your eyes meet his. You take in his features. The way his eyes glow slightly, like a wild animal. The way the points of his fangs peek from between his lips. Feel the way his claws dig just a little bit into the meat of your hips whether he means for them to or not.
You should be afraid of him. Afraid of the fact he could tear you apart with just his bare hands and teeth. The thought of getting as far away from him as you possibly can, sits at the back of your mind, but that self preservation instinct has yet to truly kick in when it comes to your Remmick. You still didn’t see him as the predator he so very clearly is.
His tongue darts out, swipes across his bottom lip, as his eyes land on your mouth.
Before he can lean up to kiss you, you speak, "Wanna look at your fangs. Really look at em'. Never really got to see em' like this." A fingertip drags lightly across his lip, urging him to open his mouth.
He hesitates, but ultimately obliges, jaw slowly opening to reveal the fangs crowding his mouth.
You don't realize the quiet gasp that leaves you. The sight of just how sharp his teeth are shocks you for a moment, a chill running down your spine at the thought of the damage they could truly inflict. He could so easily kill you. Tear you to absolute shreds... yet he doesn't. For some reason, he has restraint when it comes to you.
Your thumb prods gently at the sharp point of one of his incisors, making sure not to nick yourself, before running the tips of your fore and middle fingers upwards, pushing his lip up. You rub along his gumline, his eyes closing as he inhales deeply through his nose.
"Hmmm, are they sensitive?" you ask even though you can already guess the answer, opposite hand coming up to rest on his stubbly cheek that’s now flushed red.
Remmick sits transfixed by your touch. He nods, drool gathering at his bottom lip and spilling over, a whine catches in his throat when you rub at the gum of his incisor.
You pull your hand away slowly, "Do you want me to stop?" You ask him so sweetly. So innocently. Like you have no idea what it’s doing to him.
It makes him groan.
Low and throaty and desperate.
He shakes his head, eyes shut, and when he opens them to look at you, they’re glossy with need.
“Please darlin’, don’t stop.” He mumbles, clawed hand gently grabbing your wrist and lifting your fingers to his mouth.
You nearly choke on a breath when he takes your middle and forefingers between his lips and sucks, forked tongue swirling around the digits lewdly, drool coating them.
Your gaze doesn’t miss the obvious strain of his hard cock against the stiff fabric of his pants as he moans around your fingers.
"Awww," you coo, fingers pressing down on his tongue, "Are you getting hard just from this?"
He nods, a muffled sound leaving him as you inch your fingers towards the back of his throat. Drool pools from the corners of his mouth, dripping down the sides of his chin.
You pull your wet fingers from his throat and tilt his chin up, his wet eyes locking on yours, "Want you to take your cock out, can you do that for me?"
His hands are at his belt buckle, unfastening and unzipping his pants before he could properly answer with a mumbled, "Mmmhmm."
Remmick's cock slaps against his belly as he shuffles his pants just enough past his hips. The tip flushed red and angry, already leaking precum at the slit and dripping down the shaft. He takes himself in his palm, fingers wrapping in a tight grip as he spread the wetness over the length.
You run the pad of your thumb along his swollen bottom lip, before pushing it forwards into his mouth. The sound of him eagerly sucking on the digit, tongue lathing up the skin, pairs filthily with the symphony of slick that comes from his hand languidly jerking up and down his cock.
"That's it Rem, get it nice and wet." you praise him, moving to rub at his gums again, thumb rubbing right where the incisor met the soft pink tissue.
His eyes close, jaw going slack, hand faltering a bit.
"Right there." he whines, hand twisting a bit when it reaches the head.
Your thumb rubs back and forth, matching the rhythm of his hand.
You see the way his thighs tense with each upstroke, the way his chest catches at each sensitive touch.
Spit continues to travel down his chin in rivulets, catching in his collarbones and further wetting the collar of his blood soiled shirt. He's an absolute wreck, and putty in your hands.
"Want you to come for me, you can do that, can't you Rem?" you bring up your other hand, rubbing at the opposite incisor in tandem.
He tries to nod against your hold, eyes squeezing shut in pleasured agony, and he picks up his pace, chasing his end.
With one last swipe to his gumline, the muscles in his abdomen tense, and a breath he doesn't need catches in his chest, cum painting his stomach with every twitch of his oversensitive cock.
You wipe the drool from his chin with your thumbs and press a kiss to his cleaned cheek as he collects himself and grabs the rag you were cleaning him off with.
"Now don't go using this information against me." Remmick jokes, cleaning himself off and resituating his pants.
"You seemed to enjoy it too much for it to be a punishment." you quip back. "Your real punishment for makin' such a mess, is gonna be all the wash you're gonna have to do without my help."
"And what are you gonna be doing while I'm doing all that?" he asked, brow raised.
"I'll be planning the ways to use this newfound information against you."
Summary: Your Vermont cabin babymoon is filled with sweet and emotional moments alike. From fucking at all hours of the night to wiping your tears in an emergency room, it's safe to say it's an unforgettable babymoon.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: MDNI, layout for the cabin I made up here, pregnancy, suggestive themes, implicit smut, fluff, pregnancy related scare (there is potential for complication, but they end up being okay; read end author's note if you don't want to be surprised), explicit smut, butterfly position (Jack loves pedicures and anklets) ((the distinction between that and a foot fetish is very important)), squirting
Word count: 5,358
Series Masterlist | Read on ao3 here | dividers by @/diviniyae
Author's note: hello friends!!!! big things happening as is obvious by the title and the banner today 👀 anyways Jack's love for pedicures and anklets stems from a thought I had that I posted about and chatted with sweet @llayla0 about so I decided to put it in here. like, this man is OBSESSED with his baby mama, head to toe, so this is kind of "duh" to me lol anyways I hope you enjoy! ty for reading!!! also a reminder that reblogs make you sexy like it's clinically proven
Once Jack secures a rental car, he puts all the luggage in the trunk and helps you into the passenger seat.
It’s nearly an hour drive from the airport to the cabin, but the grocery store he likes is 40 minutes from the airport.
“Get whatever you want,” Jack tells you when he grabs a shopping cart. “I don’t want to leave the cabin for anything if we can help it.”
You smile in response and end up spending nearly 45 minutes in the grocery store, meticulously perusing the aisles and making calculated decisions on what meals and snacks you want at the cabin.
When you finally arrive at the cabin, you’re in awe.
The cabin is surrounded by trees, the porch is huge, and a ways off, there’s a lake behind the house.
You turn to look at Jack as he kills the engine.
“What do you think? Tolerable?” he deadpans.
You smile and lean across the center console for a soft peck. “It’s beautiful.”
He smiles back and gets out of the car, rounding the hood to help you out.
His arms wrap around you, and he kisses you again, more passionately, quietly seeking entrance into your mouth, his fingers flexing against your waist.
“You taste minty,” he mutters as he pulls back. “That’s good gum.”
You smile and peck his lips.
“Can I try out that bathtub while you handle the bags?” you mumble against his lips.
“Yeah.” He takes a step back to give you room. “There’s bubble bath underneath the sink. I wanna see sudsy tits when I get in there.”
He hands you the house key, and you scoff. As you walk away, he slaps your ass, pulling a soft giggle from you.
Once you walk through the door, you’re met with the living room. To your right is a wall filled with all kinds of rustic-looking art pieces. To your left, and a little farther up, is what seems to be the bedroom.
When you open the door that was left ajar, you see a king-size bed in the middle of the room with a dark wooden headboard, matching nightstands on either side, and windows behind them. Across the bed, there’s a dresser with a small television on top. You set your purse and the keys down on the dresser just when Jack walks in with your checked bag and carry-on.
“Baby. Please go get your tits sudsy for me,” he whines jokingly.
“I’m going,” you laugh softly.
He heads back to the car to get the rest of the stuff, and you head into the bathroom to draw a bath.
While the water heats up, you look for the bubble bath. Once you’ve found it and poured a considerable amount in, you remove your clothes and step in.
As you sit back in the water, you notice the ways Jack has made the cabin accessible for himself. There’s a grab bar, and the sight of it makes you smile.
In the bedroom, Jack unpacks, moving both of your clothes into the dresser and storing the luggage in the closet. He sets out sweats and a plaid flannel for you, and a t-shirt and sweats for himself, then opens the bathroom door to join you in the bath, with crutches for after the bath set by the wall.
After he’s undressed and the prosthesis is removed, he holds on to the grab bar to lower himself behind you into the bath.
You sink into his chest and shut your eyes while his hands rest on your thighs.
“I like it here,” you say softly. “It’s like you have this whole mountain man side I didn’t know about.”
Jack smiles and kisses the back of your head.
“You feel okay?” he asks softly. “Flight wasn’t too rough on you?”
“Mm, it wasn’t too bad. I feel great right now,” you reply.
After the bath, you dress in the comfortable clothes Jack brought to the bathroom for you, and the two of you lie back on the bed while Jack turns the small television on, flipping through channels.
“I have a reminder set on my phone to figure out how to add streaming to this old man TV,” you say.
Jack laughs and pulls you into his side.
//
The second day doesn’t start until almost noon.
Pregnancy hormones plus the promise of five days spent alone in a cabin apparently equals waking Jack up for sex all three times you went to the bathroom last night, so sleep wasn’t the best for him.
Today’s the first real look you get at the living room. There’s a bigger TV out here and sliding doors that lead to the back porch overlooking the lake and the trees.
A few feet behind the couch is a small table with four chairs; then there’s the kitchen, slightly closed off.
It’s simple, but you see Jack everywhere. You see all the intention and effort put into the entire cabin, and it’s so him.
While Jack cooks eggs for your late breakfast, you lean against the counter beside the stove and stare at him.
“How often do you usually come out here?” you ask.
Jack shrugs. “The first year, I came a lot. I usually drove. Helene had been gone for a year, but I still didn’t like being in Pittsburgh alone. Being alone here was easier because she’d never been here. Anyway, the last two years, I’ve come up four times a year.”
You furrow your brow. “Who cleans it?”
He smiles. “I’ve got this cleaning service. They always send the same woman, Bea. I’ve got her number so she can send me pictures of when people trash the place, which isn’t often, but there was one time a couple came here for their honeymoon, I guess, and they left behind an entire box of sex toys.”
The laugh you let out at that has you clutching your side.
“Anyway, Bea sent me a picture of this monster dildo. Like, it was as thick as four of my dicks, and I did a Google image search, and it was called a ‘Creature Cock’.”
You slowly sink to a crouching position, laughing so hard now that you’re barely making any noise anymore.
“Creature Cock?” you ask between laughs, looking up at Jack.
He nods, smiling, and starts plating the food. “Yep. The thing had all these ridges and spikes. I can’t imagine what kind of person wants to use that, but to each their own.”
Jack holds his hand out and helps you stand up straight.
“After last night, I’m tempted to say you have a creature clit,” he says as he joins you at the table.
You smile around your fork and hold back another laugh.
After your food is eaten and cleaned up, you’re lounging on the large sectional sofa again, leaning into Jack with his left hand rubbing circles on your belly while he picks a movie to watch.
A few minutes into the movie, Jack gently taps your stomach to get your attention.
“What do you want for your push present?” he asks, completely serious, sounding almost concerned that he doesn’t yet know what you would like.
You let out a soft snort. “Jack, where did you learn what a push present is?”
He shrugs, and you turn your head to face him.
“One of the residents. Langdon. He comes up to me one day, and he’s like, ‘What are you getting your baby mama for her push present?’”
“Oh, so baby mama is sticking over in the Pitt?” you laugh.
“They latched onto it,” he mumbles, clearly a little bothered by the term.
Mostly because he plans on making you his wife as soon as possible.
“Well, either way, I actually hadn’t thought about it,” you reply. “Except, I’ll tell you right now, I don’t want jewelry with her name on it.”
Jack nods. “Yeah, but that’d also just be kind of hard to do since she still doesn’t have a name.”
You scoff. “I’m not the only picky party.”
“Excuse me for not wanting to name our daughter after the fucking seasons.”
It’s silent for a few minutes until something that should’ve clicked yesterday morning finally does as you look down at Jack’s hand on your stomach.
“Your ring,” you murmur, eyes widening as you turn your face towards him.
Jack turns his head to look at you.
“It’s safe,” he says softly.
Your eyebrows raise just slightly.
“I thought about it a lot,” he continues. “I took it off two nights ago. It’s in the keepsake box I have.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I am.”
He sounds so confident.
You smile at him, your eyes watering, and not because of the pregnancy hormones, but because of how much love you hold for this man.
“I know the ring means a lot to you,” you mutter softly, the lump in your throat thick as can be. “It also means a lot to me that you took it off.” You sniffle and wipe your nose. “Not that I was excited about you taking it off and anticipating it, but I’m… I’m happy that you felt ready to take it off.”
Jack reaches out to wipe the tear rolling down your face. “Thank you for not making me feel any pressure about it. That means a lot to me, sweetheart.”
You smile and lean forward, your forehead resting against his.
“I love you,” you whisper, your voice cracking.
He presses his lips to yours. “I love you, too.”
The rest of the day moves slower. It was always going to be a slow day, but later, in bed, your naked body illuminated by the moonlight, every roll of your hips against his as you ride him feels intentional and heavy, like you’re trying to communicate how much he means to you, how much what he’s done for you and for your baby means to you.
Neither one of you has the words, so Jack does the same. He meets your thrusts with a specific passion that neither one of you can move past.
After both of you climax, he helps you off of him and props you up on all the pillows, spooning your back, his lips pressed to your neck, his hands in yours and on your bump.
His whole world is in the palm of his hands.
//
Day three is another slow day, though this morning is spent around the property. There’s a trail that extends behind the house, following the lake for about a mile. If you weren’t so pregnant, you’d fuck Jack in the dirt.
“When do you think we can take her back here?” you ask, one hand in Jack’s, the other rubbing your bump.
He shrugs. “Whenever we want to. I read this article the other day about not letting your kids stop you from doing the things you used to do. I don’t see why we can’t take her on trips as soon as we’re ready.”
You nod, taking his words in. “That’s a good point. Plus, she’ll be a worldly kid that way. That’s probably good for empathy and stuff.”
Jack chuckles softly and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, probably.”
A beat of silence, and then you ask, “What do we do for the holidays this year?”
He shrugs. “Whatever we want. You want to spend it with your family?”
This time, you shrug. “Maybe just Thanksgiving.”
“The holidays are far off anyway,” he reminds you.
“Yeah, but her due date’s September third, and before you know it, it’ll be Halloween, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas.” You shake your head. “I can just picture my mom asking us to come over for the months of November and December.”
“We could do Christmas with just the three of us. Plus, she’ll only be two, three months old. We can just tell people we don’t want germs around her,” he points out. “Or we could go see my parents.”
You stop walking and gasp, which, with how late you are in your pregnancy, probably isn’t the best default reaction here.
Jack’s face drops as he turns his body towards you. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing, sorry. I just realized I haven’t met your parents.”
You start walking again, Jack following, hand still in yours, his heart rate slowing down after your gasp just about knocked the wind out of him.
“Yeah, my mom mentioned that last time I called her,” he says. “I said I’d talk to you about them coming to meet you and the baby.”
You’re silent for a moment as you think about that. His parents are in their mid-seventies. Would they be welcoming to the woman who got their son to be the father to her sperm donor baby? If you were in their shoes, you think you might judge you. It doesn’t really look good from the outside sometimes.
“They want to meet the baby?”
Jack smiles and squeezes your hand. “And you.”
You purse your lips. “They live in South Carolina, right?’
He nods. “Yeah, Charleston.”
You sigh and look straight ahead for a few seconds.
“Y’know, surprisingly, they’re lifelong Democrats,” he says, an edge of both humor and concern in his tone.
You chuckle softly and shake your head. “That wasn’t… I guess that’s good to know, but I just feel like they’re not gonna like me.”
“They’ll like you,” Jack says, like the idea of the opposite happening is ludicrous.
//
After you get back from the walk, you turn on another movie. You relax on the couch while Jack puts together lunch.
The movie finishes, and halfway through the second one, you realize the baby hasn’t moved since the halfway point of your walk.
That was three hours ago. She could just be sleeping, right?
Jack’s half asleep next to you, barely watching the movie with half-lidded eyes.
You sigh and press against the baby’s favorite kicking spot.
Nothing.
Gently, you lean over and kiss Jack’s cheek, brow furrowed.
“She hasn’t moved,” you whisper against his skin.
Jack’s eyes widen as he turns his head toward you. “How long?”
You sigh. “Three hours, I think.”
Supposedly, if your baby moves ten times within a two-hour period, you’re good. Their sleeping cycles are about 90 minutes. Three hours without movement is cause for concern.
Jack slowly scoots away and puts his prosthesis back on.
“You lie on your left side,” he tells you as he rolls his pant leg down. “I’m gonna get you a cold juice from the fridge, which should hopefully encourage movement. While I do that, you call your OB. I’m pretty sure she’ll say to go to a hospital, but you should ask her.”
“Okay,” you mutter softly, tears filling your eyes.
He gently cradles your face and kisses you softly.
“It’s probably nothing,” he whispers. “She’s probably worn out from the walk.”
Not really how that works, but he’ll say anything to comfort you.
Calmly, he helps you lie on your left side to get blood flowing, then hands you your phone so you can call your doctor.
In the kitchen, Jack throws some ice in a glass and pours in some apple juice while listening to you explain the situation to your OB over the phone.
Fuck, he might do a fellowship in women’s health before your next pregnancy just so he has a better idea of what to do here.
When he rejoins you in the living room, you’re hanging up the phone.
“Hospital?” he asks softly as he hands you the glass.
You nod and take a sip from the glass. “It could be nothing, right?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.” Jack nods and brings his hand to your bump, gently pressing against your belly, hoping to rouse the baby.
Nothing.
“Hopefully she’s just being stubborn,” he says.
After you finish your drink, Jack helps you to the car and drives to the nearest hospital.
He spends the entire drive with one hand in yours, eyes fixed on the road. He’s heard the occasional sniffle, and he can’t bear to look at you in this state while he’s driving.
When he parks, he reaches over the console and gently pulls your face toward him.
“Whatever’s going on, it’s gonna be okay. I’m here for you. They’re probably gonna do a urinalysis, check your BP, do a non-stress test. That’s where they put a bunch of monitors on your belly to listen to her heart. I’ve done a bunch of them. 99% of the time, it’s fine. I’m sure you’re not the 1%,” he says softly as he wipes your tears. “Still no movement?”
You shake your head.
Jack frowns and unbuckles your seatbelt, then gets out of the car and rounds the hood to help you out.
The E.R. isn’t even half as busy as the Pitt is on a slow day. You get taken to triage quickly, then are sent for a urinalysis. When you come back, the nurse is ready to set up for the NST.
“Alright, her heart rate is consistent,” the nurse remarks once the elastic belts are in place. She hands you a clicker. “You click this every time you feel her move. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Then you’re left alone with Jack. He has a warm hand on your thigh, comforting and reassuring.
“Her heart sounds good,” he whispers softly.
You nod, eyes fixed on your belly like you can will her to move.
“She’s ruining the babymoon,” you mumble softly, clearly joking but also clearly nervous.
Jack sighs and gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze.
“Will you still love us if something’s wrong with her?” you whisper, your voice hoarse.
Jack’s brows raise.
“Sweetheart, of course. Why would you even think that?” he asks, a little offended but also very concerned.
You shrug your shoulders, trying to keep your tears at bay. “I don’t know. I’m just scared. I’m sorry, that was a shitty thing to say.”
He leans forward to wipe your tears and press a chaste kiss to your lips. “I’m here for you both. I love you both. Even if something’s wrong with her, I still want her, and I still want you. Nothing could make me love either of you any less. I promise.”
You sniff and nod slowly.
“I’m just scared,” you murmur, your voice hoarse.
Jack gently rubs his thumbs back and forth across your cheek.
“I am, too,” he whispers. “But I’m here, I promise. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, and I’ll be strong for you. Cry all you want and be scared. I got you, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft sniff and press your lips to his.
“I love you,” you whisper.
“I love you, too.” He looks down at your bump and caresses the taut skin, being careful not to disrupt the monitors. “Can you do a kick for Daddy, baby girl? Huh?”
You stare at his hand, hoping she’ll make even the tiniest movement for her dad.
Jack stares, too, on high alert for even the tiniest movement.
Just as you look away, you feel it. A tiny kick.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your voice cracking.
You click the clicker, and Jack leans forward to kiss the spot the baby kicked.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your skin. “Do another one, sleepyhead. Show Daddy how strong you’re getting in there from all the steak I’ve been cooking this week.”
You and Jack go silent, waiting, and just when you think it was a fluke, she delivers a stronger kick.
Jack sighs, relieved, tears welling in his eyes. He kisses your bump again and whispers, “Daddy’s so proud of you, baby girl. You’re doing so good in there, growing big and strong. Just keep it up for Mommy and Daddy. You had us scared for a minute there. Just keep kicking.”
He looks up at you and cups the back of your head with a gentle hand to kiss your forehead.
“She’s okay. She was just tired. We’ve been lazy all week, and she thinks she can slack off on the kicking,” he murmurs against your skin.
You chuckle softly and wipe your eyes.
“She loves your voice,” you whisper, bringing a hand to his stubbly cheek.
Jack leans into your touch and smiles softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you, too.”
By the time you’re released from the hospital, it’s dark. Jack takes you to a taco place in town just so the spice keeps the baby moving.
In bed, he holds you close after he props your body up with pillows. He presses his warm chest to your back, your skin soft against his. He has his right arm underneath your neck, holding your outstretched right hand, and his left hand cups your belly, following the baby’s movements.
He kisses the back of your neck.
“Would you be happy if I proposed to you sometime soon?” he asks softly, his voice slightly muffled by your hair.
Your eyes widen, fixed on a print of a canyon on the wall. You didn’t often spend time thinking about whether or not Jack wanted to marry you. You were honestly content with just being his partner. Plus, it’s kind of hard to let anything besides the baby take up space in your head while you plan for the future.
Still, you love Jack with all your heart. You love him so much it hurts. He made it clear today that he’s sticking around no matter what. He’s in your corner. He’s in your daughter’s corner. He doesn’t love anything more than you and her.
You’re his, and he’s yours.
You squeeze his hand.
“I’d be very happy,” you whisper softly.
//
Day four is lazy. Jack brings you breakfast in bed. The two of you watch the news because “all we’ve watched the entire time we’ve been here is movies, and don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome, but let an old man do an old man thing, sweetheart.”
So he watches the news, and you fall back asleep. You always preferred getting your news from The New York Times rather than watching it, but for Jack, you’ll suffer through the male anchor’s nasally voice.
You wake with your head in his lap, his hand on your belly, gently caressing your skin while your daughter tumbles around inside of your womb.
“Do you want to go on a walk?” he asks softly, running his fingers through your hair while you look up at him from his lap.
“Different trail?” you ask softly, rubbing your face against his soft bulge.
His fingers tighten in your hair and pull you back slightly. “Yeah. This one leads to a field. You’ll think it’s pretty.”
You hum. “Mm. Do I have to put on pants?”
Jack scoffs softly. “Guess not.”
“Okay, let me pee first. I’ll meet you on the porch.”
He helps you sit up and watches you pad into the bathroom and shut the door. He puts his prosthesis on, then finds his backpack. He pulls the ring box out of the pocket and opens the box just to make sure it’s still there.
He sticks it in his pocket, then grabs a water bottle before he heads out to the porch swing to wait for you.
You join him a few minutes later, still just dressed in your flimsy nightgown, though you put on some sensible shoes.
You hold your hand out for him, and he takes it and stands.
The trail is pretty; Jack was right.
It’s peaceful and shady, lined with trees. There’s so much greenery. A few deer and rabbits pass you by. It’s beautiful.
The trail opens up to a clearing surrounded by wildflowers.
You squeeze Jack’s hand, and he smiles at you like you’re the only woman in the world, his other hand reaching in his pocket.
You furrow your brow, then he holds a box out.
“Jack…”
He’s still smiling, then he gets down on one knee and opens the box.
Holy fucking shit.
It’s beautiful enough to gasp over and bring a hand to your mouth.
“Sweetheart.” His voice cracks just a little. Your lip wobbles. “I love you in a way I didn’t think was possible. You make me feel wanted. You make me excited about coming home after work. You make me laugh. I love listening to you talk about your favorite books and movies and how you want to raise our daughter. Baby, our daughter… I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be the man you let be her father. I swear to you that I will work every day to be worthy of being her dad, and, if you say yes, your husband.”
Tears well in your eyes as you look down at him. You smile behind your hands and sniff while you take in his words. You didn’t expect this to happen so soon, but fuck if you’re not over the moon.
“Sweetheart, will you marry me?” Jack asks softly.
You nod your head and wipe your eyes.
“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes, I’ll marry you.
Jack beams up at you and slides the ring over your finger, then stands up. He puts a hand on your waist and cups your jaw with the other as he kisses you.
“I love you,” he mumbles against your skin. “I love you. I love you, and I love our baby.”
“I love you more,” you whisper, hands tugging gently on his gray curls. “I’m so happy.”
He laughs softly and tilts his head to kiss your neck. “Wanna head back?”
You nod excitedly and let him lead you back on the trail.
When you get back to the cabin and Jack’s shut and locked the door, you’re on him. Jack’s practically about to eat your bottom lip while he pulls your dress over your body and you kick your shoes and socks off.
“I’m gonna give you everything,” he mutters as he walks you into the bedroom, pulling his shirt off. “My only priority is making you and our girl happy.”
You smile and lie back on the bed, horizontal. Jack walks over and pulls you to the edge of the bed. He grabs some pillows, and once he’s happy with how you’re propped up, he lowers his pants and boxers, then steps out of them.
He caresses your legs, smooth and soft. He pulls them up, your ankles on his shoulders. He turns his head to kiss your right ankle and pulls your anklet between his teeth. Last time you got a pedicure, you sent him a picture of the colors you were considering and let him pick.
Jack growls with the jewelry in his teeth, then kisses the other ankle, his thumbs caressing your shins.
“Baby, you’re so sexy,” he rasps. “From your head to your cute little hot pink toes. So pretty.”
He rubs his face against your foot, his hard cock rubbing against your drenched pussy.
“My beautiful fiancée,” he purrs.
You moan and arch your back.
“Fuck,” you hum. “You’re my fiancé. Fuck, Jack.”
“Gonna fuck you so good,” he slurs as he lines his cock up with your entrance.
His hands move down to hold your hips steady as he bottoms out.
“Shit,” you mewl.
Jack’s fingers flex against your hips while he lets you get used to the stretch.
“As much as I love the baby and how hot you look all full,” Jack pants, his hands settling on your bump, “I am gonna be fucking ecstatic when this isn’t in the way anymore.”
You giggle softly and cover his hands with yours. Jack growls at the sight of his ring on your finger.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Looks fucking beautiful on you. You like it?”
“Mhm.” You smile down at it. “It’s perfect, baby. I love it. Thank you.”
He smiles down at you and brings your left hand up to his lips.
“You can move,” you mutter, squeezing him.
Jack hisses softly in response, then starts slowly thrusting his hips.
“I wanna get married as soon as possible,” Jack breathes. “Courthouse wedding. If you want, we can have a real wedding later, but I want to be your husband in the delivery room.”
You nod, your hands playing with your breasts. “Yeah, that’s good. I want that. Hopefully I can have your last name before the baby gets it.”
He chuckles softly and kisses your ankle. “You wanna take my name?”
You smile and nod. “Mhm. Like I said a few weeks ago, it feels better in my mouth.”
Jack laughs at that. “Sweetheart, do you realize how dirty that sounds?”
You furrow your brow for a moment, then your brows rise practically to your hairline.
“Fuck, I didn’t realize at first,” you laugh, bringing your hands to your mouth. “Ew, I’ve said that to a lot of people, Jack.”
He smiles and thrusts harder, earning a soft groan from you.
“I love you, honey,” he sighs.
You giggle. “I love you, too.”
He brings one hand down to your clit and starts rubbing.
You arch your back, and your breathing gets heavier.
“Fuck,” you sigh. “Jack, you feel so good. Gonna marry you just for this cock.”
He huffs a soft laugh through his nose and rubs harder. “You already have 24/7 access to this old man dick, baby. And I’ll have you know you’ll appreciate me as a husband for more than just sex.”
You sigh contentedly and buck your hips into his hand. “Right. Marrying an E.R. doc has its perks.”
Jack rolls his eyes and holds back a smile.
“I’m kidding,” you laugh. “I’m gonna be the luckiest wife in the world with the sweetest husband in the world.”
“Damn right. Although, I’m probably luckier.”
“I love you, Jack,” you sigh, your left hand caressing up and down his side while his fingers stay trained on your clit.
“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers. He leans down, just a little. “I want you to come for your fiancé.”
You moan softly. His fingers speed up on your clit.
“Shit,” you grit through your teeth.
“Gonna come?” he teases.
You nod. You feel heavy and full.
“Good girl,” he pants. “Soak me, sweetheart. Come for me.”
Jack presses even harder on your clit, and with a soft whimper, you clench around his cock.
He hums in appreciation and watches your juices coat his pubic hair. It’s fucking cascading out of you.
“Shit,” he chokes, trying to talk and admire your orgasmic state. “You squirted,” he manages to get out before he spills his load inside of you.
As you regain your composure, you sigh. “I what?”
Through heavy breaths, Jack replies, “You squirted, sweetheart.”
Your brows raise slightly, and you let out a soft giggle.
Jack reaches for the tissues on the nightstand and cleans the excess arousal before he pulls out of you. When he’s got you clean enough, he pulls out, then helps you get into a more comfortable position. He takes his prosthesis off, then lies down next to you.
“I’ll make an appointment at the courthouse for the day after we get home,” he mutters softly, kissing your face. “That work?”
You nod and catch his lips in a soft kiss.
//
Day five, the last day before you leave tomorrow afternoon, is bliss. You stare at your engagement ring, rub your bump, and kiss Jack. You couldn’t be happier; you’re the luckiest woman in the world.
“How about Charlotte?” Jack asks, one hand rubbing your feet, the other scrolling through a baby name list on his phone.
“It’s pretty,” you answer, eyes fixed on the TV.
“Josephine.”
You shake your head. “Mm, that’s not her name.”
“Daisy.”
Silence.
“Juniper.”
You snort at it.
“I figured,” he mumbles. “Okay, how about–”
You lean in to catch his lips in a kiss.
“We’ll know when we meet her,” you murmur.
Jack sighs and leans his head back. “You think so?”
You nod and kiss his cheek. “For now, she’s still just ‘baby girl’.”
He kisses your jaw. “Baby Abbot.”
“Mhm. Baby Abbot.”
end author's note: if you don't want to be surprised-- the baby's activity decreases for three hours, they go to the ER for an NST, sappy moment, then the baby moves and all is well. ADDITIONALLY: should we dedicate like 3k words to the courthouse wedding as its own chapter, or just condense it, move on to the birth, then just focus on the WEDDING in a later installment? pls lmk ily
all works taglist: @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller
Jack Abbot taglist: @michasia24 @its--fandom--darling @staygoldsquatchling02 @starstruckl
Doctor Google series taglist: @itsmycorneroftheinternet @myhopefulcollectionqueenfan-blog @karleyyyjaeee @laughsandlivia @babyspiceeeeeeee @merlin-288 @cari87 @kidd3ath @agamayayayaya @nyxmoretti @ubiquitousfoodcravings-blog-blog @bookluver14 @thehockeynerd30 @cafereads @sukunasnumberoneslut @imaginesnnerd @whatliesaheadmatters
p.s. if you would like to be removed from any taglist, just let me know! and if you would like to join a taglist or change your current preferences, there is a Google form where you can join! <3
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“The oats are raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep that bulged as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s brows knitted together, his eyes darting between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
idea with the song Down with the sickness and Eddie Munson…
So like Eddie survives s4 and is a vampire (duh because why not) but he’s having this REALLY hard time adapting to his new life. He sees this change as a sickness in him.
Him and the gang go to this bar to see this band they’ve heard about. You are the lead singer and are also some supernatural being (perhaps a vampire ???) and IMMEDIATELY clock this motherfucker and read him like a fucking book. You start singing your song but you direct the lines:
I can see inside you, the sickness is rising
Don't try to deny what you feel (will you give it to me?)
It seems that all that was good has died
And is decaying in me (will you give it to me?)
It seems you're having some trouble
In dealing with these changes, living with these changes
And he knows you’re singing it to him because he can feel your eyes staring into him. He’s like ‘woah wtf’ and leaves like immediately because he’s scared of being known. He tells the gang he needs to go home because he isn’t feeling well and heads out.
By the time he gets back to his place, you’re sitting on his bed, legs crossed and go “I know what you are. I can help you.”
hiii <3 i love your writing so so much i’ve reread everything about five times now. i was wondering if i could request some smut with remmick where he stays with you but never allows you to see him in any form other than human, not even with any blood on his face, says it’s rude of him or something like that. but then one day he stumbles in a bit too late and you wake up a bit too early and see him with his claws and teeth and blood all over. and he’s apologizing profusely thinking it’s gross but it’s actually pretty hot.. ofc leading to smut
claws & fangs
masterlist | taglist
word count : 2.9k
a/n : i’m so happy that you enjoy my writing 🫶🏾 thank you for this request ! i love writing monsterous remmick
consider this kinktober day 2…
warnings (mdni 18+) : feelings of self-consciousness, fingering (f!receiving), unprotected sex (p in v), rough sex, messy sex, blood, monsterfucking, size kink, restraint during sex, deep penetration/cervix impact, praise, aftercare, final form remmick has a big dick
He is always careful with you. Too careful, almost, as though there are lines drawn between you that only he can see. Remmick will stay, touch, even sink into you with an unrelenting hunger—but he never lets you glimpse the edges of what he really is. Not once.
Not a claw. Not a fang. Not even a fleck of blood on his mouth.
If he comes to you late, you always hear the telltale sound of water first, the splash from the basin or the sound of movement from the tub. He makes himself clean, human-shaped again, before ever lying beside you. And when you ask why—in a whisper against his chest one night—he only shakes his head, muttering that it would be rude for you to see him otherwise.
Rude, as if it were bad manners. As if baring the thing beneath the skin would somehow insult you.
So you let him keep his rituals. You let him keep the secret, because when his hands slide up your thighs and his mouth presses hot at your throat, what does it matter what shape he was in before?
Until tonight.
The bed creaks faintly, not with the slow weight of a man undressing, but with the uneven stumble of something heavy trying to right itself. The sound pulls you from sleep. Your eyelids flutter open in the dark, and what you see doesn’t belong to any dream—
Remmick, crouched in the shadows at the edge of the bed.
His claws, long and curled, drag through the sheets as though anchoring him there. His eyes, red and burning in the half-light. His jaw hangs wrong, unhinged just enough for those inhuman teeth to gleam, wet and sharp. And the blood—smeared across his face, his throat, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
He freezes the moment he realizes you’re awake.
“Fuck,” he rasps, trying to cover his mouth with the back of one shaking hand. “No—I didn’t mean for you to—”
His words tumble over each other, frantic, half-choked. “I should’ve—I wasn’t s’pose to let you—it’s not—it’s not for you to see.” His claws scrape back against the sheets as if he could shrink into them, as if he could disappear.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking. His throat works hard, thick with blood and guilt. “Christ, it’s filthy. I’m—look at me, I’m—” He cuts himself off, turning his head away like a dog caught in the act. His shoulders hunch, sharp and jagged beneath the bloodied shirt.
“I never wanted you to see me like this.” The words come softer now, but no less desperate. “It’s disgusting. I should’ve stayed away until it was gone. Until I was clean. You’re not s’pose to—”
He presses his clawed hand harder against his mouth, as if he could shove the fangs back inside, hide them from your eyes. His chest heaves with something close to shame, every inch of him trembling in the dim light.
You blink, stunned, heart hammering in your chest. For a moment, you think you should recoil, scream, run—but you don’t. The blood, the claws, the fangs—they aren’t repulsive. They’re raw. They’re dangerous. And something inside you aches at it.
Your gaze lingers on him, drinking in the way his jaw moves, the way the light catches the red in his eyes. His sharp teeth glint as he pants through the apology, claws flexing against the sheets. He’s trembling, ashamed, terrified you’ll hate him—but all you feel is a pulse of desire so strong it makes your toes curl under the covers.
“You’re… not gross,” you whisper, almost in disbelief at your own boldness. “Not… not to me.”
He freezes again, the panic in his eyes sharp, raw. “I—I shouldn’t be—I thought you’d—”
“I want this,” you cut in, voice shaking but firm, and your hand creeps out from under the blanket, brushing the blood-slicked edge of his forearm. “I want you like this. All of it.”
His eyes widen, panic flickering into disbelief. “You don’t—”
“I do,” you interrupt, letting your fingers trace the curve of his wrist, the sharp line of his claw. The thrill of danger makes your pulse spike, your chest tighten. “I’ve wanted it. I’ve wanted you like this the entire time you’ve kept it hidden.”
He swallows hard, fangs gleaming even more as his lips part in a shaky, disbelieving smile. The tension in his body falters, and for the first time tonight, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans toward you, claws still flexing, eyes glowing red in the half-light, and you feel the charge in the air shift, thick and electric.
“I—you’re insane,” he rasps, voice rough, thick with need. “But… holy shit, I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”
You don’t wait for him to speak again. Your hands are on him, tracing the slick streaks of blood across his clothed chest, down his ribs, and even along the edge of one claw.
He gasps at your touch, low and rough, but he doesn’t pull away—not when your fingers curl around the hard line of his forearm, not when you drag your nails lightly across the wet, cold skin of his claws.
“You’re—so fuckin’ hot,” you murmur, voice trembling with need. “All of you. Every sharp, bloody part of you.”
He groans, a sound thick and primal, pressing himself closer until the heat of his body smashes against yours. “You’re insane,” he rasps, fangs flashing as he bites his bottom lip to hold back a growl.
His hands find you, gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him. The claws flex, and the edges scrape lightly against your thighs, sending shivers up your spine. You shiver, not from fear, but from raw, aching arousal.
He leans down, teeth grazing your collarbone, and you arch into him, fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “D’you want me?” he growls, voice husky and dangerous. “You want me like I really am?”
“Yes,” you pant, pressing your mouth to his, tasting the metallic tang of blood. “I want all of you. Every damn part.”
That’s all it takes.
He bunches your nightgown up, dragging it over your hips until you’re fully exposed, and a low, hungry growl vibrates from his chest. His clawed fingers hover for a moment, flexing over your slick skin, and you shiver at the sharp, electric tease.
Slowly, he drags one claw along the wet, sensitive folds between your thighs, teasing the delicate edges with a scratch that makes you gasp and arch into him.
He leans down, fangs glinting in the dim light, and traces the other claw along your inner thigh, spreading you slickly for him. Each motion is careful but raw, leaving faint red lines on your skin that throb deliciously under his touch.
“You’re so… wet,” he murmurs, claws dragging lightly over your heat, teasing you. His eyes are dark, red, feral, and impossibly focused, drinking in every shiver and gasp he elicits. “So ready for me.”
He leans in closer, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, letting the vibrations of his growl roll over you as he drags his claws slowly in and out, prepping you.
Your thighs twitch, hips rising into the scraping edges, slickness slicking down over his long claws.
Every sharp stroke makes your body coil tighter around him, breath hitching, chest heaving, nipples hardening.
Finally, he withdraws his claws, leaving you spread and dripping, your skin flushed from the rough, intimate teasing.
He frees himself, long and thick, and the instant you see him fully, your breath catches. He’s bigger—far bigger than the human form you’ve been used to. The veins along his length stand out under the dim light, and your eyes widen at the sheer scale of him. The slick sheen of him gleams, glistening with his own arousal and a trace of the blood smeared across his skin.
“God…” you murmur, your fingers curling into the sheets. Your chest hitches, heat pooling between your thighs. You’ve felt him before, intimately, but never like this—not this long, thick,and raw. The claws, the fangs, the red eyes—they all make him more dangerous, more feral—but it’s that sheer size, the way he stretches out before you, that leaves your body trembling.
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to yours, and he catches the sharp inhale you can’t hide. His sharp, jagged grin twists, a little shaky, still laced with panic. “I—I shouldn’t—,” he rasps, voice rough, teeth catching on his lower lip.
“I want it,” you whisper, heat thick in your throat,
He huffs a short, shocked laugh, a little uneven and trembling, before positioning himself. Every inch of him feels impossibly large against your slick, ready body.
Your thighs part instinctively, hips rising as your hands clutch at his shoulders, tracing the tense, corded muscles that hum with power and raw need.
He presses himself fully against you, letting you feel every inch before he moves. The weight of him is impossible, hot and heavy.
Your hands clutch at his shoulders, digging in as he groans low, claws flexing against the sheets but holding back, restrained. His jaw is set, teeth glinting in the dim light, eyes dark and red as he watches every flicker of your expression.
Then he moves. Just the tip slides in at first, slow, deliberate, testing, and your breath hitches as the fullness presses against your tight walls. He stays there, letting you adjust, his chest hovering over yours, claws keeping gentle tension on the sheets beside you.
“You feel…” he rasps, voice rough but measured, a low growl curling through it, “so… so tight for me.”
You moan, hips tilting, taking him in inch by inch. Every slow thrust sends a shiver up your spine, and your hands roam over his shoulders, memorizing the heat and strength of him.
His restraint makes it almost worse—the fact that he’s holding back, letting you acclimate, every movement measured, as if he could explode at any second.
He slides in another inch. Each measured thrust presses him deeper, stretching you, filling you completely, and you cry out softly, fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
His fangs catch on his lip again, jaw tight, growling softly, claws still flexing against the sheets, holding himself steady. Every pulse, every inch of movement presses his size against you, and the restraint in him makes your body coil tighter around him.
After a few slow thrusts, he begins to move more, just a fraction faster, watching your reactions, listening to the wet, slick sounds of your bodies together. Each inch presses deeper, every pulse of him stretching you, filling you completely.
He groans low, claws flexing against the sheets for leverage, restraint still humming under the surface, and your name comes out in a rough rasp. “So… fucking… perfect,” he growls, letting the pace pick up, but never losing control.
You writhe beneath him, arching your back, pressing into his chest as he buries himself deeper with each stroke. “You feel… so good,” he pants, teeth grazing your collarbone, jaw tense, eyes dark and red. “So… good… all for me.”
He leans over you, fangs glinting as he huffs, groans rolling from his throat like a low, hot rumble, and you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.
The pace builds gradually, slow at first, then with more force, each movement filthy. Your slick coats him, the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together growing louder, more urgent, the room alive with your joined moans. Every thrust presses him fully inside you, his size stretching you, filling you, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively to meet him.
He pauses for only a second, letting you cling to him, chest pressing against yours, before sliding back in again, faster, harder, letting the slick, wet sound of your bodies grinding together fill the room.
“Fuck… you’re mine,” he rasps, voice rough and low.
He doesn’t hold back anymore. Every thrust drives him deeper, each wet slide pushing the thick, veined length of him so that the head kisses your cervix, stretching you deliciously, drawing sharp, gasping moans from your throat.
The restraint is gone; every movement is raw, filthy, and unrelenting. The blood smeared across his skin mingles with your slick, the scent of iron and sex thick in the air, making your head spin with need.
“… you feel so good…” he repeats, fangs catching his lower lip as he hammers into you, each thrust deeper than the last.
Your hips roll up to meet him, desperate to take all of him, to feel the full scale of his monstrous form inside you. “God… yes… oh—” you cry, voice ragged, shaking, as he buries himself fully, pulsing into you with each rough, urgent stroke.
He leans over you, teeth grazing your collarbone, growling low, the hot, guttural sound vibrating through both of you. His thrusts are messy, relentless, pushing slick and thick, pounding into you with abandon.
The wet, filthy rhythm builds, your moans and his low growls echoing off the walls, every inch of him fucking you senseless.
Your walls clench around him, squeezing him, making him groan, fangs glinting, eyes red and blazing with need.
He grabs your hips, holding you steady as he fucks you harder, faster.
You cry out, slick coating both of you, the room alive with your joined gasps.
“… I’m… going to…” he rasps, voice broken, claws digging into your hips, teeth bared in a feral, raw expression of need, “so close…”
Your body shudders violently around him, slick and trembling, and the first tremors of your orgasm hit as he drives into you. The unrestrained rhythm doesn’t stop, pushing you both higher, your moans ragged, wet, and desperate as the climax coils tighter and tighter in your core.
He leans down closer, fangs grazing your shoulder, breathing hot and ragged, eyes blazing red as he grinds into you. Then, he shifts slightly, one clawed thumb brushing over your slick folds until it circles your clit with slow pressure.
Your back arches, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your body seizes around him.
The sensation is electric, every nerve ending screaming, every slick press of him inside amplified by the claw dragging across your most sensitive spot.
You cry out, hips bucking involuntarily as he maintains his thrusts, matching the rhythm of your tightening walls.
Your body clenches, spasming around him, and the tightening of your walls drags him down with you, each thrust deepening in tandem with your orgasm.
He groans, low and feral, teeth catching his lip, eyes wild, as he rides the tremors of your climax.
Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, moans tearing past your lips, and he continues to thrust.
“Fuck…fuck…” he rasps, voice broken as he buries himself deeper, sliding past the edge of restraint.
With a final, shuddering push, he fills you completely, groaning your name, chest heaving, letting his release wash through him.
The sensation of your walls clamping down, dragging him with you, makes it all the more explosive, every nerve ending igniting as he comes with a shuddering growl.
Slowly, he begins to soften inside you, heavy, hot, and spent. His chest presses against yours, breaths coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Claws still flexed against your hips, he collapses fully on top of you, weight settling over you like heat and power and intimacy combined.
You feel the rise and fall of his chest, hear the rasp of his breath, smell the iron-tinged mix of blood and sex, and your own body trembles from the aftermath, slick still glistening and heart racing.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, eyes red but softer now, amber light mingling with the feral glow as he murmurs against your skin, voice husky and low.
“You… you feel… so perfect,” he whispers, one clawed hand brushing over your hip, keeping you close. “I… I’ve never… never wanted anyone like this.”
You let out a shaky laugh, leaning into him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press your lips to his. You let your fingers trail through his hair, tugging lightly at the dark strands, brushing them back from his sweat-slicked forehead. He hums low in response, a guttural, satisfied sound that makes your pulse spike all over again.
“You’re… incredible,” you murmur, voice husky, lips brushing over the curve of his shoulder. “So… so fuckin’ perfect…”
He groans softly, teeth grazing his lip. “And you…” he rasps, voice rough, low and raw. “You take me so well… feels… so good… I could lose myself in you forever.”
You let out a shaky laugh, tugging him a little closer, feeling the slick of him against your body. “I want that,” you whisper, fingertips tracing over his spine, over the slick sheen of blood and sweat. “I want you like this… always like this.”
His fangs catch on his lip again, and his red eyes soften just slightly, though that dangerous gleam lingers. “I’m yours… all of me… every filthy, messy inch,” he growls, breath hot against your ear.
You nuzzle into him, your bodies tangled together in warmth and sticky intimacy. “Mine,” you murmur. “And I love it… all of it.”
A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Baelor Targaryen x niece!reader x Prince Maekar Targaryen
Rating: Mature (MDNI)
WC: 4.8k
AKOTSK Masterlist
Tags/Warnings: Targcest, canon divergence, adjusted timeline, polyamory, threesome, double penetration, oral, cum eating, cum sharing, biting, Aerion is a jerk, reader is the daughter of Aerys and Aelinor, no use of y/n, reader is mentioned to resemble Naerys, but her appearance isn't described in detail, no beta we die like Beesbury
A/n: For a request sent to me by @clumsycopy, who requested Baelor x Maekar x niece, where she claims a dragon in Dorne. Comments, reblogs, and likes are always appreciated. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in any future works. Translation for "Hāros Bartossi" comes from here
Summary: Despite being the first born grandchild of King Daeron II, you are the only one in the family left without a dragon. Having had enough of Aerion's relentless teasing, your Uncles accompany you to Dorne for respite, and there you find your mount.
Jealousy danced on your tongue, tasting thick as bitter tea leaves. Dragons circled the sky in flashes of red, blue, green, and gold. The reign of Queen Rhaenyra brought many dragons under her yoke, evoking memories of Old Valyria, and her lineage continued the legacy. She ensured her descendants understood the responsibility that fell before them. Dragons were a power to be used wisely and with great discretion. She valued the opinions of the dragon keepers, who understood the creatures even more than their riders did. They held revered positions and worked closely with the royal household to preserve the mystical beasts, ensuring they flourished.
Tears burned your eyes, fingers slowly curling into fists before you tore yourself away from the happy scene playing out in the cerulean and cream skies. You walked over the red and black chest that sat by the foot of your bed, opening the latch and lifting the shimmering purple egg swirled with silver and pink into your arms, cuddling it close. It was the egg your Uncle Baelor had placed in your cradle. The one that never hatched. The only Targaryen without a dragon. Even your studious father had bonded with the elusive Grey-Ghost, the two shy beings finding companionship with one another.
A knock sounded at your door, and you quickly wiped your tears away before the guard announced your Uncle's presence, granting him entry. Baelor frowned when he saw you cradling your egg, tears rolling down your cheeks.
"I came to see if you'd like to ride with me on Vermithor," he said softly, walking over and pulling you into his warm embrace. Your Uncles were always kind enough to offer their dragons, their saddles big enough for two. Vhagar remained the largest left, but she had made a home in Pentos, living out the rest of her days in peace.
"That is kind of you, Uncle," you whispered, tucking your egg between you.
"We will find you one yet," he assured you. "The keepers say Silverwing has been spotted over the Gullet. Perhaps with her return, you will at last have one.
"Mayhaps." But you did not wish to get your hopes up.
"Come, sweet girl, ride with me. I'm certain it will lift your mood," Baelor whispered, kissing your temple.
"Allow me a moment to change," you smiled.
You were left to your thoughts as your ladies helped you into your riding leathers, egg tucked safely back into your chest. It felt unfair that, as the eldest grandchild, you were the one left without a dragon. One should be yours by rights. How is it that Aerion could claim one, yet they avoided you as if you were a plague? You pushed the tears down and went to join your Uncle, your hand pressed tightly in his. How you loved him. How you loved Maekar.
The Bronze Fury waited in the courtyard, and immediately, you felt in a better mood. While he was not yours, you had spent much time on his back with Baelor. Almost as much time as you had with Maekar and Meleys. You had a soft spot for the Red Queen. Vermithor snorted, letting your gloved palm rest against his muzzle before you climbed the leather netting up his body to slip into the saddle. Baelor joined, sitting behind you with one arm around your waist and the other on the reins. His breath was warm against your neck, nose nuzzling your soft flesh before stealing a kiss. A roguish gesture; one you expected from Maekar, but you enjoyed it when that side of Baelor came out to play.
"Uncle," you gasped against his mouth, though you knew that while high up on Vermithor's back, none were likely to see.
"I have half a mind to chase them all from Dragonstone so it can be you and I alone there," he whispered in your ear, hand spanning across your belly.
"Even Maekar?"
"I suppose he may stay, but I do enjoy having you to myself at times," he admitted. He was not immune to jealousy.
"Both of you make me happy. I do not think I could choose between you." Your father was kind enough, but it was Baelor who placed the egg in your cradle, and it was Maekar who took you for your first ride. They nurtured this need growing inside you, more than your father did. They filled a void.
"Luckily, we would never make you." He drew another sweet kiss from your lips before taking to the skies on Vermithor. "Sōvēs, Vermitos!"
A crimson slash cut through the clouds as Vermithor approached Dragonstone, and you grinned as Meleys swooped down, the two dragons flying side by side until they landed on the bridge. You climbed down Vermithor and ran into Maekar's arms. Meleys spread her red wings, offering a shield as you kissed him.
"Crying again?" Maekar said, studying your wet eyes and puffy face before smoothing his leather-clad fingers over the remaining tear tracks and wiping them away. "Girl, you must move on from that damned egg. We'll find you a dragon."
"Baelor says Silverwing has been spotted."
"If she makes home in the mount, we'll have her brought to you."
"Thank you."
You held onto their arms while entering the castle, vibrant with the family's energy. Once a month, everyone rode their dragons to the Dragonstone and supped together in a grand feast. Aelora, Daella, and Rhae twirled around the great hall as the musicians practiced and Aemon and Aegon chased each other with wooden swords. Daeron huddled in a corner with Aelor, each sipping on wine, while Aerion sat in a chair, leg thrown over one of the golden arms, using his dagger to cut into a green apple. Matarys walked with Myriah, your grandmother, who was bathed in bright orange silks and held onto his arm. Valarr stood with your grandfather and father, no doubt, discussing history together. Alys rested on a bench, belly swollen with a third child, while Rhaegel fed her grapes.
"Oh, darling, you're here," your mother smiled, rushing over to greet you. While your father's love was dim, your mother's shone through like the brightest star in the sky. You were the one thing she had desired above all else. A precious child to call her own. Her only one. The Gods had blessed her with the first royal grandchild, but none after that. Perhaps that is why she understood your yearning for a dragon more than Aerys did.
"I promised to deliver her safe and sound, Aelinor," Baelor smiled, passing you into your mother's arms. It felt a bit foolish considering you were a young woman of twenty, but you still craved the fuss she made over you. Her gaze lingered on Baelor a bit longer, and you wondered if perhaps she knew. She had always been observant. Yet she made no move to pull you away from your Uncles. When the time came, she knew one of them would do the honorable thing and take you to wife. But which would it be? Only time would tell.
"My darling girl, I've heard Silverwing has been spotted. Mayhaps your time is coming," King Daeron smiled, leaning on his cane and holding his hand out toward you.
"I am hopeful," you said, taking his hand and squeezing it. You heard Aerion scoff. For some reason, he took pride in teasing you over not having a dragon.
"Some of us are late bloomers," your grandfather assured you.
You went to greet your grandmother, kissing her cheek before venturing further down towards the mount, sitting on the edge of the gantry and letting your legs dangle over the stone lip. It was warm and misty, smelling of smoke and burnt meat. You could hear the dragons moving through, claws digging into rocks, and the slither of their bellies. Moondancer ventured closer, leaning her head down to sniff you.
"Rytas, Hūrlilios," you greeted her, extending your bare palm. She grazed her massive head against it before slithering back into the mont.
You basked in the warmth the space provided, enjoying the music of the dragons with their lilting chortles and deep brays. You closed your eyes, singing the lullaby you knew by heart,
"Drakari pykiros. Tīkummo jemiros. Yn lantyz bartossa. Saelot vāedis. (Fire breather. Winged leader
But two heads. To a third sing.)
You looked out into a sea of glowing eyes as they gathered around you in a thunder, listening to the song. If only you had one of your own to sing to, to call forth and bound with. You stood and made your way to your guest's chambers to change and get ready for dinner. Golden silk and jewelry adorned your frame, choosing a warmer color in honor of your grandmother's house. It often felt luxurious and otherworldly to be at Dragonstone, and you wished to express that through your dress. It seemed other members of the family had picked up on this as well, a sea of color scattered around the long table. Your grandfather looked rather dashing in his blue silks, emulating the color of his beloved Dreamfyre. You took a seat next to your mother and cousin, Aelora.
"Morghul loves your singing," she whispered to you, an almost dreamy look in her indigo eyes.
"All the dragons do, it comforts them," Baelor smiled before lifting the golden cup to his lips.
Aerion pierced a bloody piece of venison with his knife, shoving it into his mouth as his gaze settled on you. How you wished another had stolen his attention tonight.
"Caraxes couldn't care less about your pretty voice," he hummed. "He'd rather be hunting down a pig."
"One that resembles his rider no doubt," you murmured under your breath, and noticed Baelor's lips quirk briefly with amusement before he gave you an admonishing stare.
"Boy," Maekar warned, anger flashing in his violet eyes.
"There must be something off with you. All of us have laid claim to a dragon," Aerion said. Picking on you seemed to be his favorite pastime.
"Aerion," Myriah scolded, and your mother placed a gentle hand on your shoulder.
"Young man, this is not the place for such childish taunts. Leave your cousin be," King Daeron chided.
"A pity too. Even our dear great-grandmother flew on the back of Silverwing. They say you look like her. 'Tis a shame, your blood must be too diluted," he sneered, managing to insult you and your mother in the process.
Gentle, jovial Uncle Rhaegel bounced to his feet, balling his hands into fists. Your grandmother placed a gentle hand on his arm as the sound of forks clattering against plates clanged through the room.
"Do not fret, my darling," Myriah told him soothingly, and he sank back into his chair, next to Alys. He was rather protective of your grandmother, and many taunts swirled around her Dornish appearance; he would not stand for it. She gave Maekar a pointed look.
Maekar smacked the back of Aerion's head so hard that a sudden silence fell through the hall. Your grandfather did not subscribe to the belief in Valyrian blood purity; the proof was in his own children and grandchildren. It was a sharp, cruel jab that Aerion took, and he meant it with every bit of venom. It was foolhardy as he backhandedly insulted himself in the process. His mother had been of Dornish stock, and he was no more Targaryen than you. Baelor's head dropped, face red with embarrassment from Aerion's words. It seemed all felt shame except for your wretch of a cousin. Your chair scraped agaisnt the floor before you fled the hall, no longer possessing an appetite.
The handmaidens were finishing preparing the bath you requested after dinner, surprised to see you so soon. You thanked them, then dismissed them, wishing to stew in silence. However, you were not surprised to find Baelor and Maekar entering your rooms mere moments later. Baelor moved behind the tub, gently washing your back as Maekar paced the room.
"I do not know when that boy became such a vicious creature," he seethed.
You and Baelor stayed silent, knowing full well this was how Aerion coped with Dyanna's death. The heart of that family was gone, and damage was dealt in various forms, lingering behind like deep scars. Baelor had slipped into melancholy after Jena's death, finding strength in his sons and you. Everyone dealt with tragedy differently.
"One would think I'd be used to it by now, but it still stings," you admitted.
"You are no less Targaryen for not having a dragon," Maekar said gruffier than he meant to.
"I know," you sighed. "But that self doubt lingers. Why am I the only one? Even my father, with his nose stuck in books, bonded with one."
"I think you need to get away from King's Landing for a bit. We should send you to Dorne, you might find peace there and be away from the family," Baelor reasoned.
"I do not wish to be separated from either of you," you whispered.
"I can find an excuse to join you. Brother?" Baelor responded.
"I could take the children to Starfell to visit with Dyanna's relatives, then join you in Sunspear," Maekar said, perching on the edge of the tub before dipping his hand into the warm water to squeeze your calf.
"I would like that very much," you smiled.
"You may not have a dragon, sweet girl, but you have managed to capture two powerful princes," Baelor hummed.
"Yet I can hardly brag about that feat," you chuckled.
Their lips were warm on yours after the bath, stroking your flushed, damp skin with eager fingers slipping between your thighs, guiding you into the blissful throes of pleasure. You were in a floaty stage of peaceful slumber when you heard the soft voices bickering outside the door. Grabbing the chamberstick, you ventured toward your doors and pulled them open, finding Maekar's younger children standing there.
"It is late," you told them flatly.
"Silverwing has returned!" Egg told you excitedly.
"We were going to see her," Rhae smiled.
"By yourselves? That is dangerous!"
"That is why we came to get you," Egg reasoned, and you noticed Aelora swaying in the shadows. The twins had been longtime companions of yours while you were growing up in the Keep.
"Aelora came just in case," Aemon explained.
"Please, cousin, she is pretty, and she might be yours!" Daella whispered.
"Alright, let us go," you sighed, taking hold of Aelora's hand. She was only four years younger than you, and her gossamer robe billowed around her. She was sweet and kind, but in no such mindset to protect the children if they were attacked or harmed. You handed Daella your chamberstick and lifted one of the torches into your hand. The amber glow flickered over the rocks and magma until a flash of silver caught your eye.
"Naejot māzīs, Gēliotīkun," you called to her.
She merely blinked her blue eyes in response; they shone through like sparkling sapphires in the dim light.
"Sing to her," Rhae whispered, tugging on the sleeve of your robe.
"Hen ñuhā elēnī: Perzyssy vestretis. Se gēlȳn irūdak. Ānogrose (From my voice: The fires have spoken.
And the price has been paid with blood magic.) You continued the song from earlier.
She crawled closer, warmth seeping from her silvery scales. Her breath was hot against your cheeks; meanwhile, you held your own as she crept closer. Her muzzle hovered mere inches from your face. Hope flooded your chest as you reached your hand toward her. You could almost taste the magic in the air. It was all dashed away when she snarled, snapping her large jaw before crawling away into the dark confines of the caves. Anger and disappointment swirled through your body.
"I…I'm sorry, we all thought she might choose you," Aemon said softly, squeezing your hand.
You gave him a little smile. "It is alright, but I wish to go back to bed."
You and Aelora saw the little ones back to their beds, and she kissed your cheek just outside your rooms. "It is not the mother you seek, but the daughter. You will find her in the sand," she whispered in your ear before twirling her way back to her quarters. Exhaustion clung to the corners of your mind, too tired to try and find the meaning of her words.
After seeing your cousins settled in Starfall, you departed with your Uncles for Dorne. You flew with Maekar on Meleys, your arms wrapped around his waist, and your cheek pressed against his shoulder.
"Tymās, Mēlī!" he bellowed out. The Red Queen spun through the air, making your belly lurch and tighten when she turned upside down. Laughter chimed through the air as you clung to him.
Dorne proved the perfect respite, full of warmth, delicious food, intricate fashions, and interesting people. It was a good distraction for your mind, and while your Uncles had their dragons for people to fawn over, you slowly came to terms with being dragonless and accepting that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
What was the saying? Things happen when you least expect them.
Your great-aunt Daenerys arranged for you and your Uncles to enjoy the Water Gardens by the Summer Sea. The turquoise waters were healing, and you enjoyed the sound of them crashing against the cliffs.
"I fear I do not wish to return to King's Landing," you smiled, head resting in Baelor's lap. He wore cream and gold silks in the Dornish fashion, his dark chest hair laced with gray on display. You lie topless, soaking up the warm sun.
"It is rather freeing here," Baelor commented, massaging your scalp.
Maekar sat in the shade of a red silk parasol, a cup of strong wine in hand, clad in green silk. The hot sun proved a bit intense for his skin. You suspected it was refreshing for him to have a break from his six children. He was half asleep, and you didn't have the heart to wake him. You stood, wading into the water and letting the silk fall away from your body. Baelor nudged Maekar awake, and soon your Uncles joined you in the water, their hands all over your bare body.
Maekar's mouth wrapped around a nipple while Baelor's cock nudged between your thighs. You paid no mind to the sun's dimming overhead; Vermithor and Meleys lingered nearby, and their wingspans were wide enough to cast a shadow over it. Besides, you were too lost in the full feeling of your Uncles stretching you wide with their cocks, legs wrapped around Maekar's thick waist. Baelor's furry chest tickled your slick back, his large hands supporting your arse. It wasn't until you heard the soft, familiar chortle of a melody you knew by heart that you cast your gaze up toward the sky.
Your finger's tangled in Maekar's white hair, Baelor's mouth hot on your neck, then your shoulder. You were so close, but you couldn't pull your gaze from the dragon looming overhead. The dragon that was neither Vermithor nor Meleys. The dragon that was mimicking the lullaby. You clung to Maekar, reaching a hand behind you to squeeze Baelor's hip as a sweet release washed over you as the shimmering sea lapped at your uncles' ankles.
"I…I have to go to her," you whimpered.
"What?" Maekar huffed against the swells of your breasts, teeth grazing over your delicate flesh.
"Look up," you whispered, tugging on his hair to lift his gaze, then nudged Baelor's chest with your elbow.
Their gazes turned to the sky and saw the dragon overhead, her body blending in almost seamlessly with the sky, but you could see the delicate, pale pink membranes.
"Seven Hells," Baelor whispered against your neck, carefully withdrawing his cock, his seed leaking down your thighs. "Maekar, put her down."
Maekar grumbled, but did so. You waded farther into the sea, washing between your thighs before making your way up the golden sands. The dragon began to swoop lower just as you finished drying off and draping the green silk around you. She was smaller than your Uncles' dragons, closer in size to Egg's Stormcloud. She crawled toward you using her back feet, chortling the song once more.
"Perzyro udrȳssi. Ezīmptos laehossi. Hārossa letagon. Aōt vāedan (With words of flame. With clear eyes to bind the three. To you I sing.) She brayed as you sang, moving until she stood in front of you and gently nudged your chest with her periwinkle muzzle. You gently grasped her warm maw, smoothing your thumbs down the concave of her snout. "Hae mērot gierūli:
Se hāros bartossi. Prūmȳsa sōvīli. Gevī dāerī (As one we gather: And with three heads. We shall fly as we were destined. Beautifully, freely.) Her lilting chortle matched your pitch, and you finished the song together.
"Rytas, I have been waiting for you," you smiled. Aelora's words played through your mind once again. You knew Silverwing made home in Dorne from time to time and most likely laid a clutch or two. This must be one of her hatchlings. Upon closer inspection, you could see silvery scales intermingled with the pale periwinkle ones. Her muzzle bumped your cheek before she lowered her long, elegant neck and stretched out a wing, tipping it toward you.
Mayhaps it was a bit foolish to climb onto her in silks and bare feet, her scales hot against your skin and the spikes rough against your palms, but you pushed through the pain until you were on her back. You had come too far to let yourself be deterred. Once you were settled, she lifted into the air and flew around the perimeter of the Summer Sea. Baelor and Maekar looked like mere specks on the sand beneath. After a few laps, she descended onto the beach once again, and you slipped down her wing, rushing into your uncles' outstretched arms, letting them hug you between their sun-warmed bodies.
"Well done, sweet girl," Baelor whispered, kissing your temple before lifting your palms to inspect the sore skin from gripping the dragon's spikes.
"Without a saddle, most impressive," Maekar murmured, nuzzling the spot just below your ear. "But hardly surprising, it is in your veins."
"We should have a feast tonight at Sunspear to celebrate," you beamed.
"I could think of a better way," Maekar smirked, his hand curling around your hip.
You had to admit that claiming a dragon had gotten your blood pumping, so you let them ravage you once more, after returning to the Water Gardens. You wished to be splayed over cushions instead of the sand.
"She needs a name," Baelor murmured, stroking your back as you rested against his chest. Maekar's head rested between the curve of your arse and thigh, his teeth marks embedded in the tender skin.
"Vāedra, a play on the word for song," you smiled, reaching down to stroke Maekar's hair.
"Very beautiful," Baelor said.
You celebrated again with your Uncles late into the night. Dornish sour rolling down your breasts in ruby rivulets, gathering and splashing onto their eager tongues. Baelor held your thighs back, pink scrapes marring them from climbing Vāedra earlier, while Maekar's cock sank deep inside, so deep that your legs turned to jelly in Baelor's hands. Maekar's thick, pearly seed seeped from your swollen cunt, his flushed mouth and skilled tongue lapping and suckling it down. The two switched positions, Baelor fucking your tender cunt next, sinking just as deep as Maekar's had, making you mewl and whimper. But you were helpless under Maekar's strong grasp, knees nearly bent to your shoulders. Baelor's seed filled you, thick, dripping, and strong.
Once you regained your strength and your limbs felt slightly more solid, you took turns pleasuring their cocks. Your Uncles stretched on the bed, side by side, as your mouth alternated sliding over their velvety, stiff shafts, feeling their veins pulse against your tongue. Pearly seed filled your mouth, and you swallowed it down greedily, like a famished creature. Opalescent remnants clung to the corners of your lips, which your Uncles kissed away.
"Our dragon princess," Baelor smiled, massaging your legs to help you fully regain feeling in them.
Maekar stood, naked, on the balcony, glancing up at the moonlit sky as he drained a cup of red wine. The three dragons circled close to the beaming, silvery moon.
"Is it wrong that I yearn to see the sour look on Aerion's face when we return to the city?" you smiled.
Maekar scoffed. "He has been relentless in his teasing. You deserve to gloat."
"I would say it is well earned," Baelor hummed, usually one to take the high road, but he had hated Aerion's harshness toward you.
"The children depart tomorrow, so they'll arrive at the Red Keep before we do. We'll keep it tight-lipped until then," Maekar said, returned to the bed with you and Baelor.
"I will cherish the few days we have left here. It's like being in a private paradise."
"Mmm, but we must face reality sooner than we would like," Baelor said, smiling as he kissed your fingertips while Maekar tucked his long, warm body against your back.
Outside the palace, the dragon mimicked a similar position on the beach; the three wrapped around one another.
Luckily, you had your riding leathers with you, which made for a more comfortable flight back to King's Landing. Maekar had helped braid your hair that morning. Vāedra would be fitted for a saddle and reins by the keepers, but you had found an agreeable enough position on her back, and your gloves made it easier to grip her spikes. She seemed to sense all this, keeping her flight smooth and easy. She landed in the courtyard of the Red Keep, shaking the ground and letting out a loud bray before you slipped down her wing, tugging your gloves off with your teeth.
"Well done! I knew you would find your mount," your grandfather chuckled, and you rushed into his arms to hug him.
Happy tears shone in your mother's eyes before she tenderly embraced you. "Well done, my darling."
"What say you now, cousin?" Matarys teased Aerion before clapping you on the back.
Aerion scowled, face red as the Targaryen sigil, before storming off.
Aelora kissed your cheek. "The daughter is found." Her words were not lost on you this time.
Your younger cousins gathered around, eager to meet your dragon. You introduced each one to Vāedra, letting her get used to their scent and touch.
"Oh, she's so pretty," Rhae beamed.
"She is," you agreed.
You glanced over your shoulder, watching Baelor and Maekar walk off with your grandparents and parents. It gave your belly a nervous twist, but you agreed to let your Uncles handle that matter. Part of you wished to be Maekar's wife only because you had no desire to be queen one day, but you would happily accept either as your husband. However, you couldn't bear the thought of Baelor taking a second wife and losing him. You shook such thoughts from your head and stroked Vāedra's neck. You only hoped the decision would not be left to you. How could you choose between the men you loved?
In the end, you received what you wished. Your grandparents and parents agreed to marry you to Maekar. Just in time, it seemed. Vāedra had woken you early three days after the betrothal announcement to fly you around Dragonstone before venturing into a cave to show you the clutch she had lain. Her proud bray made your eyes water. Then your eyes widened as you pressed a hand to your stomach after her muzzle gently pressed there.
"Oh, fuck," you whispered before laughing softly and nuzzling the scarly space between her eyes.
You returned to the Keep, summoned your Uncles to your chambers in the Holdfast, and told them the news.
"Are you certain?" Baelor asked, pressing his hand agaisnt your stomach.
"I would need a maester or midwife to confirm, but one who is discreet," you replied.
"You do not wish for moon tea?" Maekar asked curiously.
"If we are wed within two months, it will be of no concern," you reasoned.
"I will find a discreet midwife then, I only trust the maesters so much," Baelor said before kissing you.
Maekar walked over and captured your mouth after Baelor finished. "One more mouth for me to feed," he teased you.
"We could kick Aerion out, then it would even out," you said cheekily.
"The babe will be well loved and well cared for," Baelor smiled.
"Indeed," Maekar agreed, and you snuggled between them.
It seemed the Targaryen line would never lack for dragons nor descendants.
