Pairing: Sandor 'The Hound' Clegane x Baratheon OC
Summary: Alayna Baratheon was the oldest child of the royal family. but as whispers of marriage close in and tensions rise during a royal visit to Winterfell for a new Hand of the King, Alayna is pulled into a web of expectations, uneasy alliances, and a growing connection with those she never expected to trust.
Note: All rights belong to their respective owners, I don't own these characters, and i am simply inspired by the writing and world creation that the creator made, this is a work of fiction.
This is also my first piece of fanfiction so the grammar and use of language might not be great, but I'm doing this for the love of the game rather than exposure.
Alayna (Ah-lay-na)
WC: 3.3k
[Masterlist] [AO3]
Alayna had sat on the Iron Throne once, perched on her Father's knee when she was slightly older than a babe. Her Father had spent the night before celebrating that his only child had finally started walking towards what she wanted. Her soft brown wisps of her hair formed gentle ringlets around her neck as she had happily sat on his lap.
Her pudgy fingers played with the embroidered stag against his surcoat, as he dealt with the almost never-ending line of small folk that came to him. All of them, still looking for answers; grain rationing, grieving families who lost during the war, labour shortages.
The only peace he found during the whole ordeal was the gentle movements of his daughter. Her soft cooing filled the throne room as she happily made herself content with the strings on his tunic. The sounds filled the room with hope and softened the anguish the lords and small folk still felt years after the Battle of the Trident; she was a symbol of hope, of the realm going into a new era under Baratheon rule, a child, but not an heir.
She was not fortunate enough to have been granted that grace by the Gods. Her brother passed in the cradle just days after the two had been born, the summer sickness having taken him quickly before either could have been named.
The Queen - in her anguish - worried herself sick over her feverish daughter. However she prevailed despite the Maesters warning the King and Queen that she likely wouldn't have survived till the next moon.
Her wails no longer filled the halls now, instead they were replaced with an infectious laughter of an easily entertained babe. She found joy and humour in most things, but her Father brought her more joy than anything in the world.
A few moons after her fourth name day, her Mother brought another child into the world. A screaming boy who always cried in Alayna’s presence and who stole all of her mothers attention. She was, however, lucky enough to have been asked what to name her brother; and so Joffery Baratheon was born, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the seven kingdoms, while she remained the king's daughter.
As she grew older, she could remember her mother becoming pregnant twice more, carrying a sister and then a brother. All of them with golden hair and eyes like the emeralds her mother favored during her childhood. Whereas Alayna took after her father, hair so dark it was almost black and eyes like the deep sea. She remembers how her father would tell her she had her grandmother's eyes, deep and swirling with curiosity and wonder of the world.
Over the years Alayna had become content with her mothers displeasure towards her. She remembers how her younger siblings were coddled while she lived in harsh judgement. Her mother’s cold gaze made it easy to feel as though she could never do anything right.
Alayna preferred her fathers company over anyone else. Oftentimes, she would sneak into her fathers study or into the council chambers and take the role of cupbearer for her father and the other lords as they discussed trivial matters. She'd always been accommodating according to the red keep; a soft smile adorning her face able to sway people to her favor, The Royal Bambi.
Alyana had known of the Hound ever since she could remember. As a child, he had always scared her, but she was a child, and him a very large young man, with a sword larger than her.
As she aged, growing into her mind and body, she heard rumors around what had happened to him during his youth from the people in the Keep and she couldn't help the pity she felt for him; not the grown man but the child who simply wished to play with his brother's toys.
There was also a rush of embarrassment that she would feel whenever she was in his presence after that moment, largely because of her previous reactions she had towards him as a child… how she would run to her father and hide behind his leg, only barely able to look up at him with her hand held onto her fathers.
But she was no longer a child, she remembers her tenth and sixth name day, how she had left the throne room to catch her breath in the garden only to have been followed by her brother's sworn sword.
"You shouldn't be out here alone Bambi" he says gruffly looking down at her from a fair few paces back, her hands splayed over the stone railing that looked over the Blackwater Bay.
Her heart was still racing at a comment made by one of the lords; she hadn't even thought of marriage and now it was all she could think about. She was trying to catch her breath, and now the hound was behind her scolding her like a child.
"I needed a moment" she declared simply as she looked over her shoulder at him, she had quickly swatted away the tears that had been streaming down her cheeks, causing her rouge to dissipate, but the damage was done.
Sandor could already see the rosy flush of her checks, the rims of her eyes red as if her tears wouldn't calm. He took a few measured steps forward, his boots crunching against the gravel made her take a step back. The small of her back pressed against the railings as she fully turned to him before raising her hand to stop him.
"I don't need your pity Sir, I just needed air" she says with a small frown, but his movements didn't stop once.
His steps were measured, and his eyes unyielding as he walked next to her and looked over the bay.
"I'm no knight little doe, the gods would be damned if they made me one" he grunts, never once looking at her or acknowledging her pitiful state. She looked up at him and his towering figure as he stood next to her; an appropriate distance from her.
His scarred skin on display for her to see as she stood there, her eyes trailing over him before looking over the waters, the smell of the salt and the smell of metal filled her senses.She'd never been this close to the Hound before, he was her brother's sworn sword, not hers… not that she needed one, she wasn't the heir.
But ever since her ninth name day she’d grown curiouser of him, no longer frightened by his appearance or his demeanor.
“The gods work in mysterious ways” was all she responded with, her brows pressed together at the irony of her words. The gods did work in ways she didn't understand, but she'd be damned if she admitted that to her brother's knight.
She’d probably get into trouble with her septa if she had found out her thoughts on the gods. But the gods were cruel, she knew this dispute, her lack of knowledge of life beyond castles and her stitchwork. The Gods don't give a fuck, that's why they're Gods.
She heard him grumble, but she paid him no heed. However the heat of his stare made her cheeks flush with a feeling close to embarrassment, she hated being looked at as if she were expected more from.
"I don't need your pity Sir" she spoke without thinking as she turned to look up at him, her brows knitting together as she watched him. How his eyes were on her taking her in, the gentle observation that he was already making in his mind made her feel the urge to defend herself. She kept silent as she retained his gaze, his harsh eyes watching over her youthful face.
She'd grown rather comely in the past years, it was good for her now that there was talk of her being married off, most likely to houses with wavering loyalties, probably to an old friend of her fathers. Her once short black hair now cascaded over her shoulders as her braids kept the stray hairs from flying into her eyes.
Sandor knew that she would only grow into her looks more as time continued, her round cheeks becoming more angular like her Mothers, while her nose sloped down like her Fathers; before he'd broken it.
He leaned down close to her, making her feel crowded against the railing, but left her with enough space to pull away from him if she were truly that frightened of him
She didn't move."Pity's for little creatures that beg for attention, not ones who demand it little doe" he says groufly, the heat from his breath against the shell of her ear warming her neck with a gentle flush, she pulled her head back slightly to look into his eyes. She scanned his face as her confusion took a hold of her, but before she could respond he had interrupted her.
"Get back inside Doe, your Father will be missing you"
The journey to Winterfell was a long and strenuous one that she dreaded to take again. A whole moon had passed since her family had set off to summon Lord Stark, with the hopes that he would accept the position of becoming her Fathers hand after the death of Jon Arrye.
The trip made her long for the comfort of a warm hearth, the taste of warm breads and cheeses that her Father allowed her to indulge whenever she wished to break her fast in the middle of the night with him. How the sound of the flames would flicker as the wood cracked, or the scuffling of rats against stone, filling the quiet moments between her Fathers' laughter that would echo throughout the halls and covering her own.
Now she was near approaching her eighth and tenth name day. She knew that she would miss it in accordance with her family traveling back from Winterfell - hopefully with Lord Stark in tow - but it was a small relief she was willing to sacrifice if it meant another moon passing without the conversation of marriage looming over her shoulder, like the Stranger during a plague.
The rocking of the carriage was the worst part of the journey. Alayna had originally thought the biggest challenge would have been dealing with her Mothers snide comments about the north while simultaneously being forced to listen to her Tommen and Myrcella excited remarks on every farm creature that they passed.
Alayna didn’t mind her sibling all too much in those moments, especially since Joffrey wasn't permitted to ride in the carriage like he normally would have. Instead she remembers her father yelling at him that he needed to step up to his name as heir and stand united behind his Father as they rode up north on their horses.
Alayna couldn't help but feel the ugly sin of envy at her brother's annoyance, tradition and duty required her to ride in a carriage, but she wished she had at least been given the option to be able to ride alongside her father as they entered Winterfell. Then perhaps she might have been able to watch the green hills turn to snow caps more openly, watching the daylight shift into the night as they would make camp in a nearby inn that her family would occupy.
The smell of salt and incense now replaced with the scent of wet stone and moss as they got closer to the castle. Her clothing now replaced with thicker dresses and her newer pelts covering her shoulders as the chills started to nip at her skin.
She couldn't help the relief flooding through her as they finally entered the gates of Winterfell. The doors opened allowing her to feel the true chill of the north nipping at her nose. She finally stepped out of the carriage after her youngest brother and sister, before standing beside them, her eyes looking over her shoulder back to her mother exiting the carriage herself, and walking toward the Stark family. She watched as lord Stark kissed her mothers hand, but she didn't care, her eyes scanning the crowd with mild interest before looking back over at the royal party she had traveled with.
Her eyes landed on her brother eyeing up the red headed stark girl, the same way he would look at Tommen's cats before they went missing the next day. His smile charming, as if he was meaning to bewitch the poor girl, but as Alayna looked back to the lane of the Stark children, it was clear that she wasn't the only one who noticed the look the two gave each other.
Robb, she thinks his name was, he was pretty for a northern, with blue eyes and soft brown curls, she imagined that her Father would discuss marriage with Lord Stark between the two. She knew he'd been born a few months before her, and he was nice to look at. And yet the idea of marrying a Stark made her feel queasy.
She knew the history between her Father and Lord Stark, how they were like brothers, had fought in wars together, and at one point were meant to be family. She knew the Starks were known for their hardened demeanour, how they were considered more thoughtful of their actions, led by honour and tradition, rather than self interest and duty.
But when she met his eyes she noticed almost every little expression on his face. How his chin slighted upwards as if he thought himself better, how his eyes trailed down her body as if he was making assumptions about her without the chance to defend herself.
She could feel the unconscious clenching of her jaw at his demeanor, but the heir of Winterfell was not the only one watching her. The warmth of his gaze lingered on her neck from behind, even through his dog helm that she hated, though she would never voice that opinion openly.
Normally it was a grace Sandor would allow her, letting her look at him so openly. Whenever the courts were trialing in the throne room, or when her Father or some other lord would host tourneys that the royal family would be required to attend, she'd always look towards his unyielding figure, not with longing, or in any kind of way, but just from the simple fact that if the Hound could manage a royal procession, then she would be able to manage herself as well.
"We’ve been riding over a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." she heard her Mother say sweetly to her father, the voice she only used when people outside of the family were around. They weren't close by any means, but Alayna knew her Mother well enough to know that she had felt slighted by the dead. Her Father walked away with lord Stark leaving her Mother standing in front of lady Stark, she could only see the back of her Mother's head, but she knew that her smile was strained.
The silence that covered the yard was as thick as the fog rolling over the mountains. Alayna moved forward, a polite smile adorning her face, her expressions changing from quiet curiosity to the endearing smile she'd perfected when navigating the courts, and in turn, the kingdom.
"Lady Stark, my Brother and Sister would like to express our gratitude toward your hospitality. Winterfell is even more beautiful than expected" Alayna says gently, before giving the Tully woman a small bow in appreciation.
She watched as Catelyn’s eyes trailed from her mother, back to her. It was clear that the Tully woman was more familiar with wearing her heart on her sleeve than others Alyana was familiar with, it was foolish to allow one's self a luxury of doing so in the capital, and yet, Alyana couldn't help but respect it from the older woman.
“Wheres the imp?” she heard… Aya? she thinks her name might be. She'd been forced to learn so many names in the past moon that she was struggling to remember them all.
She knew where her Uncle was, most likely indulging himself in northern cunt and wine instead of fulfilling his duties. Alayna had been fortunate enough to have never seen him in such a state, but that didn’t stop the walls of the Keep from keeping his proclivities quiet.
She watched as her mother looked towards the younger Stark, her face holding a hidden grimace that only Alayna would recognize as disgust, before walking off towards her Uncle Jamie, draped in his white cloak. The Queen's gaze caught on her daughters, as if she were the one who had brought mention of the Imp of Casterly Rock to light.
"Thank you, your Grace" Catelyn says with a gentle smile and a soft bow, bringing Alayna back to her conversation with Lady Stark. She could see how she would have easily been a good mother, northern enough to be firm, but southern enough to hold softness for her children that any child would love to have in a mother.
"Perhaps my son Robb could escort you to your chambers, I'm sure a familiar face would help after such a long journey" she suggested as she looked over at her son.
The implication was clear, the two first born had met only a number of times, enough to count on one hand, and it had been over 9 years since she had seen his face or written to him. Nonetheless, she forced her shoulders to relax as she wrapped her hand around the arm he held out for her, following his lead.
She walked with Robb as they moved throughout the halls towards her quarters, a move that only validated her thoughts on the idea this journey was not only a diplomatic trip to gain a new hand for the throne.
"Do you like Winterfell?" she says, breaking the silence as soon as they walked inside the halls of the Red Keep. The warmth of the candles helped her chills running over her arms.
"It is my home, Princess," he responded, his accent pleasant to her ears as she walked alongside him, her fingers urging to play with the seam of his sleeves, she imagined the feeling would soothe the headache that was growing present from the traveling she had done.
She looked up at him, still following his lead as he walked her towards the guest wing of the castle, "lots of people have homes, that doesn't mean they like them" she wanted something from him, something.... un-Stark of him, a glimmer of the Tully boy remembered seeing at a tourney when she was younger.
The two stopped in front of her door, his gaze now falling to her, his blue eyes looking into hers before dancing over her face, as if trying to find what angle she was taking with this small talk.
"Ai', I like Winterfell."
That made her smile, the gentle shift in his tone made her shoulder almost soften at his admission.
"I am glad," was all she responded with, before she unwrapped her hand from him and opened the door to enter her new room for the next moon. "Thank you Robb for showing me to my room,"
He gave her a firm nod before walking away, but not before she caught the corner of his lips twitching up at her calling him by his name, something she used to do as a child when they were at the tourneys, which it now seems as though he remembered too.
The room was fine, smaller than her chambers in the Red Keep, but almost homelier than them. Candles from hundreds of years past dripped over the mantle, the walls held the scent of moss, and thick pelts covered the beds. It was painfully northern, and yet, not unwelcome.
"'It's not the worst." she whispered to herself. As she lay down against the plush bedding, letting sleep take a hold of her, her imagination ran with the thoughts that the next time she comes to the North would be for her wedding.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at. (wc: 5.560)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.ᐟ warnings.
soft angst. age difference (eleven years). flirting. blood. medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. car accident. quick reflexion about deceased wife. chubby reader.
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ diptych. main masterlist.
All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.
He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.
Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.
It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.
Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.
The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.
The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.
In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.
Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.
When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.
Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.
And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.
Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.
It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.
It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.
After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.
But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.
It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.
That had been why you had accepted this awful date.
After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.
As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.
After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.
Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.
"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.
He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.
People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.
You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.
"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.
Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.
"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.
The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.
You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.
The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.
You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.
Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.
Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.
Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.
It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.
The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.
"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."
But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.
Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.
It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.
You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.
"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."
Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.
"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."
That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.
"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."
That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.
You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.
"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.
Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.
It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.
"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.
The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.
Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.
"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.
"No, it isn't," you scoffed.
You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.
You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.
It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.
He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."
You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?
"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."
"Yep," was all he offered in return.
What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.
"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.
Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.
"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."
The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.
You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.
You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.
"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.
Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.
"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.
"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.
"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.
"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."
That made him look up.
"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.
"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.
His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.
"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.
The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.
"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.
You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."
"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.
You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.
The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.
The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.
"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.
Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.
"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.
Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.
When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.
"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.
"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.
"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.
"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.
All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.
Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.
"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.
He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.
"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.
It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.
You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."
He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.
"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.
It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.
His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.
"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.
The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.
"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."
Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.
"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.
You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.
"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.
"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.
"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.
"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."
"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.
You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.
"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.
"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.
"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.
He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.
Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.
Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.
His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.
"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.
You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.
"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."
You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.
"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."
In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.
"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.
He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.
"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.
"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."
And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.
You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.
But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.
Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.
Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.
how much do i owe you fucker?
im home btw
It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.
You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.
Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.
You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.
How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.
You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.
Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.
summary: you're called into the ED on a rare friday night off, saving you from a disastrous first date. throughout your shift, dr. jack abbot can't keep his eyes off you and lends a helping hand when he notices you're in pain.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance, swearing, slight suggestive content, no smut, smutty thoughts, slow burn (hehe oops), mutual attraction/pining, bad dating experiences, the pitt loves to gossip, santos is a terrible matchmaker, misogynistic/derogatory men (no one from the pitt), slight hurt/mainly comfort, jackie boy and his miracle hands 🙂↕️, dual pov (kinda?), jack & dana call reader kid, sweetheart said once, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, reader has had knee surgery (and the scars to prove it), partly proofread, medical inaccuracies no doubt, let me know if i missed anything 🤠
word count: 7k
authors note: first crack at writing jack abbot! yes, this is self indulgent, yes my knee is hurting like a b lately. (goldi on a man hating agenda? say it ain't so!). reminder that i live to give ai two big middle fingers 🫶 400 followers celebration - hello what???
song inspo: sweet serotonin - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
Right on time, taking me by surprise
Must have been in your eyes, like me, oh, my
Where you been my whole life?
Where you been my whole life? Oh-oh
Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.
Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.
So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.
You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.
He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.
But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?
Wrong.
God, you were so wrong.
You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.
You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.
Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.
You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life.
“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.
“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”
You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you.
“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.
“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle.
He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.”
And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.
You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.
“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.
“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay.
Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.
It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.
"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.
They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.
There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.
They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.
It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.
Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.
He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.
It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.
He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.
Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.
Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.
Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.
It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.
He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.
“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.
He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.
You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.
Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.
"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.
Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.
"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."
It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.
Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.
Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.
"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.
"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.
The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.
Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.
He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.
The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.
Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.
"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"
Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.
You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.
"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.
The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.
Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.
Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.
Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.
He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."
Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.
He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.
"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.
Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.
Why were men so fucking awful?
Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.
"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.
After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.
"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.
"You doing okay?"
He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.
"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.
He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."
He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."
You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."
Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.
You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.
You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.
What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.
He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.
"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"
You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.
"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.
Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.
"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.
You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.
"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"
"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"
You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.
After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.
You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.
He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.
"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.
"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."
Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.
"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."
Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.
Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.
"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."
That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.
"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.
You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.
You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.
"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."
"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.
"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."
Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"
You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.
"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."
"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."
"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.
Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.
"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"
The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.
"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."
The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.
"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.
"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"
Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.
You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.
"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.
He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.
You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.
You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.
It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.
It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.
That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.
"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.
"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.
Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.
"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.
He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.
You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.
"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.
He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.
"What happened?" He asked gruffly.
You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.
"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."
He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.
"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"
"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.
You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.
He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.
"You're in pain. Sit."
Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.
You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.
He was enjoying this.
You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.
"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.
"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."
You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.
You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.
His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.
His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.
He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."
"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.
Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.
"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."
Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?
His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.
A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.
Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.
His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.
He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.
"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.
"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.
His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.
"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.
You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.
"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."
Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.
"That's…awful. I'm sorry."
You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.
"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.
"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."
Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.
His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.
"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.
Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.
It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.
Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.
"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.
"Don't mention it."
You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.
"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.
He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.
He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.
"No problem, sweetheart."
Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.
"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"
You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.
"Yes, sir."
His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.
He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.
You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.
Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.
soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?
jack abbot taglist: @lovelexi717 @buckysdecaflove @moonstoneandmoonlight @sheriff-bodecker + want to be added?
Pairing: Sandor 'The Hound' Clegane x Baratheon OC
Summary: Alayna Baratheon was the oldest child of the royal family. but as whispers of marriage close in and tensions rise during a royal visit to Winterfell for a new Hand of the King, Alayna is pulled into a web of expectations, uneasy alliances, and a growing connection with those she never expected to trust.
Alayna had sat on the Iron Throne once, perched on her Father's knee when she was slightly older than a babe. Her Father had spent the night before celebrating that his only child had finally started walking towards what she wanted. Her soft brown wisps of her hair formed gentle ringlets around her neck as she had happily sat on his lap.
Her pudgy fingers played with the embroidered stag against his surcoat, as he dealt with the almost never-ending line of small folk that came to him. All of them, still looking for answers; grain rationing, grieving families who lost during the war, labour shortages.
The only peace he found during the whole ordeal was the gentle movements of his daughter. Her soft cooing filled the throne room as she happily made herself content with the strings on his tunic. The sounds filled the room with hope and softened the anguish the lords and small folk still felt years after the Battle of the Trident; she was a symbol of hope, of the realm going into a new era under Baratheon rule, a child, but not an heir.
She was not fortunate enough to have been granted that grace by the Gods. Her brother passed in the cradle just days after the two had been born, the summer sickness having taken him quickly before either could have been named.
The Queen - in her anguish - worried herself sick over her feverish daughter. However she prevailed despite the Maesters warning the King and Queen that she likely wouldn't have survived till the next moon.
Her wails no longer filled the halls now, instead they were replaced with an infectious laughter of an easily entertained babe. She found joy and humour in most things, but her Father brought her more joy than anything in the world.
A few moons after her fourth name day, her Mother brought another child into the world. A screaming boy who always cried in Alayna’s presence and who stole all of her mothers attention. She was, however, lucky enough to have been asked what to name her brother; and so Joffery Baratheon was born, Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the seven kingdoms, while she remained the king's daughter.
As she grew older, she could remember her mother becoming pregnant twice more, carrying a sister and then a brother. All of them with golden hair and eyes like the emeralds her mother favored during her childhood. Whereas Alayna took after her father, hair so dark it was almost black and eyes like the deep sea. She remembers how her father would tell her she had her grandmother's eyes, deep and swirling with curiosity and wonder of the world.
Over the years Alayna had become content with her mothers displeasure towards her. She remembers how her younger siblings were coddled while she lived in harsh judgement. Her mother’s cold gaze made it easy to feel as though she could never do anything right.
Alayna preferred her fathers company over anyone else. Oftentimes, she would sneak into her fathers study or into the council chambers and take the role of cupbearer for her father and the other lords as they discussed trivial matters. She'd always been accommodating according to the red keep; a soft smile adorning her face able to sway people to her favor, The Royal Bambi.
Alyana had known of the Hound ever since she could remember. As a child, he had always scared her, but she was a child, and him a very large young man, with a sword larger than her.
As she aged, growing into her mind and body, she heard rumors around what had happened to him during his youth from the people in the Keep and she couldn't help the pity she felt for him; not the grown man but the child who simply wished to play with his brother's toys.
There was also a rush of embarrassment that she would feel whenever she was in his presence after that moment, largely because of her previous reactions she had towards him as a child… how she would run to her father and hide behind his leg, only barely able to look up at him with her hand held onto her fathers.
But she was no longer a child, she remembers her tenth and sixth name day, how she had left the throne room to catch her breath in the garden only to have been followed by her brother's sworn sword.
"You shouldn't be out here alone Bambi" he says gruffly looking down at her from a fair few paces back, her hands splayed over the stone railing that looked over the Blackwater Bay.
Her heart was still racing at a comment made by one of the lords; she hadn't even thought of marriage and now it was all she could think about. She was trying to catch her breath, and now the hound was behind her scolding her like a child.
"I needed a moment" she declared simply as she looked over her shoulder at him, she had quickly swatted away the tears that had been streaming down her cheeks, causing her rouge to dissipate, but the damage was done.
Sandor could already see the rosy flush of her checks, the rims of her eyes red as if her tears wouldn't calm. He took a few measured steps forward, his boots crunching against the gravel made her take a step back. The small of her back pressed against the railings as she fully turned to him before raising her hand to stop him.
"I don't need your pity Sir, I just needed air" she says with a small frown, but his movements didn't stop once.
His steps were measured, and his eyes unyielding as he walked next to her and looked over the bay.
"I'm no knight little doe, the gods would be damned if they made me one" he grunts, never once looking at her or acknowledging her pitiful state. She looked up at him and his towering figure as he stood next to her; an appropriate distance from her.
His scarred skin on display for her to see as she stood there, her eyes trailing over him before looking over the waters, the smell of the salt and the smell of metal filled her senses.She'd never been this close to the Hound before, he was her brother's sworn sword, not hers… not that she needed one, she wasn't the heir.
But ever since her ninth name day she’d grown curiouser of him, no longer frightened by his appearance or his demeanor.
“The gods work in mysterious ways” was all she responded with, her brows pressed together at the irony of her words. The gods did work in ways she didn't understand, but she'd be damned if she admitted that to her brother's knight.
She’d probably get into trouble with her septa if she had found out her thoughts on the gods. But the gods were cruel, she knew this dispute, her lack of knowledge of life beyond castles and her stitchwork. The Gods don't give a fuck, that's why they're Gods.
She heard him grumble, but she paid him no heed. However the heat of his stare made her cheeks flush with a feeling close to embarrassment, she hated being looked at as if she were expected more from.
"I don't need your pity Sir" she spoke without thinking as she turned to look up at him, her brows knitting together as she watched him. How his eyes were on her taking her in, the gentle observation that he was already making in his mind made her feel the urge to defend herself. She kept silent as she retained his gaze, his harsh eyes watching over her youthful face.
She'd grown rather comely in the past years, it was good for her now that there was talk of her being married off, most likely to houses with wavering loyalties, probably to an old friend of her fathers. Her once short black hair now cascaded over her shoulders as her braids kept the stray hairs from flying into her eyes.
Sandor knew that she would only grow into her looks more as time continued, her round cheeks becoming more angular like her Mothers, while her nose sloped down like her Fathers; before he'd broken it.
He leaned down close to her, making her feel crowded against the railing, but left her with enough space to pull away from him if she were truly that frightened of him
She didn't move."Pity's for little creatures that beg for attention, not ones who demand it little doe" he says groufly, the heat from his breath against the shell of her ear warming her neck with a gentle flush, she pulled her head back slightly to look into his eyes. She scanned his face as her confusion took a hold of her, but before she could respond he had interrupted her.
"Get back inside Doe, your Father will be missing you"
The journey to Winterfell was a long and strenuous one that she dreaded to take again. A whole moon had passed since her family had set off to summon Lord Stark, with the hopes that he would accept the position of becoming her Fathers hand after the death of Jon Arrye.
The trip made her long for the comfort of a warm hearth, the taste of warm breads and cheeses that her Father allowed her to indulge whenever she wished to break her fast in the middle of the night with him. How the sound of the flames would flicker as the wood cracked, or the scuffling of rats against stone, filling the quiet moments between her Fathers' laughter that would echo throughout the halls and covering her own.
Now she was near approaching her eighth and tenth name day. She knew that she would miss it in accordance with her family traveling back from Winterfell - hopefully with Lord Stark in tow - but it was a small relief she was willing to sacrifice if it meant another moon passing without the conversation of marriage looming over her shoulder, like the Stranger during a plague.
The rocking of the carriage was the worst part of the journey. Alayna had originally thought the biggest challenge would have been dealing with her Mothers snide comments about the north while simultaneously being forced to listen to her Tommen and Myrcella excited remarks on every farm creature that they passed.
Alayna didn’t mind her sibling all too much in those moments, especially since Joffrey wasn't permitted to ride in the carriage like he normally would have. Instead she remembers her father yelling at him that he needed to step up to his name as heir and stand united behind his Father as they rode up north on their horses.
Alayna couldn't help but feel the ugly sin of envy at her brother's annoyance, tradition and duty required her to ride in a carriage, but she wished she had at least been given the option to be able to ride alongside her father as they entered Winterfell. Then perhaps she might have been able to watch the green hills turn to snow caps more openly, watching the daylight shift into the night as they would make camp in a nearby inn that her family would occupy.
The smell of salt and incense now replaced with the scent of wet stone and moss as they got closer to the castle. Her clothing now replaced with thicker dresses and her newer pelts covering her shoulders as the chills started to nip at her skin.
She couldn't help the relief flooding through her as they finally entered the gates of Winterfell. The doors opened allowing her to feel the true chill of the north nipping at her nose. She finally stepped out of the carriage after her youngest brother and sister, before standing beside them, her eyes looking over her shoulder back to her mother exiting the carriage herself, and walking toward the Stark family. She watched as lord Stark kissed her mothers hand, but she didn't care, her eyes scanning the crowd with mild interest before looking back over at the royal party she had traveled with.
Her eyes landed on her brother eyeing up the red headed stark girl, the same way he would look at Tommen's cats before they went missing the next day. His smile charming, as if he was meaning to bewitch the poor girl, but as Alayna looked back to the lane of the Stark children, it was clear that she wasn't the only one who noticed the look the two gave each other.
Robb, she thinks his name was, he was pretty for a northern, with blue eyes and soft brown curls, she imagined that her Father would discuss marriage with Lord Stark between the two. She knew he'd been born a few months before her, and he was nice to look at. And yet the idea of marrying a Stark made her feel queasy.
She knew the history between her Father and Lord Stark, how they were like brothers, had fought in wars together, and at one point were meant to be family. She knew the Starks were known for their hardened demeanour, how they were considered more thoughtful of their actions, led by honour and tradition, rather than self interest and duty.
But when she met his eyes she noticed almost every little expression on his face. How his chin slighted upwards as if he thought himself better, how his eyes trailed down her body as if he was making assumptions about her without the chance to defend herself.
She could feel the unconscious clenching of her jaw at his demeanor, but the heir of Winterfell was not the only one watching her. The warmth of his gaze lingered on her neck from behind, even through his dog helm that she hated, though she would never voice that opinion openly.
Normally it was a grace Sandor would allow her, letting her look at him so openly. Whenever the courts were trialing in the throne room, or when her Father or some other lord would host tourneys that the royal family would be required to attend, she'd always look towards his unyielding figure, not with longing, or in any kind of way, but just from the simple fact that if the Hound could manage a royal procession, then she would be able to manage herself as well.
"We’ve been riding over a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." she heard her Mother say sweetly to her father, the voice she only used when people outside of the family were around. They weren't close by any means, but Alayna knew her Mother well enough to know that she had felt slighted by the dead. Her Father walked away with lord Stark leaving her Mother standing in front of lady Stark, she could only see the back of her Mother's head, but she knew that her smile was strained.
The silence that covered the yard was as thick as the fog rolling over the mountains. Alayna moved forward, a polite smile adorning her face, her expressions changing from quiet curiosity to the endearing smile she'd perfected when navigating the courts, and in turn, the kingdom.
"Lady Stark, my Brother and Sister would like to express our gratitude toward your hospitality. Winterfell is even more beautiful than expected" Alayna says gently, before giving the Tully woman a small bow in appreciation.
She watched as Catelyn’s eyes trailed from her mother, back to her. It was clear that the Tully woman was more familiar with wearing her heart on her sleeve than others Alyana was familiar with, it was foolish to allow one's self a luxury of doing so in the capital, and yet, Alyana couldn't help but respect it from the older woman.
“Wheres the imp?” she heard… Aya? she thinks her name might be. She'd been forced to learn so many names in the past moon that she was struggling to remember them all.
She knew where her Uncle was, most likely indulging himself in northern cunt and wine instead of fulfilling his duties. Alayna had been fortunate enough to have never seen him in such a state, but that didn’t stop the walls of the Keep from keeping his proclivities quiet.
She watched as her mother looked towards the younger Stark, her face holding a hidden grimace that only Alayna would recognize as disgust, before walking off towards her Uncle Jamie, draped in his white cloak. The Queen's gaze caught on her daughters, as if she were the one who had brought mention of the Imp of Casterly Rock to light.
"Thank you, your Grace" Catelyn says with a gentle smile and a soft bow, bringing Alayna back to her conversation with Lady Stark. She could see how she would have easily been a good mother, northern enough to be firm, but southern enough to hold softness for her children that any child would love to have in a mother.
"Perhaps my son Robb could escort you to your chambers, I'm sure a familiar face would help after such a long journey" she suggested as she looked over at her son.
The implication was clear, the two first born had met only a number of times, enough to count on one hand, and it had been over 9 years since she had seen his face or written to him. Nonetheless, she forced her shoulders to relax as she wrapped her hand around the arm he held out for her, following his lead.
She walked with Robb as they moved throughout the halls towards her quarters, a move that only validated her thoughts on the idea this journey was not only a diplomatic trip to gain a new hand for the throne.
"Do you like Winterfell?" she says, breaking the silence as soon as they walked inside the halls of the Red Keep. The warmth of the candles helped her chills running over her arms.
"It is my home, Princess," he responded, his accent pleasant to her ears as she walked alongside him, her fingers urging to play with the seam of his sleeves, she imagined the feeling would soothe the headache that was growing present from the traveling she had done.
She looked up at him, still following his lead as he walked her towards the guest wing of the castle, "lots of people have homes, that doesn't mean they like them" she wanted something from him, something.... un-Stark of him, a glimmer of the Tully boy remembered seeing at a tourney when she was younger.
The two stopped in front of her door, his gaze now falling to her, his blue eyes looking into hers before dancing over her face, as if trying to find what angle she was taking with this small talk.
"Ai', I like Winterfell."
That made her smile, the gentle shift in his tone made her shoulder almost soften at his admission.
"I am glad," was all she responded with, before she unwrapped her hand from him and opened the door to enter her new room for the next moon. "Thank you Robb for showing me to my room,"
He gave her a firm nod before walking away, but not before she caught the corner of his lips twitching up at her calling him by his name, something she used to do as a child when they were at the tourneys, which it now seems as though he remembered too.
The room was fine, smaller than her chambers in the Red Keep, but almost homelier than them. Candles from hundreds of years past dripped over the mantle, the walls held the scent of moss, and thick pelts covered the beds. It was painfully northern, and yet, not unwelcome.
"'It's not the worst." she whispered to herself. As she lay down against the plush bedding, letting sleep take a hold of her, her imagination ran with the thoughts that the next time she comes to the North would be for her wedding.
Working on a Targaryen!Reader (she's Rhaegel's daughter) story where she disguises herself as a knight during the Trial of Seven and is partially struck by the blow meant for Baelor, thus saving him.
She wakes up a few days later, but the injury has scrambled her mind and she believes she's married to either Baelor or Maekar (her most intimate, darkest wish). They are shocked when she is outwardly needy for them and refers to them as "husband" or "my love" or "kepus" (in a yearning way).
Which dragon prince should be the pairing of this story?
yeah okay you'll call me princess during sex but will you pretend that you're an enemy ruler who's kidnapped me and forcing me carry your heir? or are you boring?
I‘m not sure if you’ve seen Bridgerton or the Queen Charlotte spin off but theres this scene I really like where Queen Charlotte finds her husband under the bed hiding from the heavens (https://youtu.be/LoEpi5q3kX4?si=4dsX19dbQpTVib-W)
I kind of see Baelor hiding with his dragon dreamer!wife when she had a vision.
your dreams, are not just dreams
summary: your dreams are proving worse by the day, something that your chambermaids and maesters once foresaw would happen. but you are lucky enough to have someone by your side who thinks it more than ‘madness’.
pairing: baelor targaryen x dragon dreamerwife!reader
warning(s): slight misogyny, violent visions, borderline psychotic state (momentarily), comfort and baelor being the best husband
a/n: i have seen quite a bit of bridgerton actually but i did have to go and take a look at this scene to jog my memory.. and charlotte and george are beautiful together, this would very much be baelor and dragon dreamer!wife.. he’s so soft 🥹💗
The chamber was still all except for the crackle of the hearth. Moonlight spilled across stone, silvering the carved posts of the bed, the curtains barely stirring. You’d been plagued for far too long, night after night you’re awoken again, heart thumping in your chest like being struck by lightning. He wakes to the sound first — soft, uneven breaths, a scrape across the floor and a curse. And then nothing.
Baelor knows that silence.
He rises from the bed without amour, without crown, just bare feet on cold floor, rubbing his dry and tired eyes from the day’s burdens. Sighing as he stalks around the room, tucking in the fallen chair beside the table in the quiet, an aching in his search, yet he already knows where you are.
He crouches at once without another thought, and there you are.
Curled beneath the bed like a frightened child, your knees pulled to your chest, hair loose and wild, your eyes too bright for this hour.
Your dreams always do this.
Not visions like stories make them, they’re not pretty, or poetic.
Instead they come like storms, like a fire burning in your skull, the future clawing its way through you before you can understand it.
“My love,” Baelor kneels softly against the stone floor, pressed onto his fours as he calls out to you, his voice gentle.
You flinch though you recognise the sound.
“It’s me,” he says quickly. “It’s Baelor, your husband. I’am here.”
Your voice trembles as you trace the wooden slats underneath the bed, shaky hands reaching up just in front of your face.
“I saw it again.”
He doesn’t dismiss it, doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t try to claim it to be something it isn’t. And he never has. Not like the rest of them do. They call you mad, odd, worrisome.. some opting to send you away since you were a girl all until you birthed the first child. Yet Baelor refused any of it, from the moment of betrothal he was yours, and he meant his vows through sickness, health and what haunted you in the night.
He reaches slowly, palms flat on the stone so you can see every movement as you looked up at him, tears pricking your vision, unmoving. He hooked himself next to you, the gap tight between him and the bed but he relaxed comfortably next to you.
“Tell me.”
Your breath shudders, leaning into the present you can’t escape any way. The man beside you grounding as you recalled it.
“There was smoke over the river. Dragons screaming, and a crown falling into blood. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it kept happening — like it already has.”
The tears slide down your cheeks, warm and frantic shaking your head at yourself in shame.
“I’m mad,” you whisper. “They all say dreamers go mad.”
Baelor’s jaw tightens at that, not in anger, but in pain for you. The words you’ve had to endure for far long enough, that even he does not believe.
“No,” he says firmly. “My heart, you see.”
He inches closer, sliding further beside you until he can brush your fingers with his own.
“Just like you saw the storm before it came. Just like you saw my brother’s fall before the maester’s raven arrived.”
You swallow at the mention, you were both only young when his younger brother Rhaegal was said to have gone mad. Plagued by perhaps something like you, or something else, they wouldn’t say. But you’d told them all it was going to fall apart, that brothers would be distanced and crowns would pass to the unlikely.
“It feels so real.”
“Because it is real,” he answers gently. “Or real enough to matter.”
He ignored the cold stone beneath you both, brushing the dust away as he brings his eyes level with yours.
“Breathe with me.”
Slowly, he inhales and exhales, eyes never once leaving you as he does it. Those multicoloured hues you’d remembered, you’d known..
And you mirror him.
Again.
And again.
Every breath until your shaking eases.
“Tell me where it was,” he says softly. “The river. Was it wide? Narrow?”
You blink at him, tracing the line in your memory, grounding yourself.
“Wide… with reeds along the banks.”
He nods thoughtfully, fingers curling around yours gently.
“And the crown — gold or silver?”
“Gold.”
Baelor hums low in his chest, not doubting, but considering.
“Then it wasn’t of today. My father wore silver at council.”
You sniff softly, a fragile laugh escaping at the answer.
“You always do that.”
He smiles back at you, quirking a brow.
“Do what?”
“Make it feel like it can be understood.”
He reaches out to you then, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your tears away, face angling towards yours.
“Dreams aren’t madness,” he says. “They are messages. Even the cruel ones.”
You finally crawl forward, shuffling on your side until you collide with him, pressing into his chest like you’ve done since you were young. And he wraps you up instantly, strong arms a shield around your trembling body. The way he told you it was alright.
“I’m scared one day it’ll be something I can’t stop,” you whisper.
His lips press into your hair, firm and steady, never wavering.
“Then we’ll face it together.”
A pause. Your vows.
“Did you see yourself?”
You nod slowly against him, “I was standing beside you.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I know I’ll never face it alone either.” He rocks you gently, back and forth, calming the storm that was.
Outside, kin and servant alike are fast asleep, but here you are together, and he rests his forehead against yours like he’s never known differently.
“You’re not broken,” he says quietly. “You’re chosen, and you’re mine. And I will always believe you.”
Your breathing steadies as the fear ebbs. The world feeling real again, with every steady thrum of this heart.
And when he finally lifts you, tugging you both off out from under the bed and carrying you back into the silk sheets, he tucks you in like something precious — staying awake long after you drift off, watching over the dreamer who holds tomorrow in her mind.
Because, you are more than just that. You are his love, his wife.. his heart.
your hand around his cock, his hand around yours, you delicately stroking and him feeling what it’s like to have you touch him. groaning unabashedly, his head lolling back, lazy smile across his lips. he loves how shy you get about it, how curious you are with him as you play with pressure and speed.
his breathless groans and broken baby, go easy on me (even though he has the biggest smile plastered on his face) as you move your hips in circles, back and forth, spelling out little nothings with your body, his cock deep inside of you ❤︎
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