in which gojo satoru gets bullied onto hinge for being a virgin, girlfriend-less freak and quickly discovers he only has game when he catfishes as "toru", a humble, matcha-loving, wired earphone-wearing, suspiciously faceless man. unfortunately, his plans of being a normal boyfriend to a normal girlfriend shatters when he matches with you, a certified maneater who is determined to unmask his hinge persona by whatever means possible aka a lighthearted jjk smau !!
pairing: gojo x fem!reader
contents: social media au (smau), fluff + crack, strangers to enemies (?) to lovers, profanities, dark humour, sexual jokes, jokes about death/suicide (kys, kms etc), very stupid jokes (don’t take them too seriously !!), ignore timestamps, will contain references/spoilers to jjk manga, characters will be very ooc, all characters are in college
this time i will actually complete the smau and not leaving it hanging #real . upload schedule will be every 1-3 days . please comment to be added to the taglist :3
cw: explicit, creampie, fucking your boyfriend’s best friend.
You’re straddling Sukuna on his oversized couch, riding his thick cock balls-deep inside you as you ride him. His large hands grip your ass, guiding you up and down his massive length while your tits bounce with every roll of your hips. Sukuna’s tattoos flex as he leans back, crimson eyes locked on your bouncing tits and the fucked out look on you.
“Shit—you’re tight as hell,” he growls, thrusting up to meet you. You were both definitely burning in hell for this because…
your phone suddenly vibrates on the cushion beside you. The screen flashes Toji<3. Your boyfriend. And the cock you were currently fucking youself on? Your boyfriend's best friends’.
Stupid ass reflex takes over as you snatch it up and answer before you realize what you’ve done. “H-hey,” you say, voice shaky and far too breathy.
Sukuna’s eyes snap wide open as his hands freeze on your hips, cock twitching violently inside you. A rare flush creeps up his neck and cheeks as he stares at you in pure disbelief. He mouths “Are you fucking stupid?” but his hips give a small, involuntary buck upward, pushing his cock deeper.
Toji’s deep, gruff voice comes through the line. “Hey, baby. You still over at Kuna’s? How’s it goin’?”
Sukuna looks genuinely flustered for once and tries to stay still, but his cock is throbbing so hard inside your soaked pussy that he can’t help but give another slow thrust. You bite your lip hard. “Y-yeah… we’re just hanging out. I—ah—miss you.”
“Good. Put that bastard on the phone for a sec. Wanna ask him somethin’.”
Your stomach drops as Ryomen looks so regretful he didn’t grab your phone before you did and above it all, he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he sits up slightly, wrapping one arm around your waist to hold you flush against him as he takes the phone. His cock stays buried deep inside your sopping pussy. Sukuna clears his throat, his voice strained, “What do you want, Fushiguro?”
Toji sounds casual as ever. “Just checkin’ in. You takin’ care of my girl? She eat yet? She gets hangry if you don’t feed her.” Sukuna’s grip on your ass tightens almost painfully as he starts fucking you again harder. You bury your face in his shoulder to muffle your whimper, pussy clenching hard around him.
“Yeah… she’s being well taken care of,” Sukuna says as he punctuates the words with a sharper thrust, making your breath hitch. “Real full right now.” He continues as he starts bouncing you on his cock with more force.
Toji laughs. “Good. Don’t let her walk all over you. She can be a handful. You two watching the fight highlights I told you about?” Sukuna’s breathing is getting ragged. He fucks you harder, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple while he holds the phone with the other. “Mmm… yeah. Intense shit,” he grunts, the last word rough as your walls flutter around his thick cock. “She’s really into it.”
You’re shaking, biting down on his shoulder to stay quiet, “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it,” Toji says eventually. “Tell her I’ll pick her up later. Thanks for keepin’ her company, man.”
“No problem,” Sukuna replies, teeth clenched as he slams you down onto his cock particularly hard. “Anytime.” The second you hang up, Sukuna tosses the phone aside and flips you onto your back in one rough motion. He looms over you, flushed and visibly pissed off at how turned on he is.
“You fucking idiot,” he snarls, sliding his cock through your wet slicked pussy from clit to teasing you with the tip. “Answering the damn phone while my cock’s inside you—”
You moan loud now that you can, nails raking down his back. “Couldn’t help it—fuck, Kuna—c’mon put it inside—”
His tattoos ripple across his chest and shoulders with every heavy breath, “You couldn’t help it?” he repeats, “Reflex, huh? Stupid fuckin’ reflex got my best friend’s voice in my ear while your pussy was creaming all over my cock.”
He slaps your pussy once with his cock before pushing in slow making you feel every thick girthy part of him. He pins your wrists above your head with one massive hand, leaning down so his mouth brushes your ear. “You almost got us caught, you really want that? Think Toji wants a video? Should we send him one, hm?”
He releases your wrists so he can grab your thighs, folding you nearly in half as he drives into you harder. You try to keep a straight voice but end up moaning your answer. “Oh don’t act so holier than thou, you—hnngh—manwhore. Fucking y-your best friends girlfriend? Best friend award of the century goes to—s-shit, right there, Ryo.”
He laughs as he folds you deeper, your knees nearly touching your shoulders. His massive body pins you down, cock spearing into you. “Manwhore?” He repeats mockingly, “Yeah? Says the slut who answered her boyfriend’s call with my dick stuffed inside her. Could’ve hung up. Could’ve ignored it. But no—you picked up like a good little girlfriend while your pussy was dripping down my balls.”
You cry out, “F-fuck—Ryo—!”, your small hands grabbing onto his muscles flexing as he uses you. He leans down, biting your neck hard enough to leave a mark before licking over it. “Toji’s gonna pick you up soon… and you’re gonna be limping, cunt swollen and full of my cum. Think he’ll notice?”
The dirty thought makes you clench violently around him. Sukuna groans, eyes rolling back for a second before he doubles down, pounding you hard. Sweat beads on his skin, his normally composed face twisted with pleasure. You nearly scream, pussy gushing around his thrusting cock as your whole body spasms while you cum. Sukuna doesn’t slow down, fucking you straight through it with wet thrusts until your eyes are watering. “Shit—yeah, you like that idea, don’t you?”
You try to look away from him, turning your head but he grips your chin forcing you to. “Oh-h, shut up, Ryo. Just-t fuck me harder,” you whimper, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners of your eyes.
He slams into you harder, faster, as your juices coat his shaft and drip down to his balls. Thick, hot spurts flood deep inside you, pulse after pulse until it’s leaking out around his cock.
He grinds deep through it, making sure every drop stays plugged inside you. He stays buried deep as you both pant, “Answering the phone with my dick balls-deep in you like it’s nothing. Reflex my ass. You wanted him to hear how well I’m taking care of this pussy.”
He finally pulls out with a wet sound before slapping your ass, “Now go clean up before your boyfriend shows up and I have to pretend I didn’t just rail his girl again.”
a/n: I NEED KUNAAAAA also I would so do this to get back at toji for doin something shitty hehe
jello! I'm REIGN ૮ ˙Ⱉ˙ ა rawr! 22 ⟢ she/her. here you'll find a community of the wettest, thirstiest REIGNDROPS in the JJK FANDOM. this blog contains 18+ content so tread carefully! and please read the RULES + FAQ before interacting. have a lovely time here and don’t hesitate to ask questions and become a familiar face!
MASTERLISTS
─ . ☘︎ SMAUS
─── ☘︎ PART I ⟢ PART II ⟢ SERIES
─ . ☘︎ WRITTEN WORKS
Requests: never opening so don't send me anything pls
Wanna write? ⟢ TUTORIALS
@novaimperia ⟢ AO3 ⟢ kofi? ⟢ side blog for perm response
Summary: You are in a poly marriage with Satoru and Suguru. Satoru has been away for a month and he missed his husband and wife.
CW: MDNI/ NSFW, threesome, married couple/ established relationship, poly, unprotected sex, breeding, m!recieving oral, f!receiving oral, spanking, a lil bit of degradation?, frotting, cockwarming, aftercare, top Suguru, bottom Satoru.
WC: 6.6k
╔═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
You were spent over an hour ago, but Satoru still kept going. Slamming into you so hard over and over; you had lost your voice from screaming and the sensation between your legs. Finally, his last orgasm ripped through him, shooting a final blank, he pulled out while sprinkling soft kisses down your back. The sudden emptiness was welcome, you were exhausted. He just took everything from you and then some, but you wanted every second of it.
As soon as he withdrew, you became dead weight and collapsed on the bed, gasping for air and trying desperately to catch your breath. Your legs and arms were numb from holding your weight up for so long, tingling like you’d been stuck by a thousand needles. Your pussy was pounded so hard, you doubt you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. Satoru wiped his forehead from the accumulated sweat and let out a satisfied sigh as he observed the mess he made of you.
Your right ass cheek was bright red with slightly broken skin where the center of his hand repeatedly spanked. Your hips had faint bruises decorating them from his lethal grip. Your neck and chest splattered with hickies. And finally, a distinct bite mark on your shoulder. From the first time he came so hard and your shoulder was the closest thing to his mouth.
Satoru stood up and away from the bed and enjoyed his masterpiece. The fucked out and marked up mess he made of you, while you laid there catching your breath.
Satoru walked to the bathroom to grab you a damp towel to clean up with. He sat on the edge of the bed facing you and motioned the towel toward you. You didn’t even have the energy to reach for the towel, you just shut your eyes, which meant “you do it, I’m too tired.” He let out a huffed laugh while he brought his forehead to yours, “I went pretty rough on you didn’t I, baby? Here, let me clean you up.” He slowly parted your legs at the knee and ran the damp cloth over your center. You winced in pain, even the sensation of the fabric against your swollen folds was too much.
He stopped for a moment, noticing your pain, “Just one more wipe and then I’m done.” By then, you were already falling asleep. Satoru leaned down to give you one more kiss and whisper, “I love you so much.” And then exhaustion took over and darkness swallowed you whole.
✦ ✦ ✦
Suguru walked through the front door finding Satoru laid out on the couch watching TV. Satoru’s head quickly swiveled around to find his husband standing in the foyer. Satoru smiled wide and waited for his husband to approach. Suguru let his bags fall to the ground and practically skipped over to Satoru. When their lips crashed together, so did their bodies. Satoru had been gone for over a month on a mission to Africa. This was the first time he had seen his husband and he was elated. Without any words being said yet, the kiss turned into a passionate make out that quickly had the two aroused. Their semi hard cocks were already rubbing together causing so much friction. Suguru was now in Satoru’s lap straddling him.
Suguru found the strength to break the kiss for a moment and ask, “Where’s y/n? Did she welcome you home yet?”
“Uhh yeah, she definitely did. You probably won’t be seeing her for the rest of the night, she’s sleeping it off.” Satoru leaned in to continue working kisses from Suguru’s neck to his cheek.
“Satoru, what did you do to our wife?” Suguru asked with lowered eyes.
“Nothing! I was just happy to see her after a month.”
Suguru rolled his eyes at Satoru and then lifted his chin to give him more access.
Suguru pushed off of Satoru and said, “I want to go say hi to her and ask if she wants to join before we start.”
As Suguru stood up and turned to the bedroom, Satoru sarcastically replied, “Good luck with that.”
Suguru entered your bedroom to find you fast asleep on your bed with a sheer blanket atop you. You were lying half on your side, half on your stomach, with your ass facing him. He quietly crept up to the bed and sat on the edge, careful to not move the mattress too much and disturb you. As he gazed at his sleeping wife, his palm was intimately grazing along the curve of your waist. Starting at your ass cheek and going up to your ribs. He could tell you were naked under the blanket. He lifted the blanket to look at you when his eyes blew wide open and his heart dropped. The marks left all over you scared him at first - was she attacked or hurt? - and then when realization set in - Satoru did this. He softly lowered the blanket back to you, gave a quick kiss to your temple and swiftly left the room.
As he quietly but hastily closed the bedroom door, he whirled to find Satoru. Who was sitting back on the couch, but this time in only his boxers. Suguru glared at Satoru until he caught his gaze. “I take it she didn’t want to join?” He scoffed out a laugh, “Come over here now, I missed you.” Suguru didn’t reply, he slowly made his way to Satoru with clipped and precise footsteps until he was standing over him.
“What did you do to her?” he said with lethal calm.
“She welcomed me home, what did it look like?”
“It looks like you attacked her!”
“Oh my god, I did not! I just got a little rough with her is all.”
“A little?!” Suguru was fuming now. He leaned down into Satoru’s face and stated, “That is our wife. You do not fuck her like she’s some whore. You fuck her like she’s your wife, with respect and care.”
“Suguru, do you think I don’t know that? I wanted to be rough and she let me. God, you should’ve heard how she was asking for i-”
Suguru’s hand flew to Satoru’s throat, cutting off his sentence. Lightly squeezing, mainly there to get his point across. “I don’t care if she was begging for it, you do not fuck our wife like that, okay? If you want it that rough, you come to me or wait until I’m around.”
Satoru's eyes fell heavy with desire as he replied, “And what would you do about it?”
Suguru grinned ear to ear after hearing Satoru’s question. With his hand still gripped around Satoru’s throat, he pulled him off the couch and switched their positions. Casually releasing his grip as he sat down. “Take my pants off, you’re going to find out.”
Saturo’s mouth went dry and he swallowed loud enough for Suguru to hear. Suguru laughed and tipped his head back on the couch, waiting for Satoru to move.
Satoru slowly undid his belt, unzipped his pants, and looped a finger in a belt loop on either side to pull his pants down. Suguru lifted his hips slightly off the couch, but not enough because he still wanted Satoru to do most of the work.
The rest of his pants were pulled down with a distinct yank, like Satoru knew what game Suguru was already playing. With his pants now around his ankles, his cock was almost
tearing through the fabric of his boxers. Satoru stared and waited for instructions, knowing exactly how this was going to go.
“Take it out,” Suguru peered down at Satoru and said it with a tone like it should be obvious what his next move is.
Satoru parted the fabric in the middle of his boxers and let Suguru’s cock out, already fully hard and leaking. Satoru took a deep breath and brought his mouth to it, locking eyes with Suguru. Suguru nodded his head to urge him to keep going. Once lips made contact with his leaking head, Suguru’s hips were bucking up and pushing himself half way into Saturo’s mouth. Satoru recoiled back at the surprising amount of cock that was thrusted into his mouth.
“Give me a second, okay? It’s been a month.” Satoru said with a scoff.
“Did you give y/n a second?” Suguru’s face grew serious as he asked the question.
Satoru knew no response was needed, he was going to be punished for fucking you like a whore and at the hands of his husband.
Instead of arguing, Satoru brought his mouth back to Suguru’s cock. He took him in with more speed this time, but before he knew it, Suguru had both of his hands sprawled on the top of Satoru’s head and forced him down all the way on his cock. It was so fast, the gag response made his stomach flip. Suguru held him down with his entire cock fully enveloped in Satoru’s mouth.
“Remember, breathe through your nose.” He said as he grabbed a handful of Satoru’s silver locks and began to move his head up and down on his cock. He could feel himself activating Satoru’s gag reflex with every jolt down on his length. Satoru couldn’t breathe, he was trying to breathe through his nose but his entire airway felt full with Suguru’s cock.
Not only was Suguru forcibly bringing Satoru’s head up and down off his cock, but he was also thrusting his hips up into it.
A long, blissful sigh left Suguru. “Fuck yes, I missed fucking your throat like this.” Satoru’s hands flew to Suguru’s thighs and squeezed in mercy.
“What? Am I going too hard?” Suguru looked down at Satoru with a pitiful look and mocking smile. “Too bad, I want the back of your throat to look like y/n’s ass.”
Satoru whimpered at the idea, he did go hard on you, but Jesus - what was wrong with that? Suguru always had a soft spot for you and was extremely protective, but does he really feel the need to protect you against your other husband? It’s not like Saturo would actually hurt you.
With a pull that made Satoru’s scalp tingle, Suguru pulled him off his cock and brought him to his mouth. “You’re taking me so good, pretty boy.” Suguru placed a loving kiss on Satoru’s forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. Suguru took his husband's face with both of his hands and pulled him in closer, until Satoru was sitting on his lap.
Satoru fumbled with his own boxers while maintaining the kiss until his cock was free. He broke the kiss long enough to spit into his hand. He gave himself a few strokes to spread the self made lubrication around and then gathered Suguru’s cock into the same hand. Forcing their lengths together and holding them there for a second, letting the pressure do the stimulation.
Suguru’s head tipped back to the couch and his hands moved to Satoru’s ass. Satoru began to simultaneously stroke them. “God- fuck, it feels so good,” Satoru gasped out as he quickened his hand. Suguru slid his hands from Satoru’s ass to his hips and tightened his grip, like he was going to slip away from the pleasure.
“This is only a brief respite, you know? I- I’m still planning on fucking you.”
Satoru couldn’t help but moan out in anticipation of his husband fucking him. Suguru was a top, through and through, but he was rarely rough in bed with either of you, at least not rough like Satoru could get. But Satoru was curious to see how rough his husband would get in retaliation.
Their foreheads found each other, stealing each other's breaths, while their cocks rubbed together - thanks to Satoru’s hand.
Suguru had his eyes shut tight like he was trying to regain power. He finally squeaked out, “Bend over the couch.” Satoru paused and leaned back, gazing with lustful eyes.
Suguru smacked a hand to Satoru’s ass and continued, “Now.”
Satoru moved quickly to stand up and kneeled with his knees just past the edge of the couch. Suguru stood up, kicked his pants the rest of the way off, and stood behind Satoru menacingly.
“Uhh-uhh…” Suguru tsked and tapped the backs of Satoru’s thighs, “you’re going to stand up and take it. You don’t get to kneel.”
With shaky legs, Satoru stood and bent himself over for his husband, bracing his hands on the back of the couch. Suguru traced a finger around his tight entrance while Satoru whimpered in response.
✦ ✦ ✦
You began to stir awake and immediately felt the aches that had settled into your body. Your right ass cheek is still burning, pussy throbbing, and overall body fatigue. You were absolutely wrecked. The next pain that found you was hunger. You hadn’t eaten since breakfast, you were also definitely dehydrated. As your bodily needs woke your brain up more and more, you heard a loud SMACK, skin on skin.
You then heard Suguru say, “Now” in an authoritative voice.
You immediately knew what was going on. Satoru was now giving his welcome home present to Suguru. You didn’t care, you needed to make your way past them to get to the kitchen. Once you had a snack and water, you were immediately going back to sleep.
You tossed on your robe while you heard continued talking and motion in the living room. You opened the door and tried to not act too surprised by your husbands fucking each other on the couch.
As soon as your bedroom door was fully open, you saw Suguru with the tip of his dick right at Satoru’s entrance, about to push in. The sight immediately had your stomach doing flips. Suguru was holding the base of his cock steady and lining up to Satoru’s entrance. Satoru was bent over the couch, bracing for dear life.
Suguru’s eyes found yours and he gave you a genuine smile. Satoru kept his face buried in the couch cushions even though he heard your entrance.
“Ah- you’re awake, sweetheart. And perfect timing too, come here, sit.” He motioned to the accent chair next to the couch he and Satoru were commandeering.
While you wanted water and a snack, you were curious. Satoru was oddly quite and that grin on Suguru’s face was almost mischievous.
As you made your way to the chair, Suguru pulled away from Satoru’s entrance and made his way over to you. His perfect physique towering over you. That silky dark hair falling past his shoulders, half pulled back so there were no pieces touching his face. That fucking smile and of course, his cock that was staring you right in the face while you stared up at him.
Suguru dropped to his knees and looked you over. Tracing his hands over the marks on you. “I told Satoru to not be that rough with you…” he left soft kisses on your shoulder. “But he doesn’t want to listen.” He smiled into one of the kisses.
You simply replied, “He never does, does he?” With that remark, you both glanced over at Satoru. Ass in the air, face buried in the pillows, and stroking his cock.
Suguru looked back at you, “I’m showing him why he shouldn’t be that rough. I think you should tell me what he did to you, so I can do it to him. What’d you say, sweetheart?”
This was filthy. And you liked it. You could only reply, “Okay.” Suguru stood back up and made his way over to your other husband who was shaking in anticipation.
Suguru brought his finger back to Satoru’s hole, then paused to ask you, “Baby, did he warm you up before or did he just start fucking you?”
“He licked my pussy a few times, but not really. It was quick.”
“Ahhhh… that’s what I thought.” Suguru replied. He pumped his finger in a few times, removed his hand to spit in it, then stroked his cock. He lined himself with Satoru’s entrance and pushed in. Satoru’s body seized at the contact and let out a groan that was barely audible from the pillows he was burying his face in. You could tell that Satoru was immediately clinching around just the tip. Suguru pressed a palm into Satoru’s lower back to create an arch. Satoru complied and let his back arch as he took his husband deeper and deeper. Suguru had a shit eating grin on his face as his chin dropped to look down.
Suguru didn’t stop, he just kept going, making Satoru squirm until he was fully in. He paused once he was fully inside and leaned down to Satoru’s ear, “I know you didn’t enter her that nicely, but I’m being nice to you. Remember that.” Satoru whimpered in response and Suguru brought his chest back up, beginning to slowly thrust.
A symphony of moans and whimpers started filling the room and you realized you were contributing too. You always enjoyed watching your husbands, it never got old. You weren’t even fully aroused, but it was instinct to enjoy this sight.
As Suguru maintained a steady and deep pace, he asked, “How hard did he spank you, love?” He gave a light tap to Satoru’s ass, “That hard?”
You shook your head and said, “No, harder.”
Suguru upgraded the next smack to have a slightly louder noise, but still doing no damage and causing little sensation. He looked over at you with a questioning look.
You again shook your head, “Harder…”
This time, Suguru gave a real spank. Serious skin to skin contact with a slight sting after. Satoru bucked forward to escape the spank and cried out, “Sugu… p-please.”
Suguru looked over at you to see if that one sufficed. You shook your head again.
Suguru said, “Sorry Satoru, she said it was harder than that one.” SMACK! his hand landed hard and fast and stayed there to ride out the sting.
Satoru let out a yelp this time.
“How about that one?” Suguru looked at you and asked.
You replied, “yeah it was about that hard.”
“Perfect.” Suguru said with satisfaction like he finally got the answer to a question he was wondering about.
Suguru spanked Satoru twice in a row at the same level. After those few blows, his ass started to glow with a faint red hand print. He took a brief pause from spanking to quicken his thrusts. Satoru was slowly crumbling into the couch, unable to keep himself standing from the stimulation.
Suguru replied, “I don’t think so,” and continued his deep, unrelenting thrusts.
You were sitting there, arms slack at your side, mouth open in awe at the sight in front of you. You no longer desire food, water, or sleep. You only desired to watch your husbands fuck.
Without looking away or slowing his pace, Suguru said to you, “Sweetie, come over here and sit on the arm of the couch.” You complied immediately and nearly jumped from the chair to the arm of the couch. You went ahead and removed your robe before sitting down, knowing it was no longer needed.
Suguru paused his thrusts, shifted Satoru with his hands and said, “Turn and face our beautiful wife, Satoru.” The two men were now looking right at you. Satoru with a pathetic look on his face and Suguru with a charming smile. Suguru bucked his hips into Satoru and said, “Scoot up.” They made their way closer until Satoru’s face was right in front of your knees. You couldn’t help but lean down and kiss that pathetic face. He welcomed the kiss and moaned into it as Suguru continued thrusting. You pulled away and leaned back to observe. Your hand was slowly making its way to the center of your thighs. Even though you were sore and couldn’t take a fucking right now, you couldn’t give up the opportunity to touch yourself to this sight. Before your hand could make contact, Suguru said, “No, no, let Satoru do that for you.” He gave another encouraging buck of his hips to motion Satoru to move closer to your pussy.
“I’m still sore, so be gentle please.” You said as you pulled your knees apart to make room for Satoru. Satoru didn’t reply and instead kept making his way closer. Suguru abruptly stopped his thrusts, grabbed a fistful of Satoru’s hair, and yanked his head back. “Did you hear what she said? Be. Gentle.” Suguru spit out.
“I heard her!” Satoru exclaimed, straining against the force on his scalp.
“Tell her you’ll be gentle this time, say it.” Suguru released his grip and continued moving inside Satoru.
Satoru looked up at you with pitiful eyes and said, “I’ll be gentle, baby. I promise.”
You nodded your head in response, rubbed your hand over the side of his face and guided him closer to you. You could tell he was trying his best to keep his head steady from the rest of his body jolting forward.
He brought his tongue to meet your throbbing and swollen cunt, you were already moaning at the contact. He hadn’t even moved his tongue yet, but you were so sensitive, any sensation was too much.
As if Suguru was inspired by your pleasure, his pace became quicker than he had been. Pulling almost fully out to the tip and slamming back in. This caused Satoru’s tongue to slam into you at the same pace and he was trying to keep his tongue centered. Regardless, the push of his tongue on and off your cunt was still pleasurable. You tipped your head back and let Suguru do the work for both of you.
Suguru was babbling nonsense: fuck yes, you are so beautiful, you’re so fucking tight, keep going. You didn’t exactly know which comment was aimed at you or Satoru sometimes. Satoru was whimpering and moaning into your pussy adding so much extra stimulation for you. You didn’t think 2 hours ago you’d be ready to do this again, but that’s the power your husbands have over you.
Satoru was finding it hard to lick and keep contact with just his tongue on your folds. So, he switched to sucking on your clit. As soon as he made contact, you let out a cry that had Suguru looking at you in worry.
You shook your hand at Suguru to wave off his worry and brought that hand to Satoru’s head. You looked down at him, lips fully engulfing your clit. You could cum just from this alone: Satoru on your clit, Suguru fucking into Satoru. You were now bucking your hips into Satoru’s face to encourage more, more, more. Poor Satoru was sandwiched in between you two being used as a toy by his husband and wife.
Suguru pulled out of Satoru quickly and tugged on his hips, “on your back.” He commanded. Satoru left your clit with a good bye kiss before flipping on to his back. You waited for Suguru’s instructions, knowing he was in charge.
Suguru situated himself, brought Satoru’s legs to his shoulders, and got his cock lined back up. Suguru patted Satoru’s hip bones and said, “Come, sit, and face me.”
With trembling legs, you got up and made your way over to straddle Satoru.
“Baby…” you looked up at Suguru with worry in your eyes, “I’m still really sore from earlier.”
Suguru leaned forward to kiss your forehead, “that’s okay. You don’t need to fuck him, just sit on it and stay there. Can you do that?”
You nodded in response and lifted up your hips to line up Satoru’s cock with your entrance. The show they put on for you already had you wet enough to slide onto Satoru’s cock, but you slowly sank down from the soreness of earlier.
You groaned in satisfaction, it surprisingly felt better than you expected. The soreness had electrified those already tender nerves and sent pleasure running up your spine. You made your way until you bottomed out on his cock. Satoru bucked up in response and his hands gripped your thighs. You looked back at him over your shoulder. He was already a fucked out mess. His face twisted in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut. You looked back to Suguru who was now waiting to make his entrance. You leaned over to kiss him, your tongue danced around the entrance of his mouth, he opened to grant you access. You both moaned into the kiss as your tongues made contact with the inside of each other's mouths. Without warning, Suguru thrusted fully into Satoru, bottoming out with a smack of his balls against Satoru’s ass. Satoru gripped your hips tightly in response and let out a “Fuck!” And it almost sounded like he was crying. You and Suguru continued kissing as he began fucking Satoru.
You could feel every twitch of Satoru’s cock inside you, it was like you could feel his pulse through his dick. You moaned in pleasure at the realization and grinded your hips down into him.
“P-please… take it easy on me - shit - or I’m not going to last long.” Satoru pleaded with you and Suguru.
Suguru broke your kiss, rested his chin over your shoulder to look at Satoru and say, “You’re going to last for however long we want you to. If you come before we say so, you’re going to be in trouble.” Satoru's hands fell from your hips and instead gripped the couch in desperation to hold on.
Suguru was motivated by his husband's desperation and decided to double down. He gripped onto Satoru’s legs hard, you could see how hard his grip was and started absolutely fucking into Satoru. The entire couch was now moving and creaking underneath the pressure. Satoru was a consistent mess of moans and profanities. Suguru was surprisingly quiet, but you figured it was from how much concentration he was putting into his thrusts.
You looked down at where you and Satoru met and where Suguru and Satoru met, you stared at the masterpiece until you noticed drool falling out of your mouth and landing between your 2 connecting spots. Suguru was going so hard you could hear the smack and contact of his balls hitting against Satoru’s ass at every thrust. Suguru placed his hand under your chin and brought you in for a kiss. It was hard to stay still from the force he was putting into Satoru and in turn you.
“This is so fucking hot.” You moaned out and tilted your head back, urging Suguru to kiss your neck.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” He responded and pressed delicate, yet forceful kisses to your neck. It was insanely hot to see how rough Suguru was fucking Satoru contrasted with how soft he was kissing you.
You were now clenching around Satoru involuntarily and your hands flew to Suguru’s neck to try and hold on to something.
Suguru let go of Satoru’s legs, letting them fall to his sides. His left hand was making its way down your body, feeling your breast, kneading them with such gentleness it made you want to cry. You whispered his name, the only thing you could manage to say.
He chuckled, “Yes?”
You didn’t even reply, you just grinded your hips down into Satoru because you needed more friction, more stimulation. Suguru seemed to pick up on this and his fingers eventually found your clit. He pressed his thumb to it and you arched your back in response to the touch. Fire was spreading from your clit up through the rest of your body at the contact. The contact makes you clench around Satoru and in turn, makes him buck, squirm, and gasp at the overstimulation.
Suguru paused his soft kisses to ask Satoru, “Are you getting lonely back there?”
Satoru couldn’t even muster a response, he just glared at Suguru with his mouth agape, letting out profanities and nonsense.
“I think you should give him some attention now, he’s earned it and I’ve been hogging you long enough.” Suguru said as he gave a ‘tap tap’ to your hip, urging you to turn around.
You slowly dismounted Satoru, the emptiness brought back the soreness. Oddly enough, the fullness from Satoru felt better than being empty. You turned yourself to now face Satoru and hovered your entrance over his aching tip. Suguru’s pace was consistent, so Satoru’s tip was bobbing back and forth through your folds. You grabbed the base of his shaft for stability and pushed just the tip inside. You stared down at Satoru, he was so beautiful like this. Silver locks were all messy, his cheeks flushed like roses, and his eyes found yours. His shaky hands made their way to your hips and he made a gentle push down to urge you further into him. You resisted the motion and clicked your tongue at him.
“Hold on baby, I thought you weren’t going to last long? I’m just trying to take it easy on you.”
He slammed his head back into the couch in frustration and let out an exaggerated, “Fuck!” He knew this teasing was payback for earlier. Your hand began to stroke his shaft, so slowly that it was agonizing. He was so greedy. Getting railed by Suguru wasn’t enough, he also needed your pussy swallowing his cock whole.
As you continued the teasingly and torturous strokes, you gradually started moving your hips. So that he would feel your pussy just on his tips.
Suguru leaned in until you could feel his breath on your ear. “You’re being mean… I like it.” That sent shivers down your spine.
Suguru let up on his railing and abruptly stopped, you turned over your shoulder to see what the hold up was. You found Suguru almost fully pulled out with just his tip inside Satoru.
“I’ll match your pace, I’m ready when you are.” Suguru said. Your nerves were electrified at that, he was going to fuck Satoru in tandem with your pace. You felt like you could finish just at the thought. You looked back at Satoru who looked so desperate.
“Please, I-I’m n-not gonna be able to handle that…” he whimpered after his plea was spoken.
You leaned over to hover your face over him, your breast dangling inches from his mouth.
“You’re the strongest, Sati… you can handle it.” With that, you slowly pushed down on his length and you felt Suguru follow. You stopped just half way down his length and Suguru paused a beat behind you. You looked over your shoulder to make sure he was also half way inside Satoru - check. You continued your descent until you bottomed out on him with Suguru following.
Satoru was completely gone. Fucked out and a trembling, whimpering mess beneath you. Using the strongest sorcerer like he was a fuck toy was invigorating.
You adjusted your hands to rest on Satoru’s chest and kept your weight shifted forward as you began to slowly move up and down on his length. You were searching to find where Satoru’s cock would meet that most important spot inside you. Suguru’s hands gripped onto your hips for leverage as he matched his thrusts with your movements. Every time you both bottomed out, Satoru practically cried out.
“Guys… I’m so close, please…” Satoru found the strength to say. What was he even saying please for? Was he asking permission to cum?
You turned over to look at Suguru, “Should we let him cum already?”
Suguru shrugged his shoulders in such a nonchalant way, “That’s up to you.” The smirk that plastered your face was lethal. You looked back to Satoru with your head tilted.
“Have you earned it? How bad do you want it?”
“So bad…”
“Do you want Sugu to fill you up?”
“Yes!”
“Do you want to fill me up?”
“F-fuck, yes baby.”
“Hmmmm… I think you need to beg a little bit more. Tell me why you want it.” And to emphasize your command, you slammed down hard when you bottomed out.
“Ahh- fuck- oh my god… I-i…” Satoru couldn’t even form a sentence.
Suguru said from behind you, “Listen to your wife, Satoru. Tell her what you want.”
“Fuck, okay. I want… I want to breed her. And I want you t-to breed me. Please… I’m barely holding on.”
You leaned down to kiss Satoru’s forehead and say, “Okay baby, you can come now.” With that, Satoru’s hands flew up and grabbed onto your hips over Suguru’s hands. He started fucking up into you from underneath and slamming you down on him. Suguru was also helping in the effort and the force was earth shattering. You soon were finding your climax and were melting from the inside out.
You were now turning into just as much of a mess as Satoru. He was so desperately fucking you, chasing his orgasm. You began to feel that intense anticipation build, like a taught rubber band being pulled back right before it breaks. A few more thrusts from your husband and you were clenching around him, orgasm slamming into you like a train. Pure ecstasy formed from your pussy and spread all the way through your body until it reached the ends of your limbs.
Your orgasm caused a chain reaction. Cumming on Satoru’s cock pushed him over the edge. He continued his frantic thrusts into you and you felt his cock twitching inside of you. “Oh my god, shit!” He yelled out as he continued to slam up into you.
His cum was then coating the inside of your walls, so warm and welcome. You were still riding out your orgasm as Satoru found his own.
And while Satoru found his orgasm, his hole clenching around Suguru sent him over the edge. You felt him still from behind and lightly buck his hips forward as he finished inside Satoru.
As all 3 of you came down from your highs, everyone was still connected, panting and gasping for air. The only thing hitting your ears were all of your erratic breaths.
Satoru let out a final, “Fuck” that was punctuated like that word alone was a statement. Suguru understood and replied, “Right?” You heard him pull out from Satoru and his hands leave your hips. You stayed on Satoru, chest heaving, and breaths slowing down. You gently made your way off Satoru and fell back on the couch. Your back met Suguru’s side, as if he was expecting your exact movement, both arms braced around you tightly. You welcomed the embrace and melted into his arms.
Satoru propped himself up on his elbows, cock now turning flaccid, and stared expectantly at you two. Your eyes were already closed with your head tipped back on Suguru’s shoulder.
“So, are you two just going to cuddle without me?” Satoru asked in an excusatory tone.
Suguru rolled his eyes and motioned for Satoru to join you. He begrudgingly scoothed over on the couch and laid his head on your lap, lying down. You all just soaked in the moment, not saying anything to each other. Just enjoying the come down from your highs and this intimate moment all squished together.
Suguru started moving to get up from behind you and said, “Don’t get too comfortable, I need to clean you two up before we all go to bed.” You and Satoru groaned in protest, not wanting to move.
Hitting you like you’d been stranded in a desert, your thirst came back and in full force. Your throat felt like you had swallowed sand. You choked out, “Actually I need water before we do anything.”
Suguru smiled at you lovingly and replied, “Of course, dear.” He made his way to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water with a lemon slice in it. He always made note of the little things like adding a lemon into your water because he did that once for you and liked it.
You took a few big gulps to add some moisturize back into your mouth, the glass was almost empty by the time you were done.
You set it down on the coffee table and sighed a long, exaggerative breath. “I don’t think I can walk…” you said and looked up to Suguru with pitiful eyes. Satoru sprang up off your lap at your request. He was now standing in front of you with his arms out stretched, “I got you, baby, come on.” He picked you up bridal style into his arms and escorted you to the bathroom.
Suguru ran the shower and threw lavender shower steamers on the shower floor - your favorite scent. Satoru sat you down gently on the counter as they gathered the towels and toiletries to get ready. No one was saying anything, it was silence between all of you and the only noise was between their actions of getting your shower ready.
Once the room was filled with a thin veil of mist, Satoru motioned for you to get into the shower. You shivered at the warm, soothing water hitting your exhausted body. You might just fall asleep standing up right here. Satoru got in behind you and Suguru in front of you. Satoru got a wash cloth lathered up and gently started rubbing it on your back. You winced at the contact, at the sensitivity from the marks Satoru left earlier. He leaned into the crook of your neck and left sweet kisses while he continued to wash your back. Your eyes fluttered shut and you were missing the heartbreaking smile of Suguru’s face. He was looking at you two with so much love in his eyes, he could feel his heart aching at the sight of his wife and husband.
You enjoyed the sensation of Satoru’s hands roaming over you, practically massaging you. You felt something between your legs, almost the sensation like you started your period. It wouldn’t be the first time your husbands kick started your period a few days early. You looked down and didn’t see blood but kept searching - was it just the water?
Suguru looked down to see what you were trying to find and he let out a chuckle, “you’re leaking, sweetheart.” He brought his hand to your thigh and wiped away what Satoru had left behind. Satoru redirected his wash efforts to your thighs.
They were both eventually a team effort of cleaning you and themselves. You just stood there and let them do all the work. You were using the last of your energy to stay standing. Exhaustion taking over your mind and body, your eyes kept fluttering shut and your knees began to buckle from the relaxation.
“Okay, it’s time to finish up.” Satoru said while he rinsed the last of the soap off of you. He knew better than Suguru how exhausted you were from what you two did earlier.
You all dried yourselves off and got into your most comfortable night clothes. You wanted to moisturize but that was something to do in the morning, you were about to pass out.
You stumbled your way into the bedroom and crashed face first into the soft mattress. You eventually repositioned onto your side and got a pillow under your head. Your eyes were already shut, but you could feel your husbands getting into bed around you. Without opening your eyes, you could tell Satoru was the one sliding himself next to you so that your head was lying on his chest. And Suguru was behind, spooning you. A thin blanket covered you all and darkness began to take over your senses.
They both placed sweet kisses to your temples and before you finally slipped into a deep sleep, you heard Suguru say, “I almost forgot to tell you, but Welcome Home, Satoru.”
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝
This is my first fan fic, so I'm a lil nervous about posting but yolo.
Thank you to @omw2paradis for proofreading and giving a boost of confidence to post :D
Any suggestions/ recommendations are welcome. I'm sure this will not be my last fic, God Willing.
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
chapter 1: temptations
chapter 2: exactly what he wants (coming soon!)
chapter 3: everything is romantic
chapter 4: bad at love
chapter 5: everybody scream
chapter 6: the rotten ones
chapter 7: innocence lost
chapter 8: ups and downs
chapter 9: it's nothing new
taglist open! comment on this post to be tagged! anyone on my perma taglists will automatically be tagged on this fic <3
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
word count: 8.3k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, dark content, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's good to reader exclusively, fic takes place in the early 2000s, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
a/n: I've been sitting on the plan for this for a while and I'm so excited to get into it! Hope you enjoy!
masterlist | ao3 | next chapter (coming soon!)
During your final year of high school, your boyfriend died at a party.
They never caught the guy who did it - he was long gone by the time Ryu’s body was discovered, mutilated in the garage of the poor party host.
He’d been practically ripped apart, torn to pieces by someone with deeply malicious intent. There was no explanation for the act, no note, no leads. Just the assumption, that either your boyfriend was caught up with something nasty that he’d never thought to divulge or, there was someone immensely sick living in your little town.
It haunted you for a long time afterwards.
You’d been the one to discover him - you and one other party-goer. The vision of him, his guts strewn about the place, ribs pulled out one by one, was something that would never leave your mind. Even now, four years later, you’d still occasionally see the image when you closed your eyes.
An unshifting feeling of guilt had followed you ever since that night, deep sorrow for the acts that you’d committed. You could never quite forgive yourself for the fact that, instead of being at his side throughout that party, you’d been holed up in the bathroom, letting another man fuck you over the sink.
If you’d been faithful, maybe he’d still be alive.
There’d been plenty of effort on your part to bury that thought via various different methods. You’d gone off to university, where you’d partied, gotten insanely drunk and fucked your fair share of guys in an attempt to drown your sorrows through hedonism. When that only seemed to make things worse, you’d isolated yourself from your peers, turned to support groups and therapy, hoping that you could let the whole thing go.
And to be fair to the tenacity of your therapist, while your guilt hadn’t disappeared, it had shrivelled up considerably in that time.
Enough that your heart no longer palpitated whenever you were back in your hometown - a blessing, considering that it looked like you’d be staying there for the foreseeable future.
You’d tried to get a job out in the city, but with the dire state of the employment market, you found yourself coming up empty handed. You couldn’t afford to stay in the little apartment that you’d rented out throughout university, leaving you no choice but to return to your childhood home.
There, at least you could be employed and earn a little bit of money for your future. Your father owned a construction business, and with various expansion efforts taking place on the outskirts of town, his company had been growing in size significantly. It meant that he was keen to have someone manage the more admin heavy tasks that he was struggling to keep up with.
While it wasn’t your calling, it sounded like fairly easy work and it would keep your dad happy. Besides, there was a part of you that was excited to move back to your hometown. Most of the people you’d known from school were still around, either in a similar situation to you, or having never attempted to leave in the first place.
Considering that you’d never really clicked with anyone at university, bar one guy that you were currently engaged in some sort of situationship with, you were excited to be back with people that you’d known for years.
Perhaps that would dispel some of the loneliness you’d been feeling. After years of guilt and isolation, it was time to start moving on.
“Everything going okay, sweetie? Need anything?” Your dad popped his head around the door of the trailer that served as his office. You’d been rapping your fingers on the wooden desk, staring blankly at the computer before you, waiting patiently for excel to start up. The machine looked like it had been made in the 80s, and it certainly operated like it.
“I’ll be all good once this thing cooperates.” You responded with a smile.
“Be nice to it and it’ll be nice to you!” He chuckled, as if the ancient technology was sentient in any manner. You nodded along all the same, knowing that he was being genuine. He wasn’t the most tech literate man, and honestly believed that these things could smell your fear.
A ridiculous, but endearing quality of his.
“I showed you how to make an accident report, right?” He continued, expression turning a little more serious. “One of my guys has hurt his hand. Nothing serious but we gotta write it up - think you can handle that, sweetie?”
You shrugged. How hard could it really be? All you had to do was open up a word template and fill out the questions accordingly before filing it away - any seven year old with two IT lessons under their belt could figure it out.
“Sure. What was the accident?”
“I’ll just send him in to explain, he should really be off the clock for today anyway.” Your father gave you a thankful smile before heading back out the door. It swung shut with a heavy creak, and you fidgeted with a pen for a few moments, staring at the digital clock on the desk as you waited for the worker to arrive.
You hoped that they were a quick talker - it was already 4pm, and you were meant to clock out at 5. Ideally you didn’t want to be here any later than absolutely necessary.
The door creaked open once more, and you barely raised your head. You didn’t have much interest in your father’s employees, most of them were on the older side, and had been working for your dad since you were a little girl. There was a limited amount of good work in town, and your dad offered one of the few places where a man could find steady employment.
Naively, you’d assumed that it would be one of those men entering the office. A pleasant old guy who had worked here long enough to remember you coming along for ‘bring your daughter to work’ days.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the deep, familiar voice that sent tingles crawling up your spine.
“Well, well. Isn’t this a nice surprise.”
You blinked a couple of times as you looked up, voice failing you at the sight of the man towering over your desk. He’d grown even taller since the last time you’d seen him, if that was even possible. His pink hair was a little longer, still pushed back from his forehead as it always was. More tattoos had appeared on his tanned skin, the ones lining his face just as striking as ever.
The soft, involuntary gasp that fell from your lips was a little embarrassing, especially considering the way that his grin widened at the sound, sharp canines on display. His red eyes were alight with that same intensity that had always burned within them, that alluring gaze that always felt like it was stripping you down to nothing.
“Should’ve told me you were back in town,” he said, eyes dragging slowly up your figure, as if assessing all manner of ways you’d changed in the years since he’d last seen you.
“I- I’ve only just got back, a few days ago.”
It wasn’t a lie, you really only had been there a couple of days. That wasn’t exactly the reason that you hadn’t reached out though. You’d been avoiding him ever since the murder four years ago, guilt curling in your stomach at the mere thought of him. He’d been the one with you in the bathroom at that party, hands gripping your hips, buried to the hilt inside you.
While your poor boyfriend bled out in the garage below, Sukuna had been whispering filthy things in your ear, holding you like you belonged to him.
It was a mistake that you could never take back - a moment of lust, of frustration with your boyfriend, clouding your judgement into a single, awful decision.
“You working here now?” He asked with a tilt of his head, pulling out the chair opposite the desk and sitting down. His tongue swiped across his lip for a moment, the silver of his piercing glinting in the golden light streaming through the window.
You could still recall the feeling of that little metal ball against your pussy, sobbing softly as he teased it against your clit, fingers digging hard into your thighs, holding you still for him. You hated to admit that for every night you’d spent picturing your ex-boyfriend’s lifeless body, there was a night spent replaying that evening with Sukuna.
How pathetic.
“Something like that, yeah.” Your tone was cautious, not sure what to make of all this. You hadn’t expected Sukuna to be working for your dad, had almost expected him to have gotten out of town by now. Despite appearances, he was a smart guy - it wasn’t like some construction job in a dead end town was all he was capable of.
“Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other then.”
The statement hung heavy in the air, his eyes fixed on yours. It felt like a test, to see if you’d squirm beneath his statement that almost certainly held double meaning. This was how he’d spoken to you back in high school, greeting you with teasing lines that would never fail to make your heart race, to further your attraction for him.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Even now, your cheeks reddened ever so slightly, gaze dropping down to the desk in an attempt to escape the intensity of his eye contact.
“I guess so.”
You fell silent, not sure how to continue. It felt awkward, almost scary to be in his proximity again. There was still so much tension between the two of you, things left unsaid after that evening together. You’d slipped from his grip, lost in a sea of guilt, unwilling to face that night. The few times that Sukuna had reached out via text, you’d ghosted him.
He was a reminder of your sin, one that you wanted to wash away, no matter how much you ached for a repeat of how it felt to have his body pressed against yours.
It seemed like he was finding your reaction amusing, elation drawn across his handsome face. With the silence stretching on, he leant forward, planting his elbows on the desk. Your skin prickled as he drew closer, almost able to feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke. “So, aren’t you meant to be writing an injury report for me or something, sweetheart?”
Your mouth opened and then closed again, unsure as to whether you should object to the nickname. One one hand you were currently in some sort of relationship, even if it was a little fraught, and therefore shouldn’t abide by men calling you sweet names. On the other hand, you couldn’t deny the way that it built pressure in your gut, to hear the word drawled out in his deep voice.
“Oh, uh- yeah, one sec.”
You scrambled to pull up the report, goosebumps rising on your skin at the acute awareness of how closely he was watching you, a soft little smile curving his lips. The air in the room felt too close, charged by his presence. Trying your best to ignore it, you focussed on the document, filling in the parts that you already knew - the basic things like his name and date of birth.
It was only then that you turned back to him, heart stuttering at the sight of his smug expression. “What- what’s the nature of your injury?” You asked, after clearing your throat, reading the question word for word off the document.
Slowly, he turned his hand over, revealing his palm to you. You flinched back in surprise at the sight of a deep cut ravaging his tanned skin, blood still trickling from the open wound. He didn’t seem bothered by it, more amused by your shocked reaction.
“Fuck. my dad said it was nothing, that’s deep!”
Sukuna pursed his lips before shrugging. “There’s been worse. Some old dude’s arm got chopped off two weeks ago.”
“Still, we need to clean that up.” You urged, the tense atmosphere lightening a little now that you’d broken the initial barrier of awkwardness. Report forgotten for the moment, you rummaged around in the desk drawers until you found what you were looking for, pulling out a first aid kit.
He sat still, watching you eagerly as you looked through the kit, pulling out cleansing wipes and a roll of bandages. You didn’t hesitate to reach for his hand, his fingers warm beneath yours while you held him still. You made quick work of wiping up the blood, before wrapping a bandage firmly around his damaged palm.
You’d have to lecture your father later about taking better care of his employees. If you hadn’t been there what would’ve happened to Sukuna? Would he have just gone back to work as normal?
What happened to the guy who lost his arm?
“How did this even happen?” You asked, exasperated.
“Aw, you worried about me?” His palm was still outstretched on the table, even though you’d long since retracted your own hand.
“I’m worried about everyone working here if this kind of thing is normal.”
His grin didn’t waver, telling you that in his mind, it was the former. Regardless, he offered you the answer you’d been seeking. “Just some glass buried in the dirt, I didn’t see it before I was sticking my hand in there.”
Your gaze flicked back down to his hand, brow a little furrowed. You weren’t sure why he’d be doing that in the first place, and his hands were miraculously clean for someone who had been digging around in the mud, but you figured it was best not to pick him up on it. It wasn’t like you really understood the processes surrounding what went on around the worksite.
“You should be more careful.”
“When I’ve got a nice little angel in here ready to patch me up when things go wrong? Nah, I think I’ll be more reckless.” He sported a boyish grin, one that you were all too familiar with. It had been reflected in the mirror the last time you’d seen him, when he’d been all up in your guts.
You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the way his smile made your heart pound. It was wrong - you didn't deserve anything with Sukuna - that was your atonement for the cheating, for the betrayal of your boyfriend all those years ago.
Moving back to the computer, you typed out a quick description of the wound, followed by Sukuna’s short explanation of how it had happened. You then detailed the first aid that had been administered, before sending the document over to the printer to create two copies. Sukuna stayed silent through all of it, crimson eyes just watching as you headed over to collect the freshly printed reports.
You could feel the way that his eyes lingered on your ass as you walked, making little effort to hide his continuing desire for you. It was as though you hadn’t been gone for four years, like Sukuna had been keeping you in the front of his mind this whole time.
It was embarrassing how giddy the idea made you feel.
“Toji’s having a party at his place tonight, you should come,” Sukuna said.
Biting down on your lip, you hesitated. Partying had stopped being your scene a long time ago - after your first year at university you’d mostly just stayed holed up in your room. Parties came with too many reminders of what had happened to Ryu all those years ago, and you found that it was easier to avoid them altogether.
Besides, you weren’t sure that hanging around with Sukuna was the best course of action for you. Your history considered.
Sensing your hesitation, he continued. “It would be nice to catch up under better circumstances. Y’know, when I’m not bleeding out and all.” He held up his hand with a charming smile, and you couldn’t help but giggle.
“I think you’ll be fine,” you said. “I’m a great doctor.”
“You are.” He agreed. “I think a really great doctor would come and check up on their patient later, to make sure the wound hasn’t reopened.”
It was a smooth line, that had always been the way that he operated. You were well aware of what he was doing - wise to the gentle, enticing, flirting that was so characteristically him. But it would be wrong to give in, even if you wanted to. Anything between you and Sukuna would always be marred by that fateful night.
Besides, you had your situationship to consider - even if Kashimo wasn’t technically your boyfriend, he still deserved some level of respect.
The rejection, the lie about being busy, had been sitting on the tip of your tongue when the creaky door to the trailer opened. Your dad stepped in with a kind smile, glancing between the two of you. “Everything all good in here?”
“Y-yep!” You stuttered over your words, cursing yourself. You hadn’t wanted your dad to sense any tension between the two of you, but the way that you fumbled as you handed Sukuna his copy of the accident report had your dad frowning.
You weren’t generally a flustered girl, usually very calm and collected. The flush that decorated your cheeks paired with Sukuna’s amused gaze clearly had some cogs turning in his head.
“Oh, do you guys know each other? You must be around the same age.”
“We went to school together,” Sukuna said, easily. “It’s nice to see each other actually, we haven't had the chance in the last few years.”
You nodded along, hoping that Sukuna wouldn’t divulge any further information than that. Your dad certainly didn’t need to know the intimacy with which you’d known each other. In fact, you were rather confident that your dad would hate the idea of you bringing home a guy like Sukuna. He’d always been eager for you to find a nice man with a good job.
“I was just inviting her along to a party actually. Loads of people she knew from school will be around, I bet they’d love to see her.”
Sukuna smirked at you as he spoke, like he’d picked up on your hesitation and had known exactly how to counter your uncertainty. To an outsider it all looked so innocent, just an old friend looking to encourage you to reconnect. To your father, there would be no hidden intentions behind the invite, no history to consider.
“Oh isn’t that nice!” Your father exclaimed with a bright smile, taking Sukuna’s bait easily. “You should definitely go, sweetie.”
He’d been worried about your apparent isolation throughout most of your university years, and didn’t want you moping around in your room now that you were back in town. To him, this probably sounded like the perfect opportunity to reconnect.
And you supposed it probably was.
You just needed to make sure that you didn’t do something you’d regret.
—
Toji lived in a nice house in the suburbs.
It didn’t really surprise you since his family had always been wealthy. They ran some sort of agriculture related business and had made millions from it. All of the Zenin kids went on to work there, no need to worry about university or getting their foot in the door somewhere - Naobito would take care of them all.
It had been Naobito’s house that Ryu’s murder had taken place in all those years ago, during a party that Naoya had been throwing. Apparently they’d sold up after that, moving into a new place across town. Naobito had been very publicly enraged about how the murder had damaged the value of their old house - a place that, for all intents and purposes, had previously been a lovely place to live.
Toji’s house was smaller than either of the Zenin mansions were, but still larger than most houses in town. The sound of music was blaring from within, a handful of people hanging around on the lawn, smoking and chatting. You didn’t recognise any of them, but Toji was a few years older than you, so you wouldn’t be surprised if they were classmates from his own school year.
Taking a deep breath, you made your way up the fancy driveway and through the front door, trying not to think too much about the last time you’d attended a party just like this one. It wasn’t like the same thing would happen again, it was narcissistic to believe that the murder had anything to do with you in the first place.
Even if your guilt wanted you to believe it.
Inside, you discovered a scene that wasn’t too unlike the parties you’d attended in high school - although, there was a lot less hiding where drinking alcohol was concerned. Some terrible skater anthems were blasting, seemingly courtesy of Toji’s buddy Choso, who had a DJ rig set up in one corner. Everyone was dancing and mingling, and you felt a mild panic wash through your body at the overwhelming number of people.
Especially because most faces seemed unfamiliar to you.
The fear dissipated at the sound of a familiar voice, a gleeful shriek of your name followed by the weight of being tackled into a bearhug. “I can’t believe you’re actually back!” Your senses were overwhelmed by the smell of some rosy smelling perfume and the light blonde hair of your attacker falling in the way of your eyes.
Yuki felt like she was squeezing the life out of you, making up for years of limited contact with a single hug that had you gasping by the time she finally released you. “Hey,” you said with a smile, eyeing her up. She looked gorgeous in a halterneck burgundy dress, her hair flowing freely around her shoulders.
She’d been one of your best friends in high school. The two of you had always been joined at the hip, along with Shoko, who was currently catching up to Yuki, trying not to spill her drink as she hurried over to you. “Hey girl!!” She was much more careful with the hug that followed, only wrapping one arm around you, aware that her plastic cup was too full to take the risk of hugging you properly.
“Didn’t think we’d be seeing you until Saturday!” Yuki said with a smile.
She and Shoko were the two people that you’d actively told about your return to town. While you’d drifted apart over the last four years, all off at your respective universities, you’d still called them every now and then to catch up, keeping each other updated with important life matters with regular texts.
Yuki had moved back to town permanently after university. She’d landed one of those cushy corporate jobs that lets you work from home four days a week, in which your main job is responding to emails for an obscene amount of money. She could certainly afford to live in the city, but she and Choso had been dating for about a year now, and he had no interest in leaving town.
Shoko was still going through medical school, attending a university a mere ten miles from your little town. Her mother had been sick when she was first going through the application process, and had therefore opted to select a school nearby. It meant that she could live at home, be with her mom, and save a load of money in the process.
It would be nice to have your little group back together, and you’d all planned to go and get your nails done together on Saturday, treat yourselves to a nice girl’s day out. You were certainly long overdue one - there was so much that you needed to bring them up to speed on.
“Yeah, I thought you weren’t big on parties these days?” Shoko enquired.
“I’m not, but I figured it would be nice to pop along and see some familiar faces.”
You really hoped they didn’t ask you who had actually invited you to the party. They both knew what had happened with Sukuna four years ago. They were part of an elite, private group that was aware of the truth. That group consisted only of the two of them, and your therapist. And, you supposed, anyone Sukuna might have told.
In their eyes Sukuna was bad news - they believed he’d manipulated you into sleeping with him and cheating on Ryu when you were in an emotionally volatile state. They weren’t technically wrong, but it didn’t account for how badly you’d also wanted Sukuna, how little he’d actually had to try to get you bent over in that bathroom.
You’d fantasized about Sukuna long before that night.
Either way, like true friends, they never accepted that any of the blame lay with you, and piled everything on Sukuna - and partially on Ryu for the part that he played in the situation, since he’d cheated on you first. Although blaming the latter was harder to justify considering the depressing end that he’d met.
It was easiest to just blame Sukuna. And for that reason, they’d been on Sukuna watch for a long time, ensuring that the two of you wouldn’t cross paths, warning you not to respond to him when you’d tell them about texts he’d sent to your phone.
They’d definitely be angry if they knew you’d come here because of him.
“Let me get you a drink,” Shoko said, “I’m pretty good at cocktails, you used to like mojitos right? I can make you one.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I can-”
“No, no, you guys head out to the garden, I’ll do it!”
Shoko scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her drink in your hands while she went to make you a fresh one. You stared after her, a little perplexed by her insistence since you weren’t sure she’d ever gone to get a drink for you at a party before. For one panicked moment you wondered if the two of them thought you needed babysitting for your first home town party in years.
Yuki caught your confusion before your theories could evolve any further. “Utahime is in the kitchen, Shoko is down bad for her. She’s just looking for an excuse to go back in there.”
“Oh right!” You giggled softly. Shoko generally kept things like crushes close to her chest, and was likely doing everything she could to deny having any feelings towards your former classmate, but Yuki had always been far too astute to have such secrets kept from her.
“Anyway, most of the people we know are out in the garden.” Yuki grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd of bodies in the direction of the patio doors at the back of the house. “No idea who most of the people at this party are though! I think they work for Toji or something.”
Making your way outside, you were greeted with a beautifully manicured garden, set up with a lovely firepit in the middle, surrounded by an array of benches, crates and camping chairs for people to sit on. You couldn’t picture Toji labouring away outside, so you could only imagine that he had a gardener to keep things in such pristine shape.
Yuki led you over to the firepit, waving at various people that you’d known from school, parading you around like a trophy. You supposed that your presence was a novelty, since you’d been absent from any such gathering for a long time.
As she brought you around to the far side of the pit, you caught the eye of Sukuna, sitting in between Toji and Gojo. His gaze locked onto you immediately, a small smirk playing on his lips as he gave you a nod, raising his beer ever so slightly in greeting. Yuki gave you no window to respond, her grip on your hand firm as she ushered you past the man.
She didn’t want you to acknowledge his presence.
Even as Gojo stopped you with a bright smile, gushing over how long it had been, Yuki inserted herself in front of Sukuna, effectively shutting down any chance at conversation, giving you a few minutes to fill in Gojo on the last few years of your life before interrupting and dragging you away, claiming that she “deserved more of your time than any stupid boy.”
The two of you eventually found a seat on a crate a little further around the circle to where Sukuna was situated, next to Mei and Manami, who both seemed thrilled to see you. They hadn’t been your closest friends by any stretch of the imagination, but they’d both been in lots of your classes, and had shown plenty of support when Ryu died.
As such, you found yourself getting caught up in conversation with them for a while, attention only waning when Yuki started gossiping to Mei about some guy that they worked with, your mind starting to tune out the conversation, eyes drifting in the direction that you knew they shouldn’t.
Sukuna was already staring at you when you looked over at him, red eyes lighting up in amusement at your lack of resistance to his presence. Unnerved by being caught, you were quick to glance away, reminding yourself that your current kind of boyfriend, kind of friends-with-benefits, probably wouldn’t approve of you looking at or thinking about Sukuna in the way that you did.
You’d made the mistake with Ryu, you wouldn’t make it with Kashimo.
In a bid to avoid Sukuna’s gaze, your eyes drifted over to his left, where Toji was spread out on a camping chair, lounging in it like it was a throne. He’d always been the type of person that commanded a heavy atmosphere, confident in himself despite all his failings. He and Sukuna had much in common on that front, though you’d always found Sukuna much more palatable.
There was an intelligence to Sukuna that you couldn’t really see in Toji. You were certain that he was street smart, but his conversations tended to hold little weight. If you weren’t interested in discussing gambling or sex, he wasn’t interested in you.
Sitting pretty on his lap was Takako Uro, twirling her vibrant pink hair and slapping his shoulder as she giggled at some joke. The sound might as well have been nails dragging down a chalkboard as far as you were concerned, for she was decidedly not your favourite person.
She and her best friend, Yorozu, hadn’t been all that nice to you during high school, deciding for some reason that you were a decent target of ridicule. You were aware that jealousy had a big part to play in that, since Yorozu had always been down bad for Sukuna, who would never care to spare her a glance but seemed to have all the time in the world for you.
It led to plenty of instances of bullying - spreading rumors about you, leaving nasty notes in your locker, hiding your normal clothes after gym. For the most part you ignored it, rose above it even. You had good friends, and you knew that Uro and Yorozu would never take it too far for fear of how Yuki would deal with them if you were to tell your friend about their actions.
That didn’t stop Yorozu from sleeping from Ryu though, bragging about how he’d had her over the desk in an empty classroom, while you were still dating him. She’d said it loud enough for you to hear, turning to grin at you as she smashed your first relationship to pieces. Revenge for garnering interest from a man who wanted nothing to do with her.
That incident was why you’d been so angry at Ryu that night that he’d died, why you’d been so pliable to Sukuna’s advances in a manner that you wouldn’t usually be.
You supposed that in a way, you got the better of Yorozu in the end. She might’ve fucked your boyfriend, but all it did was drive you into the arms of the true object of her affection. Not very clever of her really.
“Ugh, gross,” Yuki said, wrinkling her nose as she followed your gaze, just in time to catch Toji sticking his tongue down Uro’s throat. “Thought she’d be less insufferable without her other half but somehow she’s worse now.”
Your brows furrowed in confusion and you glanced up at her. “Without her other half?”
“Yorozu.”
You shot her a blank look that told her you understood who she’d meant, but lacked the context to understand Yorozu’s absence.
“Oh you don’t know?” Yuki asked, a little surprised, as if you were missing out on common knowledge. “She skipped town after high school. Ran away in the middle of the night, just left some dumb note for her parents about how she was gonna go be a star. No one’s heard from her since.”
“Oh.”
You weren’t sure what else to say, mainly because you were trying to stop a massive grin from creeping across your face.
“Uro was devastated, all this crying and screaming about how Yorozu wouldn’t just ditch her like that. Doesn’t seem all that surprising to me though,” she said with a shrug. “Yorozu’s always been a bitch.”
You laughed softly, trying not to look too overjoyed that you wouldn’t have to worry about running into her ever again. It was a little spiteful, but a big part of you hoped that she never managed to become a star. In your mind she’d ended up in some nasty crack den somewhere before she even made it halfway to Hollywood.
Although, considering how panicky most people in the town had been following Ryu’s death, you were surprised that a simple note had been a valid enough explanation. “Did her parents not search for her?”
“Nah, Uro kicked up a whole fuss reporting her as a missing person and the police got involved, but Yorozu’s parents basically shot it all down. Apparently, she’d spouted off about this plan non-stop, so they told Uro to just let it go. Police didn’t find any signs of foul play.”
You hummed, eyes flicking back over to Sukuna for a moment, breath knocked from your lungs at the intensity with which his red eyes were fixed on you, crimson irises glowing in the light of the fire. You wondered if he was relieved that Yorozu was gone - she’d always stuck to him like glue no matter how hard he pushed her away.
The ugly thought jumped into your mind that you’d actually be happy if Yorozu had met the same fate as Ryu. She wasn’t the worst person to be wiped from the world. Not that you’d ever say such a thing aloud.
Considering some of the things Sukuna had said to her, you wouldn’t be surprised if he felt the same.
“Anyway, good riddance. Things have been nicer without her around,” Yuki said easily, taking a long sip of her drink.
“Yeah.” Your response was absent-minded, thoughts already drifting back to Sukuna - transfixed by the way that his thighs were spread so easily on the bench that he occupied, tattooed biceps on display in that blank tank that clung to him so perfectly. You should really stop staring, stop inviting any opportunity for interaction, but your body had always been a traitor when it came to him.
You’d hoped that your friends would draw your attention back to them. Shoko and Utahime had joined you, sitting together on their own bench and giggling away at something that Mei had said. Surrounded by people, it was harder to get caught up in that magnetic pull that Sukuna seemed to command over you.
And yet, as there was a call to play Spin the Bottle inside, one that your friends all jumped at, you found yourself declining. You had a boyfriend - that was the excuse that you gave, claiming that he wouldn’t like you kissing some other guy, and you’d rather stay out here in the fresh air anyway.
They’d tried to convince you for a few minutes before conceding, leaving you sitting on the crate, drink in hand, left practically alone. Almost everyone that had been sitting around the fire had gone inside, leaving only a handful of people dotted around. Most of them were strangers to you.
Except for one.
He wasted no time sidling up to you, taking a seat next to you on your little crate without so much as asking if it was okay.
“Looking kinda lonely over here.” His voice was deep, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand came to rest on the crate behind you, no doubt under the guise of maintaining balance, but you could feel the slight brush of his skin against your back.
You shrugged as nonchalantly as you could, pretending your heart wasn’t racing. “I’m doing just fine.”
“Yeah? It's funny, the way you were looking at me made it seem like you wanted me to come over.”
You opened your mouth to bite back, to say that you wanted no such thing, but it would be a lie. You did want him to come over, you wanted him next to you, craved his attention. Even though you knew you shouldn’t, knew that anything with him would be built on bloodied foundations, it didn’t stop the desire.
If you were more religious, you might’ve considered Sukuna to be the devil himself - a manifestation of all your deepest temptations, built solely from sin. As such, you really shouldn’t keep giving into him.
And you were trying your best, really.
“You look good.” The compliment was easy, straightforward. It shouldn’t have made you flush as deeply as you did.
For a second, you almost forgot yourself, the response of so do you lingering on the tip of your tongue, only for you to force it back down your throat.
Instead, you did the responsible thing. “I- uh- have a boyfriend.”
The glimmer in his eyes dulled a little, smile faltering for such a miniscule second that you weren’t even sure it had happened at all. “A boyfriend?”
Boyfriend wasn’t really the right word, not from your side of things at least, but you were certain that if you referred to Kashimo as a situationship, Sukuna would disregard it as a whole. As far as he was concerned, if there was no actual relationship then you were fair game. In the case of Ryu, even that hadn’t stopped his advances.
Though he’d at least been more subtle, more careful, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Yeah, a boyfriend,” the words felt foreign in your mouth, too heavy, your heart unmoving for Kashimo in the way that it should be. Half of you even considered calling the whole thing quits and crawling onto Sukuna’s lap there and then.
But that wouldn’t be fair - not when Kashimo had been there for you unwaveringly. He was a good guy, the type of guy who’d take you out on cute little dates, supported you when your anxiety popped up from time to time, understood your trauma from Ryu’s death. He’d been patient around stuff like sex, taking things slow, always listening to whatever you wanted.
He was a good guy.
You knew that he wanted to be your boyfriend. You were the one standing in the way of any serious commitment. That had been the case with any man you’d met in the last four years, and you’d convinced yourself that it was a trauma response, that you were afraid of what had happened to Ryu happening to any other boyfriend you had.
In the depth of your soul you knew that wasn’t really the case.
The reality was, you compared every man that you met to Sukuna, and always found that they came up short. They didn’t ignite that fiery lust within your chest, didn’t fuck you like he did, didn’t make you feel giddy like he did.
“You sound enthralled by him.” Sukuna said, sarcasm heavy in his tone.
“I- it's steady.” The defence was pathetic and you both knew it.
It was steady, it was nice, safe. He was the type of guy who had a good job, who you could bring home to meet your parents without fear of what they might think.
Even if Sukuna did work for your dad, if you were to bring him home, you were certain your parents would hate it. They didn’t want you with someone like him, someone tough and volatile, someone who pushed you to cheat on your boyfriend.
They wanted you to be with someone like Kashimo. He was the exact type of guy that you should’ve wanted for yourself.
And yet there you were, right at Sukuna’s side, not quite shutting him down despite having plenty of reasons to.
“Sounds like he isn’t keeping you interested. I’m sure you wouldn’t run into that problem if you were with me,” Sukuna purred, a confident grin stretching across his handsome face.
Your eyes widened at how straightforward he was with his words, willing to lay out his intentions on the line. It was as though he’d spent a great deal of time considering what he’d missed out on all those years ago, and didn’t want to lose it again.
And you had to fight the impulse to nod your head and agree, because you were certain that you wouldn’t run into that problem if you were with him. But unfortunately that wasn’t all that dictated a relationship. And what kept you from Sukuna wasn’t really Kashimo - you were just using your current situationship as a convenient excuse.
“No.” You said with a shake of the head, turning him down despite the way your heart was hammering in your chest. “We killed someone, Sukuna. We don’t get to be together.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly displeased by your dramatic wording. “We didn’t kill anyone. Ryu would’ve died whether we were fucking in that bathroom or not. Trust me.”
It was probably true, you’d always known in your heart that it was probably true. Your therapist had made it abundantly clear to you that you should not be held responsible for his death. You’d already punished yourself plenty, that was what she’d said, at some point you had to forgive yourself.
And yet it felt impossible to fully push that feeling off your chest.
“I betrayed his trust. I don’t get to ride off into the sunset with the man I was cheating with while he’s laying six feet underground. That’s my punishment.”
Sukuna was staring at you like you were stupid, red eyes narrowed in disappointment. “Punishment from who? At this point you’re just punishing yourself, and me.” The hand he had positioned behind you moved, wrapping around your waist carefully. It was a test, to see if you’d push him away.
You didn’t.
“He was a piece of shit, he cheated on you, baby. Gonna live in regret because of a guy like that? Not sure why you were even dating him. You could’ve been with me the whole time.”
You nibbled on your lip, unhappy to hear such words coming from his mouth, trying to break down your walls. He said it like it had ever been that simple. You hadn’t understood the depth of Sukuna’s feelings before you’d gotten together with Ryu, and had assumed that all he’d really wanted was to play with you like he played with other girls.
What Ryu had shown you was something real, tangible. He’d been straight forward in his affection, asked you to be his girlfriend without any doubt surrounding where you stood with him. It wasn’t the confusion that you felt with Sukuna, never quite sure if you were the object of his affection or his prey.
“Maybe you should’ve learned how to use your words back then.”
He grinned at you. “I really think that would’ve taken away some of the fun.”
You rolled your eyes in disbelief. You certainly didn’t consider what had gone down between the two of you fun. You’d spent plenty of high school wondering, fantasising about Sukuna, wondering if his flirting was something legitimate. It had stressed you out to the point where your heart would go into overdrive whenever you’d see him, never quite sure where you stood.
When Ryu had asked you out, after experiencing nothing but vague flirting from Sukuna, you’d figured you’d take the opportunity. Everyone else you knew had done stuff with guys and you didn’t want to be left behind, didn’t want to be played with by a guy who wasn’t really interested.
Even having sex in the bathroom of that party wasn’t really fun, no matter how good it had felt. It was too corrupted by feelings of guilt for you to look back upon it fondly. Because even with your continuing lust for Sukuna, the emotion was never simple, always caught up with this big ball of insecurity and shame.
He was staring at you, pressing on when you offered no response, not even a hint of a smile at his comment. “I’m using my words now,” he said with a sigh. “I missed you, I want you. Is that straightforward enough for you?”
He leaned in closer to you, breath warm against your face. His arm tightened around your waist, and you could feel heat building between your thighs, memories of the feeling of his big hands gripping your hips all those years ago flooding your mind.
“We can go inside and I can show you just how much I missed you, make you forget about all of that Ryu shit - help you remember that before that fucker died, you were thinking about breaking up with him and dating me.”
That was true. You’d told him that the first time you’d fucked. Your fingers had been white with how tightly you were gripping the sink, breaths coming out in ragged gasps as you whined Sukuna’s name. Between thrusts you’d mumbled about how good he made you feel, how much bigger he was than Ryu, how you wished he was your boyfriend instead.
Of course, with the discovery that followed, your priorities had changed - you’d grown too disgusted with yourself to follow through on any of that, keeping yourself as far away from Sukuna as you could to stop yourself from facing how awful you were.
You still felt awful. But it was harder to shut him down when he was right next to you, his scent heavy in your nostrils. It was unfair how good he always smelt, how familiar. It had the power to draw you closer to him, eager to be wrapped in his scent.
He must’ve felt you lean into him ever so slightly, because he took it as permission, free hand moving to your chin and tilting it up ever so slightly. Your skin tingled under his fingers, eyes widening as you met his gaze.
“Such a pretty girl.”
He leaned in, and for a moment you let him, his lips grazing yours before you found the sense to push him away. You weren’t sure if it was your ongoing guilt from the situation with Ryu or if it was out of loyalty to Kashimo, but you knew that doing anything with Sukuna wasn’t right.
Not right now.
“I have a boyfriend.” You reminded him finally, shuffling away from his arm. His face fell at being thwarted by that line for the second time that night.
“Its not like that stopped you before.”
Your mouth opened in shock, staring at him in disbelief. Even if he was right, the audacity to state that so plainly made you feel sick. How could he not feel bad about what had transpired? Could he not see how guilt-ridden you were over that one mistake?
“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” you said, bitterly. “If I could go back and undo it, I would.”
You didn’t divulge the fact that you might’ve done some other things differently too - might’ve chosen Sukuna over your boyfriend in the first place, broken up with the guy when you first felt things getting stale. You’d strung him along because you were too scared to hurt his feelings, fucked Sukuna because you’d wanted him for months and couldn’t ignore you impulses any longer.
It wasn’t surprising that Ryu had fucked Yorozu when you’d been so distant with him ahead of the incident, your mind too fixed on someone else.
Because you were awful.
Every choice you’d chosen had been the wrong one, and you weren’t going to let history repeat itself. Any chance for love with Sukuna had been thoroughly fucked up by the events of that fateful night, it would always be corrupted by it.
If you chose him, you’d be living with your sin, affirming it to be correct. That just wasn’t possible.
“Yeah?” He asked with a purr, seemingly unphased. “Because you’re looking at me like you’d crumble and let me fuck you in the bathroom again if I so much as touched you.”
Your mouth opened to reject his words, to tell him that he was dead wrong. But that flutter of butterflies made itself known in your stomach and you knew that you were about thirty seconds of convincing away from folding.
It was pathetic, you were so pathetic.
You needed to leave.
“Fuck you,” you just about managed to hiss, the weight of your words completely lost. You both knew there was no spite behind it, both knew that he was right. He hadn’t gotten what he’d wanted in high school, hadn’t had the chance to pull you into his grip.
He wasn’t the type of man to fail twice.
It was just a matter of time.
a/n: hope you enjoyed this first chapter! this one is very much a set up for the juicy stuff that's coming, I can't wait to share the next few chapters with you all because sukuna is both needy and unhinged (and you'll be getting his pov next chapter!)
thank you for the support, comments and reblogs are appreciated as always! <3
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen/Fem!Reader
Word Count: 5.1k
Summary: In the month-long gap between his proposal and your wedding, Prince Baelor does all he can to keep his hands off you.
Contents: tyrell!reader, established relationship, age gap, smut, power play, sexual tension, unprotected premarital (scandalous!), teasing, oral sex (fem receiving), frottage, denial, scent kink, biting, "just the tip", certified pervert Baelor Targaryen
The Prince of Dragonstone is not what you expected, in more ways than one.
You had expected to pursue the Prince Valarr, when you’d first come to court. By all accounts, he was kind, measured, too dutiful for his own good. Handsome, if you were any judge of men’s looks. Easy, your mother told you. Prince Valarr would not deny you anything, should you become his wife, and you knew it from just a few minutes of conversation with him. If you nudged, he would flop over, belly up.
And yet, against everything you had been raised to want, you found yourself pulled to his father instead. Every conversation you had with Prince Baelor was more engaging than the last when you realized he did not expect you to only be knowledgeable in matters of fashion and embroidery. His willingness to converse with you deeply, truly, beyond courtly pleasantries, brought you closer till you spent more time with him than his son — more time than was appropriate.
Now, a moon’s turn after your departure from King’s Landing, you were returning as the Crown Prince’s betrothed instead.
He had taken some convincing, when you first confronted him with your desire, one you knew he returned despite his insistence that it was a passing fancy, that you did not truly want a widower who is twice your own age, that you knew not what you spoke of. But you were nothing if not skilled at persuasion, and when he finally came to you at Highgarden, you were smiling at him knowingly before he could even bend down on one knee.
There was another month to go, still, till the day of your wedding, much to your dismay. While you were uncompromising on your vision for the grand occasion — you’ve had the details planned since you were a child, and you would not let something as silly as time stop you from importing the Qaathi silk of your dreams for your wedding dress — you must admit, the precautions taken to preserve your honour in the time since you’ve arrived are beginning to grate your nerves.
Baelor Targaryen is known for his impressive patience. It is his ability to lie in wait that won him countless battles against the Blackfyre pretender, and it has never once hurt his cause to exercise caution, to wait and strategise before charging in headfirst.
And yet, he feels his patience slipping.
He held himself back when he first met you, repressing his affections as you grew closer, reminding himself countless times that it was improper to want someone ostensibly meant for his own son. He was hesitant even when you yourself proposed a marriage, confessing that you loved him, as he loved you — he barely allowed himself to indulge when you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a desperate kiss. Even then, he waited over a fortnight after you left in disappointment till he rode for Highgarden, taking the time to discuss it with his son and his own father.
Baelor Breakspear, the Hammer, known for his unbreaking composure. How humorous, he thinks, that my reputation will be soiled by someone in a silk dress instead of chainmail.
The dresses you brought with you from Highgarden were all quite stylish, elaborate and brightly coloured, and much more low cut than anything worn by the other ladies at court. Even now, as you sit across from him in an evening gown, properly long-sleeved and dark-coloured, the sleeves sit just under the curve of your shoulders, exposing the top of your chest. Your hair, perfectly curled and braided, does nothing to hide the expanse of your neck from his roaming eyes.
You converse pleasantly, ever the agreeable girl you’re known to be, chatting with his nieces about the wedding preparations and how you’re finding King’s Landing now that you know it is to be your home. You are the picture of propriety, and yet he is having trouble keeping his eyes off you.
He is painfully aware that he could call you to his chambers. You’ve been kept on the opposite side of the Red Keep, far from the Tower of the Hand, in the same Maidenvault built to save the first of his name from his own temptation — the irony is not lost on him. And yet, if he sent for you late at night, no one would deny him, not now, when you were to be his wife in a month’s time. He could take you, over and over again, loudly, and no one would question his honour as a Prince of the Realm.
The judgemental eye it might draw upon you, however, is something he could never forgive himself for.
That is what stops him every time, when his base urges creep in, reminding him of his royal privilege to have whomever he wants; he cannot bring himself to compromise your honour.
You, on the other hand, seem determined to do the opposite.
He accompanies you back to your chambers after supper, the Kingsguard and one of your lady’s maids following behind as faithful chaperones. Quiet chatter fills the silence on the long walk back to the Maidenvault, discussion of who might run into whom during the wedding reception, which Lords are not to be seated together lest old, petty rivalries rear their ugly heads once more.
“Mm, but who are we to deprive your subjects of free entertainment?” You say, a playful smile gracing your face. An easy chuckle leaves him; he found himself laughing more in a minute of your company than he had in the last two years
“I suppose they will have to settle for the free entertainment the Crown is already providing, considering how many musicians have been brought from the Reach for the occasion.” His tone is light-hearted, no real heat behind the admonishment of your excessive requests for the wedding.
“I know so few dances from this region, Your Grace, and I will not be deprived of dancing at my own wedding solely because I do not know the songs!”
“No, we couldn’t have that.”
“You will, then?” You turn to stand in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, finally realising they’ve arrived at your chambers. “You will dance with me? As much as I please?”
That look you’re giving him, equal parts teasing and pleading, sends a shock down his spine, the same one that overtook him when he first laid eyes on you. Those eyes have haunted his dreams ever since, taunting him with his own desire, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.
“Of course, my dear.” He tells you, his voice calm, measured, the smile on his face giving very little away. He wants to call you much more. My love, my heart, the object of my every desire, my wife. He curses the chaperones you are constantly accompanied by while in his presence, always within earshot, stopping him from speaking to you openly as he did when you came to him that night and bade him to admit his affections. He had never spoken so openly before, not even with Jena, and now he longed to tell you again, that he would dance with you till his feet fell from his ankles as long as you wished it, that he’d keep you up all night if he could.
When you lean up, onto the tips of your toes, and press a whisper of a kiss to his cheek, despite the presence of your chaperone, he almost slips. His breath stops in his chest at the warmth of your lips on his skin, the exposed expanse of your chest pressed to his just so. He knows if he looked down he would see into your dress, down at your breasts, and he clenches his teeth together in an effort to stop himself.
“Thank you, my Prince.” You say, sweetly, your voice breathless. His jaw unclenches once you’re a safe distance away, but he can still smell your perfume in the air.
It’s all he can think about, even once he’s bid you a goodnight. He has half a mind to steal one of your nightgowns before it makes it to the laundry, just to keep the scent of you close.
Try as you might, you cannot hold back the smug smile on your face.
Baelor has not been able to tear his eyes away since he laid them on you today. You’d sent for him, having asked around till you discovered he had zero meetings with the Small Council today, and bade him to accompany you on a walk through the palace gardens. A chaperoned one, of course, but the chaperones could not stop you from wearing one of your most daring dresses; your mother had smirked when she saw it. It was a pink number, the fabric light and airy, well-suited for both the Reach and King’s Landing when summer heat hung heavy in the air. The detailing on it, winding embroidery creating patterns of stems and vines all along the dress in red thread, was some of the finest you’d ever seen.
There was also, of course, the extremely unnecessary cut outs at your waist, framed by a red rose-patterned silk, baring the skin of your waist just so. At Highgarden this dress wouldn’t have so much as turned a head in your direction, but this was not Highgarden, and for that you were grateful.
Baelor was doing his best to keep his eyes and hands to himself, purposefully setting the former forward, and the latter clasped behind his back, where he could squeeze them as tight as he needed to in order to restrain himself.
The conversation came easy, as it always did. No Small Council meetings did not mean no work, there was always a petition to grant, a marriage to approve on the King’s behalf, a grievance to assuage.
“I appreciate that you can speak so freely of the work you do, my Prince. There are many a Lord that would never concern a Lady in such matters.”
“You are to be Queen one day, my dear,” He replies. “Soon you will curse me for burdening you with such matters.”
You give him a humoured smile as you reach a grand fountain in the gardens, carved from gleaming marble and babbling with water. You wander closer, silently beckoning him to follow — you know, with the chaperones a safe distance away, that any conversation between you would be masked by the sound of flowing water. “Well, I doubt the Small Council would allow a woman to sit in on policy discussions even if she is Queen, much less one that is with child.”
That raises the Prince’s eyebrows, in shock and intrigue. “Rest assured, there will be no pressure for you to bear children so soon after we are wed, as I have two heirs already. I promise, you will be spared much of the early scrutiny. If you were to desire no children at all, my dear, I would not force it upon you.”
His reassurance is sweet. Far too sweet for your intentions.
“I should like to begin fulfilling our marriage duties as soon as possible, my Prince.” You look up at him through your eyelashes as you speak, your expression schooled, so your chaperones might think you’re having decent conversation. You lower your voice, just above a whisper, though you know they cannot hear you. “A moon’s turn feels much too long to wait, does it not?”
Baelor’s eyes flutter shut, his chest rising with the deep breath he takes, and for the first time since you’ve met him, the Prince of Dragonstone flushes a subtle pink. You can’t help the small proud smile that upturns the corner of your lips.
“I have waited an agonising amount of time to be with you, my love,” He finally speaks, his mismatched eyes settling back on you with a new intensity. “I will not have you dishonored because I cannot wait a moon’s turn longer.”
It’s your turn for your cheeks to heat, a burning ache filling your chest at the sound of his voice, far lower than you’ve heard it before. You know, tonight, you’ll do your best to recall it with a hand between your thighs, desperately trying to sate the hunger he’s inspired in you.
“My Prince-”
“My Lady!” Your Septa calls, her stare a disapproving one, and you both realise that you are standing far too close to each other.
“The tulips are this way, my dear, I know you wished to see them in full bloom.” Baelor announces, loud enough to be heard from meters away, and leads you away from the fountain before you can say another word to make his britches feel too tight.
You try not to let the frustration at her interruption show on your face for the rest of the walk.
It happens several days later.
You have scarcely seen your betrothed since that afternoon in the royal gardens. His time became far too occupied with matters of the Realm as the Lords of Westeros arrived from far and wide for the wedding, using their time in the capital to make their petitions to the Crown in-person. Every time you happened upon the throne room, the Good King Daeron was seated on that ghastly chair, a crowd of noblemen filling the room as they await their turn to speak. And next to the King, there he was, standing at his father’s side as his trusted Hand, looking every bit the part. It caught your breath every time, to set your eyes upon him in this setting; you could see it then, the crown on his head, clear as day. It might be you there someday, standing next to Baelor as his Queen while he sits upon the throne.
And yet, you found you cared little for the title now. All that mattered was that you were with him.
You’ve grown restless in his absence. It’s barely been a week, but you can’t stand the sight of his empty chair at supper, the brief greetings you share when you pass each other in crowded halls, your eyes brazenly displaying the way you long to spend more than a clock-tick in his presence.
It felt like madness. All your life you believed marriage would be simple for you, as it was for your mother, and her mother before her. A husband was an easy thing to influence, to wrap around your finger and bend to your will, and you’d grown into a woman of marriageable age assuming no man would ever cause you grief. This tugging ache, this burning for someone’s touch, was not what you anticipated, from a husband nor a lover, and you found yourself, for once, incapable of containing yourself. You felt it — in the frown that marred your face when Baelor retreated from you, the ache of longing at the sight of his back, the dizzying heat between your legs when you thought of him late at night that you simply could not soothe by yourself.
When he finally summoned you to his solar, much too far into the night to be appropriate, you could not dress quickly enough. You cared little about the nervous stares from your lady’s maids as they helped you into your gown, a deep red colour, perfect for a Targaryen bride. The Kingsguard knights trailed far behind you, your steps far too quick for them, but you could not find it in you to delay.
You are breathless when you finally land in front of his study. There is little time to collect yourself before the guards step in front of you to open the door, quietly announcing your presence to the Prince before departing. Leaving you standing before your future husband, alone, and several meters further from him than you’d like to be.
He stood up when you’d entered the room, like one might expect a common Lord to do in the presence of royalty. And yet he stayed behind his desk, frozen in place, his eyes meeting yours with something unknowable in them; something smouldering and torrid that you couldn’t name if you tried.
You stay like that for what feels like forever. Stunned into stillness before each other, silence only interrupted by the thudding of your heartbeat in your ears and the low, crackling fire.
“I have missed you.” Your words come quieter than you expected, almost a whisper. There is no one here to watch your impropriety, and yet you cannot speak your words any louder out of careful habit.
“As have I.” His voice is hoarse, like he is straining to speak, and his eyes never move from yours.
You take a hesitant step towards him. “Baelor-”
And then whatever stupor had overtaken him is broken. He rushes towards you, his hands coming to either side of your face, cradling you between them, and his lips are on yours quicker than you can fathom.
His kiss is feverish, demanding, invading your every sense so you have no choice but to surrender, but you wouldn’t resist him anyways. You arch your neck backwards to accommodate his height, you let his tongue pass your lips, you let him steal the breath from your chest till your lungs burn, and still you whine quietly when he pulls away, never allowing more than a clock-tick to pass before your mouth is back on his.
He has to tug you away, forcing you to still so he can rest his forehead against yours, his lips still tantalisingly close.
“I am a selfish man,” He declares with a rough whisper, his eyes closed, as if looking upon you might damn him forever. It feels like cruelty when he brushes his nose against yours, teasing you with his closeness.
“Baelor, please-”
“I have struggled, in vain.” He continues. “I have done everything to stay away from you, and I have failed, time and time again.”
His lips brush against yours again, a ghost of a touch, barely there and then gone before you can blink.
“Marrying you might be the most selfish thing I have ever done.” He says it like a confession. “I am a knight. I swore before the Gods to uphold honour, and yet honour means nothing to me when it keeps me from you. You have ruined me, my love.”
A laugh escapes you, quiet and light, far too light for the situation, making his eyes reopen and harden. “This is humorous to you, then?”
“Yes, my Prince,” You admit easily. “I have you right where I wanted you.”
His lip curls, half-sneer, half-smile, and you are given no time to react when he reaches down, his hands moving away from your face, to your waist, to the back of your skirt before lifting you and carrying you to his desk.
“You said a moon’s turn was not too long to wait,” You tease, still smiling.
“I lied.” Then he smears his mouth against yours again.
Your legs part instinctually around him, far too focused on his lips being back on yours to resist when he lifts your skirts. You cannot part from him, even as his hands trail from your stocking-clad calves to the bare skin of your upper thighs, drawing a gasp from you. Your arms come up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your hand settling at his nape, fingers trailing through the cropped hair there.
You would have kept him right there forever, if you could — it’s he that breaks the kiss again, ignoring the disappointed noise you make as he lowers himself to his knees, and brings yours to rest on his shoulders. He keeps his eyes on you, that same heated look in them, as he pushes your skirts up further, giving you plenty of time to protest before the fabric is ruched up to your waist. His gaze falls then, to the space between your legs, and it does not stray as he leans in to press a feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. You cannot hide the gasp that escapes you at his touch, and you cannot bring yourself to look away from him. One of your hands leaves his head, coming to rest on the desk behind you, balancing you as you lean back to watch him.
His pace is slow as he explores your soft skin, pressing his lips to every inch of it, savouring the feel of it and leaving a burning trail simmering wherever he wanders. The mere heat of his steady eyes on the core of you is enough to make you squirm in place.
“I have never seen anything so divine,” His voice is low, just for you to hear. He leans closer to you, close enough that you can feel his breath right where you need him most, and takes a deep inhale of your scent, a low groan brewing in his throat upon exhale. “As you, bare and soaked for me.”
“Baelor.. Wh- what are you-” And then his mouth is on you, cutting you off with your own gasp.
Your eyes screw shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought of opening them, of seeing what he’s doing to you. The tales that you heard of this, whispered between women in scandalous confession, could never have prepared you for what you felt. The heat of his mouth on you, his tongue kissing and lapping at where you’re wettest for him, steals your ability to breathe. It is too much, too quickly, white-hot pleasure flowing through you and fogging your head until he has to squeeze your thigh to break you out of it.
“Breathe,” He reminds you, but you shake your head.
“I can’t!”
“You must,” He pulls away, till you can no longer feel his warmth on your skin. “Or I will be forced to stop.”
“Dont!” The plea comes without hesitation. “Please, please, don’t stop, I want-”
“Breathe for me, then.” He takes a deep breath in, and you follow him, stuttering air filling your lungs once more. Satisfied, he leans back into you. “That’s it. In… and out… in-”
His tongue dips through your folds again, turning your exhales into pleasured sighs. The sound is too obscene to bear. The slick, wet sound of his lips wrapping around the crest of your sex and sucking, pulsing rhythmically around the sensitive bundle there. The hand that had settled behind you on the desk now provides you an anchor, keeping you grounded as you match his rhythm with cants of your hips, chasing the pressure that builds low in your belly.
“Yes, my love, just like that.” He says, reverent, watching as you give in to him fully, only able to answer with soft moans and muttered nonsense.
His finger is much thicker than yours, stretching you more than you ever could as it presses into the tight ring of your entrance, just as you’d hoped. The metal of his ring, brushing against you every time he pumps the digit in, only adds to your pleasure, the cold-hard shock of it on your soft folds making you gasp with every movement.
Baelor works you like he knows your body already, guided by every pleasured noise you make, every mindless moan of his name. When they turn high and uncontrollable, your head tilted back, rocking yourself against his mouth more insistently, desperately, he knows you’re close. A second finger joins the first, the pace just a touch faster, pulling you towards the edge at his will.
The subtle press of his fingers upwards turns your moan into a soft cry, and it hits you all at once, the pleasure cresting and then washing over you. His mouth doesn’t leave you once, doesn’t stop his open-mouthed kisses at the top of your sex, sending pulses through your body till you’re pushing at his forehead, even as you continue to press your hips into him.
He comes away with an awed, dumb smile on his face, drunk on the taste of you, his beard damp with it. He rises from his knees and leans over you, wrapping an arm around your middle to pull you up, and you’re too loose-limbed to do anything but go with him as he kisses you again.
You can feel his hand between you, shifting against your stomach, and you part from the kiss to find him grasping himself through his trousers, pulsing squeezes around his stiff cock. Quiet grunts fall from his lips with every press of his hand, and for a moment you simply watch, mesmerised.
Then your hand lands over his, hesitant. Unsure. “I want… I want to watch.”
A pained groan fills your ear as his forehead drops against yours. He makes quick work of the laces on his trousers, and you pull down his breeches with equal fervor, freeing his cock from the fabric.
His member is thicker than it is long — you can feel the burn of him stretching you already, distantly, making you clench around nothing at the mere thought. The tip of him is a flushed, ruddy hue, dripping with a clear liquid that you dare to feel at, gathering the slick on your thumb just to see. Baelor’s breathing is laboured as he watches you bring your thumb to your lips and lick, a pleased hum escaping you at the flavour.
“Fuck,” He growls, his hand finding his shaft again immediately, enveloping it like he can barely stop himself as he licks into your mouth, desperate to taste himself on you.
His mouth slows against yours when you reach down again, resting your hand over his fist. He pants against your lips as he lets your hand replace his, guiding your fist over him in measured, hard strokes.
He’s hard under your touch, hot and firm and slick with pre-cum already. Your cheeks burn as you realize just how much you like it, the heaviness of him against your palm, the moans you pull from him just with your touch. His lips move against your own, and he begins to rut into the tight circle of your intertwined hands, fucking your fist like- like-
The realisation, that this will be what he does to you, is breathtaking. He’ll move against you just like this, but he’ll be inside you, working his way into you till you fit perfectly around his cock, and you feel that ache of desire between your legs once again. You moan his name softly, absentmindedly, as you move to guide him towards your entrance, spreading your thighs and shuffling closer to him.
The hand covering your own stills, forcing you to stop.
“Not yet, my love.” You whine in disappointment, but he hushes you gently. “We must be patient.”
“Please, Baelor.” You are begging, you realise. Something you’ve never done before in your life.
“We cannot,” He insists, still denying you, even as he moves closer to the edge of the desk, and slots his hips against yours. It feels like he’s branded you from the mere brush of his cock against your inner thigh, teasing you with how near you are to what you’ve begged him for. He’s infuriatingly gentle as he removes your hand from his shaft, shifting his hips and then thrusting himself between your folds.
Your mouth falls open on a cry as the tip of him slides against the crest of your sex, the most sensitive part of him nudging against the most sensitive part of you. He draws his hips back, then forward again, gliding against you instead of inside you, careful not to enter you as he does.
At first, you cannot protest, not when the pace of his hips rutting against you leaves you senseless, unable to do anything but clutch at his shoulders and let him give you a rough feign of a fuck. Anyone who walked by his study now would never know that he isn’t deflowering you, from the sound of your skin slapping against his, your moans mixing with his. So close to what you want- need-
“Please, please, just the tip, my love, it won’t-” You find yourself pleading with him again, through desperate whimpers and pants every time his cock brings you another shock of pleasure, shooting up your spine and settling in your belly, building you towards sweet release. But he ignores you, the hand that’s not splayed across your back coming to bunch in your wrinkled skirts, fisting the fabric and pulling you against him, nearly lifting you off the desk to meet his thrusts.
His eyebrows are drawn together as he stares down at you, unbreaking even as he chokes on his own air, looking mad with hunger for you. He’s unbelievable like this, restraining himself from taking you as he should, as he has every right to, divulging his urges while still leaving both of you wanting, aching for each other.
He makes a sound like he’s wounded, then, his head dipping to rest on your shoulder before his teeth set hard on your neck, drawing a shocked cry from you as his punishing pace stutters, grows uneven and desperate. His hips bunch against yours once more and then you feel it, his release spurting onto your heated skin, spilling onto your sex and your thighs.
You both remain still, panting together, for a moment. You cannot find it in you to loosen the grip you have on him, even as he lifts his head, pulling his hips away from yours just an inch so he can see the mess he’s made of you. The moan that leaves him is awed, his grip on you tightening at the sight of his spend all over you, dripping obscenely.
“There will be no bedding ceremony,” He states, suddenly, drawing your unfocused stare back to him. “No one else is allowed to see you like this. I won’t have it. But the Lords will need their proof of our consummation.”
His hand comes to feel at your sex, causing you to jolt in his arms, a pained whine spilling from you. “That’s why I cannot fuck you the way I want to, not yet. When I take you on our wedding night, they will see it plainly on the sheets. They will finally know you’re mine, Princess.”
“‘M not a princess yet.” You find it in you to say, quietly, unable to raise your voice quite yet.
Baelor simply shakes his head, still looking down at where he’s marked you with his seed. “You are mine, now. In every way that matters.”
꒰ masterlist • the pitt • 03/23/26 ꒱ one I two I gif - zendayacolemann
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort
☆ the shark ── @xreader1989 I F
your boyfriend gets a little jealous when a past situationship with a certain ortho god comes to light in front of everyone in the trauma room.
☆ make it up to me ── @cvrgrl I A + C
robby's sabbatical is right around the corner & after barely talking to you about it, he's at a loss about your distant behavior
☆ the bond pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 ── @rr-after-dark I F + A + S
You're the first omega ever to join the beta- and alpha-dominated PTMC emergency department. Over time, you find yourself relying on your alpha boss, Dr. Robinavitch, for more and more personal tasks. He becomes your friend, your protector, and, if the two of you can figure it out, even more.
☆ yours pt2 ── @/rr-after-dark I H/C + S
When Dr. Robby returns from his extended sabbatical, he discovers that the girlfriend he thought would be waiting for him has a baby bump – and absolutely hates him for leaving.
☆ a taste of his own medicine ── @/rr-after-dark I H/C
When Robby gets a little too reckless, you scare him straight.
☆ baby daddy!robby ── @/rr-after-dark I F
☆ human resources ── @/rr-after-dark I F + S
After finding Dr. Robby’s Tinder profile with a suspiciously large outline in his shorts, your friends make a bet to see who can get definitive proof of his big dick -- and you, despite being wildly in love with him, agree to participate.
☆ how easy you are to need pt2 pt3 ── @robbyology I F + S
You accidentally send some very compromising pictures (and a particularly filthy video) to your boss/attending/crush. Chaos follows and, along with it, a very pleasant surprise.
☆ your needs, my needs pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7 pt8 pt9 ── @/robbyology I A + F + S
in an attempt to get over your ex-partners, you & robby decide that hooking up w/each other could potentially alleviate some of the heartache that’s been plaguing both of you.
☆ thinking of you ── @starlord-s I A
☆ all my flowers for you ── @thatfanficstuff I H/C
☆ stop the world, ‘cause i wanna get off with you ── @se7entyrell I H/C
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
✧ summary. After weeks of pent up frustration, your sister-in-law Dyanna suggests you and your husband, Baelor, have a brief escapade, and what better place to blow some steam off than in Dorne?
✧ word count. 6.5k
✧ warnings. MDNI/NSFW established relationship. no use of yn. reader is described as non dornish, but aside from that no other physical description. for the sake of the fic maekar and dyanna live in king’s landing. probably slightly weird timeline and maybe not-canon asoiaf? reader is described as having female genitalia. oral f receiving. piv.
✧ author note. in a nutshell everyone is trying to get them to fuck except baelor is cockblocking himself for some unknown reason lol 🤕 the end is kind of rushed i’m so sorry i was just really wanting to wrap it up but breakspear in dorne you will always be special to me.
Truth be told, the entirety of your and Baelor's trip to Dorne had been Dyanna's idea.
The gardens of the Red Keep were in full bloom. The smell of fresh flowers and pastries wafted through the air. The lemon cakes were arranged on a plate in front of you as a servant brought out the scorching hot tea.
Shrieks of children's laughter rang in the air. Daella and Rhae were playing in the open sun, close enough so their mother could keep an eye on them.
Dyanna sat across from you, her youngest son, Aegon, cradled in her lap. She rocked the babe gently, as he cooed up at her. His little finger twisted and clung to the sleeve of her dress.
This had become your little routine. You and Dyanna would sit in the gardens, at least once a week. You discussed your difficulties, household duties, and court gossip while sipping tea. You exchanged advice and listened to each other. In a sense, you had become each other's rock.
In a court full of snakes and vipers, wandering eyes and listening ears, it was a comfort to have someone like her. Someone real. Someone you could speak to without having to measure every single word before it leaves your tongue.
Over the course of time, you and your sister-in-law built a familiar and honest relationship. It was a great comfort to know you could always rely on her.
A servant poured you a cup of herbal tea as you straightened your back. "Thank you." You replied curtly. The servant nodded and quickly scurried off.
Dyanna cleared her throat, adjusting Aegon in her hold. "Would you like to hold him?" She offered. The babe was drooling and shoving his fingers into his mouth.
"No." Your reply came out sharper than you had intended. It was not the child's behavior that repulsed you — you had gone through your fair share of drool and spit and other bodily fluids while raising Valarr and Matarys. It was something else that unsettled you—a turmoil furrowing deep in the pit of your stomach.
Dyanna seemed taken aback by your response. She knew how much you loved to play with her children, especially Aegon, since he was still a small babe, only a few moons old. Alas, she did not push the matter.
She eyed you carefully, noting the tension in your spine and the rigidness of your posture. Your brows were slightly pinched, and you were mindlessly fiddling with the rings on your fingers.
"What is the matter?" She questioned gently. "It is unlike you to be in such a state."
You sighed, leaning back against the plush pillows. You bit your lip before answering her. "It is Valarr's nameday celebration," you started. "There is so much to organize and prepare, I do not even know where to begin…" Your mind ached at the thought.
Dyanna cocked her head to the side; her motherly instincts kicked in, telling her this was not the whole truth. "And?" She pressed on, fairly certain a feast was not the main cause of your agitation.
Your cheeks flushed red, debating if you should tell her.
"Dear, I cannot help or advise you if I do not know what it is that troubles you." She looked at you expectantly.
You let out a breath, and concluded there was no reason to hide such things from her. She had been there when you gave birth to Matarys for the sake of the Seven; she had seen you in much worse states.
"I just…" Your words were failing you. "Baelor and I barely have time to see each other anymore. I mean, do not misunderstand, we still pass each other and share a bed, but…" Dyanna hummed at your words, a knowing smile spreading on her lips.
"He is so overwhelmed with duties and grain taxes and managing the Realm, which I understand…" You felt guilty for saying such things, but…
"But sometimes you wish he were your husband and not only the Hand of the king." Dyanna finished for you.
"Yes…" You breathed, an invisible weight lifting from your shoulders.
She moved the babe to her chest and swayed him, as he was becoming fussy. "I know. Familiar conditions have befallen me before." She revealed with a curious glint in her eye.
"Have they?" Your voice was more skeptical than it should have been. Maekar was a prince of the Realm, yes — he had many duties even if he was not the heir apparent and Hand. But then again him and Dyanna had six children. And having lived in Summerhall for almost ten years, before returning to King's Landing, meant they had more freedom and luxury than you and Baelor could likely ever afford.
"Yes." She laughed at your disbelieving expression. "Believe it or not, even my lord husband sometimes forgets he has a wife to tend to…" She admitted.
"Hard to believe." The words slipped from you. Nonetheless, there was truth to them — six babes did not simply come from a husband neglecting his wife.
"Oh, hush." She waved a hand at you, suppressing a smile. "You know what I mean." She reasoned.
You hummed in response, a playful smirk on your lips.
"What I am trying to say is you should… speak to him or better yet…" she shrugged. "Try to show him." She suggested in a hushed tone.
You huffed a little laugh. "I have tried… believe me, I have." You complained, brows squinting at the thought.
"And?" Dyanna leaned forward expectantly.
You recalled your exchange with Baelor vividly, from a few nights ago. You had purposely put on his favorite night gown, expecting him to falter, expecting him to finally pay some attention to you. But still, he would not drag his eyes away from that stupid report from the Vale.
You had whined like a child and begged him to leave the rest of it for the morrow and return to bed with you. He gave you an infuriatingly apologetic smile and kissed the top of your head, promising he would make it up to you.
It had been days, and still nothing.
At times, you wondered what invisible force willed your husband to be so dutiful and devoted to the Crown. He was certainly above average in that respect. But then again, he was the future King; he carried a duty only a few men ever come to know.
Most of the time, you admired him for it, but on occasions such as these, you despised it more than anything.
"Nothing." You did not try to mask the disappointment in your voice.
"Oh…" Dyanna bit her lip, unsure how to respond. "Well, I suppose Baelor has always been more… strong-willed than Maekar." She reasoned.
"You do not have to introduce me to my own husband ." You countered, bringing a lemon cake up to your lips and biting into it.
"You know what I think?" She suddenly perked up.
"What?" You asked, covering your full mouth with a hand.
"I think you and Baelor ought to take a break." She announced.
Your eyes immediately squinted at the suggestion. "But Valarr's nameday…" You began to protest, swallowing the bite of sweet cake.
"After." She cut in, not accepting the excuses.
"I am certain a trip to Summerhall or Dorne would do both of you well." She proclaimed, clearly very pleased with her solution.
"Dorne?" You wondered aloud. You had never been to your husband's motherland. Alas, he had spoken of it fondly to you many times, and you had heard various stories of the beauties and wonders of the South.
Dyanna nodded. "Yes, you have never been, correct?" Dyanna herself was from Starfall, of course. She was Dornish through and through.
You shook your head.
"Well, you ought to go. You will see, it is a… completely different land. Different people and different ways of life." She spoke fondly of her homeland, and you suddenly wondered if she missed it often. The Crownlands must be so very different.
"I am sure you will like it." Her tone was sincere."And let me tell you one more thing, the warmer days are always better for letting loose." She explained.
Aegon stirred in her hold, babbling and kicking his feet. "Oh, hush you." She chided softly.
"Now, not to say that Summerhall is exactly warm, but it is a great place for, when the storms roll in—" A mischievous smile tugged at her lips.
You had a feeling this was going somewhere incredibly personal, which you did not want to know about. Such an explicit matter would only concern Maekar and his lady wife.
"Alright." You cut in. "I take your meaning." You assured her.
She laughed at your flustered reaction. "All I'm saying is… none of our children were conceived in this suffocating red fortress…" Her voice lingered.
You gave her a look. "Fine. I will ask him." You relented, and Dyanna gave you a triumphant smirk.
"Mark my words. Upon your return, you will be thanking me." She seemed dangerously sure of herself, and your stomach flipped at the thought.
---
A few weeks later a warm welcome greeted you after your long journey from King's Landing to Sunspear.
The seat of House Martell was decorated with the most beautiful exotic flowers. The court had been carefully prepared to host your royal arrival. The visit, this time strictly one of comfort and not duty, had been anticipated for weeks by the Dornish nobles.
Everything in the South was different, from the very air to the landscape and the people who inhabited it. The breeze carried the smell of unfamiliar spices and vegetation. Trees bloomed with nectarines and fruits you had never seen before, and the wines tasted sweeter than it did in King's Landing.
Sunspear was filled with colorful markets and people who moved through it with a leisure that the smallfolk of King's Landing did not possess. They did not hurry; they did not rush; not to say that they lacked passion — it was merely that they did everything in their life with a certain rhythm.
Perhaps the most unbearable thing in the entire place was the scorching hot sun, which you still couldn't come to terms with. Alas, you decided not to let it irk you too much.
Your first few days in Sunspear were spent exploring Spear Tower with Baelor and being shown around the vast castle. It felt more like a labyrinth than a holdfast.
The gardens were beautiful in an other-worldly sense, incomparable to the ones in the Red Keep. The ones here in Dorne were much larger, filled with lush greenery and hidden hot springs. At every corner, there was a tray with various fruits. There were oranges, figs, lemons, nectarines, and almost always a bowl of glistening honey carefully placed beside them.
That is how, on the fourth day of your journey, you found yourself sitting in the Water Gardens with your husband's lady aunt and the princess of Dorne, Daenerys Targaryen.
The Gardens were located on a beach next to the Summer Sea; Maron Martell had built them for his bride, and they remained a symbol of the union of Dorne with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
Pale pink marble paved the gardens and courtyard, and you were seated on one of the terraces overlooking the numerous pools and fountains. Blood orange trees offered a comforting shade as you observed the naked children playing and swimming in the waters. Their laughter and shrieks easily carrying on the afternoon air.
"How fare your days in Dorne, princess?" Daenerys' gentle violet gaze found yours. "I trust the spirit of Sunspear is to your liking." She offered a gentle smile.
Her snow-white locks cascaded down her back, the full embodiment of her Valyrian ancestry. She was clad in a light purple dress, and the silver bangles on her arms jangled as she moved about.
"I know it is very different from King's Landing…" Her tone was quieter now. "I must admit, it also took me a while to get used to it."
You eyed her carefully; it must have been very hard for her. To be wed off in such a different land, a different culture, so far away from home. From everything she had ever known.
"But I have learnt to love it." Her voice was sincere. "It has become a part of my soul, and when you have children…" The corners of her lips turned up in a soft smile at the thought of her babes.
"Yes, I understand, everything is very different then." You nodded, thinking of your own boys back in King's Landing. "I know, it is a great luck to be married to an honorable man."
"Indeed." She hummed.
She was very beautiful you noted. And sitting like this in front of you she did not look one bit out of place in the Dornish scenery. It was hard to imagine she was king Daeron's sister; fore they did not resemble one another much, except for their shared Valyrian features.
"Oh Gods, I almost forgot." Her voice perked up, suddenly remembering something. "I have a gift for you."
Your eyes widened at her words but you quickly masked it with a polite cough. "That is very thoughtful of you princess." You bowed your head slightly, offering her a smile. You had come to sincerely enjoy her company in the last few days.
Daenerys instructed a servant to bring out the present, and the man immedieately obeyed, scurrying off to find the item in question.
Curiosity suddenly bloomed in your chest. What could it be? Perhaps a porcelain tea set or a specially binded Dornish book? Whatever it was, you were certain it would be to your liking.
"Ah, here it is." One of the servants placed the unopened box on the table between you. It was decorated with sun emblems and a silken bow was tied to it.
"Open it." Daenerys urged eagerly.
You leaned forward, taking the offering into your arms, and carefully untied the bow decorating it.
As you removed the lid — your eyes fell upon a gorgeous piece of, what you could only assume was Myrish silk. It was the color of sunset and it glimmered under your gaze. You moved to touch the material with your fingers and the softness of it took you by surprise.
"It is beautiful…" your voice was stunned as you carefully appreciated the cloth.
"Take it out. The entirety of it." Daenerys leaned forward, eyeing your reaction.
You followed her order and removed the piece of garment from the box. Your eyes widened when it fell to its full length; you realized just how sheer and see-through the material truly was.
Looking at it now, in the clear sunlight, it resembled less a dress and more something a whore from the Street of Silk might wear. You felt a heat creep up your cheeks.
Daenerys gauged your reaction. "You don't like it." She stated, observing your startled gaze.
"No! No! It's beautiful… it is a very generous thought." You immediately countered, afraid not to turn out offensive. Alas, you could not hide your flustered expression.
Daenerys coked her head to the side, clearly amused by your reply.
"I understand it is not something one would traditionally wear in the Crownlands." That was to say the least — you thought. It looked like something straight out of a brothel.
One thing you had particularly taken note of, in the past few days, was the open manner in which people here dressed. Of course the warm climate called for much lighter and breathable clothing. Yet observing how see through and skin showing their garments were, both for men and women, it never ceased to startle you.
Another thing the Dornish were very different in you thought; and much less strict about.
"It is a nightgown." She explained, testing the material between her own fingers. "It is incredibly breathable and good to sleep in."
"Oh..." Well this made much more sense — to wear such a garment publicly would be utterly scandalous.
She chuckled at your expression. Clearly you were not used to the Dornish being so straighforward.
"Forgive me for saying this…" she began, a glint of mischief in her purple irises. "But I am sure if you do not come to appreciate it, prince Baelor certainly will."
You felt the heat spread from your face to your entire body at her words, the afternoon sun doing nothing to aid you. In the last fifteen minutes you had managed to transform from the composed crown princess into a flustered teenage girl. How wonderful.
You took a deep breath, cleared your throat, and attempted to compose yourself. "I… sincerely thank you for this sentiment, princess." The grace finally returned to your tone. "I am certain your present will be highly appreciated…"
She grinned at your words. "Oh, certainly. Of that I have absolutely no doubt."
---
The candles cast a dim light in yours and Baelor's temporary quarters. The shadows cascaded down the walls, creating a serene glow in the room. One of the curtains had been left open, letting a fresh sea breeze into the dhqmber. It filled the space with an unfamiliar salty smell.
Your things were strewn about the place. The servants had not yet come to organize them.
The room was as grand as your own bedchamber back in King's Landing, with high ceilings and wide corners. Prince Martell had made sure his guests got only the finest treatment. You were the future rulers of the Seven Kingdoms after all.
You were just returning from supper with the Dornish prince and his wife, feeling content and full. Alas, you looked forward to finally spending alone time with your husband.
Baelor entered the chamber behind you, the guards shutting the doors closed with a soft click. You were left encapsulated in your own little world.
"The princess and his wife are very pleasant company." You stated, walking over to the vanity, which stood on the opposite side of the chamber. You were keen on finally undoing the braids in your hair; as the strands had begun to pull at your scalp.
"Indeed." Baelor hummed, entering the room after you.
He was clad in a gorgeous gold-white robe; intricate twists and coils of gold decorated the pattern of it. There was a tiny sunspear under the column of his neck, holding his undershirt together.
Like this, clad in the colors of his mother's house, he looked nothing like a Targaryen prince. He looked Dornish thoroughly from head to toe. One might have mistaken him for the Prince of Sunspear, were it not for the three-headed dragon emblem stitched into the belt of his garment.
The material flowed naturally and freely behind him, creating a strangely free-spirited feel to his otherwise composed and controlled movement. He, for the first time, you concluded, resembled more a Martell than a Targaryen.
And you found that you liked him very much in this state; you could sense the dread and worry of appearing too Dornish, leave him while inhabiting the South. Here, he did not have to hide the love and pride he harbored for his heritage.Here, he did not have to worry about the whispers behind his back. Those doubting his claim to the iron throne. Here, he could be free from all the prejudices of the Crownlanders.
And you couldn't help but admit, you loved how the silver-gold colors suited him. It was a sharp contrast to his usual crimson and black attire. You loved how the warm shades brought out the little white streaks in his beard. It filled your belly with a familiar warmth.
"They are most gracious hosts." He added, falling into the chair that was set in front of a large wooden desk. The woodtop was scattered with scrolls, papers, and quills. The ink sat in a little bottle beside all of it.
Even now, Baelor couldn't bring himself to abandon his duties of being the Hand, as he had insisted on bringing along his workload. He promised you it wouldn't occupy too much of his time, since this was meant to be your shared break. But clearly, he had forgotten his promise.
You pulled at the strands of your hair, undoing the work of the Dornish handmaidens. You carefully eyed your husband through the mirror in front of you.
Baelor took a parchment into his hand and the quill in his other.
You tugged the last piece of hair with a little bit more force than necessary and let your hair fall from its neat, styled look into a more comfortable and free manner.
You returned your gaze to your husband, who still seemed not to be paying you the least bit of attention. An ugly, irritating beast curled its way into your chest, and your nostrils flared in discontent.
What must you do to get this man to pay attention to you?
"Baelor dear," you called for him. "Don't you think it is too late for you to be going over those scrolls now?" You didn't want to call him outright, but your patience was wearing thin.
"Just a few moments, my heart." He did not even bother to move his gaze from the parchment. Which infuriated you even more. "I must finish this, and then I promise I will join you." His voice was so annoyingly calm.
There you were, seething with pent-up frustration, waiting for him, and all he could do was read stupid Realm reports.
"Fine." Your words came out sharper than you had intended. Alas, Baelor was not moved by the anger in your tone.
You decided you were going to play your game. With your rules. If that's what it took for your husband to pay attention to you.
You shuffled through the chamber, moving towards the space divider you used for changing. Baelor remained seated in his place, muttering something under his breath.
Your silhouette disappeared behind the tall screen, and you quickly worked to undo the simple laces of your dress. Thank the Gods, it was an easy garment. Otherwise, you could have never gotten out of it without the help of handmaidens.
Once they came undone, you let it pool at your feet.
In front of you, sitting on a hanger, stood Princess Daenerys' gift. The pale silken material was calling to you, both a promise and a risk. You moved to take it off the hoist and cover yourself with it.
As you took it over your head, the material felt impossibly gentle and soft against your skin. The expensive fabric clung to your curves. It was almost like a lover's caress, stroking your skin, and not a piece of clothing lying against it.
You silently thanked the princess for such a thoughtful gift. It will be highly appreciated. Your own words rang in your ears. Oh certainly. Of that I have absolutely no doubt. Her reply had carried a mix of mischief and intrigue.
You looked down at your frame through the fabric and noted how your entire chest was visible. Gods, this really did not cover anything.
You took a sharp inhale of breath before daring to step out from the changing place.
Baelor was still lost in his texts, and he did not move his gaze to notice you had changed.
You cleared your throat, hoping to gain his attention. You leaned a hand against the column of the bedframe, steadying yourself against the wood.
You felt your heartbeat slowly pick up.
Baelor sighed. "What is it, wife? I told you—" He began, but he was cut short when his eyes landed on your frame standing beside the bed. His mouth parted, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out. His eyes drank in your form, which by all accounts was on full display. Not covered one bit by the dress.
You took a nervous gulp, doubting yourself for a fraction of a moment. Had this been a bad idea? Would he be cross with you?
"What is this?" He quickly regained his composure, snapping out of the brief trance. He slowly rose from the chair, finally discarding those stupid papers and scrolls behind him.
You straightened your spine as he approached you, a surge of confidence ccoursed through you.
He tilted his head, standing fully in front of you now. His mismatched gaze shamelessly wandered over your body, and you swore you could see his pupils widen.
"It is a gift," your voice came out breathlessly. "From the princess Daenerys."
Baelor huffed in response. Eyes still raking over the sheer material, how it hugged the curve of your body. How it brought out all your most beautiful features. How it accentuated all those little details he loved about you so much.
He knew your body like the back of his own hand. He could trace it blind, and he would still know all the spots that made you moan and sigh and squirm in his hold.
"A gift," he parroted, moving to touch the nightgown with his fingers. You flinched as his large palm traced the curve of your waist. "You call this piece of…cloth, a nightgown?" There was a hint of amusement in his tone.
You chewed on your bottom lip, pausing before offering a reply. But he cut you off before you could get a word out.
"You look like a whore from the Streets of Silk." His eyes darkened and his words caught you off guard.
You stiffened under his gaze, both ashamed and exhilirated by the remark.
"What would they say, hm?" His large hands encaged your frame and pulled you flush against his body. His metal rings felt cool against your skin.
"If they saw you like this." He tutted, as if berating a child. "The future queen of the Seven Kingdoms dressed like a broodmare."
Something had overcome your Baelor; your sweet, kind, gentle Baelor. Who had always treated you with such care and tenderness, handling you as if you were made of the finest porcelain. Both outside and inside the bedchamber. And now, you could barely register the words leaving his lips.
"All for me…" he croaked at last.
You felt your blood race impossibly warm in your veins, and you could not hold yourself back any longer. You crashed your lips against his own, catching him by surprise, and you felt him groan into your mouth as you caged his face between your hands.
You felt your hardened nipples rub against the white material on his chest as he pulled you closer to himself, not leaving an inch of space between the two of you.
His hands explored your body over the lace, twisting and gripping the fabric.
"Baelor," you let out as he maneuvered you and pushed you towards the bed. You fell onto the crisp sheets with a soft thud. He immediately leaned down toward you, caging your body with his own.
His hands were on either side of you. He resumed his ministrations, fingers tracing and kissing your body. Worshipping every inch of you.
He was gripping the front of your gown when all of a sudden — the sound of cloth ripping broke the air.
You felt it before you saw it.
"Baelor!" You shrieked as you looked down at the ruined front of your dress. It was torn in two, the delicate material ripped at the seams. "What have you—"
He cut your protests off by tugging the entire thing off your body, leaving you in nothing. Completely bare and naked under his hungry gaze.
"I will buy you a thousand more nightgowns, and I will tear every single one of them if I must. If that means I get to have you." He silenced your objections, and you quickly closed your parted mouth.
You let out an impatient huff at his words as your hips buckled to meet the growing bugle under his robes.
"Impatient are we?" He teased. "Have I been neglecting you, sweet girl?"
You shied away from his gaze, feeling the heat creep back to your cheeks.
"Look at me." He commanded. "Hm is that it? Has your husband not been paying enough attention to you?" He clicked his tongue softly, as if scolding you.
"All you had to do was say so. The next time my sweet wife feels unattended, you will come to me. You will open your mouth, and you will use your words."
He was pressing soft kisses to the place just above your chest. "No, instead you dress like a whore and beg for my attention." There was no true malice behind his words, but you still felt the arousal pool in your lower half.
"Baelor—" you attempted to sit back on your elbows, but he pushed you down.
"Hush, let me take care of you." He whispered against the skin of your neck, his fingers finding your breasts and caressing them softly. Pinching and twirling your nipples in his hold.
You sighed at the sensation and felt shivers of pleasure run straight to your core.
He resumed placing kisses and pecks all over your body, his beard scratching the soft skin. He worked all the way from the column of your neck, to the valley of your breast, to your bellybutton and all the way down to your thighs.
When he finally leaned between your legs, he resumed pressing soft kisses to the insides of your thighs. The scratch of his beard a familiar and welcome sensation.
Your hands clutched at the cold sheets beneath you, attempting to brace yourself somehow.
He kept placing teasing pecks dangerously close to where you needed him the most. His teeth softly nipping and biting the skin of your thighs as he smelled the glistening arousal seeping out of your hole.
"Please…" you whined, strained and desperate for him to finally press his lips against where you needed it the most. For him to finally do something with you.
He chuckled from his place between your legs, and you felt the vibrations through your own body.
"Alright, sweet wife, I will not keep torturing you any longer." And with that, before you could get a single word out, he dove between your legs like a man starved. You let out a violent moan as his tongue plunged into your core.
Your back curved and arched off the bed as you felt one of his fingers come to rub soothing circles into your clit.
"Gods Baelor!" You moaned, fisting the sheets beneath as your legs trembled.
He placed his other hand over your hips, keeping you locked in place.
His tongue explored your insides, and you felt his nose rub against your clit. You were mewling and melting from that sensation alone.
"Please…" Your words came out strained.
You were begging for what? You weren't sure, for something, for anything, for him to do something more.
"Don't stop." You finally turned your gaze to where he was placed beneath you, and a groan almost ripped from you.
He was lapping up every single drop of juice that fell out of your sweet cunt. Swallowing and savouring it as if it were the sweetest nectarine.
You felt the familiar tight coil beginning to strain in your belly.
Baelor could sense it too. The way you started to writhe and how your breaths became shorter, your moans whinier. His tongue found that delicious spongy spot inside of you, fingers still rubbing circles into your clit, and you almost screamed at the overstimulation.
You felt tears of pleasure well in your eyes. "Baelor!" You could not hold your release — the pleasure took over you entirely, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. You swore you could see stars as the white-hot relief flooded you. Your toes curled at the sensation, and a few tears escaped your eyes.
Through all of it, Baelor did not pause for a single moment. He merely adjusted his pace.
He kept his nose pressed against your cunt, lapping up everything and not wasting a single drop of your release. He guided you through the entirety of your climax.
And still he would not stop — you could not tell how long he spent between your thighs. Pleasing you and making you forget everything apart from his name on your lips and the feel of his mouth against your mound.
By the time he was done with you, your skin was slick with sweat and your brain mushed from pleasure.
He raised his head from between your cunt, his face glistening in the dim light, covered in your arousal. His eyes were gleaming with lust as he panted.
Somewhere along the way, between your second and third climax, he had come up to kiss you. You had torn at his robes, and that was how he was left bare-chested.
His upper body on full display as he dove down once more, to seal your lips with his own. Your legs instinctively locked around his hips, his breath mingling with your own as you tasted yourself on his tongue.
He quickly worked to remove his breeches, discarding them somewhere beside the bed. Presumably, in the pile with your destroyed nightgown and his white robes.
Now; the both of you were fully naked, fully bare as the day you were born.
Baelor gazed down at you sprawled beneath him. The pleasure coursing through his veins fogged all else; the sole thing he could focus on was your breathing, the lines of your face, the halo of messy hair, the sheen of sweat on your brow, the way you trembled from pleasure.
Pleasure which he had bestowed upon you. He suppressed a groan at the thought. He lived to please you, and he would set his own needs aside any day if it meant he got to see you like this.
"Gevie." He rasped, the ancient words seeping like honey from his tongue.
Your cunt clenched around nothing; the term of endearment filling both your heart and insatiable body.
Baelor moved to line himself with your entrance, but you caught his arm.
"No." You firmly replied.
"No?" A flicker of confusion in his eyes, perhaps even fear. But before he could question it, you moved your entire body, flipping the two of you and switching positions.
Truth be told, you had no idea where the strength had come from, but nonetheless, you were positioned above him.
He began to protest, but you placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. You shook your head softly. "No, Baelor. Tonight you are the one who lets loose."
He was clearly not exhilarated by the idea. "Wife—"
But before he could get you to switch your mind, in one swift motion you began to sink onto his rigid length. You both moaned in unison, his hands found your hips, steadying himself. You clawed at his chest, feeling as if you were on your wedding night once more, being split open on his cock. The stretch was painfully delicious.
Your cunt squeezing him as if you never wanted to let go. When he was finally sheathed inside you, his manhood pressed against your cervix, filling you to the brim, you thought you could feel him in your very throat. Your head dizzied from the pleasure.
Baelor tentatively leaned back against the pillows, digits leaving indents from how hard he was gripping the flesh of your hips. Containing himself; willing himself to not just flip the two of you around and have his way with you.
Before he could entertain such a thought you carefully moved up his length before sinking down once more, mouth parting in a barely contained moan. You quickly found a steady rhythm as his hands helped guide you.
"Gods, how long has it been?" He wondered through a shaky breath.
You both felt it, the familiar stretch you had grown so accustomed to in the many years of marriage. You laced your fingers through his own, guiding them away from your hips and settling them somewhere beside you as you found your balance.
"Too long," you huffed, and he managed a tiny smile at that, silently agreeing with you.
With Baelor, everything was passionate; he did everything with careful intent and precision. So to be the one sprawled beneath you this time, barely doing anything, both irked him and brought him a strange sense of gratification.
And that is how you spent your entire evening: exploring each other's bodies in the way that you had come to love so much.
He rubbed gentle but firm circles into your clit before you came crying on his cock; he could only last two rounds before taking over the situation. He took you in each and every position one could think of, worshipping your body as if it were the holiest shrine. And to him it was; his sole temple; his damnation and his salvation.
By the end of the night, you were utterly spent; his milky release dripping from your ruined cunt. It was too warm to think of draping even the thinnest sheet over your naked, glistening bodies.
Instead, you placed yourself on his chest, laying your head against his ribcage, where his heart beat steadily. You sighed in contentment, mewling like a tired, well-fed cat.
"I hope we didn't disturb the castle too much…" you joked, alas, there was a hint of embarrassment to your words. You pressed a small kiss to the corner of Baelor's lips.
Your limbs were still tangled as he softly caressed your bare back. "Well… I would be slightly worried if we weren't in Dorne." He let out with a small chuckle.
You giggled at his words. "Am I hearing this correctly? Is Prince Baelor admitting to enjoying the freedom of the South?" You teased him.
He shook his head playfully, leaning up to silence you with a kiss. "If it's with you — yes. Always yes." He breathed as you pulled apart.
And in that singular moment, you felt the happiest and fullest you had in a long time. You could spend the rest of your life happy and content like this; in his arms. Nothing but the breeze from the outside sea intruding on you and the moonlight witnessing your shared passion.
You sighed quietly. This is what heaven or paradise, or whatever they call it, must feel like. You could not imagine anything greater.
After a brief silence, Baelor thought you had drifted off to sleep, exhausted and spent from your coupling. But all of a sudden your voice sounded up.
"Remind me to thank Dyanna when we get back…" You muttered against his skin, a part of your mind already shadowed by sleep.
"Hm?" Baelor paused his touch on your back, for a moment he was certain you were speaking nonsesnse.
"Oh… all I mean is… she said Dornish nights tend to be quite… short… or long… or I'm not quite sure which it was…" You murmured, your eyes already droopy and glazed over with tiredness.
"What…" Baelor huffed a laugh. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing…" Those were the last words that managed to leave your lips, before you drifted off to the land of dreams, utterly content and pliant in the hands of your lover.
baelor who doesn’t believe his new insatiable young wife actually wants to bed him as frequently as she does. he tells her his line is already secured with two heirs and she doesn’t have to put in so much effort. she replies by saying she wants him to have an heir to fill every seat on his small council.
┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your strained marriage to daeron targaryen takes an unexpected turn when your once-absent husband seeks to reach an understanding.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.5K.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (18+), nsfw, alcoholism, reader is not from any specificied house, strained marriage, inexperienced reader, makeup sex, daeron & reader are desperate as hell, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, fingering (fem!rec), begging, hair pulling, cumming untouched, aftercare + sweet ending.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: daeron-pilled ngl ,, I would LOVE to write more of this specific reader with daeron if there’s any interest! I hope y’all enjoy & thank you for the support!
Daeron never considered himself amongst the ranks of good and impressive husbands — if he even considered himself one at all.
In court, he witnessed the very worst and the very best of unions, with wives hanging gleefully from their husbands’ arms. In other instances, it was cold and callous, plainly loveless.
Princely duties seemed beneath him, particularly marriage; a fickle union born of appeasing houses, treaties forging alliances. It was all a rather dour affair, one that he was forcefully subjected to.
Toiling within his own displeasure seemed to do little for him, alleviating nothing. Instead, it carved a deeper hole through his heart, a void without a sliver of light.
He never considered himself a good man, either.
Only a few moons had passed since his marriage to you, a comely young woman of noble birth with a suitable lineage. It was the perfect image of what any advantageous match should be.
To him, you were an obligation born of his father’s desire to appeal to other houses. He didn’t know you — the courtship was fleeting, a series of hurried meetings where he made his disinterest clear.
It was cruel of him, but easier to keep you at arm’s length. He balanced upon the edge of madness and duty too often, keeping you suspended in the empty chasm between.
Whenever you attempted to show him kindness, you were met with a distant indifference from your betrothed. After the third meeting, you resigned yourself to a life of silence.
Your wedding was much of the same; stiff, awkward, and lifeless.
What should’ve been a happier occasion for you was sullied by your new husband’s love of wine and melancholic behavior. You hoped that he’d change his mind — you still hoped he would.
Though, instead of resigning himself to the new role of doting husband, Daeron often spent his evenings drowning in goblets of Dornish red.
Oftentimes, he would travel to the slums with the single-minded appetite of forgetting himself. When the wine continued to flow, the longer he spent wasting away in the underbelly of some pungent tavern.
All the while, you slept alone in a cold bed, often pondering why your husband despised you.
In truth, Daeron did not hate you whatsoever; there was not an ounce of malice in his body. Instead, he used his cups in an effort to suppress his waking nightmares, plagued by visions and dreams.
Dragon dreams haunted his every step, premonitions steeped in mystique and anguish. They were puzzling and indecipherable, visions that clawed at his mind each time he closed his eyes.
He was cursed by the Gods, he thought — no end to these nightmares, no end to this torment. Wine was the only thing he tried that alleviated the weight he carried within his mind.
By sinking further into his cups, he alienated you, the one person longing to comfort him. Daeron was torn by both fear and self-deprecation, knowing that you deserved a husband whose thoughts did not drive him to madness.
Whispers had reached his father regarding your lack of consummation, causing a string of heated arguments and bitter exchanges. It only resulted in more nights spent washing his agony down with the drink.
On the eve of your wedding, he had only touched you briefly with trembling hands, smelling so powerfully of wine that it seemed a second skin.
When he recoiled and claimed he could not go through with coupling, he recalled the confusion and torment on your face. You had gone on believing that it was your fault — that he did not find you pretty.
In truth, he found you aesthetically ethereal, and your immense beauty wasn’t the source of his distance. Much to his dismay, you had appeared in his dreams on-occasion, and it frightened him.
Why love someone fully if they might simply slip through your fingers?
A troubled way to live one’s life, he knew, but this chafing rift that crackled between the both of you needed to be mended somehow.
Admittedly, he had no one to blame but himself for this. Had he done his duty, he might have spared himself the scornful wrath of his father and spared your own sentiments.
At evenfall, he decided to make amends with you.
It was a balmy evening in Summerhall, marked by the kiss of a warm breeze, sunset having bled to twilight. The polished corridors remained hushed with the tide of dusk, a solace seldom felt.
Fields of orange blossoms stretched around the ancient castle, their pallor waning as the sun disappeared. Daeron had wandered the grounds for some time until he found himself back at the beginning.
Targaryen banners rustled softly, stirred by the passing wind that brought with it a saccharine scent. The surrounding countryside was in full bloom, vibrant and lively.
Instead of taking to another inn to drown his sorrows, Daeron lingered outside of your marital chambers. He had been standing there for nearly an hour, downcast and deliberating.
Daeron often slept on the cold floors of his childhood chambers, with a flagon clutched tightly in one hand, reeking of intoxication.
Entering your chambers instilled terror within him, as if he were traversing through some monstrous cavern. Though, you were certainly not the monster here; that title rests entirely with him.
There was no excuse for his reproach or his constant disappearances. He was uncertain of how to mend whatever chasm likely rest between the both of you.
He looked a mess, eyes ringed with haggard bags, platinum tresses disheveled, pale hues somewhat glassy. The flagon of mead he carried with him felt like a weight instead of a crutch.
Out of consideration for you, he knocked; a sluggish, fearful gesture that seemed drawn-out. He wasn’t deeply intoxicated — not yet, anyway.
When the set of doors began to rattle, one of them groaned open, old wood marked with draconic embellishments. You stood in the gap, visibly surprised to see your husband standing there.
“My Prince,” Startled, you wondered why he’d come to you now. You had slowly become accustomed to an empty bed and an absent husband, much to your dismay. “Is something the matter?”
My Prince — you did not call him Daeron.
Wisps of hair framed his features, comely and handsome, visage bearing the shadow of weeks-old stubble. Violet hues swam with a wet sheen of unshed tears.
When you first saw Daeron, you found him to be beautiful; and that sentiment hadn’t changed. Even with his indifference towards you, he managed to make your heart beat faster still.
“May I come in? If you permit it,” Daeron utters, tone unusually soft, as if he were crooning to some wild doe. “I would understand if you never wished to see my face again.”
Some part of you still carried the weight of bitterness when you thought of your marriage to Daeron. You had always yearned for a loving union, to dote upon your husband and any children that followed.
You thought he despised you or found you unsuitable, which might’ve explained his constant need for space. His words gave you pause, prompting you to hesitate.
“These are your chambers just as much as they are mine, my Prince.” Stepping aside, you gestured for him to enter, watching as he slipped through like smoke.
The interior was unfamiliar to him, a foreign place; it showed how little time he spent with you. A pang of self-deprecation rippled through him, visage looking pained.
A tenuous hush followed, one marked with many things left unspoken. He didn’t know where to begin — to apologize to you, to let you unleash your anguish, or to tell you of his dreams.
Daeron’s gaze floated toward your marital bed, one side left made, exceedingly tidy; what would’ve been his place, had he been dutiful to you.
For you, this was agonizingly awkward.
All of your attempts at a proper courtship had been squashed, extinguished like a growing flame, reduced to nothing. Now, he was here, fumbling about like a stranger in your chambers.
Any sensible woman might’ve met him with wrath and scorn, but you saw a ghost of a man instead, desperate for some measure of understanding.
Whispers had surrounded Daeron in regards to his demeanor, often melancholy and detached. You wondered what weighed on him so heavily; was it you? Was it this unwanted union?
“I suppose I should begin with an apology,” He started, moving to lean against the ottoman at the foot of your bed. “But even that seems improper for the strife I’ve caused you these last few moons.”
He oft felt as if he were floating, a mere spectator in his own body, wallowing in his wine. The recent tension with his father and his own self-reflection had been enlightening.
Perhaps, you could be a source of comfort, if he let you in instead of keeping you at-bay.
Quiet, you lingered near him, arms loosely folded over your chest. The evening gown you wore was made of a fine gossamer, a sheer garment that made you glow in the flicker of firelight.
Daeron was still a man; hotblooded and distracted by pretty things, and you were no exception to this. The pliant peaks of your breasts rose against silk, briefly ensnaring his gaze.
Through gritted teeth and a tense jaw, he fought against baser instincts, hoping to grant you a semblance of comfort, despite his shortcomings.
“Where did you go, all those nights?” You assumed he spent most nights whoring, which was the fate of most unsatisfactory marriages.
At first, you wanted to sob, knowing your husband might’ve been with other women. Now, you’d become hardened, adapting to this isolated existence instead.
Daeron was startled by the lack of vitriol from you, but he answered earnestly. “Drunk in the underbelly of some tavern,” He murmured. “Or in the sanctity of my chambers.”
“You did not … Lay with another woman?” Surprised, you choose your words carefully. Your handmaidens warned you of Targaryen princes, but you did not think Daeron to be cruel.
Admittedly, he had considered turning to whoring; and whenever the urge to visit a brothel arose, he simply couldn’t bring himself to follow through.
Many whispers had reached him of your kindly disposition, the tenderness in which you regarded everyone with. That sort of warmth was one he sorely yearned for.
“No,” He affirmed, clutching his flagon between his hands, fingers tracing over the rough leather. “I am an unimpressive and neglectful husband, but I would not dishonor you.”
A twinge of relief rippled through you at that, and you decided to bridge the gap, coming to sit beside him. “Was it something that I did?”
He knew you would ask him that.
Unwilling to meet your gaze, he shook his head, tongue darting to wet his bottom lip. “You did nothing wrong,” His tone falls to a gentle hush. “The fault lies within me.”
“I understand if you’ve a disdain for this marriage, but I simply wish for honesty, and to know you,” You begin, idly twirling a ring around on your finger, a gift from your mother. “You seem melancholy.”
Daeron chuckled mirthlessly at that, resisting the urge to take a swig of ale. Instead, he continued to meet you with transparency, something that you were owed.
“Melancholy,” He parrots, his gaze traveling across your chambers, towards the burning hearth. Within the fire, he can hear them; distant cries of dragons. “That is one word for it.”
“You seem weighed down by something.” As you assert yourself with such a claim, Daeron’s sardonic cadence begins to diminish entirely.
It gives him pause, violet hues daring to meet yours, and he’s greeted by an overwhelming amity. You’re longing to understand him, to treat him gently; he recognizes this now, plain as daylight.
Ghosts dance within his gaze, haunted by something; the corner of his mouth twitches sardonically. “If I told you, you may think me a madman. I do not wish to sully your view of me any further.”
Temptation sings a siren’s song from his flagon of mead, and he heeds its call, taking a swig to ease his frayed nerves. It doesn’t have the intended buzz he hoped for.
“I do not believe that madness courses through your blood as it does others,” Consolingly, your hand reaches to briefly brush over his forearm. “I’ve no ill feelings toward you.”
Daeron scoffs mirthlessly, your piety a stark contrast to his own sourness. “I would not begrudge you if you felt otherwise, my lady.” He murmurs, staring elsewhere.
“This distance between us — I cannot mend it if you do not tell me what troubles you,” Quietly, you twiddled with your skirts, able to smell honey mead wafting from him. “I ask this as your wife.”
“It is not your wound to mend,” There is a sharpness in his tone that is wholly self-deprecating, seizing the blame away from you. “Have you ever felt as if you are helpless?”
A hush settles between as you consider his words carefully, gaze flickering about your husband’s countenance. “Many times.” You answer softly.
“It feels like an inevitability,” Daeron utters, amethyst hues wet with a sheen of unshed tears. “That I foresee many things, and am powerless to stop any of it.”
“What do you mean?” Seeking elaboration, you are desperate to reach out to your husband, to understand the root of his plight. “Do you have premonitions?”
“Dreams,” Forlornly, the man glances at you with a wayward stare, lips parting. “Only mine are doomed to come true.” He sighs, shaking his head with a light huff.
Dreamers, they were called; those of Valyrian blood whose prophecies often came to fruition.
“You thought I might not believe you if you told me, is that it?” The cadence of your inquiry is agonizingly calm, a sweetness unlike any he’d felt before.
Silent, his head jostles in a light nod, teeth scraping against the inside of his cheek. The resolve he thought he had withers in the face of your kindness.
“I saw you,” Daeron’s voice trembles slightly, as if clinging to any last thread of optimism. He does not wish to crumble before you, but it becomes increasingly difficult. “Covered by ash and by ivy, shrouded in darkness.”
Bewildered, you moved to comfort him as best as you could, fingertips dragging along his temples. “I sit here before you unharmed, husband,” You assure, brows knitting together. “Flesh and blood.”
“I thought it might be easier to keep apart from you, fearing that my vision may come to light,” He realizes now the grave error he made. “Foolish, perhaps, but it comforted me.”
“I understand your desire for distance, but I do long for my husband,” You murmur, lips twitching into a brief smile. “Allow me to help you, and place your trust in me.”
Seven Hells, he did not deserve you. This amiable tenderness you treated him with shrouded him like midsummer sunlight, warm and welcoming.
“I do not deserve your kindness, nor you.” His voice is splintered, agonized by this cordiality you extend to him. A low huff slips past his lips, humorless.
“You are deserving, even if you have convinced yourself otherwise,” As your cadence twines around him like ivy, he attempts to heed your words. “If these dreams haunt you so, my Prince, let me stand between you and them.”
Daeron shivers when your fingertips ghost across his jaw, a kiss of warmth to melt away the ice that surrounds him. Wordlessly, he places his flagon aside; he does not need it now, not with you.
Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine as he turns into the silk of your palm, planting a chaste kiss there. Pale lashes flutter in rapid succession, amethyst hues softening with an understanding.
“I ask that you call me by my name,” The hushed eloquence of his cadence is like silk, soft lips continuing to lavish your wrist with kisses. “I no longer wish to be a Prince to you.”
Something warm blossomed throughout your belly, a sensation you’d been longing for since the inception of your marriage. You feel it there, hot and unfurling when he dotes upon you.
A hitch forms within your throat as Daeron’s gaze lingers on you for what feels like an eternity, extending beyond the realm of propriety. He is your husband, after all.
Yet, he seems unworthy of coveting you in the way that he does now; that is something he should’ve been doing all along.
Your beauty was never questionable, always something to boast about amongst his kin. Firelight laps at your skin, blanketed by the soft glow of waning embers, bathing you in orange.
It curls across your features like smoke, bringing out the gleam in your eyes. Daeron is uncertain of how to proceed, and the weight of consummating your marriage by his father’s command grows heavy.
Before he can say anything at all, you bridge the gap, mouth pressing softly against his. It is rather unexpected, but he doesn’t find himself recoiling.
He scarcely recalled the last time he kissed you fully; he assumed he was deeply intoxicated if he did. The gentleness of your kiss coaxes him to relax, even if it feels as though he is undeserving of your affection.
Admittedly, you were aching to be touched.
Before tonight, you resigned yourself to a life of misery, only pleasuring yourself to chase some semblance of relief. Part of you hoped that Daeron would indulge you, and you were not above begging.
Tension slowly unfurls from his posture as he reciprocates your kiss, hand lifting to cup your jaw. Even that alone is enough to make you shiver with anticipation.
“Daeron.” At last, his name floats freely from your lips, and it is the sweetest sound of all. He can taste the neediness on your tongue, feel it when you grip his arm.
“I’ve been a cruel husband,” He murmurs, mead-tinged breath fanning across your features. “I have neglected your needs, haven’t I?” Daeron questions softly, watching your expression flicker.
“I — It is not my place to make demands of you,” Despite your desire for transparency, you do not want to coerce him into anything. “Though I have longed to touch you.”
Something hot strikes at his stomach, as though he’s been burned, pale brows drawing together. The dull buzz of alcohol hums through his veins, and yet your embrace evokes a similar effect.
“If permitted, I would like to remedy my errors,” Daeron’s proposition sends shivers down your spine; this is what you’ve wanted from first glance. “I wish to share your bed.”
Without a drop of hesitation, you nod, almost pleading for him to touch you. You lack experience, a stark contrast to your once-rakish husband, but he wasn’t regarded as a rough lover.
“You may.” With your consent issued, his chest expands with a sharp inhale, attempting to gather his bearings and make this pleasurable for you.
Daeron has little interest in fully consummating your marriage this evenfall, hellbent on pleasuring you, instead. It is your ecstasy he should be pursuing, wholly intent on making up for squandered time.
“My father demands that I put a babe in your belly,” He hums lazily, thumb caressing over your chin. “I will obey him in my own sweet time. I wish to please you.”
The pitch of his cadence, wrought with an agonized desire, makes your stomach ripple with heat. Admittedly, you care little for a child at the present — you merely want to feel desirable.
“You may heed his demands another night,” The words are hurried, growing impatient with the brewing tension. You long to be touched, coveted. “For now.”
Though, much to his shock, it is you who kisses him again, hunger pouring from your mouth. He feels it simmer in your kiss like wildfire, threatening to consume the both of you, ashes and all.
Daeron stifles a soft groan, hand cupping near the nape of your neck, feeling your hands curl into his tunic. Each kiss is almost voracious, a torrent of repression you’ve suffered, and he feels everything.
Suppressed desire ripples to the surface, and for a moment, your heartbeats seem to sing a similar lullaby, both aching with want.
For a young maiden who lacks experience with intimacy, you kiss him as if you’ve kissed a thousand times before. It is oozing with passion, unrestrained and uninhibited.
A startled groan erupts within his throat when you bite at his bottom lip, tongue surging into his maw. It is a messy dance, tongues twining, lips colliding, and saliva conjoining the two of you.
Recognizing his own need, one hand drops to grope at your hip, thumb drawing circles over silk. He grips you gently, coaxing you closer, until the distance between is only a sliver.
Each kiss is messy, hot; it becomes an amalgamation of tongue, teeth, and everything amorous.
The shadow of stubble burns pleasantly against your mouth, and you consider what it might feel like between your legs. Daeron’s fingers lightly tangle at the base of your skull, caressing into your tresses.
He tastes of honeyed mead and sweetness, borderline ambrosial as you feel his breath hitch slightly. Perhaps he is just as needy as you are — the thought delights you to no end.
“I’ve thought of you often,” Your confession plumes like a warm breeze across his mouth, desperate and frayed. “Every moment you’ve spent away from me has been torturous.”
Daeron feels the razor-sharp stab of guilt flood into him, but he doesn’t want to stoop to remorse while you’re in his arms. “I am a fool to have left you in such a state.” He utters, gaze shimmering with desire.
It is he who kisses you openly this time, overflowing with a long-smothered desire. The fire within unfurls, and he realizes how much he truly wants you, too. Mouths join again, colliding over and over with desperation.
As lips part, his mouth drops to your throat, gingerly pushing your tresses aside, planting eager kisses to your neck. The noise you make causes him to shiver, breathing in your scent.
It is not the wine that dizzies his senses, but you — this creature of kindness entrapping him in your tender web.
“You are not,” The gasp that splits your mouth causes you to grip handfuls of his tunic. “I thought that there was something wrong with me.” You murmur, and he slowly shakes his head.
“No,” The smile he gives is a touch somber, quietly begging for your forgiveness. “Only me.” Daeron strings kisses down the column of your throat, towards your collarbone.
Gathering your shift into fistfuls, you hastily tug it up along the pliant swell of your thighs, settling into your husband’s waiting lap. A sharp gasp splits his diaphragm, amethyst hues alight with something amorous.
Spurred to action, he inhales your scent, overwhelmingly cloying as he mouths along your flesh. As he descends to your collarbone, his hand slips beneath your breast, a wisp of touch.
“I burn for your embrace, I need you terribly,” Despite the pathetic whine you give him, it is Daeron who seems a mess, shuddering at your confession. “Please, Daeron.”
He enjoys feeling longed-for, sought after; when you give him this gratification, he melts into you, lips pursing to suckle at the soft skin of your chest. When you tug on his hair, it is he who groans in delight.
As the sharp sound blossoms through his chest, you catch it, doe-eyed and wanting to hear the noise again. You pull at your husband’s pallid tresses again, and it earns you another groan.
Before your hand can think to drop to his groin, he stops you with a fervent shake of his head. “Do not,” Daeron soothes, pupils blown-out, lips parted. “This is about you tonight, not I.”
A protest nearly slips from your mouth, but he silences you with a chaste kiss, tongue caressing your bottom lip. Daeron’s mouth lavishes your collarbone in further kisses, gaze shadowed by desire.
Lips passionately brand themselves to your throat, collarbone, sternum — he leaves no inch of your chest untouched. He worships your body, adoring you so viscerally, so deeply.
Enthralled, you watch as his head sinks further, hotly pressing kisses over every inch of flesh he can find. He tugs at your slip, inching the collar down enough to find your breast.
Without warning, his mouth wraps around your nipple, softly suckling at the sensitive bud. A keening moan leaves you, palm cradling at the base of his skull, threading into his hair.
“Tell me what you need,” Daeron’s ardent moan flutters across your chest, his voice soft as it floats between the both of you. “Let me earn your forgiveness.” He slurs, pawing at your hip.
Something hot and wicked settles between your legs, slick arousal coalescing at his subservience. Despite your lack of experience, instinct and desire drive you forward without hesitation.
“I need you, Daeron, I need your mouth.” When you let your tongue loosen, he nods eagerly, mouthing at your chest. He showers your pliant flesh in kisses, suckling at silky skin, clutching onto your hip.
With a stroke of his lips, Daeron began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. It was warm and wet, neediness bleeding into his actions, an inevitability.
The heat from the crackling hearth crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot in the wake of your husband’s ministrations.
A fire churned within your belly, longing to be extinguished by his touch. Instead, it only burned brighter when his hand slithered toward your thigh, squeezing at the satiny flesh there.
Finding solace within your flesh, a tendril of spittle clings to the corner of his mouth, shimmering when he moves to tongue at your other breast. He exhales sharply when you tug at his hair.
As one palm grips his tresses, the other clamors between your legs, hastily hitching your skirts up around your hips, exposing your flesh to the cooler air of your chambers.
Ravenous hues trace over your physique, pliant curves framed by thin silks. “Have you touched yourself in my absence?” Daeron rasps against your chest, words emerging between wanton kisses.
Inclined to answer transparently, your head jostles in a lingering nod, lips parted. A razed groan draws doggedly from his mouth, countenance ruined by sheer desperation.
“Yes,” A ragged whine splits your diaphragm as your legs part for him, hand tugging at his tunic. “I thought of you when I did, I — I longed for you, husband.”
It should’ve been his hand between your legs all those nights.
Seeking repentance for his abandonment of you, Daeron greedily suckles at your breast once more, hand slithering towards the apex of your thighs.
Deft, nimble digits sweep over the wet petals of your cunt, shivering in delight when he discovers your arousal. Something pleasant blossoms through his chest; a sense of pride that further spurs his confidence.
Words disintegrate to ash upon his tongue, squashed in the wake of his mouth buried against your flesh. Teeth graze over your nipple, lips hungrily slavering all across your breast.
Fingers circle your clit with care, brushing languidly over the sensitive clutch of nerves. A white-hot jolt ripples through your body, sending a shockwave of bliss to your cunt.
Practiced digits trace over your slit, sinking in sluggish, rhythmic motions across your cunt. A moan sits heavy upon your tongue, loosened when he accompanies it with suckling your breast.
“Forgive me for my neglect of you, wife,” Daeron sighs, tongue dragging along your sternum. One hand shifts to ruck at your slip, flicking along the silken ties. “I wish to see you properly.”
A rosy tongue darts to wet his bottom lip, amethyst hues seeming pathetic, expression one of ardent need. In hurried movements, you clamor from his lap, hastily tearing your chemise off.
Supple flesh becomes unveiled, assuming some ethereal glow beneath flickering firelight. It licks across your skin like paint against a canvas, and Daeron is powerless against your charm.
Some heady, wanton gleam flickers perilously within glassy hues, lips parted, his countenance nothing short of awe. He quietly bids you to sit on the chaise, bones aching with anticipation.
Wordlessly, he slinks down until he is kneeling between your legs, doublet half-unbuttoned, pale tresses scattered around his crown.
Dexterous fingers cradle your calf, caressing along soft skin, ascending towards the crook of your knee. Still silent, he places a kiss there, eyes boring through you with an incendiary gaze.
“D—Daeron,” A fluttery sigh is drawn from your mouth, your cadence pitched with a wanton thrill. “Seven Hells, please do not deny me any longer.” You plead, and he is delighted to obey.
Daeron sluggishly trails kisses along your leg, starting beside your knee before training upwards. He touched you brazenly, no longer anchored by the heavy weight of restraint.
The tips of your digits caress against the base of his skull, perusing through pale tresses, gripping whenever he starts to stray. He kisses a path to the apex of your thighs, stubble scratching at your skin.
“Tell me that you need me.” Daeron sighs, sloppy and wanton, openly mouthing at your inner thigh. His shoulders spread you apart, hands groping the swell of your hips.
Dreams cannot touch him here — no nightmares, no ominous premonitions wrought with confusion and disillusionment.
As you gaze upon him, he looks thoroughly and utterly razed, amethyst hues doe-like and wet, pink lips shimmering when he kisses your cunt.
Gooseflesh coalesces along your spine, pinpricks of exhilaration gripping your body. His mouth burns like warm embers, reverent and gentle as he laps sluggishly over your slick petals.
“Daeron.” A moan flutters from your mouth, lips agape, hand threatening to tug at his tresses. Your body reacts violently to him, held in a state of constant need for so long.
His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, craven and deliciously needy.
“Say it,” He begs hotly, spilling warmth into your cunt as he buries his mouth there. There is an eagerness present, something messy and tactless, but still bristling with desire. “Please.”
Even the finest of wines could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.
“I — Gods, I need you,” A cloying whine simmers from your mouth, diaphragm quivering with another string of moans. You tug at his crown, hips lurching forward. “I need you, Daeron!”
The ecstasy he feels in that moment is unparalleled; the sensation of being wanted, of being useful.
Desperation tears him asunder, and yet he succumbs to it all the same, finding sanctity between your thighs. He kneels as if he’s a sinner, coming to whisper away his vices between your thighs.
Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.
The ragged scratch of his stubble burns pleasantly against your cunt, chafing at your inner thighs. His mouth is a messy thing — sloppy, raring, and desirous.
As molten heat oozes like honey against your nethers, Daeron is drawn to your nectar, akin to a bee. He steadies one hand against your thigh, digits caressing circles into your skin.
The other holds steadfastly to your hip, shivering in delight when your fingers intertwine with his. Every sensation digs like a hot brand into your core, bliss entangled with something divine.
He sheds his misery like a second skin, abandoning it there between your legs, allowing himself to become drunk upon your presence. It is an intoxication of a different kind, quelled as his tongue drags languidly over your cunt.
Touching yourself paled in comparison to the wondrous labyrinth of his mouth, hips jolting as you pathetically chase after every scrap of friction.
Daeron groans into your cunt, concentration blurred by the earlier consumption of alcohol. It burns his nerves, removing any sharp edges and hesitation.
“Better than wine.” He huffs against your thigh, mouth brazenly glistening with your slick. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip before he looks to you, hopelessly devoted.
Slowly, he descends upon you once more, gaze silently begging for your attention as he drags his tongue across your slit. You let out a strangled whine, flushed and writhing.
Shame is not present here, drowned out by your cacophony of sweet noises. He lets himself be tactless and amorous, lapping openly at your cunt like some slavering animal.
His cock twitches within his breeches, aching with something desirous, mouth raking over your silken flesh with a single-minded purpose. Pleasure is exchanged between you both, a cycle of ecstasy.
A searing intensity pulses hotly between your thighs, arousal thick on his tongue as he savors you. Whenever your hips begin to writhe elsewhere, he grounds you gently, urging you to his mouth.
It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.
“Daeron,” A keening moan flutters prettily from your throat, countenance askew with pleasure. The sudden pulse of bliss ebbs through your body, wrapping around your bones. “There, mm — there!”
The sudden crash of euphoria is unlike anything you’d experienced before, as if you were a smoldering fire stoked to life. You fear smothering him, but Daeron welcomes it all gleefully.
It is a masterful push-and-pull he plays with you, relinquishing pressure against your clit before lapping at it again, and then repeating. He is drunk on you, consuming you as if you were his lifeblood.
“Fuck,” Daeron sighs into your cunt, chin glistening with your slick, lips still working to make you reach your pinnacle. “You taste divine.” He exhales, grasping at your thighs.
He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked it of him; begged him, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.
Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud in cycles.
Arousal claws at his veins like fire, hips pathetically rutting forward, friction scarce. A wet sheen of tears glistens in his gaze, tears of ecstasy stinging as he continues to lap sloppily at your cunt.
You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.
Stars float aimlessly within your gaze, head rolled backwards, back arched and thighs smothering his head. Daeron cares little, delighted to drown in your taste, holding onto your calves.
When at last the dam breaks fully, you tremble with ecstasy, limbs weightless, body floating into a feverish haze. Pale tresses slip through your fingers as you tug again, and tug with a sense of urgency.
He drinks you as he would his wine, and yet you taste sweeter, chasing away whatever shadowy plague torments his thoughts.
Even as you reach your pinnacle, he does not relent, open-mouthed and greedy as he laps at your drenched cunt. A sharp moan escapes him when you attempt to inch away, nearly overwhelmed.
“Not yet, I beg you,” Daeron pleads, breathless and wanton as he reluctantly parts from your nethers. He appears undone in such an amorous way, gaze full of need. “Allow me another moment.”
Bewildered, your head bobs in a lackadaisical nod, digits softly stroking through his tresses as he plants kisses to your slick petals. Another moan drags through your chest, flesh hot and tingling.
He slows to an exploratory crawl, tongue licking you like some keening kitten, hands trembling as he caresses along your haunches.
“Daeron, Gods.” Another passionate sigh escapes you, hips absently rolling into his mouth. He groans as if he’s succumbed to ecstasy, and you reach to hold his hand.
This act alone is what takes him to his own precipice, marked by a bliss he hasn’t experienced for some time. He cums untouched, embarrassingly enough, but he is wholly satisfied.
When he finally ceases, your countenance is one of veiled amazement, body drenched in pleasure, knees trembling like leaves. You watch as he rests his chin atop your thigh, huffing a smile.
The moment is warm; the warmest it’s felt since the beginning of your marriage.
Daeron appears the picture of a man who has regained some sliver of himself, content to recline between your legs, stroking at your skin.
“Lay with me.” It is not a command you utter, but merely a request, one that he heeds without question. As you shakily wobble from the chaise, you lay in your bed, with your husband at your side.
He settles down, and for as foreign as it all feels, he does think he could grow accustomed to it. You turn into him, laying partially on your belly and on top of him, feeling his palm smooth across your spine.
A serene hush settles between you both, born in the aftermath of carnality and intimacy. The buzz that hums through two bodies is shared; and it’s perfect.
“You are endearingly sweet,” He hums, shivering as your fingertips dance across his hairline, politely fixing his disheveled tresses. “I suppose you would make an excellent wife.”
The light jest he gives does bring a sense of easiness to your heart, knowing that he is serious in mending your relationship. He knows now that he wants you entirely.
“If you would allow me the opportunity, I’d like to be,” A tender smile curls your lips, and you plant a kiss to his jaw, and then another. “But only if you agree to be my husband.”
Daeron huffs in mild amusement, mauve hues no longer bearing the weight of an unimaginable anguish. They seem lighter now, as if part of a burden has been lifted from his shoulders.
“Hm,” He ponders, playfully keeping you in a moment of suspense. His head tilts enough to look at you, truly look at you, and he knows now that he is understood. “I do have some learning to do.”
His confession is astoundingly honest, and it makes your heart call for him even more. Neither of you truly know one another — but you can start anew.
“As do I,” Adjusting yourself further, you curl comfortably against him, enjoying the sensation of his fingers caressing your back. “I believe it would be best if we learned together.”
“Yes,” Daeron exhales, mouth twitching into the ghost of a genuine smile as he gazes at the canopy, tears glistening within his gaze. “I’d like that.”
Tags: [mlw][aged up][mdni][friends][little bit of crack][missionary][loss of v-card][tiny tags][bickering][breeding kink if you narrow your eyes][porn with plot]
"I've watched enough porn to know how to do it, dumbass."
"Yeah? And I don't trust you near my coochie. You crushed a Pepsi can with your finger today."
"Don't say 'coochie'."
"What then? Pussy?" You scoff.
"Vagina."
And you lower the Cosmopolitan magazine, your expression bored and upper lip curled in distaste as you watch Mark, reclined on his bed as he absentmindedly tosses a paper ball into the air, catching it with ease, only to throw it back up.
The motion is repetitive, boring to watch but you can't deny the appeal of watching that little muscle in his forearm twitch beneath his skin.
"I'll call my genitalia whatever I want, thank you very much. And you shouldn't mimic porn." You state. "A lot of that stuff isn't real and pardon me, but I want an actual orgasm when I lose my virginity."
Mark let's out a snort of laughter, perching up and resting his weight in his elbows, the edge of his sweater raising the tiniest bit and you catch a peek of a neat, dark little happy trail that disappears beneath the fabric of his clothing.
"I can guarantee an orgasm." Mark boasts. "I'll bet anything."
"If I don't cum, I want you to grow a full bush and then, wear cycling shorts for a week."
Your wager has Mark's lips pursing, chocolate pools moving towards the ceiling as he weighs his options. "Oddly specific but okay." Mark shrugs. "And if you cum, anytime I learn a sex trick, I get to try it on you. Unless you get into a relationship but," he snorts, "let's be realistic."
The insult has you flinging the magazine across the bedroom, hitting Mark in the face with the spine and he winces, although, you know it's more out of habit than from actual feeling.
"It's so weird." He mumbles. "I don't feel your abuse anymore."
Mark's grin is cocky.
"Oh, Marky," you coo, lifting yourself from his desk chair and you cradle his face in your hands, an action that's so familiarly condescending but Mark can't help but lean into your warm palms, "you're only unaffected by the physical abuse. I can still hurt you self-esteem."
Mark's eyes narrow at you. "Try it." There's a challenge in his voice that you just can't ignore. Especially when he's looking at you like that. Brown eyes trained intensely on you, black strands tousled ever so slightly from the long day he's had.
"You have feminine hands." And you swear, the way his expression falls is an aphrodisiac in of itself before you straighten up.
"It's easy to hurt your ego, Marky." You hum. "Heroes get a lot of hate if they do something wrong. But lucky for you, you have years of experience."
"Yeah," Mark hums, "no one's a bigger dick than you."
"It's so weird that you're losing your virginity on your parents' anniversary." You hum quietly, carefully traveling along the sides of Mark's bedroom, attaching the LED light strips along the cornish.
"Don't make it weird." Mark grumbles, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fuzzy robe as he towel dries his hair, messy strands poking in every direction and he watches you with amusement. "Their anniversary is like, the only time when they travel far enough that I can't hear them. So.... It's the only night I can do it."
"They probably don't want you to hear them fucking." You hum, almost absentmindedly and when Mark gags, you let out a laugh and your foot slips from the backrest of his desk chair, and you slip.
But instead of meeting the carpeted floor in an unceremonious crash, you instead crash into Mark's chest, his arms wrapped around your midsection and your knees tucked up. And he dips his head low, head tilted.
"You okay?"
And if your pussy didn't have a heartbeat before, it does now. The way he looks down at you, his expression so soft, brows creased in concern and his lips. So soft and inviting, the scent of mint lingering in the air and you nod your head.
"Mhm," you mutter quietly, "I'm okay."
Mark sets you on your feet, before examining where you had stuck the lights and he nods his head, a grin cocking at his lips.
"Yeah, this is a mood setter."
"Can I open my eyes now?" Mark grumbles, arms folded over his chest but his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones and you let out a hum.
"Go ahead." You mumble and he allows his eyes to open and drink in the sight of you.
Freshly showered, steam still rising from your skin and in his T-shirt. The faded Batman shirt ends just below your crotch, your ankle socks aren't even matching and your hair's tied into a bun that looks so half-assed.
You look nervous. Eyes lowered to the carpet and Mark reaches forward, large hands bracketing your hips and his thumbs brush over the trimming of your panties. And he pulls you to stand between his thighs, his head tips back and his chin comes up to rest on your sternum as he stares up at you.
"We don't have—" "I want to." You interrupt him, your hands raising to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing along his jawline. "I want to." You repeat quietly, looking down at Mark.
The plan is to lose your virginities before the gap year is over. Because you'd both much rather make a mistake with each other than with strangers.
"Move your hand."
Mark lets out a snicker of laughter, your thighs tossed over his and his tip notched at your entrance, and he can barely think.
Not when he knows how tightly you felt around his fingers, sucking him in with such a neediness, not when he saw the way your brows knitted into the prettiest little pinched expression when his tongue lapped against your clit just right.
"I looked at the logistics of it and it's not gonna fit."
You state, and those pretty brown eyes roll at your words, before Mark slaps your hand away, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he taps it against your clit. Just to watch the way your stomach caves in with an unsteady breath.
"It'll fit." Mark reassures. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."
And you let out a laugh, your body slumped against the mattress and you snort.
"No you're n—nahh..."
Mark watches the way your head tips back when he pushes his tip past the ring of muscle, and he watches the way your eyes shut, brows knitting into a pinch.
"You little... Fuck.."
You breathe out, your expression a little pouty frown and Mark moves a strand of hair out of your face, leaning forward and as he presses a kiss to your forehead, he pushes another inch inside.
And as you gasp, his lips press against yours, and Mark swallows each moan and groan of pain, his forearm supporting his weight while his other hand grips your hip, thumb brushing over the protruding bone of your hip and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.
"You're so warm..." Mark murmurs into the kiss, but he keeps his hips still, slotted between your thighs and he feels your gummy walls pulsing around him, trying to get used to the intrusion. And Mark lifts his head, kissing the apples of your cheeks.
"So I'm big, huh?"
He teases and watching as your pained expression gives way to an annoyed expression, eyes bored and brows furrowed.
"Just fuck me already."
You grumble.
And Mark pulls out, until just the rosy tip of his cock is poked into your sopping cunt, before he slowly pushes back into you.
The stretch burns, and you can feel the way your nails dig into your palms and you take a deep breath. His hips are pressed against yours, and you can feel that painful pinch behind your navel.
"Are you inside yet?" You question, peeking up at Mark through your lashes, enough to watch the way that dorkish grin spread across his face as he readjusts his position, leaning forward and shifting himself to rest more comfortably.
"Ha-ha, very funny." He rolls his eyes, his voice just a tad breathy and his hands move, thumbs moving your pussy lips out of the way, spreading them so he can see the pinkish flesh that swallows him whole.
"Mark!" You hiss, swatting away his hands, and covering your folds from his view. "What are you doing?"
"They do it in porn!" He defends, moving his hands to rest on your hips instead as his hips slowly begin to roll against you, the soft strands of his happy trail tickles your neglected and swollen clit, and you take a shaky breath.
"Those people are ass naked." You deadpan. "You've never even seen my feet."
With one hand, Mark shifts the covers and lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of your socks, still on your feet. And he reaches back for your ankle, lifting your leg and he places a soft kiss on the inside of your foot, causing your walls to flutter around him.
His kiss is warm through the cotton, a lingering show of affection as his hips thrust, cock nudging your insides to his shape. And he lowers your foot.
"Put your foot on my chest. I wanna try something." Mark hums quietly, resting your sock covered foot on his chest. And you let out a snort.
"My pussy isn't a skate park. You can't try things you've never done." You huff, but you comply, keeping your foot against his brawny chest, even as Mark shifts you into position, straddling your one thigh and resting your foot on his chest.
And when he moves, your foot slides off his chest, instead, resting beside him. And a snicker slips past your lips at the frustrated expression on his face.
"Please participate." Mark grumbles, moving your foot, and resting your leg over his shoulder, ignoring the way a laugh ruptures from your lips.
Kiss-swollen and pouty lips curling into a wicked grin.
"Bro said 'please par—'... Shit..."
Your eyes roll back in your head when the divot of Mark's tip presses against your cervix, pressing a sloppy, slick kiss against the plug as he grinds into you, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the curve of your jaw.
Mark isn't even fucking you anymore.
He's slowly rutting into you, pressing adorning kisses to the side of your face, sucking marks into the supple skin of your neck while he slowly fucks an orgasm out of you.
Kissing you deeply, his hand grasping the fat of your hip while the other massages the plumpness of your thigh, pressing a warm kiss against your calf before going back to swallowing your honeyed moans.
"... shit, you're gonna make me come..." You breathe out, your nails dragging lines down the expanse of his muscular and slightly damp back, the pain and pleasure mixing into a delicious concoction that has Mark burying his face into your neck.
Inhaling the scent of you.
"Mhm.... 's okay, baby, come for me..."
His voice is husky, a low timbre that makes your stomach knot and you whine when you feel that wave of ecstasy crash over you, waves breaking on the jagged rocks of your being and you're lashes flutter, tears brimming on your lower lashline because you're just so... Full.
Mark perches up, wiping the teardrops from your cheeks and he looks down at your hazy and flushed expression. His gaze lingering on your lips, wet and rosy, and before he even registers, your hand is on his face.
"Stop making such heavy eye contact." You whine. "You're gonna make me catch feelings."
And a laugh tumbles from his lips.
"You know, I have your entire future in my hands right now." Mark states quietly and when you hum, quietly mumbling a 'how do you mean', he simply presses a kiss against your pulse.
"I could fuck a baby into you right now." Mark breathes out.
"And you'd thank me for it."
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