hi baby, you can make an hcs of the characters from The Boys with a Harley Quinn! readers?? With all characters including Soldier Boy
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ THE BOYS X HARLEY QUINN!READER
ᯓ★ looots of goofy shit, dark humour, gore, sensitive topics (abuse, toxic relationships, etc), toxicity, reader is fem!!
ᯓ★ Characters included (I couldn't do everyone so I just did these guys, I know yer kind missy 👴): Homelander, Black Noir (Old and New), Butcher, Soldier Boy
HOMELANDER
He's honestly so fed up with you.
Sure he loves watching you mess with people but he does not like it when YOU DO IT TO HIM!!!
"Quinn!" He'd shout for your name and you'd open the door to see him standing outside your room. You laugh when you see him covered in ketchup. One of your many pranks.
"What?? You needed the upgrade for the suit cupcake" You smiled all innocently.
That being said you LOVE pulling pranks on him.
Whether if it's putting hair dye in his shampoo or stealing his suit so he wakes up searching for it.
It's just your favourite thing to do.
There have been times he's tried to kill you due to his rage but it takes every cell in his body to stop himself because he knows that he's not able to do that.
Because why? Because he thinks you don't even deserve to be killed by him directly.
You disgust him that much.
He just wishes that you weren't such a pain in his ass.
If the pranks weren't bad enough that it had him double checking every item he uses, AKA worsening his trust issues. You've also came up with nicknames to mock his superhero status.
"If it ain't the flying dick!" You'd address his entrance to everybody the moment he walked in the meeting room.
Just imagine him suddenly stop and standing at the door like 🧍♂️
If you wanna know more nicknames, we've got captain narcissist, america's buttplug and sperm cell.
Trust you are never sent on safely planned missions, only the ones he knows are highly dangerous in hopes of you dying...
There was this one time he sent you on a suicide mission and he was all proud of himself, but just as he thought he finally got rid of you, the elevator door slides open to reveal you, some fabrics of your clothes were ripped and there were bruises all over your body but it didn't seem to bother you.
"What's up toots?" You'd smile even though your nose was bleeding. That's when he looked down to see the head of the guy he asked for you to assassinate.
Who also happened to be one of the most protected men in the nations by the way.
Like how the fuck did you do it?
You're not even an ACTUAL supe!!
Regardless, he has his respects for you but really why WONT YOU LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE.
PLEASE STOP FLIRTING WITH HIM SO CASUALLY ITS WEIRD??!???!?
ALSO DONT PINCH HIS BUTT!!!
You once did that during a meeting and the sight of him yelping as his body jumps was unforgettable!!
You're JUST like a bee addicted to its pollen. P.S, he's the pollen.
BLACK NOIR (OLD)
He.. doesn't... understand you??
Why do you enjoy showering him with love??
You say it's in your nature but why do you always ask to be carried around the tower??
And why does he obliges each time??
Apparently how your mindset works is that you find extremely deadly things to be adorable.
In this case, he's the extremely deadly thing.
With his silent nature, you just NEEDED to get a reaction out of him.
You tried tickling him or making him sneeze but he always just stares at you in confusion.
You can't see his face but you can tell he's giving you the "What are you doing?" Face.
That's when your bright ass thought of a plan.
A dumb and reckless idea... but hey! You have suicidal tendencies so this is fine!
You'd put yourself in danger on purpose just for him to always come rescuing you. He has lost many body parts when doing so but you could care less, you would give him those heart eyes as he carried you back to Vought in bridal style...
Just for the managers to lock you up in a small prison cell to prevent you from pulling more of these stunts.
Though they were never enough to hold you back.
Naturally there would be rumours in the industry if you two were dating and you never hesitate to push those rumours even more.
Imagine for a premiere for your movie, you'd walk on the red carpet in a dress with Noir beside you, still in his signature suit.
"You're looking real good tonight, handsome. I'm liking what I see" You'd say with your arm wrapped around his. He looks at you as you winked at him seductively.
Someone save this poor boy from your endless flirting.
Jokes aside, there has been times he's seen you in your lowest, like that time you trashed your room with your makeup melted from your tears.
Apparently you got rejected from a movie role you wanted to get so badly. Which was Mario but stupid Chris fucking Pratt got it instead.
Seeing the state you were in, he'd grab you by the shoulders firmly and make you sit down, then putting a blanket around you. He'd leave the room for a couple of minutes... to come back with a bucket of ice cream for you to happily snack on as you rest your head on his shoulder.
BLACK NOIR (NEW)
"EW!! Get this mo'fuckin' bastard away from me!" Literally your words when you heard about the replacement.
Is a bit hurt by your disgust towards him??
But that just means he knows what he's doing right or wrong with this new role.
No because seriously everything he does, he would stop to watch for your reaction, most of the time you are never impressed.
Like how he killed those homelander fans to frame the starlighters. He'd hold the bat, his mask all bloody as he turned to see you, arms crossed, no reaction to his performance.
UNTIL at the end of season 4 where he began killing people within the company, that was what got you to start growing interest in his character.
Even though you're fine with him, for now, you really don't like it when he pushes things.
As in trying too hard to replace the old Black Noir. You just don't fw it 😡
"Hey! Hey! Harley wait up!" He'd call out for you while you ignored him and decided to speed walk away. Anyways, he manages to catch up with you.
"The team wants us to attend the premiere of your next movie together.. since.... y'know... we're rumoured to be dating??" He said and you had to stop walking to put your entire energy into giving him the most NASTIEST look. The second he sees you take a deep breath, he knew it was over.
"I ain't yer GODDAMN babysitter, and don't you think that for a second that wearin' the suit makes you my damn boyfriend, alright? I ain't here to hold yer hand and coddle you. I got better things to do than listen to yer constant whining and need for attention. So knock it off, ya copy-cat!" You'd point at him before walking off, hand on your hip.
You can bet that he asks Deep for advices on how to win your heart.
BRO IS TOO INVESTED IN HIS CHARACTER 😭
That's why he thinks making you fall for him is one of Noir's characteristics.
You love mysterious and threatening looking people? Okay gotcha.
You want hyenas for pets? Cha-Ching! Got it!
But seriously someone please tell him to stop before he gets his ass beat. He does not want that Brooklyn smoke.
BILLY BUTCHER
Ah great another crazy chick.
The only possibility to why you'd be apart of the boys is if someone vouched for you.
50/50 it's either Hughie or Frenchie.
Though surprisingly enough, you were the first to notice the symptoms of his virus. Like he could be fidgeting at the office and you'd point it out so casually that everybody turns to look at you in confusion.
Everybody thought you were crazy at first, it's to be expected, but the second his virus was confirmed to be lethal. Everybody has started to take you a bit more seriously.
Read carefully. A bit.
He finds your weapons fascinating though. Like how your gun has words engraved in it, your initials being the biggest. Not to mention the designs being the inspiration of poker cards.
"That must make you the clown" He once said when you whipped it out to shoot someone. You smile mischievously at his remark.
"Oh you'd better watch your tongue before I make you the punchline of my next joke!"
He likes you.
ONLY if you don't fuck anything up.
Sure you guys do argue a lot but theres also strange moments of understanding between you two.
There was this one time he found you alone in the office, your legs placed on the table and you were literally downing a bottle of alcohol. It was when he came closer that he noticed the bruises on your body.
"What the hell happened to you?" He said and you sniffed as you quickly wipe away the tears in your eyes.
"Oh, I'm just peachy, tough guy... Can't you see I'm having a little cry-fest over here after a lover's spat with my oh-so-darling ex-boyfriend. Yeah, he just looooves to use me as his personal punchin' bag, y'know? But don't worry 'bout me. I'll be back to my ol' crazy self in no time. Just need a minute to let the tears dry and the bruises heal"
For the rest of the night he'd stay to talk about how shitty both your lives are. You guys actually BOND over your past traumas.
The booze just making the conversation ever more fun.
Will go out of his way to take you to places for shopping or eating at a restaurant to make you feel better.
After understanding you better, he realised you're just a once normal person who became a psychotic sociopath after whatever the supes did to wrong you.
He may not show it to you but he really cares about you and would not hesitate to protect you despite how much he says he wish you'd just fuck off.
SOLDIER BOY
You have to be some kind of masochist right??
He says the most disrespectful shit to you and you just squeal in excitement from it.
It's starting to weird him out.
Everything he does or say, you love to mock him, like he could be giving orders and you'd be at the back using your hands to mimic his talking like a puppet as you mouthed along and made faces.
But he has to say, he finds your insanity amusing. Because deep down, he sees a tiny bit of himself in you.
He calls you Looney Tunes. Why exactly? Nobody knows its for his own entertainment.
He's into older women but that doesn't stop you from flirting with him. He finds your efforts interesting.
"You're a tough nut to crack, Soldier Boy, but I'll get you to crack a smile eventually" You'd say and it'll be enough to have him grinning at you.
"You gonna tickle me?" He'd say, returning the same energy.
But that doesn't mean he's interested in you, he's just toying with you.
AND YOU KNOW IT. But apparently red flags just look like a go flag to you 🤷♀️
Despite that, if any other guy did the things he did to you, he would be fast to knock out the fucker. That's because he knows you value loyalty and he does too.
Everything aside, he really appreciates it when at the end where everybody turned against him you stayed by his side. Just imagine him driving the car while you're in the passenger seat singing your heart out to Cherry Bomb by The Runaways.
He'd simply shake his head with a smile on his face.
But the more relationship develops, he'd actually start to show you his softer side. Not soft side. Soft-er side.
Will literally lecture you into standing up more for yourself and stop being a doormat for every man in your life.
How ironic huh?
"You might act all tough and macho, but I see that big, marshmallow heart under there, sweetheart" You'd boop him on the nose that has him rolling his eyes with a smirk.
"You already said that. Are you a broken record or just dim?" He said.
If you stay obedient and don't push the wrong buttons, he might just keep you around.
I was wondering if you maybe could write something about the targ men eloping with targaryen!reader in a traditional Valyrian wedding because she's supposed to marry another but they love each other? Thank you! 🙏♥️
warnings — blood, targaryen! reader, tenses are a mess (not proofread)
baelor breakspear
— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.
— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.
— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.
— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.
— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.
— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.
— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.
— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.
— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.
— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.
— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.
— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.
— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.
maekar targaryen
— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.
— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.
— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.
— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.
— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.
— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.
— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.
— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.
— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.
— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.
— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.
— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement
— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.
valarr targaryen
— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.
— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.
— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.
— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.
— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.
— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.
— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.
— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.
— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.
— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.
— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.
— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.
— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.
daeron targaryen
— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.
— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.
— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.
— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.
— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.
— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.
— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.
— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.
— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.
— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.
aerion targaryen
— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.
— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.
— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.
— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.
— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.
— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.
— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.
— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.
— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.
— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.
— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.
— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.
— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.
-ANGST!! character death (you die), aerion loves loves you very much!! emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanisms....(wine/wildfire), hallucinations/delusions, possessive attachment and major obsessive love!! mentions of children, implied suicide?? grief-driven insanity. basically a tragic romance!! ᥫ᭡
from the moment aerion targaryen met you, he was ruined for everyone else.
he had known it immediately, which offended him greatly.
you had stood in the great hall beneath streaming banners and candlelight, speaking softly to some elderly lord whose name aerion could not remember now, and he had stared at you with the unnerving certainty that his life had just divided itself into before and after.
he had wanted you at once.
not simply for your beauty, though the gods knew you possessed enough of it to make men foolish.
no, it was worse than that. it was the way you smiled when spoken to you. the way your voice softened around frightened animals. the way you listened carefully to him, as though every word mattered.
you were gentle and yet you were smart. unbreakable.
and aerion, for all his arrogance, for all the monstrous streak that lived comfortably beneath his skin, found himself following that gentleness like a frightened man following candlelight.
once he married you, he became unbearable about it.
he could not go anywhere without you.
court meetings became impossible unless you sat beside him. feasts irritated him if you were seated too far away. he would find excuses to leave conversations midway simply because he had caught sight of you across the hall and suddenly needed to hear your voice more than whatever tedious noble was speaking to him.
people noticed, of course they noticed. it was impossible not to.
aerion targaryen, proud and cruel and impossible, followed his wife around like a man enchanted.
and he did not care.
when your gown fittings were scheduled, he attended them as though invited personally by the gods. he would lounge dramatically across velvet chairs in the corner while seamstresses fluttered around you adjusting hems and sleeves. a goblet of wine would rest lazily in his hand while he watched you with shameless devotion.
“you are staring at me again,” you would murmur, smoothing your hands down the front of some pale silk gown.
“you mustn't blame me wife, for you are simply beautiful,” he would answer easily. “we both suffer from consistency.”
the seamstresses would blush furiously. you smiled every time.
sometimes he would rise simply to touch the fabric himself, rubbing it between long fingers before looking at you critically. “no,” he would decide. “this color does not suit you.”
“it is blue.”
“it is horrid blue.”
“you said yesterday that blue was my color.”
“that was a better blue.” then he would press a kiss to your inner wrist as though that settled the matter entirely.
often the two of you escaped to the gardens whenever court became too suffocating. hidden away beneath twisting vines and dragon roses, you would spend hours tangled together beneath the shade.
you liked adventure stories, romance too. aerion preferred gruesome histories filled with betrayals and executions and bloodshed. he would read them aloud with disturbing enthusiasm while you laughed softly beside him, your head resting against his shoulder.
“it is educational, wife, it is not a laughing matter.”
“it is horrifying!”
“that as well.”
you smiled and stole the book from his hands. “then i shall save your soul with something gentler.”
“my soul is beyond saving.”
“mm. i have hope.”
he watched you read the same way he watched flames, utterly entranced. your voice drifting through the gardens became one of his favorite sounds in the world. sometimes he stopped listening to the actual story entirely, too distracted by the shape of your mouth around certain words.
he would kiss you slow and lazy beneath flowering vines while the world continued without you.
everywhere in the red keep there were glimpses of you together. your arms linked through endless corridors. his hand possessively at your waist during feasts and parties.
his favor wrapped around your wrist during tournaments because he insisted his colors belonged on his wife and only his wife.
and you understood him.
you understood the sharpness in him. the cruelty. the terrible anger he carried like another heartbeat. you never excused it, but neither did you recoil from it. you saw all the ugliness inside him and loved him still.
it made him worship you for it.
so when you fell ill, it destroyed him slowly.
you would smile and insist you were well enough, brushing it aside with gentle reassurance whenever his expression darkened with concern. a cough lingering too long after the autumn rain, a fever that came and went in waves, exhaustion settling into your bones until even simple things began to tire you.
but aerion noticed everything about you.
he noticed when you stopped finishing your meals. when your hands felt warmer than usual curled inside his. when you leaned more heavily against him during long walks through the gardens. he noticed the shadows beginning to gather beneath your eyes no matter how carefully you tried to hide them.
and selfishly, desperately, he had hoped it was something else.
he had hoped you were with child.
the thought had rooted itself in him almost immediately, growing quietly into hope before he could stop it. he imagined your sickness explained away by life instead of illness. a babe. your babe. his hands resting against your stomach while you laughed softly at his unbearable protectiveness.
he clung to the possibility with frightening intensity.
“you have been tired for weeks,” he murmured one evening, sitting beside you near the fire while you leaned sleepily against the cushions. “and sick in the mornings.”
you looked up at him over the rim of your cup. “are you attempting to diagnose me yourself now?”
“i am saying there may be another explanation.”
the faintest smile touched your mouth then, soft and knowing. “you think i am carrying your child.”
“i think it would explain things.”
“and if it does not?”
his expression shifted immediately, the fragile hope there dimming just slightly. “it will.”
you reached over to touch his face gently. “aerion.”
“you would tell me if you thought it possible.”
“i would.”
his hand slid over yours quickly, holding it there against his cheek. “i want it to be true.”
you softened instantly, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “i know you do.”
for a little while, the possibility sustained him.
he became almost absurdly attentive after that. hovering constantly. insisting you rest. arguing with servants if meals were not prepared exactly right. pulling blankets over your lap himself with quiet irritation whenever he thought you looked cold.
“you need not be so concerned aerion,” you teased weakly one afternoon as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time.
“you are coughing again.”
“it is one tiny cough.”
“it was a terrible cough.”
you laughed softly despite yourself. “you would make a dreadful maester.”
“i would make an excellent husband.”
“that much is true.”
he kissed your forehead immediately at the praise, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “then obey your excellent husband and sleep.”
you smiled but closed your eyes obediently anyway, too tired to argue much anymore and that frightened him because you were never this tired.
weeks passed.
the sickness did not improve.
the fevers worsened instead.
and slowly, horribly, the hope inside him began to rot into fear.
the maesters stopped speaking optimistically when he entered the room. their careful expressions told him everything long before their mouths did. he hated them for it. hated their silence. hated the medicines that did nothing. hated the smell of herbs and boiling tinctures that now permanently lingered in your chambers.
most of all, he hated the growing weakness in you.
one evening he found you asleep by the window, a book fallen forgotten in your lap. the sight should not have broken him the way it did. fear struck him so violently, he crossed the room immediately, sitting beside you with his hands wrapping tightly around yours.
“you should rest,” he told you quietly when you stirred awake.
a tired smile touched your lips at once. “i am resting.”
“properly.”
that woke you more fully. your expression softened immediately as you looked at him there beneath you, still dressed in dark court clothes he had evidently never bothered changing out of. his silver hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging frustrated hands through it. shadows lingered beneath his eyes now too. had he slept at all recently?
“aerion,” you whispered gently.
his grip tightened unconsciously around your hands as he stared down at them, his throat working once. when he finally looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes that made your chest ache.
“i do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly.
aerion hated helplessness. hated uncertainty. yet here he was before you like a man praying at an altar, unable to fight the thing slowly stealing you from him.
you lifted one hand carefully from his grasp just to touch his face. “you are already doing it,” you whispered.
“that is not enough.”
“it is for me.”
his eyes closed briefly at that, leaning instinctively into your touch. for a moment he simply stayed there, holding your hand against his cheek like something precious.
then, very softly, almost angrily, he murmured, “i am going to grow old with you. hear me. i will."
he rarely left your side.
meetings were abandoned midway. letters unanswered. duties forgotten entirely. he remained beside you obsessively, sleeping in chairs when he refused to leave your bedside, holding cool cloths to your skin with hands more accustomed to swords than gentleness.
his patience disappeared entirely. goblets shattered against walls when maesters offered uncertain answers. servants flinched when entering the room because even the scrape of shoes against stone seemed enough to provoke him now.
then came the anger. not at you, never at you. at the maesters who could not heal you. at the gods who would dare touch what belonged to him. at himself for being unable to stop it.
“you said the fever would break,” he hissed at one trembling maester after another miserable night left you barely conscious. “you assured me she was improving.”
“she did appear stronger yesterday, your grace-”
“do not lie to me.”
the old man visibly faltered beneath the fury in aerion’s voice.
“she needs rest,” the maester managed carefully.
“she needs curing.”
silence.
aerion’s expression darkened into something terrifying. “get out.”
no one argued with him anymore after that.
the servants cried quietly outside the doors sometimes. you could hear them if the hall fell silent enough. the sound seemed to haunt aerion more than anything else because people only cried like that when hope was beginning to die.
then came the night everything changed.
the room was dim besides the fire and a handful of dying candles. rain struck softly against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere far over the bay.
aerion sat beside you holding your hand tightly between both of his as though warmth alone might anchor you here.
“you will get better,” he told you hoarsely. “you must.”
your breathing caught unevenly before settling again.
“aerion- husband-”
“no.” his voice cracked violently. “do not speak like that.”
you looked at him with unbearable softness. “my love,” you whispered.
“you are not leaving me.” tears filled his eyes instantly, furious and helpless all at once. “you hear me?” he said desperately, leaning closer. “you cannot leave me here. i do not know how to-” his voice broke entirely.
your trembling fingers brushed weakly against his cheek, even now, you were comforting him.
“aerion,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”
and he did immediately, like he always would. your eyes searched his face slowly, lovingly, memorizing him the same way he had memorized you a thousand times before.
“i loved you very much,” you breathed.
“no.” he shook his head instantly, panic rising sharp and ugly in his chest. “no, do not say it like goodbye.”
“you made me very happy.”
“stop.” his grip tightened painfully around your hand. “please.” aerion targaryen did not beg. not kings, not gods, not men. but he begged you.
your eyes softened immediately at the sound of it, filling slowly with tears that slipped silently down into your hair. even now, with death hovering so terribly close, you looked at him with nothing but love.
“do you understand? i cannot- i cannot sit here and listen to you speak as though this is ending.”
your breath trembled faintly. “aerion…”
“no.” his voice cracked violently again. “no, you listen to me now.”
his free hand cupped your face desperately, trembling hard enough that you could feel it against your skin.
“you will stay,” he said, the words frantic now, like if he spoke them firmly enough the world would obey him. “you will survive this. the maesters are wrong. they have been wrong before.”
you gave the faintest shake of your head.
he looked suddenly furious at it. “at least pretend to believe me.”
a weak little smile touched your mouth then, heartbreakingly gentle. “you sound angry.”
“i am angry.”
“at me?”
“no- no my love, never at you. at everything.” his voice splintered on the last word.
the fire crackled softly somewhere behind him, rain tapping against the windows in uneven rhythms. the room smelled of wax and herbs and sickness. aerion thought suddenly, wildly, that he hated every part of it. hated the candles. hated the storm. hated the bed beneath you because it had become a place of dying instead of sleeping beside him warm and laughing.
most of all he hated how cold your hands had become.
he brought them closer between his own instinctively, rubbing warmth into your fingers as though he could force life back into them through sheer desperation.
“you promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly.
your lashes fluttered weakly. “i meant it.”
“then do not leave me.”
you looked at him for a very long moment after that and something in your expression changed with acceptance.
“no,” he said again, harsher this time. “do not look at me like that.”
you had never seen him like this, not truly, not stripped this bare. aerion had always loved fiercely, possessively, almost violently in the depth of it, but he rarely let anyone witness the rawness underneath. he hid softness behind arrogance. devotion behind sharp words.
but there was nowhere left to hide now not while you were dying in front of him.
“you cannot leave me alone here,” he whispered suddenly. the confession sounded childlike. small.
“my husband,” you breathed gently.
his face twisted instantly at the title, grief ripping visibly across it. “you said we would grow old together,” he murmured. “you said we would have children.”
tears slipped harder down his face now. he did not even seem aware of them.
“i bought that little carved dragon you liked in the market because you wanted to have it for our child.” his voice shook violently. “it is still sitting in gift velvet because i thought-”
his breath broke. “i thought there would be time.”
you began crying then too, silent tears slipping into your hair as you watched him unravel before you.
aerion pressed your hand desperately against his lips.
“there is still time,” he insisted suddenly, like he could force the truth backward if he spoke quickly enough. “tomorrow you will wake and i will carry you into the gardens again. to roses near the fountain, you always say they smelled sweeter after rain.”
“aerion…”
“we will read together.” his words tumbled over each other now, frantic and disjointed. “and i will complain through your ridiculous romance stories and you will laugh at me and-”
his voice snapped apart completely.
you gathered what little strength remained in you and brushed your thumb weakly against his cheek. “i need you to be brave for me. my brave dragon.”
“no.”
the answer came instantly like a child refusing.
you tried to smile through your tears. “you are a dragon prince.”
“i am also your husband.” the words came out fierce and broken all at once. “i love you,” he whispered desperately. “do you hear me? i love you so much i cannot breathe when i think about losing you.”
your eyes closed briefly at the pain in his voice. “aerion…”
“i should have loved you less.” but even as he said it, both of you knew it was impossible. he had loved you from the very first moment. too much. too fiercely. with every ruined part of himself. and now the gods were tearing you away from him piece by piece.
“i do not regret loving you,” you whispered. you were breathing differently now. slower. weaker.
panic flooded his face so fast. your fingers tightened faintly around his once. “i am- tired now. aerion.”
“no.”
“i love you- so- aerion-”
“no, stay awake my love. stay with me. look at me.” his voice broke into something desperate and terrified.
you tried. gods, you tried. your eyes found his one last time, full of love so deep it nearly killed him on the spot.
then your breathing faltered.
every part of him seemed to stop existing except for the hand clutching yours.
another breath, still shallow. then another, smaller still.
“no,” he whispered again, tears falling freely now. “please. i love you.”
and then-
nothing.
silence. complete and horrible.
aerion stared at you waiting. waiting for your chest to rise again. waiting for your fingers to twitch in his hand. waiting for the impossible. but you stayed still. and slowly, horrifyingly, your warmth began to fade beneath his hands.
the sound that left him afterward was raw enough to tear through stone.
he folded over you instantly, clutching your hand against his mouth as violent sobs ripped through him hard enough to leave him breathless. his entire body shook with it, years of pride and cruelty and arrogance collapsing into grief so enormous it hollowed him out completely.
“no, no, no-”
he kissed your cold knuckles desperately between broken gasps of air. “you cannot do this to me,” he choked out.
the gods, cruel as they were, had finally taken the only thing aerion targaryen had ever truly loved.
the silence afterward nearly drove him mad.
he had not cried like that since childhood. since lonely nights hidden away in dark chambers where no one came looking for him. he felt small again suddenly. helpless. frightened.
they had given him an hour to calm down, and when his tears subsided and all that was left was anger, grief, and longing, the maester quietly began to approach the bed before aerion turned with such horrifying fury that the old man stopped instantly.
“get out.”
“your grace-”
“get out.”
the room emptied immediately and no one dared argue.
aerion was alone with you. alone in the suffocating silence of your shared chambers while candlelight flickered softly against your still face. he loved you more than he knew what to do with, and now there was nowhere for that love to go.
hours passed before anyone dared enter again. even then, aerion refused to let go of you. it nearly killed him when they tried to take your body from the bed.
“no,” he snarled hoarsely, gripping you tighter. “do not touch her.”
“prince aerion-”
“do not touch her.” his voice barely raised, yet stern. frightening.
they had to pry his hands away, hold him back. he looked- no, he was- half-mad, watching them place you inside the coffin, his face white with horror like he could not comprehend how the world expected him to survive such a thing.
afterward, he refused to clear your rooms.
your gowns remained hanging exactly where you left them. your oils and perfumes stayed lined carefully along the vanity. books remained half-open where you had abandoned them.
your side of the bed stayed untouched.
every now and then, late at night, standing in front of your grand dresser, he would hold one of your dresses against his face, breathing in the fading trace of your perfume with devastated desperation.
the gardens became unbearable to him. the reading alcoves remained empty. and aerion wandered through the red keep like a ghost haunting a life that no longer existed.
people feared him more after your death. he grew colder. crueler. quieter.
but worst of all were the nights.
because sometimes, very late, servants passing your chambers would hear him speaking softly into the silence as though you were lying beside him still.
“i told you to listen to me,” he would murmur. then, quieter, “yes, i know. you are cold tonight.”
there would be the faint sound of movement. a chair dragged closer. a goblet set down. and then, gently, almost tenderly, “you should sleep now.”
no one ever dared open the door. because sometimes they also heard him laugh softly, as though you had answered.
he began to drink heavily.
wine at first. then stronger things brought in quietly by servants too afraid to refuse him. the maesters warned against it, cautiously at first, then more urgently as the pattern worsened.
“your grace,” one of them said carefully one evening, “this will not ease your suffering. it will only deepen it.”
“i am not suffering,” he said. “you are mistaken.” aerion continued calmly. “my wife is simply away. that is all.”
the maester exchanged a look with another before bowing stiffly and retreating.
he began speaking of you in the present tense.
“my wife prefers the roses after rain,” he told a bewildered servant once. “do not cut them yet.” another time, he stopped a maid in the corridor and snapped at her, “have you seen my son?”
she froze. “my prince…you do not have-”
aerion’s expression sharpened instantly.
“see to it that he is with his mother,” he said firmly.
no one corrected him. it was easier not to.
he began to see you again. at first it was fleeting. a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. a flicker at the edge of his vision when he turned too quickly. a warmth in empty chairs.
then it became clearer. you were in your chambers again. sitting at the vanity. adjusting your hair. looking at him as though nothing had ever gone wrong at all.
“aerion,” you would say softly. “must you stare at me, my love? it is quite jarring.”
and he would believe it. he would believe it completely. there was no longer any separation between memory and reality. only you.
until even that began to fracture.
the night he drank wildfire.
he believed it would truly take the pain away, turn him into something different. into a dragon.
maesters agreed, because no one truly denied a targaryen anything for long, suggesting it might “calm the mind” if handled carefully, and with all of aerion’s temperaments they agreed to add in a little something extra, something that might ease the sleeplessness, the agitation, the grief that had begun to consume him.
that night, after drinking, he stood alone in your chambers, holding one of your gowns again. when suddenly his grip tightened violently around the fabric.
“i cannot do this,” he whispered. “i told you,” he murmured hoarsely into the empty room, “i told you i cannot be anywhere without you.”
his vision blurred and he felt a sharp burning sensation from inside himself. the wildfire had burned him, saved him from the madness and grief that had been burned into him long ago.
aerion targaryen could not bring himself to let go of the one thing he had ever truly belonged to. because aerion targaryen, in the end, was exactly what he had always been.
a man who could not exist anywhere without his wife.
lowdown ☆ you’re part of butcher’s crew, he’s the weapon they barely trust, and somewhere between missions, insults, blood, and bad decisions, soldier boy becomes the one person you should stay away from—and the one person who keeps coming back.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ ~+50k (til the end) ride style ☆ enemies-ish to lovers ; slow slow burn
danger on the trail ☆ canon-typical violence, blood/injury, weapons, strong language, crude humor, sexual tension, eventual explicit content, toxic behavior, trauma/ptsd, references to captivity and torture, emotional repression, manipulation, misogyny/sexism, morally grey choices, vought-related abuse/corruption, and complicated relationship dynamics
liv's log ☆ this has become my favorite thing to write for. and your comments make me giggle like a school girl. so thank you for being on that side. and if you're new here, enjoy the slow burn~ 🤠
ꫂ᭪݁ 01 — mouth like that ꫂ᭪݁ 02 — commie toy
ꫂ᭪݁ 03 — save the clownfish ꫂ᭪݁ 04 — volume control
summary. homelander is coming to talk to his father when he stumbles upon the two of you in bed.
contents. MDNI!!!!! f!reader, s5 spoilers, sub reader, pet names, dark content, ben/reader with homelander pov, voyeurism, dacryphilia, overstimulation, cunnilingus, typical homelander behavior & gross soldier boy behavior, weird family dynamics, homelander god talk, also ben is kinda softish and in love, reader isn't a supe — 2.5k words
notes. i started this like two weeks ago, so it's not exactly compliant with the plot anymore but i'm posting anyway. forgive me if i write homelander poorly </33 i am experimenting
It’s rare that Homelander considers his timing poor—even rarer that he believes his choices are anything but divine intervention, a cosmic hand nudging their worldly God in the right direction.
He’s getting off the elevator when he first questions that belief, wonders what message could possibly be received from the intimate act he’s stumbled upon. A sharp inhale is the first sound he hears; faint enough to be considered normal, but with an undertone of passion that he can’t write off.
He’d only been coming to talk to Soldier Boy—his father—about the V1, about everything that happened at Fort Harmony and the tensions that are spreading like a sickness between them, poisoning the path to Homelander’s destiny. His father is creating too much friction when he’s supposed to be helping, suppressing his hatred instead of being honest.
An apology is going to taste like bile on Homelander’s tongue, but he’s willing to extend something of an olive branch if it will placate Soldier Boy enough to help him find the key to immortality.
That had been his plan, anyway—try and smooth things over with Ben. He just hadn’t anticipated stumbling upon the two of you caught in the throes of passion.
Homelander hears your voice through the walls, high-pitched and loud, his father’s name spewed out like a prayer before ending on a sharp moan.
He knows, immediately, that it’s you on the other side of the door—his father’s sweet little pet, the human that worships Soldier Boy like a god, who has no regard for the heavenly power that Homelander has been gifted with.
You are also the only human in the world that’s getting away with such misplaced devotion.
Homelander licks his lips, tensing his jaw as his eyes itch to burn through the drywall, red flares that will your pretty little head off once his father spills his seed into you. It would be gratifying to knock Soldier Boy down a few pegs, to make him realize that Homelander is the god that humans are supposed to worship, not him. Ben does not have the upper-hand just because his poor, powerless lover has been allowed to live this long.
He considers it; that timeline of events plays out before Homelander’s eyes like a film reel. It would be gratifying, yes, but stupid—the life of one human isn’t worth risking his chance at eternity.
Homelander knows that his father would hate him if he killed you, would see him as something worse than a disappointment, and he’d track down any remaining V1 to destroy it himself.
Not that Homelander thinks he can’t succeed without his father. He can find the V1 on his own, but there’s no reason to create unnecessary obstacles.
Your death can wait a little longer.
“Please, Ben,” Homelander hears you say through the wall, your voice soft, far too gentle for someone like Soldier Boy to love. “Fuck.”
“Yeah? You like that, hm?” There’s a pause, a mocking laugh as his father’s voice deepens. “’Course you do, pretty cunt’s still squeezing my fingers so tightly. Can’t even count the number of times you’ve come, and she still wants more. Dirty girl.”
Homelander considers leaving, but the thought is brief, overshadowed by his growing desire to, somehow, get back at his father. Soldier Boy will be more sorry about what happened back at Fort Harmony if the real force of Homelander’s powers are used against him, if he can find a way to prove he’s misjudged his son yet again.
The desire to kill you erupts once more, but Homelander stays still, silent, assessing the scene from a shadowy advantage like a natural predator.
When another cry leaves your lips, curiosity wins out and Homelander peers through the wall, peeling back the layers with his super-powered vision.
The room is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere, and he grimaces at the bodily fluids he can detect on nearly every surface. His scan of the bedroom is quick, much more dismissive than studious, before he focuses his attention on you and Soldier Boy.
Your cheek is pressed into the bed, head tilted in Homelander’s direction, the view enough to see the pleasure, laced with a hint of pain, that is sketched into the lines of your expression. Exhaustion wears at you, spilled cum is drying on your stomach, but your body still radiates with heat, still beats with need as tears gather at your lashes.
His father’s face is deep in your cunt, fingers stretching your folds as he sucks your clit, hard enough to have your back arching up off the bed. With a gasp, your hands fly to Ben’s hair, lacing through the strands as you tug reactively.
To Homelander’s surprise, Ben doesn’t seem to mind your attempts at control, and he makes a sound in the back of his throat, every word raspy and salacious. “You taste so fucking good. Sweet as candy, aren’t you, doll?” Ben mutters against your skin, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before diving deeper into your cunt.
He pins your other leg onto the mattress, spreading your thighs far enough that every inch of you is exposed to the man before it. It also gives Homelander the perfect view of his father’s tongue deep in your core, slurping up the juices with more passion than he’s ever seen him devote to anything.
Homelander feels himself growing hard, an erection forming steadily in his pants, straining against the tight material of his uniform. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore it, hoping that his hatred for you will cool the conflicting lust he feels.
A few of your nails have cracked, the tips bloody from the way you’d dug them into Ben’s back. Had he been a weaker man, a man without V1 and years of experimentation done on him, there would be long, red lines scratched into his taut muscles.
Instead, the skin is flawless, the dried blood there belonging to you alone. You’re not strong enough to harm him, but Ben doesn’t care, perhaps, even, derives pleasure from how easily he can handle you.
Homelander thinks it’s demeaning that his father is so devoted to you when you’re so weak, when you’re nothing compared to his otherworldly strength. It makes Homelander sick to look at you, to see the hazy affection that clouds Ben’s irises, because that’s his father, and it’s wrong that any love he’s able to muster up should go to such a pathetic creature.
Tears gather at your lashes, and you dig your nails deeper into Ben’s scalp, crying out painfully. “Too much, Ben,” you say, writhing on the bed beneath him, voice wracked with desperation.
No sympathy is spared from Soldier Boy. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t let you free even as the tears fall onto your cheeks, heavy from the overstimulation. Your lips are swollen and parted, saliva coating the corners of them as you take whatever Ben will give you.
For whatever reason, his father is infatuated with you. You aren't special; there’s nothing marginally interesting about you, except for, perhaps, the fact that you aren’t scared of anyone on the Seven, not even Homelander.
You’re still human, though, still sickeningly fragile, and Homelander is beginning to wonder if that’s why Ben is so determined to find the V1, if he has ulterior motives that don’t include giving his son the gift of immortality.
That lights him up with indignation that, for some reason, only goes between his legs. He can’t look away from the scene before him, can’t tear his eyes from the sickeningly sweet affection that has become tangible between the two of you. His father is many things, things that even Homelander can’t figure out, but he is just as starved for adoration and you give it to him tenfold.
He doesn’t understand—can’t understand why your love is so undying. Soldier Boy is no better than Homelander, he is no God, and yet, he has still earned the pure, innocent love of a human, the love that Vought had always promised was Homelander’s birthright.
Frustration rises in him and Homelander palms himself over the suit, suppressing a groan, the pressure relieving only a bit of his lust. He needs to be more careful, needs to find a way to get to the V1 before his father. There’s more room in his heart than Homelander initially believed, and while there’s a slim chance you’d even survive an injection of V1, his father might be foolish enough to try.
Homelander could kill you—he should kill you before it comes to that. He wants his father to see that you’re not worth anything, certainly not worth the world that could be built with their two forces combined. If he can just get you out of the picture, maybe things will be smoother.
Maybe you’re the reason his father keeps turning against him.
The thought flares his eyes red again, threatening and bright, but the color flickers, dies back down into their normal blue as he feels the repulsive want take control. Homelander is too intrigued by the way his father is fucking you, the way his tongue flicks into you, rendering you a mess. He’s never seen Soldier Boy so vulnerable, and though his walls are still high, there’s a softness about him that remains behind these doors.
“Come on, sweetheart, I know you’ve got one more in you.” Ben says, scoffing at the tears running down your cheeks. He is mocking, but gentle at the edges, careful to search for your breaking point. The stamina and strength of a supe is ten times that of a human, and ten times that for someone like Soldier Boy. If he doesn’t want his toy to break, he has to know its limits.
You whimper, closer to pain now than you were before. A choked sob escapes your lips, but your orgasm creeps up on you, your body shaking miserably as it tries to force another one through the painful stimulation.
That’s more gratifying to Homelander than anything—the pain on your face—and he presses his palm to his bulge harder, faster, resting one hand against the wall as he thrusts his hips into the other. He’s careful not to make a sound, though he’s certain Ben’s hearing is not as good as his, and he’s probably high enough to write it off as delusion.
“I-I can’t—” you say, and it would seem miserable if you weren’t breathless, if you didn’t want to come again so badly.
Soldier Boy groans into your cunt, his eyes commanding as he gazes up at you over your hips. The tears falling down your cheeks, onto the bed, are making him harder, his cock swollen between his legs, even though he’d come just minutes before. He drags a hand down the length of it, enough to give him some relief, but not enough to come quite yet.
“You can. You’re close I can feel it.” He traces a soothing, possessive circle on your thigh with his thumb, keeping you steady on the bed. “Touch those pretty tits for me. My girls aren’t getting enough attention.”
You obey without question, lazily dragging your hands up your stomach and onto your chest. The moment your fingertips graze your nipples, you come to the edge of a climax, your voice louder, body more pliant under Ben’s touch.
His father grins, face shiny with your slick as you grope yourself.
Homelander pulses with need, shaking with a silent moan as he watches you play with your breasts. He swallows back the sounds, suppresses the lasers that flick in his irises. You have a nice pair of tits, ones that would look even better swollen, leaking with milk, and briefly, he wonders if his father would share you. You’re just a human, after all, and you could serve a much greater purpose if you devoted yourself to two gods instead of one.
Or, maybe, his father will find a way to fix the mistake he’s made in his lab rat son, to create the child that Homelander apparently isn’t. A better version of him will never exist, and Soldier Boy would be stupid for ever thinking so, even though Homelander knows the thought has crossed his mind, knows that he is too much of a disappointment for Ben to ever try to build the kind of relationship with Homelander that he craves.
The hypotheticals don’t matter because Homelander knows you wouldn’t be a good mother, not to someone of their bloodline. You’d infect any super-abled child with your pathetic human morals, twist their minds until they suppress their powers and try to fit into a world that doesn’t want them.
That is, of course, if the child didn’t tear you apart from the inside-out first.
Homelander grits his teeth, a metallic taste flowing into his mouth as he thinks of it, of watching you grow a baby inside of you that will ultimately be your demise. His breath stutters; he’s pathetically close, but his orgasm doesn’t come until a moment later, when he realizes that his father isn’t half the man he thinks he is, and he’ll never be the God that Homelander is.
Soldier Boy a slave to your pleasure—a weak, measly being—even when he pretends everything he does is for himself. You’re crying, and though Soldier Boy is tugging at himself, he’s not focused on making sure he comes—he wants to break you down, build you back up with his mouth and his hands. Ben wants you to worship him, wants you to see him as a holy figure, wants you to praise him even as he degrades you.
He is controlled by his emotions, too swayed by a pretty face and a sultry tongue.
Unlike his father, Homelander is no longer focused on winning over people’s love, and certainly not the love of one person.
You release one more sob before you come, soaking his father’s face with whatever your body has left to give. His father works you through the orgasm, even though you can hardly move, your eyes shut, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
“That’s my girl,” Soldier Boy says, and he’s so proud, so caring, that it has Homelander spilling into his pants right after you. It lasts for a few seconds, and then relief comes, then the disgusting sensation that settles as the cum dries in his suit.
The realization of what he’s done is not staggering, but it hits him just as his father presses a kiss to your forehead. You’re half passed-out already, eyes closed as your breathing evens out, thighs still sticky with bodily fluids, but you mutter something unintelligible under your breath anyway.
Even with his hearing, Homelander can’t catch the words, but Ben doesn’t seem to understand either. Still, his father gives you something of a smile before leaning over to pluck the joint off of his nightstand, keeping one hand possessively on your thigh. He’s still hard, but for a few minutes he sits there in the quiet of the evening, smoking, before he places the blunt back in the ash tray and moves to take care of the erection himself.
Homelander decides that’s his cue to leave. He can justify watching his father fuck you, but watching only him masturbate over your sleeping body feels like a line he shouldn’t cross.
Sparing one last exhale, Homelander slinks off the floor, hoping that neither of you hear the elevator ding.
thanks for read, a kiss for all of you. reblog & comments are always appreciated <33 divider by cursed-carmine
synopsis. when the tournament for your hand and heart was announced, you expected to see lords from different houses who tried to win the throne through you, knights who saw it as a matter of honor. but what you didn't expect to see was the first and only person who broke your heart into a thousand pieces.
pairing. aerion x cousin! reader
contains. mdni! miscommunication trope, from childhood friends to lovers to enemies then to lovers again, betrayal, angst, tension, obsessive!possessive! aerion, reader has a typical targ. features, tba.
pt 1. pt2. pt3.
you ran through the cold stone corridors of the castle, barely seeing the way ahead — your legs carried you forward on their own, and your heart pounded somewhere in your throat, feeling nothing beneath you except the freezing floor and your own terror that choked you. your nightgown soaked with sweat and clung to your body, your hair came loose from its braid and wet strands hit your face, your breathing broke out in shaky sobs — but you did not stop, even when your chest started to burn.
you did not think about where you ran. you did not think at all — only that you needed to get away from there, far from the darkness, from someone else’s breathing above your bed. and only when you burst into his chambers, when the door slammed against the wall with a dull thud, you suddenly realized: you did not come to your brother, not even to your father. you came to him.
maybe deep down you always knew the thing your mind refused to believe: that aerion would kill anyone in the world and die himself if it meant you were safe.
he jumped out of bed in an instant — sleepy, disheveled, in only a shirt, but already on his feet, already ready. his eyes found you immediately, and all the sleep vanished from them in a moment, replaced with worry. “what happened?” his voice sounded low and rough with sleep.
you tried to speak, but the words stuck somewhere in your throat — you only caught air with your mouth, swallowed, tried again. “there… there was someone… i saw… he had a blade…” you forced out broken pieces of words that drowned in all your fear.
you shook your head, unable to continue, and he crossed the distance in two steps, took your face into his hands — firm, but careful, making you lift your eyes. “hey,” he said quietly, and his voice suddenly turned soft, almost gentle. “i am here. you are safe.”
you shook your head again — and tears flooded your cheeks once more, and the trembling returned, and you could not stop it, could not force yourself to calm down, because that silhouette with a blade in its hand still stood before your eyes.
“i woke up because i felt someone else’s presence,” you breathed out, almost in a whisper, and your voice cracked. “and when i opened my eyes — i saw him. he stood over me, aerion. with a knife. i do not know who it was, but he wanted… he wanted to kill me—”
he frowned so hard that a deep line appeared between his brows, and his eyes darkened, turned cold and dangerous like ice. "where the fuck were the guards? whoever he is, i will fucking kill him.”
he let go of your face and stepped back — toward the door, toward the sword, toward murder. and you grabbed his hand sharply, almost desperately. “no,” you breathed out, and there was such pleading in your voice that he froze in place. “do not leave. please. stay with me.”
he stood still for a moment — looked at you, at your face wet with tears, at your hand trembling in his, and his expression softened. the look he showed only to you and only when nobody saw. “come here,” he said quietly and pulled you toward him.
you fell into his arms, pressed your nose against his chest, breathed in his scent and felt his arms wrap around you. one rested on your back and slowly, heavily stroked it — from top to bottom, again and again, chasing away fear with every touch. the other rested on the back of your head, fingers buried themselves in your tangled hair, played with the strands, soothed you.
he rested his chin on the top of your head, and you felt him breathe — steady, deep, and that rhythm slowly became yours, pushing the panic away.
you still trembled — in your thin nightgown, in the fear that refused to leave completely — but with every touch from him, the trembling weakened. his lips touched your temple — slowly, gently, as if he sealed your pain away with that kiss — and stayed there for a long, long time. then he brushed his lips lower — over your cheek, your cheekbone, where the trails of tears still glistened — kissed them and wiped them away. and finally — the corner of your lips. he froze there, feeling you relax, feeling the last tension leave you, feeling your body stop trembling and trustingly melt against him, surrendering to the warmth.
“nobody will touch you,” he whispered against your skin. “let them just fucking try.” you sobbed one last time — quietly, with relief, letting the last pieces of fear leave with that sound.
“i was so scared,” you said, and your voice sounded muffled because you still did not lift your head, still hid your face against his chest. “i do not want to go back there. i do not want to sleep alone.”
he held you tighter. “you will not go back there,” he said. “and you will not sleep alone. you will sleep with me.”
you lifted your head, rested your chin against his chest, and looked up at him with wet, shining eyes. “aerion,” you whispered. “if father finds out…”
he leaned down and kissed you — soft and quick, without deepening it. enough to stop your words and your doubts. “he will not,” he said, pulling away only enough to see your eyes. “and if he does — we are soon to be betrothed. i think i have the right to sleep beside you.”
you looked at him for a long time — at his face, at his eyes where there was no usual mockery, only quiet, tired tenderness — and finally nodded. “fine."
“fine,” he repeated and led you toward the bed, never letting go of you for even a second, one hand holding your waist as if he feared you would disappear.
he laid you down on the bed, covered you with a blanket — thick, warm, smelling like him — and you felt warmth spread through your body, driving away the last remains of cold and fear. and then he simply looked at you — for so long that you started to feel shy.
“stop looking at me like that,” you mumbled quietly.
he smirked. “it is not every day you see a princess in your bed.”
you rolled your eyes — but smiled, and for the first time that night the smile came easily. then you reached your arms toward him, and he did not make you wait, settling beside you. he covered both of you with one blanket, pulled you close, and you felt him breathe, felt his heartbeat — steady, strong, calming. his nose buried in your hair, his hand found your waist on its own, and his thumb started drawing slow circles against your skin — again and again, lulling you to sleep, taking away the last scraps of anxiety.
and your fingers wandered across his chest, tracing patterns even you did not know the names of — simply moving back and forth, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it felt so familiar, so right, as if you had done this your whole lives. “i thought i was going to die,” you said quietly into the silence.
his hand stopped for a moment — and immediately held you tighter, almost painfully. you stayed silent for several heartbeats, feeling the knot in your throat finally melt away.
“the only thing i thought about,” you said even quieter, “was that i didn't have time to tell you… didn't have time to say the most important thing.”
his hand froze on your waist. his whole body tensed at once.
you understood that he stayed silent because he did not know how to speak about things like this. aerion always thought feelings were too complicated — he preferred to act instead of explain. he knew that he needed you, knew that he would never give you to anyone else, knew that you were his — and that was always enough for him. why use useless words that might mean nothing when everything already showed itself without them?
but now he stayed silent not because he did not care. but because he was afraid. you felt it in his tense shoulders, in his uneven breathing, in the way his fingers dug into your skin.
you leaned down and kissed his chest — right where his heart beat beneath the skin. loud, fast, frightened. “i know you will never say it,” you whispered into his shirt. “because you think you are above things like that. but i… i love you, aerion. and i always will. i was afraid i would die — and never get the chance to tell you.”
his hands froze where you left them. the chest beneath your cheek barely moved — he held his breath. one second passed. another. a third. you already thought he would not answer, that he would simply pretend he did not hear — the way only he could.
and then — a slow, long exhale. his hand started stroking your back again — heavy, soft, soothing. and he said nothing. but you felt it — he heard you. you closed your eyes. breathed in rhythm with him. almost fell asleep.
and when you already drifted into sleep, when your thoughts turned slow and weightless, you suddenly heard his voice — quiet, rough, almost impossible to hear.
“me too.”
deep in the night, while you slept — and did not feel how he carefully slipped out from beneath the blanket so he would not wake you. through your sleep you only heard his quiet “i will be back soon,” and then the darkness closed around you again.
in the morning the whole castle talked about nothing except the traitor knight who broke into your chambers. they found him dead in the dungeons — people said he died the most vile, most inhuman death these walls had ever seen.
and you sat in his chambers, lying on his bed, and understood. understood that he did not know how to speak beautifully. that his words would never carry the tenderness you read about in old books. but he always spoke through actions — every single time. and you did not need anything else. this was enough for you.
“what?” your voice came out quiet, trembling, almost impossible to hear.
aerion let out a short, bitter laugh and released your hands, which he held crossed against his chest all this time. and you immediately felt the cold, even though a second ago you yourself tried to pull away from his grip.
“now it is your turn to pretend, huh?” his voice sounded low and rough, and he dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek. he looked at you, and there was no mockery in his eyes — only bitterness, so thick it could choke someone.
“what will you do this time to avoid marrying me? throw yourself off the castle walls? or lie to me again all this time — gain my trust, make me think…” he fell silent for a moment, and his voice turned quieter, heavier. “and then run away to that puppy?”
your heart twisted into a tight knot — painfully, so painfully that it stole your breath. but then anger replaced the pain. how dared he? after all those years when you thought you would die faster from the way your heart hurt than from some illness or accident — how dared he look at you as if you were guilty of everything?
you opened your mouth to answer — but he spoke first. a quiet laugh with not a drop of amusement slipped from his lips.
“tell me one thing,” he leaned closer, and his voice turned smooth, dangerous. “judging by how hard you defend him, did he already shove his coc—”
he did not finish. your hand flew forward before you could think — the sharp slap tore through the silence. every sound disappeared — the noise of the feast beyond the walls, the voices of drunken guests. aerion froze, his head turned to the side, and he did not move. did not turn back. simply stood there, taking the blow.
your voice trembled — from pain, from anger, from thousands of nights you cried into your pillow, and now all of it finally burst out. “it hurt to breathe!” you shouted, and tears streamed down your cheeks, hot like molten metal. “it hurt to breathe from the thought that something could happen to you! never — do you hear me? — never in my life would i say something like that about you. and you… you think i was capable of writing something like that?”
he slowly turned his head, and his eyes met yours. he looked at you — without looking away, without blinking — and you did not know what you saw in his gaze.
you did not stop, because if you stayed silent now — it would tear you apart from the inside. “did you not feel even a drop of respect for me?” your voice cracked, and you did not even try to hide it. “did you really not have even a drop of warmth left to not make up this lie right now? to stop justifying yourself? to stop pretending this is my fault? guilty because you left. because you abandoned me. because you broke my heart, and then i dealt with the consequences alone — all that pain, all that humiliation…”
your voice broke, and tears poured endlessly, and you did not even wipe them away. let him see. let that man see how much suffering he brought you.
he opened his mouth — wanted to say something — and stepped toward you. you flinched back as if his hand was fire, as if he could hurt you with one touch.
his face fell. for a moment something flashed in his eyes —confusion? disbelief? you saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed. he did not know what was worse — that you did not even want to stand near him, or that you were afraid he could hurt you.
“i know you never loved me,” you said, and your voice turned quieter, but no lighter. “but making up such a stupid lie just to justify yourself — that is low even for you, aerion.”
you sobbed, closing your eyes, and the tears still slipped through your lashes. it always seemed to you that you cried out every tear in the world — from your mother’s death to the day he left — but somehow new ones still came.
and then you turned around and ran. not walked — ran, grabbing the skirts of your dress with both hands so you would not trip, even though it was pointless — everything blurred before your eyes from tears, and you simply prayed none of the guests walked outside tonight. rumors about your family were the last thing anyone needed now. you did not want the reputation your grandfather and his sons built for years to collapse because you and aerion failed to divide something that never existed. not love, of course. because it never existed.
behind you, fast footsteps echoed. you quickened your pace. aerion was wounded — he could not run at full strength, and you hated yourself for the way your heart still tightened at the thought that every step probably caused him pain. you would give everything you had to every god alive if they granted you the same calm and devoted love for tristan instead. instead of what you felt for a man who was never worthy of you.
you did not look back. you rushed into the castle, made your way through the corridors without stopping for even a second. in your chambers you almost slammed the door shut — it nearly closed completely — but at the last moment his hand slipped through the gap. the door flew open, and he filled the doorway, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
you turned to face him, dragged your palm across your cheeks — wiping away tears even though new ones still fell — and lifted your gaze. “i command you to leave the princess’s chambers immediately.”
aerion breathed heavily one of his hands clenched into a fist, the other pressed against his chest, where the wound hid beneath his shirt. you noticed the movement, and something inside you twisted violently — you almost physically forced yourself not to step closer, not to touch him, not to check the wound the way you used to. like back then, near the old wall, when he was just an angry boy with bloody knees, and you were the only one who dared touch him. you were never able to look at his pain calmly. what a bitter joke — he did not feel the same about you.
“i am not going anywhere,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice.
“as heir to the throne, i stand above you,” you barely raised your voice, but every word fell heavy like stone. “and i tell you—”
"i do not give a fuck about all these. i am not leaving this room until we fucking talk.”
he stepped forward, and you aggressively shook your head, backing away even though the wall was already close and there was nowhere left to go.
“there is nothing to talk about,” you threw back, and your voice trembled, but you could not stop. “feed your lies to someone els—”
he did not let you finish — grabbed your wrist, pressed you against the wall, towered over you, and you smelled blood. apparently his wound reopened when he chased after you, and that thought caused almost physical pain, even though you should not care about him. should not. but you still noticed how the hand pressed to his chest stained dark and sticky.
“i did not lie to you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “i received that letter.”
you looked up at him — tiredly, so tiredly that you did not even have strength left for anger. “and all those things you said were really written there?”
he stared directly at you, without looking away. “every single word,” he said, and then smirked — bitterly, looked away to the side and added as if spitting the words out. “ah, yes, and ten more lines. about how you regretted the gods ever bringing us together. about how all those septas and all those people were right — calling me mad and saying i belonged in exile. about how slitting your own throat would be less humiliating than becoming my wife and carrying my heir beneath your heart.”
he looked at you again, and there was such emptiness in his eyes that it stole your breath away. “detailed enough?”
your lips parted more and more with every word he said, and you shook your head sharply, unable to believe it. he tried to hide it, but you saw it — saw the pain and hurt he hid behind that smirk. and the sight of it made your heart tighten so painfully that breathing became difficult.
“i did not…” you started, but he did not let you finish.
“and you know what?” he leaned closer, and something new appeared in his voice — almost desperate. “after all those words about me — i still want you more than anything.”
“i would never…” you tried again, but once more he interrupted you with a bitter, joyless smirk.
“me and your knight are on the same level now, huh? what makes me different from that dog?”
“you are not different from a dog?!” the words burst out of you — loud, almost a scream, and they spilled from your mouth on their own, without thought, without restraint.
he fell silent immediately, he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling hard, and right now he did not look angry or arrogant — he looked empty. you had never seen him like this.
but you did not stop yourself anymore — you could not, did not want to. “i was the pathetic fool who believed i meant something to you!” your voice cracked, and you no longer tried to hide that you cried — tears streamed down your cheeks, and you did not care. “i wrote that letter after i spent an entire week begging father to speak with you! to give you a chance!”
you looked at him — at his confused, tense face — and continued. “do you want to know what i wrote to you? instead of all that filth you just repeated?”
you stepped closer yourself — one step, then another — and pressed your finger against his chest, right where his heart beat beneath the fabric.
“i wrote that father wanted you to prove to everyone else that your intentions were serious. that if you waited for the right moment to announce the wedding — then you should stand before everyone like a man. that if your feelings for me were pure and you loved me, then he would give you his blessing, and we would be married within two moons.”
you pulled your finger away as if burned. “that is what i sent, aerion. not whatever madness you imagined instead.”
he looked at you, and you saw the way he frowned — heavily, slowly, as if he tried to swallow every word you said, but they stuck in his throat like a stone.
you sniffled, and the sound came from somewhere deep inside — from that little girl who sat beside her mother’s bed and did not understand why she would not wake up, while valarr stood behind her and tried to stay strong for both of you. you felt like that same helpless, crushed little fool again.
“i talked nana’s ears off since morning,” you continued, and your voice turned quieter, but heavier. “i told the servants to prepare the best dress. the jewels — the ones mother used to wear.”
you squeezed your eyes shut — the memories pressed down on you, hurt physically, as if someone squeezed your ribs.
“because i wanted to look like your bride,” you breathed out, opening your eyes. “we talked about it for so long, and i wanted that day to be memorable. i wanted you to think i was the most beautiful woman alive. do you know how happy nana was? how she said she would tell our story to our children?”
his face changed — his brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly. he looked at you as if you spoke in a language he did not understand, as if he heard all of this for the first time. he did not take his eyes off you for even a second.
but you did not let him say a word — you sobbed again, unable to stop the trembling in your voice, and you noticed the way he twitched automatically, wanting to step closer, but you immediately stepped back, and he froze in place, not daring to follow you.
you slowly shook your head, and your hand grabbed at your heart so tightly it felt like you could tear the fabric of your dress apart. “i stood in the rain and waited for you,” you said, and your voice broke into a whisper. “i stood in that cold garden for three hours. my dress soaked through completely, my hair came undone, i could not feel my fingers anymore. i thought i would die from the cold, but i did not leave — because you promised. you promised you would come.”
you squeezed your eyes shut — and suddenly that night stood before you again, the cold garden, the empty benches, and you alone, small, worthless, waiting for the earth to split open and swallow you whole.
“then i heard footsteps,” you continued, and your voice trembled. “and do you know something, aerion? i was so happy. i could barely stand, but it was enough that you came.”
you opened your eyes and looked directly at him. “it was tristan.”
his body tensed immediately — his jaw clenched, muscles moved beneath his skin, and you knew that even hearing that man’s name infuriated him. but it was not aerion who stayed with you that night. not him who covered you with his cloak. not him who took responsibility for explaining everything to the royal family while the servants led you back to your chambers and forced hot bath.
you struggled to breathe — the air disappeared, your lungs burned, and it felt like you would collapse right there at his feet. “that was when i understood,” you breathed out. “that you were not coming. and then tristan told me…”
you could not finish. your voice broke, you shook your head, covered your face with your hands, and your shoulders trembled with silent sobs.
this time he did not stay still. he approached quickly, soundlessly, towered over you and pulled your hands away from your face. carefully, almost gently. “what did he tell you?”
you shook your head, tried to pull away from his hands, to move back. “it does not matter, aerion,” you whispered, and your voice cracked. “none of this matters anymore.”
“what the fuck did that dog tell you?” he repeated, and there was steel in his voice, bordering on desperation.
you stopped resisting. lifted your gaze to him — swollen, red, with wet lashes clumped together from tears. and you spoke — quietly, almost soundlessly, but every word felt like another step into nothingness.
“he said people saw you leaving a brothel.”
you did not hold back anymore — tears poured endlessly down your face, and you no longer wiped them away, no longer tried to seem strong, because you had no strength left at all. for anything. “while i stood beneath the pouring rain and froze, while i breathed onto my numb fingers and shook from the cold, you… you chose that easy pleasure instead…”
he shook his head sharply, almost violently, and tried to catch your gaze, but you saw nothing, heard nothing except your own voice tearing the silence apart.
“i was always beside you, aerion. there was nobody i loved more than you. nobody. and on the day when you were supposed to tell the entire kingdom that you loved me… you chose them. you chose these women instead of me.”
you sniffled, your chest heaving, and you almost choked on your own sobs.
“no,” he said, and his voice sounded dull, desperate. “i nev—”
but you did not hear him. you stopped hearing him completely.
“all this time, while i believed you felt at least something for me, at least something small that looked like love… you went there and…”
he stepped closer — right against you, took your hands and pinned them to the wall on either side of your head, leaned so close that his breath mixed with yours.
“i was never there,” he said, and there was no steel in his voice now, no anger, but something else you never heard from him before. pleading. “i swear on my dead mother, i was not there. how could i even do that?”
you froze. because he never joked when it came to his mother. never. you lifted your eyes to him and saw his face — confused, pleading, more open than ever before. he looked at you as if you were his last hope.
“i was not in a brothel or anywhere else,” he continued, and the words rushed out quickly, unevenly, as if he feared you would stop listening. “i swear. i got that letter, got angry, and left immediately. i could not even think straight after that wretch handed me the lett—”
he stopped in the middle of the sentence. you saw the way his eyes scanned your face, and with every second something new appeared in them — understanding, heavy and cold. his brows pulled together tighter, deeper.
you were not foolish children. both of you understood in the same second.
there was only one person who needed all of this to happen. the one who could easily switch your letter — you studied under the same septa, even if he was often absent because of his duties. the only person besides aerion and your family whom you trusted completely, without ever asking for proof.
and he used that trust.
something cruel and dark appeared on aerion’s face, and his voice turned low, almost into a whisper. “i will kill him. he will die the most painful and shameful death.”
he pushed himself away from the wall, turned around, and you grabbed his forearm sharply, with the last of your strength. he turned back to you, looked down at you, and that cold fury still burned in his eyes.
“don't,” you said.
“are you still protecting him?”
you stayed silent. because you knew his words were not empty threats. if he wanted to kill tristan, he would do it. right now. and maybe somewhere deep inside you wanted the same thing. but tristan was your friend, your brother, your support. the person who stayed beside you when nobody else did. and your heart still could not believe that he spent all those years saving you from pain he created himself.
so you said the thing that would work. you knew it was not a lie — just not the whole truth. “can you stay with me?”
he looked at you for a long, long time — and you saw the rage fighting with something else inside him — he knew exactly what you were doing. knew you distracted him, bought time, saved someone who maybe did not deserve saving.
but he was too tired. or maybe he always allowed you too much. either way, he let out a deep painful breath and then sharply pulled you closer.
his lips crashed against yours — not softly, not gently. there was nothing careful in this kiss.
he pulled you by the waist so suddenly that you cried out against his mouth, but the sound drowned in his silent groan. your hands slid over his chest on their own, wrapped around his neck, fingers buried themselves in silver hair — so soft, so familiar, so him.
he bit your lower lip — not painfully and there was so much desperation in the gesture that it stole your breath. using your short gasp, he deepened the kiss, and his tongue pushed into your mouth — greedy, demanding, tasting you as if he wanted to memorize every part of you, every tiny piece.
he kissed you as if he wanted to devour you whole, swallow you completely so you would always stay inside him, beneath his skin, in his blood, where nobody could ever take you away. and you answered him the same way — pressed yourself against him, tugged at his hair, bit his lower lip, and he groaned, low and rough, and there was so much desperation in that sound that it made your chest tighten.
“finally,” he breathed directly against your lips, and his voice cracked, and you felt his smile — too unexpected and too rare.
he pulled away from your lips — but not from you, his mouth started wandering across your face, covering it with small, lingering kisses: your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your lips, your eyelids that you already squeezed shut.
“how could i ever want anyone else,” he kissed one cheek, then the other, “when you are the only thing i have ever needed?"
you only breathed out quietly, melted against him, because you no longer felt that heavy guilt that suffocated you for years every time you thought about him. the pain of all those years did not disappear — it stayed there, beneath your skin, in your memories, in those nights. you did not know if you would ever forgive him, if you'd forget. but right now, while he kissed your face and held you as if you could disappear, you thought maybe you could think about that tomorrow.
he was never a master of tender words. but now — it seemed even this stubborn, unbearable man could not hold himself back anymore.
he lifted his hands, brushed your hair back, exposing your forehead, and kissed it for a long time — simply stood there with his lips against your skin, breathing in your scent as if he would not survive a single day without it.
“never,” a kiss to your cheek, “nobody,” a kiss to your nose, “was or ever will be worth more than you. i realized that after you started coming to my training sessions.”
you stayed silent for a long time, simply pressed against him, feeling his heart beat in rhythm with yours. then you hummed quietly, lazily, hiding your smile. “actually, that was my reading spot long before your training sessions.”
he smirked — softly, without any sharpness — and kissed your temple. “whatever you say, my love.”
he held you tighter, and you stood there for a long time, you felt his fingers stroke your back — slowly, soothingly, felt the way he breathed — steady, deep, pulling you into himself.
you pulled back just a little to look at him, and he immediately resisted, pulling you close again. you did not want to ruin this moment — the one where you could finally be with him openly, not in stolen one. but you could not stop yourself from saying it. you could not do this to yourself again.
you lifted your head and met his piercing gaze. in the light of the few candles his eyes looked only at you.
“if you truly love me, you will let tristan win the tourney.”
a/n: i genuinely believe this story needs sad ending. pt5 is in process ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
Hello! I’m obsessed with your writing! I’m having a really bad migraine attack for a few days now, could you write maybe something sweet with any of Finn’s characters about it? Like what they would do to make their girl feel better? Thank you 🫶🏼
thank you! i sure can my love.. here’s some snippets of a few of his characters, i hope you enjoy and feel better soon 💗💗
the finn’s making you feel better
Given what he is up against daily, cases, burnouts, and anything that strolls up in the station. Peter has learned to be trepidatious with that quiet concern. So when it comes to your health, and the times when you don’t feel well?
He’s on it with stealth.
The 2am conversations when you need extra meds, running to the gas station to grab you energy drinks or anything to cheer you up, and slipping in some chocolate just to make you smile. And he does all of it without question, without argument, just a simple nod, and a tender kiss to your forehead.
“I’ve got you… just breathe, okay?” And he’s off, leaving you wrapped up in a blanket and the door shutting closed carefully slow.
Once he’s back, he stays and he doesn’t rush it, doesn’t get impatient. Instead, he rides it out with you like it’s his pain too, curling up to you on the sofa or the bed and pulling you into his arms, only getting up to grab you some water and whatever you ask for. Most of the time when he feels he’s drifting, he’s nodding himself back awake just to check on you, even if you fell asleep before him. he’s on constant ‘healer mode’ once you’re not feeling well.
And until you’re well again? That doesn’t end. A simple migraine or a bad one, or any kind of sickness for that matter, he’s treating it like top priority, because to him it is, even if things are constantly trying to drag him away.
You’d expect a sort of impatience, an inflation of an already large ego and all of the careless cruelties that come with it, but when it comes to caring for you with Aerion, although that doesn’t disappear, there is certainly less of it. Once you’re his, you’re his, and there’s no denying that. He could speak all day about his list of wants, about than believing himself better than others, and you with him, your health isn’t something he messes around with.
He’s almost frightening curling around something so fragile. At least to everyone else. The first signs of weakness and he’s watching carefully at a distance, the stumble in your step, the pull of your brow as pain shoots through you, but only in private does he move toward you. And when he takes you into his arms, studying your closer, mere breaths away from you, not tender but not callous, he listens, to your pain, to your body.
“Ease, dove..” His voice is strained, coming out a weak whisper, letting your eyes flicker closed as he leans over you.
And there he hardens.
Silence is enforced among the halls, your chambers are cleared, and no one is to enter them so much as come near you unless it’s him, or a trusted maester should your condition worsen.
He’ll sit at your side with cool fingers, pressing them to your forehead, looking you over with an expression that is darkened, watchful, like the only affliction he has is they he can’t take it away for you. Though he doesn’t hover, when it comes to illness he prefers to stay away from it, believes it’s beneath him, and so he shadows you. Whenever you call for him, he’ll be close enough to approach you calmly, slyly like he hadn’t been listening the whole time, sending your ladies maids with a sharp eye to tend to you, or when you finally feel somewhat better he will orbit you amid courtly duties and feasts.
He wouldn’t admit it but seeing you in pain irks him, given what happened to his own mother, and the sight of seeing you in pain, at your most vulnerable, Aerion doesn’t know what to do. And though he less often shows it to you, as much as he can manage, others that step at all out of line form his word or your wants, get the brunt force of that anger and coarseness.
Somehow, Shawn is the practical type, and when it comes to your wellbeing he’s on it and already clocked your tells before you even say mention word of a migraine or the pain you’re in. Hell act cool about it, as always, but he’s got everything you need. Water? Poured your a cup and it’s in hand. Meds? Already your hand, he got them from the drugstore on his last run remember. Your bedroom? Dark and quiet.
Only then does he really soften, he’s calling his friends and telling them to leave him be for a couple of hours, sitting you down and pulling you into his lap with an arm around your shoulder. He lets your head rest against his chest where it’s steady and predictable.
He keeps voice low, rumbling through his chest and soft at your ear, almost teasing just to keep you anchored, “You look like you’re about to fight god. Let’s not, yeah?” His fingers brush through your hair, taking not of when and where your face pulls tight, and what makes you curl into him tighter.
His hand rubs at your back in slow, rhythmic motions, like he’s trying to lull your nervous system itself. Shawn doesn’t suffocate you, he’ll leave off and on to pick up some more stuff when you fall asleep, going out on runs for booze once you’re occupied, but he won’t leave either.
His presence is steady, and whenever he’s not hassling someone he’s at your side pressing kisses to your temple.
Before you even have to say anything, although a little unsure, a little intense, like he feels everything too much and doesn’t know where to put it. Olly is alert as he usually is, and he seems to notice just as the pain sets in.
He panics at first, nothing loud or over the top, but you can see it in the way he trips over himself, somehow more clumsy than usual, his hands half-reaching like he’s scared to touch you. But once you let him in, he settles. And by that, he sits close to you, like really close, like proximity alone might help. His hand finds yours, squeezing it gently as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again and again.
“Just tell me what you need.. I’ll do it, yeah?” And he’s running at the first sign you tell him.
He whispers soft, random things, not even full sentences sometimes, just to keep you tethered to something outside the pain, some things he did in the hours he wasn’t with you, some stupid thing he saw on his phone earlier. It’s simple, it’s playful and he tries his best to cure you through that.
And when it gets bad, the fever sharpening and when your body starts to tense, he leans his head against yours with his eyes closed, going utterly silent until you tempt to speak again, sharing the weight of it as much as he can manage.
Care with Marcellus feels deliberate. almost ritualistic. like you’re something sacred he’s tending to, because there’s little else he’d bide himself with to care for anyway. but you are something else entirely, you’re his, the one thing he can hold onto solidly, and he isn’t going to let go of that.
Especially when you are sick.
He dims the room himself, with no servants or anyone else surrounding you, this is his to do. Oils were prepared with cool cloths, a faint scent of herbs still lingering that he was told once helped.
You’re laid down with your head in his lap, fingers combing through your hair in slow, methodical strokes, tracing the lines of your face like he’s sculpting it. And it’d grounding. His voice is calm, assured, the one he keeps reserved for you, without the sarcasm, without the
“The pain is temporary. You endure it you always do.” And he believes it, and so you do aswell tucked into each other in the warmth of your bedchambers.
He won’t rush your recovery, though he’ll sit there as long as it takes, a quiet pillar between you and society bustling around you. And in fact he takes it as his own escape from the prying eyes to follow you and drift into a stillness.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲
He notices you long before he admits it to himself. At first, you’re just an inconvenient detail— his new ally’s niece, the woman he absolutely should not be watching across crowded rooms. But then he starts memorizing how you hold eye contact with him instead of looking away, and that is where the trouble begins.
Thomas reacts to wanting you by becoming colder, not warmer. Every clipped answer, every narrowed glance, every sudden exit from a conversation is him trying to put distance between himself and the thing he knows could become dangerous.
He tells himself it’s strategy. He convinces himself that asking where you are, who you were seen with, whether you got home safely, those are business questions. They stop sounding like business the moment he starts asking them twice.
You would catch him studying you when he thinks you aren’t looking. Not with obvious softness, but with that sharp, unsettling focus that makes you feel like he’s trying to solve you and losing patience because he can’t.
The forbidden part makes him furious with himself. Thomas hates weakness, and falling for you feels exactly like that, an opening someone clever enough could use to put a knife straight through him.
He becomes more protective than he has any right to be. If someone speaks to you disrespectfully, he doesn’t explode publicly. He simply handles it later, quietly, efficiently, and with enough finality that the insult is never repeated.
Around you, his control slips in small ways. He lingers after conversations are over. He lights cigarettes and forgets to smoke them. He says your name like it means more than it should, and both of you hear it.
He would try to push you away first. He’d tell you staying near him is dangerous. He’d say it harshly on purpose, hoping you’ll get angry enough to leave before he loses the ability to let you.
If you challenge him instead of retreating, that’s what ruins him. Thomas is used to fear, obedience, calculation. You standing there, refusing to be intimidated, makes something in him shift permanently.
The first real sign he loves you is not a confession—it’s trust. He starts telling you things he doesn’t tell other people. Not everything, never everything, but enough for you to realize he has quietly made space for you inside the locked rooms of his mind.
He grows territorial in ways he tries very hard to hide. If another man takes too much interest in you, Thomas suddenly appears nearby, saying almost nothing, but making it unmistakably clear that he is paying attention.
When he finally gives in, it happens in a moment of exhaustion. Late at night, after too much blood and too much silence, he looks at you like you are the only peaceful thing left in the world—and that look says more than words ever could.
Loving you means accepting the one truth he hates most: you could destroy him simply by mattering. And once Thomas Shelby realizes he loves you, he knows there is no going back. He will still call you a bad idea but now he’ll say it while standing close enough that neither of you believes he means it.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧
John falls first and realizes it much faster than he wants to. You’re supposed to be off limits—his mate's little sister—but the moment you make him laugh when he’s in a foul mood, he knows he’s in trouble.
His first reaction is denial. He acts louder, flirtier, more reckless around other women, like if he keeps moving fast enough he won’t have to look too hard at why he keeps searching every room for you.
Unlike Thomas, John doesn’t get colder—he gets more restless. He finds reasons to be wherever you are. Suddenly he’s “just passing through” when you visit, or he volunteers for errands no one asked him to do.
He teases you relentlessly because it’s safer than honesty. He likes seeing you roll your eyes, hearing you snap back at him, watching you try not to smile when he says something outrageous just to get a reaction.
The moment someone reminds him you’re off limits, he gets defensive immediately. Not because he means to reveal anything, but because the idea of being told to stay away from you irritates him more than it should.
He becomes absurdly observant about you. John notices when you’re tired, when you’re upset, when you’ve been pretending not to be bothered by something. He acts casual about it, but he notices everything.
If you’re connected to a rival or someone he’s meant to tolerate, the conflict eats at him. John isn’t subtle about emotion, and being forced to act indifferent when he wants to pull you closer makes him sharp-tempered with everyone else.
He gets jealous fast. If another man leans in too close, John’s grin disappears. He won’t always start a fight but he absolutely will plant himself beside you like he belongs there.
Around you, there’s a boyish softness he can’t entirely hide. He brags less when you’re genuinely upset. He checks whether you’re cold. He remembers things you mentioned weeks ago and pretends it was accidental.
The first time he realizes it’s serious is when you’re in danger. That flash of fear hits him so hard it strips away every excuse he’s been using. It’s not attraction. It’s not amusement. It’s love, and he hates how obvious it suddenly feels.
He would probably confess in anger first. Not cruel anger—frustrated, cornered honesty. Something like, “You think I want this? You think I meant for it to be you?”
Once it’s out, John becomes stubborn about it. If you tell him it’s impossible, he’ll argue. If you tell him it’s a terrible idea, he’ll probably agree and then kiss you anyway.
Loving you makes him unexpectedly serious. He still jokes, still grins, still acts impulsive but underneath it is something steadier. If you matter to him, then you’re his choice, and John Shelby has never been good at walking away from what he wants.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥
Michael falls in love quietly, almost academically at first. He notices patterns—how you think before you speak, how your voice changes when you’re irritated, how you never quite behave the way he expects. He tells himself he’s only curious.
Because you’re off limits, he initially treats the attraction like a problem to solve. Distance should fix it. Logic should fix it. A few weeks later he realizes he’s somehow more aware of you than ever.
He becomes more formal around you, not less. Polite, composed, carefully measured. The better he likes you, the more deliberate every word becomes because he is terrified of saying too much.
You would notice him listening to you more closely than anyone else does. He remembers tiny details you assumed he’d forgotten—an offhand complaint, a favorite book, the way you once said you hated being underestimated.
Michael hates that other people could use you against him. The forbidden nature of it makes him cautious in a way that almost looks detached, but the truth is the opposite: he’s being careful because he already cares too much.
If you belong to someone politically inconvenient—an enemy’s daughter, a business partner’s niece—he starts watching every interaction for hidden meaning. Not because he distrusts you, but because he distrusts everyone around you.
He grows jealous in silence. Michael won’t make a scene. He’ll just go quieter, his expression flattening while he watches someone else monopolize your attention.
Around you, he has moments where his composure slips. His gaze lingers too long. His reply comes half a second late. His hand brushes yours and suddenly he forgets the rest of the sentence.
He tries to convince himself that if he never acts on it, it doesn’t count. Then he starts making choices with you in mind, and that’s when he realizes the feeling has already moved past control.
Michael’s protectiveness is subtle but unmistakable. He won’t hover. He won’t order you around. But problems disappear before they reach you, and you slowly realize that isn’t coincidence.
The first time he nearly confesses, it happens in private—late, quiet, when there’s no audience. He says your name differently, softer, and then stops himself because once he starts, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.
If you ask him directly, he cannot lie well enough. He might evade, might stall, might look away but the truth is there all over him, and for a man who values control, that vulnerability feels almost unbearable.
When Michael finally accepts he loves you, he becomes determined rather than reckless. He doesn’t want a stolen moment. He wants something real enough to be worth the trouble, and that is when you understand he has already decided you are worth the consequences.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞
Alfie realizes he’s falling for you almost immediately, and his first reaction is irritation so profound it borders on personal offense. Out of all the women in the world, it had to be you, the one tied to someone he absolutely should not cross.
He starts talking more when you’re around, not less. Half of it sounds like nonsense, stories, insults, philosophy but underneath all that noise is a man trying very hard not to say the one thing he actually means.
You’d catch him looking at you with unsettling intensity, then saying something deliberately ridiculous the second you notice. Alfie hates being caught in sincerity.
The forbidden part doesn’t scare him morally, it annoys him strategically. He knows exactly how much trouble could come from wanting you, and that only makes him more fascinated by the fact that he wants you anyway.
He becomes infuriatingly attentive. He remembers what tea you prefer, which subjects make you angry, which ones make you laugh, who you dislike and why. He’ll pretend he hasn’t noticed a thing.
Alfie’s version of flirting is verbal warfare. He needles you, provokes you, pushes until you snap back. And every time you do, he looks absurdly pleased with himself.
He becomes very particular about who speaks to you. He’ll act like it’s about politics, appearances, timing. It isn’t.
The moment another man gets too familiar with you, Alfie’s entire mood changes. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He just says something so calmly threatening that everyone in the room understands perfectly well.
Around you, there are rare flashes of startling gentleness. A chair pulled out before you ask. His coat around your shoulders. A hand at the small of your back guiding you through a crowd like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He tries to warn you away in his own crooked way. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he does. He knows what proximity to him costs, and for once he isn’t entirely selfish about it.
If you refuse to be pushed away, that’s when he truly loses. There is something about you choosing to stay that cuts straight through every layer of bluff, wit, and menace.
Alfie’s confession would never sound like a confession. It would come out half-angry, half-amused, something rough-edged like, “You are, without question, the worst bloody idea I’ve had in years.” And yet the way he looks at you would make the meaning painfully clear.
Once he loves you, it becomes woven into everything. He still argues, still mocks, still pretends not to care nearly as much as he does but when it matters, when the room turns dangerous, when choices have consequences, you discover there is almost nothing Alfie Solomons won’t do for someone he has let under his skin.
Summary: 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.
Tags/Notes: established relationship, groveling and forgiveness, acts of service, nurse!reader, pregnant!reader, getting back together, ft. trinity as a menace and dennis as a cutie
Content: pregnancy, pregnant sex (fingering), shaving scene
A/N: im not good at math <3 sorry i haven't posted in three weeks lmao
Word Count: 14.3k
The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.
On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.
You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.
He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?
You didn’t answer.
You don’t plan to.
The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.
Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”
Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”
His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”
“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”
As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”
Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”
She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”
Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”
“Whatever you say, cap.”
The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.
In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”
She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”
He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”
The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.
—
It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.
You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”
“No worries, gorgeous.”
Your focus snaps.
Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”
Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”
He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”
You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”
“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”
“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”
Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”
You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”
Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”
Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.
“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”
Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.
Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”
“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”
He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”
“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”
Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”
You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”
It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.
He sends you texts. You don’t reply.
He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.
After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”
“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”
Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”
“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”
Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend.”
“And thank god for that.”
“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”
“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”
“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”
“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”
“And you repaid her by leaving.”
Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”
“But she did.”
“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”
“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”
“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”
“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”
“Flatterer.”
“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”
Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”
“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”
At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.
When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”
Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”
“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”
“Not hostile, just professional.”
“You were definitely hostile.”
Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”
She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”
Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”
“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”
“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”
“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”
Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”
Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”
“At the door.”
Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”
Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”
“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”
Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”
“It’s ten thousand dollars.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”
Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”
You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”
“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”
“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”
“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.
Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”
Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”
Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”
“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”
“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.
She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”
“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”
“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”
“And you’re not forgiving enough.”
You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”
“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”
Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”
“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”
With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.
I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life.
That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice.
But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that.
So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that.
It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please.
I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more.
And I promise I love you. Both of you.
I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it.
Love,
Sincerely,
Yours,
M.
All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.
Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”
Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”
Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”
You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”
Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”
Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”
You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.
In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.
In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.
I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.
Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I think you should let him grovel.”
Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”
“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”
“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”
“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”
“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”
“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”
You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”
“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”
“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”
“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”
“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”
Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”
“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”
You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”
And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.
Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.
Then.
After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”
Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”
Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”
Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”
“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”
The world tilts slightly.
Robby’s breath catches in his throat.
Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?
You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.
You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.
“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”
“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”
You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”
Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”
You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”
His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”
Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”
“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”
“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”
“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”
Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”
With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”
“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”
Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”
You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.
“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”
“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”
“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”
‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.
After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”
One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”
You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”
“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”
You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”
His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”
“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”
Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”
You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”
He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m 100% confident.”
“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”
That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”
“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”
Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”
“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”
Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”
“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”
He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”
Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.
Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.
With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.
Noted. Thanks for the tip.
Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.
I’m rooting for you.
If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.
Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.
Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.
“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”
“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”
With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”
Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”
“Kids. Plural.”
He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”
You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”
Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”
You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”
“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”
“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”
“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”
“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”
Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”
“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”
Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”
You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”
“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.
“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”
You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”
He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”
“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”
“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”
You tease, “Sounds horrible.”
“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”
Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”
“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”
“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”
Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.
…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…
After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”
Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”
Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”
“You were just talking to her.”
He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”
She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”
Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”
You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”
He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”
Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.
“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”
You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”
“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”
“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”
“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”
“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”
He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”
“Michael!”
“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”
“I will not hesitate to splash you.”
Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”
Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”
“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”
After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”
His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”
You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”
He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”
And you want to kiss him.
You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”
He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”
You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.
As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”
You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”
Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”
You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”
“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”
You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”
He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”
You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.
Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”
Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”
Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”
Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”
“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”
Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.
Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.
You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.
For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.
So you decide.
Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”
His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”
“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”
“What would it be, then?”
He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”
You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.
When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-
Woah, asshole.
Calm down.
He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.
All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”
When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes.
To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”
Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”
Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.
He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”
“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”
Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”
“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”
“You do?”
There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”
With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, Michael.”
“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”
When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.
Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.
Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”
He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”
You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”
You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.
As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”
“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”
You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”
When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”
You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”
“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”
“God forbid.”
“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”
“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.
“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”
“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”
Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”
“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”
Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”
You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”
“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”
“Yes, mom.”
“Good. As he should.”
Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”
“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”
Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”
“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.
Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”
Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”
You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”
You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”
He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”
The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”
And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.
Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”
You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”
“What? You don’t want a shower?”
“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”
Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.
Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.
She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”
“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”
“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”
Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”
“We’ll see.”
You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”
“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”
Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”
You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”
Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”
You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”
Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”
You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”
Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”
When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”
He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”
You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”
So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”
Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”
Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.
You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”
Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”
He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.
Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.
From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.
That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.
Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.
While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”
Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”
Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”
Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”
He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”
Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”
“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”
“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”
As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”
“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”
Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”
“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”
“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”
A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”
“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”
“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”
“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”
“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”
Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.
“Rest of your life, huh?”
“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”
You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”
“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.
Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”
Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.
Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”
Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”
You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”
Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”
You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”
“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”
Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”
“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”
He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”
“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”
You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t play dirty with me.”
“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”
He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”
“Now who’s playing dirty?”
“I would never.”
Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.
God.
God.
Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.
Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”
“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”
“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”
You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?”
Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”
He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”
The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.
Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.
And you kiss him.
It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”
Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”
You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”
“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”
You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”
“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”
Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”
“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”
He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”
You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”
Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”
“I want a hot tub.”
“Okay.”
“And a soaking tub.”
“Okay.”
“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”
“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”
Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”
Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”
Series Summary: Jack Abbot takes you, your baby, and your dog in.
Chapter Summary: It's not the first time you've shown up at the ED because of your boyfriend, but, this time, Jack Abbot's going to make sure it's the last.
Tags/Notes: starting over, established friendship, jack being good with babies and dogs, pining, breaking cycles, healing, ptsd/grief
A/N: posting this mostly to gauge interest i hope y'all like it bc im so nervous about posting series
Word Count: 3.9k
It’s the worst thunderstorm of the year, which means Jack Abbot has to mentally prepare himself for whatever’s going to happen at the ER. It’s no mass casualty, thankfully, but a thunderstorm means more car accidents, injuries from tipped candles, and all sorts of random injuries from people stumbling around in the dark. Once, he’d even treated a lightning strike victim during a very similar storm. Tonight, he triages a heart attack, stitches up a two-car pileup, and sets a broken arm from a tumblr down the stairs.
Just like every night, he’s ready for anything.
Except, of course, you.
It’s Robby’s hand on his shoulder that shakes him from the few minutes of relaxation he has in the break room, drowning in an extra large coffee as he scrolls absently through his phone. Gruffly, Jack informs him, “I’ve still got five minutes. Go get Shen.”
“I can’t get Shen for this one.” Robby’s voice is quiet and soft. Tender, almost. It’s not a voice he uses often with Jack, like he’s talking to a patient losing a loved one. “It’s her again.”
Jack’s head snaps upwards. He whips around, already standing, and begins chugging his lukewarm coffee. In between gulps, he clarifies, “Her boyfriend?”
“Yeah. It’s not pretty.” Robby sighs, takes Jack’s mug from his hand, and says, “I think this is the one, brother. I really do.”
Jack scoffs, “Don’t get my hopes up like that.”
“I mean it,” he insists. “She’s got all kinds of bags with her this time. Says the dog’s waiting in the car so we have to be fast.”
“And Riley?”
“He’s not hurt,” Robby replies, flooding Jack’s veins with relief, “but she won’t let go of him for anything. Not unless you’re the one treating them.” Robby gives him a sad sort of knowing smile and tells him, “Go take care of your girl. Trauma three.”
“She’s not my girl,” Jack mutters, the refrain familiar and aching, as he heads out of the breakroom and across the emergency department.
When he pulls aside the curtain, a piece of his heart breaks. It’s the same piece that’s been broken the last four times you’ve shown up at the ER because of Alex. This time, there’s blood streaming down your face; you have to blink it out of your eyes every few seconds. There’s a bulky gray baby carrier by your feet, but you grip still-tiny Riley to your chest anyway. He’s sleeping soundly despite the constant chaos around him. Jack hates the idea that he’s gotten used to sleeping through yells at only six weeks old.
Jack sighs. His smile is undercut by sadness. “Hi, bird.”
A couple of tears turn the streak of blood orangey pink on your cheek. “Hey, Jackie.”
Stepping further into the room, Jack offers, “Can I put Riley in his carrier so we can take care of that cut?”
You nod carefully. Jack’s the only person you’d trust to take your son right now. He handles Riley with such care that your tensed shoulders relax a little. Once the baby’s secure, still thankfully sleeping, Jack sits on a stool across from you. “That’s a pretty nasty cut. What happened?”
“Alex happened.” It’s flat. Calm. You’ve never admitted it before even though Jack’s always known. “I think it needs stitches. Won’t stop bleeding. I wouldn’t have bothered you otherwise.”
“C’mon, you know you’re never bothering me,” he assures with a gentle voice. “Lean forward; let me clean this up.”
You do as he says, unable to make eye contact as he holds your chin with one hand to stabilize your head. With the other, he wipes off your face with a cloth and then dabs the forehead wound with antiseptic that stings. As you wince through it, you whisper, “I called the cops this time. I’m not letting Riley live with a man like that.”
“I’m proud of you.” Jack strokes your cheek with his thumb, like a reflex, and says, “This doesn’t need stitches, at least. I’ll do some glue and tape; it should heal up with minimal scarring.”
You flinch as he applies the thin layer of adhesive. “That’s good, I guess.”
With the bleeder patched up, Jack can see the harsh blotches of bruising across your cheek and nose. The split in your lip. Anger and sorrow flare at the base of his throat and he swallows them down. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
You grimace. “Just my pride.”
“That’s good. I mean, that you’re not hurt otherwise.” He’s reluctant to leave your side even if there isn’t really a reason to keep you at the hospital any longer. After an internal debate that lasts all of five seconds, he asks, “Where are you staying tonight?”
You pull your knees up onto the exam table and wrap your arms around them. Without making eye contact, you tell Jack, “I’m not sure yet. I, ah, I called my mom, but she didn’t want to hear from me since I didn’t let her in the room during my birth. My sister’s got four of her own kids already; can’t exactly give me an open bedroom. And, well, you know my dad.”
Drunk asshole loser, Jack reminds himself, like your boyfriend.
“I guess I’ll try to find a hotel or something,” you go on, the wheels behind your eyes turning. Your voice picks up panicky speed. “I’ll just have to do some research. Maggie’s in the car and she’s a Malinois, so there are lots of breed and weight restrictions. And I know lots of places don’t have pop-ups or cribs or anything on short notice and I wasn’t thinking about that when I-”
“Hey, hey, shh.” Jack takes your hand in his. There’s no force to his grip, just warmth and affection radiating from his strong fingers to yours. “I’ve got a comfortable guest room and this bassinet thing from when my niece was little. I told you that you could come to my place if you ever needed somewhere to crash years ago; I’m not taking it back now, bird.”
The use of his old nickname for you makes you roll your eyes, an honest smile parting your lips for the first time since you left Alex with the cops. “You haven’t called me that since before I got pregnant and now that’s twice in one night.”
“Haven’t thought about it.” He sighs and tucks some of your hair behind your ear. “But you definitely remind me of it right now.”
That makes tears sting at your eyes.
Jack was helping you unpack on a night not unlike this one, a storm drenching the dark city. Your divorce had been finalized at last, which meant you could finally get your own place instead of crashing at your sister’s. You’d come running inside – not with a box but with a baby bird. Its broken wing stopped it from trying to launch itself into the air, trying and failing over and over. You spent a week nursing it back to health until you could find a wildlife rescue who’d rehabilitate the poor little thing.
After a month, Jack joined you with a representative of the rescue at a nature preserve outside the city. The three of you released the bird and Jack had squeezed you close to his side. “You’ll be flying soon enough, too.”
Tonight, you sigh, thinking of the moment, and tell him, “Right now, I feel a lot more like the bird with the broken wing than the girl who wanted to save it. I fell into the same pattern again, but this time I brought an innocent baby into it, too.”
Jack murmurs, “Well, I think you’re saving yourself.” Then he stands, picks up the baby carrier in one strong hand, and adds, “And Riley. Maggie, too. You’re keeping your family safe.” He nods for you to stand up so that he can lead you over to discharge. “It’ll take some time, but I’m sure you’ll figure out how to fly again.”
You sit in the back seat with Riley on the drive home, Jack taking over your minivan. Maggie’s settled in the hatchback, whining softly because she likes to be as close to you and the baby as possible. When Jack parks it in the driveway of his house on the edge of the city, your heart rate jumps way up. You know you don’t have any choice of where to go, but you still feel exceptionally stupid dragging someone as good as Jack into your mess.
As he runs inside to get the guest bedroom ready, you unclip Riley and begin collecting your things, Maggie patiently waiting like the well-trained guard dog she is. You’re heavily burdened in every sense. With your backpack on, you balance an over-stuffed diaper bag on your hip and hold another suitcase bursting at the seams. Your right hand grips the hard plastic handle of the carrier, visor protecting Riley from the rainwater and the pattering sound soothing him in his dreams.
Flinging the door open for you, Jack’s already taking things and ushering you inside. He grabs the suitcase and the diaper bag first, doing whatever he can to lighten your load as he blinks hard, processing the change in his night. On autopilot, Jack tells you, “I’ll go get Maggie, okay? You just sit here and breathe for a minute.”
You try to listen, but you feel too guilty to sit on Jack’s nice light gray suede couch, which you’d ruin with your soaked body. Even focusing, though, you can’t stop the tears that are constantly tumbling from your eyes, down your cheeks, and onto the clean wood floors. Jack’s too-big house that he only uses half of is always so neat and tidy and here you are with ‘messy complication’ practically tattooed on your forehead. Guilt holds you by the throat.
It doesn’t take long for Jack to return with the four-year-old black and brown Malinois with her pink collar and oversized ears, holding her leash loosely since Maggie always walks in perfect obedient heel, sticking close to his ankles. Right away, Maggie curls up by your feet, draping her head over the end of the baby’s carrier, nose pressing into his onesie’s foot.
Jack hefts your suitcase onto the couch, not giving a single thought to his upholstery, and asks, “You bring any clothes? You need to put on something warm and dry.”
“It’s all Riley’s stuff,” you sniffle as you stare down at your tiny son, who looks so innocent and soft, not knowing that his whole life has just been turned upside down by his shit-ass father. “I didn’t have a lot of time. I wasn’t thinking about what to grab beyond what I needed to keep him safe.”
“That’s okay,” Jack soothes. His voice is low like you’re a wounded child in his ER. “I’m sure some of my old clothes will fit good enough for now; grab whatever you want from the dresser. How’s a hot shower sound?”
“Really good.” Biting your lower lip, you check, “You don’t mind watching Riley for a few minutes?”
Jack scoffs, “You know I love hanging out with the little man.”
With a nod, you stand up. It takes you a few minutes of watching Jack and your son together for you to feel enough courage to leave them alone for your shower. You keep it boiling hot and scrub yourself hard and fast with Jack’s sandalwood body wash until you feel a little bit human. You towel off quickly and wrap your hair up, trying hard to ignore just how well-organized Jack’s home is. It’s all put together, simple, cool and collected. Like Jack. The exact opposite of you.
And you feel massively, horrifically intrusive opening up his dresser to take some of his clothes. So you don’t go digging around; you grab the top tee (gray with ‘Drexel University’ in bright blue across the chest) and a pair of boxers (red plaid) off their respective folded stacks.
When you return to the living room a few minutes later, Jack’s sitting on the floor, rocking the carrier with one hand and rubbing Maggie’s belly with the other. Jack’s the only man she’s ever warmed up to; he’d joined both of you on plenty of runs through the park since you got her, always impressed with your ability to train her. He’s lost the prosthetic, which leans against the couch behind him.
“Thanks for the clothes and everything,” you mutter as you join him on the floor. It feels a lot more appropriate than sitting on his furniture. “I promise I’ll try to be out of your hair before the weekend.”
“It’s no trouble. Seriously, it’ll be nice to have some company between shifts for once.” Trying to keep his concerned voice low, Jack asks, “Are you ready to talk about what happened with Alex?”
You’re quiet for a long time. Debating. Jack’s been your closest friend for years and years now, ever since you met more than a decade ago at a PTSD support group (him having attended since his discharge from the army and returning after his wife's death, you having just left an abusive husband). When you decided to keep your baby with the on-again, off-again boyfriend he’d never been a fan of, who was too much like your ex, Jack was the only person who didn’t tell you that you were throwing away your life. He understood the desire to be a parent when it felt like time was running out. He came to half your prenatal appointments when Alex was busy. Hell, he threw together an impromptu baby shower for you when you revealed nobody else cared enough to bother.
So you know Jack’s not going to rub it in your face that he was right about Alex.
But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to tell him.
“I got cleared to have sex at my follow-up today,” you start gently, keeping your voice soft. Maggie, sensing your distress, nudges her nose underneath your hands, getting you to unravel your wound-up body. You start petting her and let the action ground you. “But, ah, later on, when he wanted to, like, try to start things up with me, after I put Riley down, I- I told him I’m not ready. Y’know, I have a tear that still hurts, and my boobs are sore all the time, and I’m so fucking constipated that-” You snap your hand over your mouth. “Jesus, sorry.”
“I’m a doctor,” he reminds you softly. With a light tone that comforts you a bit, he adds, “I’ve disempacted more bowels than I can count and I’ve seen things happen to vaginas that would make a tear sound like a walk in the park. You don’t need to be insecure about standard postpartum concerns.”
“Thanks, Jack.” You offer him a meek smile. Then you sigh and go on, “After I told him no, we got into this huge fight and he said I had no right to turn him down and then he- he-”
Your voice fizzles into tears again. You stifle them with your hand, not wanting to wake Riley, especially not right now, and stare at the ceiling light until your body calms back down.
Jack’s eyes darken. “That’s when he hurt you?”
“He hadn’t hurt me since before I got pregnant. I- I was stupid enough to think the baby might change things.”
Jack whispers, “It’s not stupid to have hope.”
You nod, not believing him, and go on, “He threw this stupid expensive antique vase of his mom’s at my head. That’s what gave me the cut.” You rub the dog’s ears like they’re a comfort item as you tell him, “Maggie took a chunk out of his arm as soon as he started hitting me. He’s probably at Mercy getting patched up by now.”
Jack pats Maggie on the butt and praises, “Good girl.”
“She never liked Alex.” You shake your head at yourself. “I should’ve broken up with him based on that alone. She’s a good judge of character. Unlike me.”
“You’re just kind,” Jack replies. You think he’s always been too charitable with you, too forgiving, too willing to look past every bad thing about you. “Shitty people will always take advantage when someone’s kind.”
Jack gives your hand a soft squeeze, then, and seems to be on the verge of speaking again when Riley stirs at last. He scrunches up his legs and stretches his balled-up fists over his head as he blinks in the light. You lean forward and touch his cheek. “Hey there, bubba. Bet you’re ready for dinner, huh? Mama let you oversleep.”
Before you can stand to scoop him up, Jack asks, “Mind grabbing my crutches from the bedroom? I’ll get that bassinet set up while you take care of him.”
“Of course. Thank you, Jack. Thank you so much”
You wake up to warm light on your face after sleeping a full night. That alone is enough to make you jolt upright. With a baby only a few months old, something has to be horribly wrong for the entire night to pass in silence. The previous night washes over you as you spring out of the cozy, soft-linened bed, panic rising up in your chest. There’s no bassinet by the bed anymore and your head is throbbing.
You storm through the house in a frenzy, calling out, “Jack?! Where’s-”
In the kitchen, you stop in your tracks. Jack is standing there with your baby looking totally content in a belly hold over one muscular forearm while he scrambles eggs on the stove with his other hand. Maggie’s curled on the kitchen floor by his feet, but she perks up when you walk in.
“Morning, sunshine.” Jack gives you a soft smile as he takes plates from a cabinet. The clinking sound makes Riley squirm, eyes searching for his mom. “I was just about to get you up; Riley’s definitely waiting for his real breakfast. Uncle Jackie can only make a so-so bottle, apparently.”
You’re still in shock as Jack carefully transfers Riley into your arms. His familiar weight instantly makes you feel tons better. You've barely put him down for the last six weeks. “You…made a bottle?”
“I hope you don’t mind me snooping a little,” he says sheepishly as he creates a proper breakfast – eggs, toast, sausage, fruit – for both of you. “You looked really peaceful when I heard Riley stirring the first time and I figured I’d check to see if you brought formula with you in case I could let you sleep.”
“You changed him. And dressed him,” you observe as you give the baby a once-over, still processing. Of course, you trust Jack with your life – literally, as a doctor – but you’ve exclusively done all of the feedings and changings since Riley was born, so a full night’s sleep is making you as groggy as drinking ten beers. “How many times did you get up?”
“Oh, I just moved the crib into my room and stayed up with him the rest of the night. I was already up for my shift.” As your eyes widen, he shrugs and adds, “Now sit. You need to eat.”
“Actually, someone else needs to eat first,” you mutter. When Riley snuggles against your chest, you smell his sweet tuft of wispy hair. It relaxes you and the now-familiar fullness in your chest swells. As you shift uncomfortably, seeing Jack’s shirtless body out of the corner of your eye, you stammer, “I’ll, ah, I’ll be back in like fifteen minutes, okay? But don’t worry; I’ll microwave whatever’s left.”
Jack almost laughs at that. “Do you think I care if you breastfeed in front of me?”
Blush rises in your cheeks. “Well, I don’t want to just whip my boobs out in front of my friend without consent!”
“I don’t think it counts when you’re using them for their biological purpose and your friend has seen so many breasts in a clinical context they're barely sexual anymore,” he chuckles as he digs into his breakfast on the couch. He moves the pillow from the other side and gestures to it. “Obviously, do what makes you most comfortable, but I don’t care at all. And if you don’t want to do that in front of me, then I’m the one who’s leaving. You’ve gotta eat.” He averts his eyes, then, actually slightly blushing, as he notices wet patches growing at the front of your (his) tee. “And you clearly need to nurse.”
You curse under your breath but ultimately roll your eyes, sit on the couch next to him, and lift the shirt enough to tuck Riley underneath it. With a huff, you take a bite of fruit and grumble, “Alex always said it ruined the idea of my tits if he watched me breastfeed.”
“That’s a literally insane thing to say to the mother of your child,” Jack says with pinched eyebrows. Carefully, he asks, “Has he said anything to you since last night?”
“Radio silence. Guessing his prison call was to his mommy,” you sigh as Riley latches like a pro. But then you groan, annoyed as the let-down reflex has milk leaking from your other breast, too, a constant battle you’ve been fighting. You mutter to your own body, “Could you give me five minutes to eat in the morning before you start annoying me?”
Right away, Jack stands up and goes over to your diaper bag, which he’s clearly made himself comfortable with by now. He returns with your mesh pouch of reusable nursing pads. He tugs open the drawstring and offers, “Strawberry pattern or rainbow?”
And you’re crying as you reply, “Rainbow. Thank you.”
He settles on the couch again next to you and touches your thigh. “What’s wrong?”
“Just-” You fan your face once the pad is placed and take a deep breath as Riley’s tiny nails dig into your boob. “Less than twelve hours and you’ve already done more for us than his dad ever has.”
Jack nods slowly. He’s already worried that he’s massively overstepped by taking care of Riley over the night shift, so he goes with a response that’s honest but not too much: “It sounds like you two will be better off without him.”
“We will be,” you whisper as you gaze down at Riley, trying to make yourself believe it. Everything feels easier when Riley stares back up at you with his big eyes, still infant-blue, trusting you because he has no reason not to. Because you’re the whole world to him. You look back over at Jack and tease, “Especially with people like Uncle Jackie looking out for us.”
Jack smiles, careful not to reveal just how much it makes him melt – you looking safe and comfortable on his couch, feeding your baby, eating a meal he cooked. He gives the top of your thigh a quick squeeze. Friendly. Kind. Nothing more. “You know I’ve always got you.” Then he catches Riley’s kicking foot. “Both of you.”
Of course he does.
You could ask to stay forever and he’d let you.
Because the hard truth is that Jack’s been in love with you for as long as he’s known you.
He loved you when he listened to you talk in that support group and he loved you during every shared coffee before his shifts and he loved you when he watched you date man after man who wasn’t good enough and he loved you when you told him you were in labor – and, yes, he loves you today, right now, wishing you and Riley were his and for this to be real, not just something he gets to play at for a few days until you find yourself a new apartment to go with your new life.
summary: For the pretty L and D nurse in the Pitt, everyday is a great day. But for Frank Langdon, it's only a great day if she looks at him. And he's trying to prove he's not just a pretty face with a bad past.
notes: just a short one this week. I've had a rough time with my job the past couple weeks (thank you understaffed department!) and so I've had a bit of a hard time trying to find the energy to write.
I just think the concept of ER Barbie and Ken is so cute! I know this has been done before but I wanted to give my own spin on the concept.
enjoy reading :)
Frank Langdon was no stranger to bad days. In fact, they'd become his closest and most reliable friend. A consistency that rivaled the ache in his back and the stress of his work.
His growing file of unfinished charts stared back at him on the screen in front of him, an unfinished granola bar held forgotten in his hand. It had been a rough shift- a car collision that sent twelve to their hospital, a pediatrics case that ended tragically, a couple with a diagnosis that left them in tears.
Frank had given up pretending to smile hours ago, a semi permanent pout etched onto his face.
"Aw why the long face Langdon?"
"Come on, cheer up kid. Don't let the hard stuff get you down."
He types a few more words into his chart, fingers moving half heartedly as he pretends to not notice the eyes on him. Whitaker glances at him from the other side of the nurses station, Cassie and Victoria trying to look interested in the lab work they were reviewing and not like they were whispering about him.
You would think after six months he would be used to it now. The stares. The whispers.
The constant lingering edge that surrounded his work, his practice. Like everyone was waiting for him to snap. To fall back into a bad habit he'd vowed to give up forever.
Frank knew.
He knew the way Trinity ignored him like the plague, rolling her eyes at his mere presence. The way Dr. Al Hashimi watched him like he was some problem child, a bad apple waiting to fall back out of the tree. The way Parker and Mateo sometimes watched him during handoffs, curious.
Like they were all waiting for him to screw up. To make a mistake.
To relapse-
“Hi Dr. Langdon!”
Frank looks up, his face softening as he watches you pass by. You give him a pretty smile, accompanied by a small wave and your signature pink scrubs. A very welcome sight amidst the grey and gore of the ED.
“Hey,” he raises a hand in a gentle reply, his heart flipping in that strange, stuttering pattern it always adopted when you came down from the L and D ward to provide a consult. He smiles when you pause, redirecting your path towards the nurses station. Frank sits up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his back as you lean over the station’s counter, eyeing him.
Don't stare like an idiot. Don't stare like an idiot.
But Frank is sure he's got that stupid smile on his face. In fact, he knows he does because Dana passes by and gives him a look.
He knows he does because Princess and Perlah are suddenly both hovering together over a computer, definitely not looking over a patient's labs by the way their shoulders press together and their low whispers become less coherent.
Frank clears his throat, elbows leaning on the charting desk.
“What brings you down here?”
You smile at his question, long lashes blinking slowly.
“Oh the usual. Al Hashimi wants me to show a couple of the med students how to detect gestational age by feel and not the monitor.” Franks nods, like that wasn’t the least interesting reason you could be down here in the Pitt.
“What, her Ai can't just tell us?” You giggle, glancing back to make sure the attending wasn't around to listen.
“I think the last hospital blackout finally got through to her about our over reliance on technology.”
“So she's overcompensating and teaching medieval practices now?”
“It's not medieval, Langdon,” you laugh. “I’m pretty sure they still teach it in medical school.”
“I must have skipped that lesson then. Right along with bloodletting and mercury poisoning.”
You give him a look, the one you'd give a puppy when it's done something stupid- like gnaw on its tail or trip on its own paw. A look that said “that’s cute” as well as “poor guy.”
But it wasn't pitying. Never pitying. You didn't treat him like he was glass or an infection you didn't want to catch.
You never did.
In the six months he's been back, the six months of knowing you, you had never once brought it up. Never made a jab or given him a side eye. You had come down to the Pitt that first week he'd returned, passing him by as he'd finished his urine collection with one of the nurses.
He remembers that first smile you'd given him, tired after a long day, but still oh so bright. Frank thinks he fell a little in love with that smile. Not that he believed in love at first sight. But this was pretty close to it.
Frank just swallows thickly, trying not to stare up into your pretty face and think about how that shade of lipgloss glittered beneath the ED’s lights.
Unfortunately for him he wasn’t given the chance to.
“Hey,” Trinity’s voice carries casually, her eyes darting quickly between you and Frank as she walks up.
She wore the same calculating look she always wore around him, like she was just waiting for him to taint you somehow. To ruin your bubbly persona and bright smile. The caution and hurt drawn between furrowed brows and a thinly pressed smile that matched the guilt and apology written in his clenched fist and deep lined frown.
Not that you notice. Or at the very least, you pretended not to.
“Hi Trin,” you smile, turning as the glowering R2 takes you by the arm, already pulling you away from Frank.
“Al Hashimi sent me to get you. Says she doesn’t want to keep the mom here any longer than she has to.”
“Oh okay-”
Frank watches as you glance back at him, barely getting out a rushed goodbye and an apologetic look before Trinity was pushing you over to a triage room where Victoria, Joy and Ogilvie were already gathered and waiting.
Frank sighs, not quite ready to get back to his charting, his blue eyes still tracking your pink scrubs from across the ED, watching as you move about the room with a calm patience and grace.
Frank knew you knew about his past. Knew why he'd had to redo his senior year. You had to... being friends with Trinity. And the fact you'd seen him with the drug test that first day.
But you never said anything about it.
You treated him like you treated every doctor down in the Pitt. With a radiant smile and kind heart. And a bit of admiration because you'd once told him, "you ER cowboys never fail to impress me."
That had been after he'd helped you deliver a pair of breech twins. He'd left work grinning ear to ear that day.
It was that smile.
That darn smile.
The one Frank could see you giving Joy now as you helped guide her hands over the patient’s belly. He lived to see it now, a tiny prayer said before every shift that he’d get a case needing your input.
That at some point in the miserable spread of his twelve hour shift he’d get to see your pink scrubs and pretty smile. Get to hear your bright laugh- maybe he’d even get to make you laugh. Or help you with a laboring patient when you needed an extra pair of hands-
“You ask her out yet?”
Dana’s voice startles Frank. He jumps in the chair, turning around like a caught child as he tries to remember he wasn’t currently elbow deep in amniotic fluid and helping you deliver a baby.
“What?” He asks dumbly. Dana snorts, eyeing Frank over her clipboard.
"Barbie doll over there. You just gonna sit there and daydream about her or are you finally gonna ask her out?"
"I wasn't daydreaming about her."
"Oh sure," Dana gives him an incredulous look. "And I'm gonna quit smoking."
Frank shakes his head, waving Dana away. She laughs to herself, pulling out her clipboard.
"What? I'm just curious."
"Yeah, well, it's none of your business." Frank huffs, and turns back to his chart, staring at the computer that had gone back to the main desktop. He stared, not signing in yet, his eyes drifting back up to you.
"I'm just saying kid," Dana continues. "You've been pouting all day, down in the dumps. And then she comes along, gives you a smile and suddenly you're grinning to yourself while charting? Hell of a coincidence if you ask me."
Frank shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about." He shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek. Dana raises a brow. Frank continues, "And even if I did, it's not like I can just ask her out. She's friends with the girl who made me public enemy number one. There's got to be some kind of girl code about saying yes to a guy like me."
"So you think she would say yes. Given the right circumstances." Frank flushes.
"Well... I mean, she seems to like me. Enough at least."
Dana shakes her head. "Oh you kids. You always make this stuff more complicated than it has to be."
"Well it's not that simple Dana-"
Frank is cut off as Dana turns around and calls out a name.
Your name.
He looks up with wide eyes as you slow your steps out of the patient room, pausing your conversation with Al Hashimi. Dana waves you over and you approach the nurses desk curiously, looking between the charge nurse and Frank who is quietly telling Dana to stop.
"Hi Dana." Dana gives you a kind smile.
"Hey yourself. I've got a question for you."
"Oh sure. Shoot."
"You doing anything Saturday?" You stuff your hands in your scrub pockets, rocking on the balls of your feet. Frank gives Dana a look, horrified and wondering what she was playing at.
"Um, not really. I've got to walk my dog and pick up a dress from the dry cleaners, but that's about it really."
"What do you think about joining Frank at the movies? He's got an extra ticket and needed someone to go with. Figured you'd be the perfect person."
"Oh," your eyes widen with surprise. Frank's do too because he's almost hundred percent positive he does not have movie tickets. "What movie?"
Frank swallows, realizing you were pointing to question to him.
"Uh-" He looks at Dana like a fish out of water, silently begging her to not leave him stranded.
"It's the one with the scientist. He goes to space and meets a little alien friend. He's blonde, good looking-"
"Oh! I know which one you're talking about. That new one everyone's been talking about, right?" You say the title. Frank gives Dana a look and she nods.
"Uh, yeah. That's the one." You smile and Frank's heart flutters.
"Sure. That sounds fun. I could use a fun outing. What time is the movie?"
"Um... I have to double check my tickets-"
"3:00," Dana interjects. "I think Frank can give you a ride too. Right Frank?"
"Yeah, uh, yes?" He says unsure. You giggle.
"That's alright Frank. I can meet you there. Oh, hey maybe we could get dinner or something after. Movie theater snacks are ridiculously expensive and I'm always famished after a movie."
"Yeah, that sounds great," Frank nods, brain half functioning because WAS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?
"Perfect," You smile. "I'm looking forward to it."
You look down as your pager beeps, Frank blinking at you as he was still trying to compute what just happened.
"Oh shoot, I have to go... but I'm totally down for Saturday. Do you have my number?"
"Number?" Frank asks dumbly.
"No probably not. Here," You say quickly, grabbing the pen Dana holds out to you.
You reach over the nurses station, grabbing Frank's hand. The ballpoint pentip digs into the back of his hand as you quickly scribble down your digits. Frank is almost sure his brain has been fried.
"There. Sorry, I've got to run. Got an active labor upstairs who needs me. I'll see you Saturday though! Bye Frank!"
Your words trail off as you begin running down the hall, pink scrubs disappearing around the corner. Frank blinks, his hand still raised, skin prickling from where you'd written on it.
Dana smirks, taking back her pen from where you'd dropped it and putting the cap back. "I'm sure you're wondering about the movie tickets."
Frank hums questioningly, still just staring at the space you'd been standing.
"My husband and I were supposed to go this weekend, but he got called out on a work trip and I'm gonna cover for Lena so she can go visit her niece. Figured I couldn't let them go to waste.
"Uh huh," Frank nods. "Did that really just happen?"
Dana laughs.
"Sure did kid. I told you it was simple." Frank chuckles. A quiet huff that quickly devolves into a belly shaking laugh.
"I can't believe it. She said yes."
"Think you'll be okay with Barbie gone back to the penthouse for the day?"
"She said yes Dana. You could stab me with a scalpel or shave my head and I'll still say this was the best day ever."
From across the nurses station, Perlah and Princess giggle with each other, slipping a twenty between their hands as they watch Frank smile starstruck.
Oh yeah. ER Ken was absolutely smitten.
thank you for reading! if you're interested in reading more of my works for the pitt, here is a link to my masterlist :)
a/n: thank u, anon, for this lovely request!! might make pt 2 cause the list is lowkey endless
btw guys, lmk if you want to be added to the taglist
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♥︎ aerion is immensely turned on by the idea of him being the one and only important person in your life. he prides himself on being the only one who can fuck you like this, comfort you like this, laugh like this, jealous like this, cry like this, scream like this. he is really into exclusivity
♥︎ if you verbally or physically remind him and everyone that he is special in any way, even of it’s just kissing his cheek in the hall or praising your husband during an innocent conversation, it immediately gets him going, his greed and pride make him all hot and bothered
♥︎ he is possessive to absurdity, so seeing the marks he left on your skin during the day, how hickeys and bite marks he gave you turned purplish, is definitely the type of thing that can distract him from anything he was doing at the moment
♥︎ aerion also loves protecting you, he loves when you rely on him, loves when you trust him. would lowkey order servants or royal guards to insult you in some way, so he could comfort you later. and physically punish the offenders for you
♥︎ loves your tears, your absolutely sobbing wrecked and tired body shuddering, wetting his shoulder as he pets your hair and licks your tears away. you whimper into his neck, blabbering about the rude stable boy, while aerion is gripping your body tightly, murmuring comforting promises in your ear, angling your body in a way that his erection wouldn’t be so obvious
♥︎ there is something about you being completely vulnerable in his arms, clinging to him and seeking his protection that makes him want to fuck you stupid, forcing you to repeat all the good things you are saying about him and groaning into your lips that he will kill anyone who dares to make you cry again
♥︎ one of his favourite things is watching you eat. every dinner ends up with him all worked up, mesmerised by the way your jaw moves and your tongue occasionally licks your lips. the picture of you eating with your hands, juice trailing down your fingers and to your wrist, you humming in approval, enjoying the taste of food, hungrily chewing on a piece, licking up the excess from your hand can make him nut right into his pants
♥︎ aerion also loves feeding you himself, though it’s the type of thing that gets him hard very very fast, so he usually leaves such treat for the end of the dinner. when you are already full, he will feed you additional few berries by hand, eyes sparkling with pure desire at the sight of you taking them into your pretty mouth from his fingers. suck the sweet juice from his fingers and he will audibly moan
♥︎ he gets off on your annoyance and irritation. the man is literally ragebaiting then slutting his way out of the argument final boss. you will be cursing him out and offending him in every possible way and he will just look at you with a sick glint in his eyes because thats just soooo sexy he never wants it to stop
♥︎ you sassing him, mouthing him off in any way just gets him hot and bothered in all the right ways. angry sex is something he practices very often and sometimes even creates conflict on purpose just to fuck apologies into you. he loves fire in his woman, so the louder you are in a fight, the louder he will make you scream his name in the sheets
♥︎ aerion is turned on by the sight of blood, especially your blood, like minor cuts or split lip but especially,he loves your period. he is obsessed with it. he is so in awe of the idea of your body being able to create and continue his dragon bloodline. he also simply enjoys blood. he would track your cycle personally and anticipate the bleeding with unholy hunger. he is definitely the type to eat you out with extra enthusiasm during your moon time
♥︎ you will lay on the bed curled up, murmuring something about your cramps, asking him to sooth your pain and aerion is already palming himself through the breeches because your muffled please and sensitive body just really do it for him
♥︎ he lives off of praise. of approval. of being cherished and admired properly as a dragon should be, so any soft moment turns into fucking eventually. aerion just can’t help it, hearing you talk so sweetly to him, hearing how good he is for you, feeling your hands on his chest, in his hir, your perfect lips on his cheeks. all these just turn his brain to jelly
♥︎ aerion generally loves your body. it is something more than just aesthetic attraction, more of a primal pull. so basically any sight of open skin, tightness in clothes, specific angles, see through materials ignite in him an animalistic urge to breed you
♥︎ despite being a big fun of your tears and your fury, he also loves your laugh. your playful side and shameless giggles, especially when you are tipsy on wine, make him hard embarrassingly fast. you plopping down on his lap, whispering blasphemies in his ear while your hands are playing with the collar of his shirt is the type of thing that makes him absolutely lose his mind
♥︎ generally, will pull you in a secluded corner and hike up your skirts, shoving his tongue down your throat while moaning like a bitch in heat just because you looked at him a certain way
♥︎ he literally has fucked you everywhere, at the stables, garden, grand hall, dungeons, forest, tourney tent, his brother’s chambers just because he is so horny all the time it feels like he will literally die if he doesn’t enter you right fucking now. and you are more than happy to oblige
earthy black girl aesthetic dividers ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ
credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 | requested by @kirayuki22 ( if you don’t like these please don’t hesitate to tell me + I actually love how these turned out, pls enjoy and I hope you love them 🤎💚 )
