What if you and Jack are in a relationship and one day, Jack gets injured at work and passes out. When he’s regaining consciousness, he calls out for his dead wife and doesn’t know who you are and doesn’t want you to touch him bc he thinks he’s still married. He’s got a touch of amnesia and thinks that his wife is still alive. Robby and Dana finally get him to calm down but the damage is done and you’ve started to move out by the time he’s discharged.
Robby is letting you crash at his place and knows you’re contemplating moving to a different hospital so that you don’t have to see Jack ever again in a professional setting. Robby tries to convince you not to leave Jack bc he’s in love with you and had been planning on proposing to you soon. But now, he doesn’t know that you can ever move past this.
Hiya,
I hope you like this one, it will probably need a part two if people are interested.
It had been ten days since the car accident and Jack still hadn’t woken up.
You had been left with a bruise on your head, a couple of broken fingers, and your body covered in Jack's blood.
You hadn’t left his bedside, not even to eat or change your clothes, any attempt from your friends had fallen on deaf ears as you had sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair and held onto the hand of your boyfriend.
The ICU doctors hadn’t really pushed you away, not after Robby had taken them aside and explained who you were.
From then on they made sure you had a blanket and something to eat at regular intervals.
Not that you ate much, instead choosing to only eat when Dana or Robby made you.
“It won’t do to have you die before he wakes up.” Dana had tersely said as you had refused to touch the sandwich put in front of you.
But you knew what wasn’t being said.
It was likely he wouldn’t wake up.
The doctors had already spoken to Robby and you, explaining (mainly to you) that he had been down too long, that the injury to his head would mean that the man you knew was probably gone.
You had denied it all, explaining to the doctors and to Robby that he was strong and this isn’t the kind of thing that would keep him down.
The doctor had just nodded and Robby had opted to just hug you instead of rebutting your arguments.
----------------
The days passed and there were no changes, Jack was still unconscious and you were still by his side.
On day eleven Dana had forced you into the shower, almost drowning you under the warm water as she washed your hair and scrubbed the dried blood from your skin.
On day twelve, you left the hospital for half an hour to stand in the park across the road and cry.
On day thirteen, Robby had come in with pamphlets, outlining possible outcomes and options.
On day fourteen, Jack's lawyer walked into the room and explained that the documents you had randomly signed one day had ended up being power of attorney and guardian documents which meant you had control on what happened to Jack in the event he doesn’t wake up but doesn’t die.
On day fifteen, you were removed from the room by Robby, who made you sit outside and stare at the sky for an hour.
“Jack would kill me if I didn’t look after you.” he had stated as you had thrown hurtful words at the older man.
You sat on the cold concrete step of the hospital and stared up at the sky, it was a beautiful day with an endless blue sky.
“He’s not going to wake up is he?” you said quietly, every word tasting like vinegar on your tongue.
“He might, but if he does he will not be the man we knew.”
“Four tours of Afghanistan, a literal bomb that took his leg, the death of his wife and never ending shifts in the ER, he has survived them all.” You prattled off Jack's accomplishments, “And he gets done in by a drunk driver on the way to brunch?”
“Life’s not fair.” Robby shrugged but his eyes grew red as he settled on the step next to you.
“Its not how he ends, it can’t be.”
“And if it is?”
You lean into his shoulder and echo his earlier shrug.
“Do you know what my friends said when I admitted I was dating an older man. That one day I would have to bury him.”
“Thats harsh.”
“Yeah, they suck,” you admitted, “But they are not wrong, sixteen years difference is a lot. I just thought-”
You paused and Robby turned and pulled you to him, “You thought?”
“I thought I would have more than two years. We had so many plans, tickets to Paris next month, the house has been gutted to its foundations and we just worked it all out you know. We have a life.”
“He might pull through, it is Jack.”
You look up at Robby and smile a little, “You’re lying but thank you.”
-----------------------------------------
Jacks moved from the ICU to another wing of the hospital, filled with people just like him. Unconscious and without a timeline for waking.
You don’t spend every waking moment by his bedside, this wing doesn’t allow that. You’re limited to visiting hours and your world settles into a waiting game.
You go home, to the stripped walls and concrete slab, making phone calls to contractors to make the house livable again.
“No, I don't care about the flooring, just give me a god-damn floor.” you had hissed down the line to the sales person, while your fingers typed away on your keyboard cancelling your flights. Paris would have to wait.
You return to work and you sit at your desk, attend meetings and drink terrible coffee.
Robby gives you updates on the comings and goings of the ER, at first you thought it was because he was trying to distract you but as the days went by you realised he was missing Jack just as much. You had replaced your boyfriend as Robby’s sounding board for all things hospital related and you ended up using Robby as yours for all house related questions.
“What are skirting boards?”
“Are they required?”
“Why are there a million shades of eggshell and why do I hate all of them?”
“Gloria wants me to somehow be at three management meetings today.”
“They are scheduled all for the same time.”
You laugh at the last message as you settle down into the chair by Jack's bed, these wings chairs are comfier than the ICU’s and you sit back one hand scrolling on your phone and the other grasping jacks, your thumb gently running up and down his hand.
“Robby thinks we should go for the Grand Piano Quarter for the living room- which is white but like a grey white which looks okay- once we put up pictures.” you ramble showing the colour to the unconscious Jack, “It has shades of peach in it if you squint so that should be good with the flooring, which someone picked out from the reno company.”
You rambled on, your hand in his as you ‘showed’ him how the house you had both funneled your life savings into was shaping up.
------------------------------
You had met Jack at a coffee shop on a wet and windy day.
You had been huddled over your laptop trying desperately to finish a report for work while on your fourth cup of coffee. Jack had very politely asked to sit at the end of your table to finish his tea and you had obliged.
You had been deep into the report not realising that you had been talking out loud to yourself until Jack settled into the chair next to you and started answering your mutterings.
“I don’t think that's how you spell though.” he said pointing at the angry red squiggle under one of the words.
You had practically jumped out of your skin which had made him laugh and had brought you back down to reality.
It should have been an ick, having someone who knew nothing about your work trying to help you, but instead Jack spent more time just trying to make you smile then talking down to you, so you stayed in your spot, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as he chatted.
You had asked him out as soon as the report had left your inbox, closing your laptop and demanding you buy him dinner.
The rest was history.
--------------------------------------
Jack wasn’t going to wake up.
That was the final verdict from the doctors after the fourth week, Robby had held your hand the whole time they spoke, snarling at them to dumb down their words for you.
His body was okay, the swelling on his brain had settled, but whatever bruising had occurred in the accident had done the damage and it was unlikely that he would recover.
You had pulled away from Robby at that and went back to Jack’s room.
“You need to wake up,” you whispered to him as you settled yourself on the bed, wrapping yourself around him. The bed was tiny and you didn’t fit comfortably but you needed Jack, you needed to be close to him.
“I need you to wake up and tell me everything's okay. Please Jack-” you sobbed, you had tried not to cry over the last few weeks, even as everything had pressed upon your shoulders, the bills that were piling up, the decisions that needed to be made about your home, the friends who were absent when you needed them, the right side of your bed that was so cold you were sleeping on the couch, everything was now too much.
“I don’t want to do this alone, please Jack!” you begged into his chest.
His chest was rising and falling with every breath he was taking.
“You’re breathing, just please wake up!”
You didn’t know now if you were screaming or crying as you clung to him, your fingers wrapped tightly around his hospital gown, as you failed to catch your own breath.
Then a calm fell over you, and you turned to look up at him. He could be sleeping, with his greying curls settling on his brow and face was serene, it could have been any morning when he had settled into bed after a night shift and you had slowly woken up, curling around him and settling in for a doze.
But it wasn’t and you knew this isn’t what he would have wanted.
“It’s okay-” you say as you rise up, finally aware that you had had an audience to your breakdown, Robby and Dana stood in the doorway their eyes fixed on you.
“You can go Jack, it's okay. I’ll be okay, Renee is waiting for you,” Jack's ex-wife’s name had Robby moving towards you, his arms outstretched as if to hold you tight but you shook your head, “You can go, I’ll be fine.” With a kiss on his forehead you left the room, unable to handle the enclosing walls and the rising pressure in your chest.
You have one foot out the door when you hear an intake of breath and a croaky voice call out.
“Renee?”
You turn, a smile forming as Robby leans over his friend, his face gone from friendly to professional as he shines a light in the other man's eyes.
“Quit it! Where is Renee?” Jack snarls, trying to sit up and swatting Robby away, “Where is my wife?”
pairing: dr. jack abbot x f!plus size dating influencer reader
rating – explicit. minors dni
wc – 5.4k
series masterlist | chapter 01
series summary - forty and recently divorced, you come across the world of tiktok dating influencers. in need of pick me up, you decide to make a profile for yourself and see how it is with your own eyes. you have your own rules; no picking you up, never bringing a man home even if sex is on the table, never repeating a date and no strings attatched. but what happens when you meet a certain silver fox doctor at a bar that comes to your rescue after an awful date?
chapter summary – rules are meant to be broken, and the consequences of it come fast.
warnings – angst, fluff and SMUT. drinking, mentions of smoking weed. feelings of unworthiness and self sabotage. jack is a babe (as usual). reader still is a menace and is in her head a lot, some inner monologue. sort of a SMAU. public sex, car sex, oral (m! receiving), p in v, reader’s head working extra hours while doing it. shit happens ig.
she/her pronouns and afab!reader. reader is described to be fat, other than that, no specific descriptions race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
a/n – heyyy! this is a shorter one but i think it’s pretty sweet. hope you enjoy it!
dividers by uzmacchiato and cursed-carmine
jack abbot arrived late at the PTMC that monday.
well, late for jack abbot standards. for someone who usually arrives at least half an hour earlier than he needs to, arriving 6:55 for his 7p.m. shift was arriving late.
he walked in with a pep in his step. jack greeted everyone who crossed his way, asked how lupe and chantanah’s weekend had gone, bet one hundred bucks on ahmad’s newest betting pool (apparently, robby and baran had a spat so big that weekend that everyone decided that the reason of their animosity towards each other is because they were secretly in love. after that, ahmad’s beloved white board was cleared, who, how and when columns were created, and now they’ve amassed almost one thousand dollars in bets. oh, jack’s guesses are: both, after a bad case and in three months), and even entertained in myrna’s shenanigans, twirling her wheelchair around a couple of times.
robby shook his head when he heard the frequent flyer say “that’s why i like you better than dr. fruitcake, dr. abbot.” between giggles. his friend laughed and shook his head, giving her an “oh, myrna” as he made his way to present himself for shift change.
“i’ll take the date went well.” robby said to jack without taking his eyes from the chart he was finishing.
“date?” dana and lena shouted in unison.
“louder ‘cause whoever is in north one didn’t hear it.” he said with not one ounce of anger in his voice and opened a huge smile before continuing. “and yes, i went on a date on saturday and it went really well.”
dana patted jack in the back, her smile just as big as his. “happy for you, abbot.”
those close to him knew the importance of this step on jack’s life. eliza, liz, lizzie, the love of his life. the woman jack met when he was eighteen, fresh out of high-school, through liz’s cousin and jack’s best friend, diego, at a birthday party at diego’s parent’s house and were inseparable since then. she was the one who was with him through the highs and lows of life. during med school, his deployment, the death of his father, the loss of his leg and everything that came with it. liz was jack’s rock and guiding light.
and he had to watch that light dim over the course of a year.
on a routine check up, they found out liz had stage 3 cancer. liz tried every treatment available, but the worst outcome possible happened one year to the date they discovered the disease.
the first year without lizzie was the worst of jack’s life. he blamed himself for it everyday, even if he knew he did everything he could. jack felt like a zombie, pilling shifts on shifts, pulling doubles whenever he could and sleeping no more than an hour a night. jack lost so much weight that his phone face recognition didn’t recognise him anymore.
it was a particular case that helped jack take his first steps to ask for help.
he may not admit, but jack remembers that shift particularly well. the day of the first anniversary of his wife’s passing was approaching and jack had been on edge all week. it was one of those harsh winter shifts that doctors had a hard time arriving and patients only set foot in the streets if extremely needed. a strong snowfall hit pittsburgh earlier than expected and robby’s day team had a difficult time arriving at the PTMC, so jack, shen and a few of the night shift nurses pulled a double.
it was around two in the afternoon that a wife arrived at the pitt with her husband, a prostate cancer patient in palliative care. jack was the one to attend him, not before robby insisted he could take on the case.
jack couldn’t lie, it was one of the hardest cases he had been a part of, not because it was beyond his capabilities, but because it hit too close to home. jack saw liz in steve; the way he breathed, the hums, how he looked at his wife like silvia meant the world to him.
jack had to blink twice whenever he entered steve’s room as his mind kept playing tricks on him.
steve left this realm a little over an hour after he arrived at the hospital. like he always did, jack lent a sympathetic ear to the widow in case she needed it. and jack found someone who was in a much more sane state of mind than him.
he learned that steve and silvia were a few years older than him and high-school sweethearts, kind of like him and liz. they had been each other’s only partners and had eighteen year old twins. like he had seen in his chart but hadn’t computed the information, steve discovered his cancer ten years prior and the disease had come and gone twice, but ended up being fatal the third time.
when the third time came around, steve made a bucket list of things he wanted to do before he passed like going on a worldwide cruise, watching a football match in england and writing a book. the book was a love letter to silvia in the form of poems; in the last one, steve made silvia promise that she would live her life, that she wouldn’t mourn him for long and that, if she ever felt like falling in love again, she would do it and not think about her dead husband.
the morning after she had won the gift, silvia called a therapist specialised in grief, who helped her understand and go through the grief stage four cancer brings.
jack found him one during his lunch break that day.
“is she pretty, jack?” lena asked.
“she’s stunning and smart and funny and i seriously don’t know what she saw in me.” jack laughed and shook his head.
robby snorted at his best friend's self deprecation. “give yourself your due credit, brother.”
across the hub, trinity listened to the conversation and thought about the video she had just watched, happy that the attending would, supposedly, be getting his second date.
you walked down the halls of university thankful that you would be getting ten days off starting tomorrow.
since leaving his apartment that sunday, all you could think about was your date with jack. you weren’t one to compare, knowing the circumstances and everything in between, but taking into account the last few years of your marriage and the dates you had gone since you started the experiment, the moments you shared with jack were the best you had had in years. jack made you laugh and was attentive, he actually listened to you and was interested in knowing you and what you had to say. jack looked at you with reverence and the want in his eyes made your skin prickle.
but there was still a side of you that was on alert.
the rules you created were set for a reason. eighteen years with someone aren’t eighteen days. and, even if the only feelings you had left for paul were disgust and annoyance, you felt like you couldn’t get into another relationship. firstly, as independent as you had been your entire life, you didn’t exactly have the time to develop and get to know the you out of a relationship.
secondly, this was the first time in your life that you had been living alone since you went straight from your parents house to college, where you shared dorms with grace and leticia, to living with paul once you graduated and got married, and you were loving living alone. there was something about getting home after work and not having to play house and pretend to be lively that was so enticing and liberating to you. and the silence, god, the silence.
thirdly, the dating pool was shit. yes, overall, you had been graced with (mostly) good dates since the experiment started, but the measly ones you had and the horror stories you heard were enough for you to want to protect your peace long term.
that is why your newly found infatuation for jack scared you so much.
you felt an inexplicable pull to him from the moment he joked about your choices of drink that first day at the bar, and it only grew day by day as you texted or called, when you went to sleep with “goodnight” texts everyday for the past two weeks – even if jack was having a busy shift – and when you woke up to his 06a.m. “good morning” messages.
you knew you were fucked, but you were trying not to think about it.
with a groan, you sat down on your comfortable orthopaedic chair, stretching out all limbs before pulling your phone from your back pocket. it had been going off with texts almost all morning, and you were pretty sure ninety nine percent from them were grace’s, so, after confirming your suspicions, you facetimed her.
“look who decided to finally stop avoiding me.” was grace’s “hi” to you. you rolled your eyes.
“you know i was in class.”
“yeah… well, i gotta be dramatic somehow. but what you’ve been avoiding is telling me how things with your hot doctor are. you posted that short ass tiktok weeks ago saying he was going to get the first second date, and that was it. i still don’t know how the date went.”
after the post button was hit and realisation downed on you that you had just told your thousands of followers that you were going on a second date with mcdreamy, you panicked. you kept your weekly vlogs that served as a rundown of what you did that week and shared a few things here and there, but refused to open the comments on the post jack’s date video. grace didn’t get much either, as much as she bugged you for it daily.
you decided to put her out of her misery.
“i’m afraid of my feelings.” you said with a sigh.
“elaborate.”
you told grace everything. from how the date went, to the museum educator saying you and jack were a beautiful couple, to how he acted with you all night and how easy it felt for you to be truly yourself with him, how you didn’t have to make yourself smaller next to him (not only physically, but personality wise too), to how he acted like he was the one who was granted the biggest opportunity of his life that was being in your presence, to the sex (grace was particularly amused by the way he had to eat you out before breakfast), to the fact that you guys text daily and talk about nothing and everything.
“again, what are you afraid of?” your friend asked.
“grace, you know what i’ve been through. you know the rules and why i’ve set them, i can’t just go and mess it all up.”
graced laughed like you had said the most ridiculous thing.
“this is ridiculous.” ok, she confirmed what you were dreading. “those are self imposed rules, there’s nothing in the constitution saying you can’t catch feelings for a pretty awesome guy just because your ex-husband ended up turning into a bitch after a few years of marriage.”
“first of all, i’m not–“
grace interrupted you, calling your name using the stern tone of voice reserved for when you were being unreasonable or going on a spiral. and you were about to be both.
“remember that conversation we had when we’re high as a kite and talked about walking past our soulmates and meeting them? you’ve just said he often goes to the brewery with his best friend and apparently the two of you have the same habits,” in those two weeks of texts, you found out that you and jack shared too many habits, from going to the same farmer’s market almost every sunday, to only going to the century square luxury cinemas, even if it was out of your ways, because of their chairs.
you shook your head. “yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s my soulmate. or that they are real.” grace gave you a look that felt painful.
“i hate that paul hurt you so badly that it turned you into a sceptical person.” she inhaled and rubbed her hands across her pretty face. “what i’m saying is that maybe you shouldn’t pass out on a good opportunity because you are afraid of a ‘what if.’ you don’t– he’s texting you, isn’t he? you face just lit up like you won the lottery.”
damn it. sometimes you hated that your face had a life of its own. and yes, the same notification came up on your phone and macbook at the same time, your imessage app warning you that jack abbot had finally woken up from his post shift sleep.
jack from the bar: Hey, sweetheart. Robby is going away for a couple of weeks and I’ll be on the day shift for the foreseeable future starting thursday. I have the whole day off tomorrow and would love to finally take you out on that second date.
you read the text out loud to grace.
“you better tell that man ‘yes’ right now.”
sent: would love to. dealer’s choice.
“hey, guys! we’re having a morning/afternoon date today. mcdreamy has the day off today and so am i, so we’re embracing the opportunity to be out in the sun. anyway! make up is the same old, forgot to record it, sorry. skirt is H&M and the top i have no idea where i got it from, because i cut the tag off. flats because ja–“ you cut yourself short, eyes widening when you realised his name almost slipped out. you muttered a “fuck”, deleted what you had recorded so far and started again.
“flats because mcdreamy told me to be comfortable and a coach bag.” you twirled around, showing off the white flowy, cotton midi skirt, the red and white gingham shirt that showed your cleavage well, your purse and shoes of choice.
“i have no idea where we’re going, but apparently he has the whole day mapped out, and i’m soooo excited! as usual, see you guys after the date. bye!”
jack had been secretive about where he was taking you from the moment you agreed to the second date. he offered to pick you up at your place, and, as usual, you told him you would rather meet him there. you don’t know if that annoyed him, jack never showed any annoyance and respected your wishes when you didn’t agree with something he offered. but, to reach a middle ground, jack told you to choose a coffee spot for you to have breakfast together, so the first stop of your date would still be a surprise.
you picked the little coffee shop two blocks down from your building that you loved so much.
jack was already there when you arrived, looking a little anxious and a bit out of place as he played with the lid of his drink of choice. there was a another drink on the table that looked a lot like your favourite iced coffee, and you had to stop yourself from squealing at the sight of the handsome man.
the tingling sensation you felt whenever you talked with, thought about or were close to him grew stronger as you approached the table, and you took a deep breath when you saw his eyes light up when he saw you.
can’t run away now.
shouldn’t have agreed to this.
what was i thin–
“hey!” jack greeted and hugged you. you moved awkwardly around each other, not knowing if you should kiss the other on the cheek and, on a whim, you pecked jack’s lips. the man visibly relaxed on your arms and kissed you back.
i am sooo fucked.
“hope i didn’t keep you waiting long.” you told him shyly.
“no, of course not!” jack shook his head enthusiastically. “i ordered you that coffee you told me you liked.”
you thanked him.
when jack told you to choose a place to have breakfast together, you mentioned the brazilian coffee shop you discovered when you moved to your new neighbourhood after the divorce, and how you went there almost everyday. their doce de leite iced coffee was the only thing that made you happy months after your life got turned upside down.
“what should we eat?”
you pursed your lips, considering the options. “everything is so good, but for breakfast? pão de queijo.”
“pão de queijo?”
“yeah, it’s these little cheesy bread ball thingies that are so fucking good.”
jack smiled at your enthusiasm. “alright, ‘pow’ de queijo it is.”
you giggled and held jack’s arm. “jack, hold on.”
“what?”
“pão de queijo.”
“yeah, ‘pow’ de queijo.”
“no, pão.”
jack furrowed his brows. “what am i saying wrong?”
“it’s like ‘pawn’. the way you were saying sounds a lot like the brazilian portuguese slang for “cock”. i know because i asked for ‘cheesy cock’ for almost two months before the girls took pity on me.”
the owners and the whole staff of the brada coffee shop were brazilian, and in the short time you started going there, sabrina and fabiane, the morning cashier and barista, became good friends of yours.
“oh god, no cheesy cock for us.” when you and jack turned around, you found fabiane and sabrina smiling at you. “two ‘pawn’ de queijo, please.”
“did you like your breakfast?” you asked jack when the car turned into a familiar road.
“loved it, actually. i walk by it on my way to the hospital but never had the curiosity to sit down. i’ll definitely go there more often.”
“right? i’m happy you liked–” you noticed the building you haven’t visited in ages and stopped yourself. “jack, are you serious?”
“surprise!” he smiled at you.
“god, i haven’t been here in such a long time. thank you!”
jack took your hand as you walked inside your favourite place in the city, the pittsburgh zoo & aquarium. that place became your second home during your college days; whenever you had a bad day, you would buy a ticket and sit in front of the shark tank and look at the animals swimming around until your problems washed away.
walking around the zoo and aquarium with jack abbot turned out to be another tick on the ever growing list of things that made jack abbot a living breathing threat to your rules.
he had an enviable knowledge of the animals there, having a titbit about almost all of them, played around with some of the kids visiting, asking them about their favourite animals and telling them his, and even explained the concept of a prosthetic leg when a group of three four year olds gathered around him once he sat down and the fabric of his pants lifted up, leaving a bit of his prosthesis exposed. one of the little boys screamed “cool!” before they went back running to wherever they came from.
when you got to the aquarium, jack listened to you as you talked about the animals there, stared at you as you excitedly told him about the good and bad days you had in front of the shark tank, laughing when you told him about the day you and grace smoked a joint in the parking lot and went straight to the fishes, only to leave the building having the worst trip of your lives, and was incredulous when you told him you tried to volunteer to feed the animals, with a very thoroughly put together presentation, only to never hear back from them.
“ready?” jack asked when he pulled out of the aquarium’s parking lot, heading to the next destination.
“i don’t know what else will top this.”
“oh, you just wait and see.”
the forty minute drive was filled with laughter stemming from silly shared stories, and with you judging jack for his playlists after he handed you his phone with spotify opened, so you could choose something to listen to on the way to the second part of your date.
after poking fun for his countless dad rock songs saved, you searched for your favourite divorced dad rock playlist, and even had a very off key duet to audioslave’s like a stone.
it was close to three in the afternoon when jack parked his truck in the red barn winery’s parking lot. you had heard good things about this place, apparently a professor from the history department had had her bridal party there and it had been memorable enough for the whole campus to know of.
the place was indeed beautiful, the green of the trees that took over the property contrasted really well against the red of the old building. the staff was just as welcoming, and the rustic, woody interior of the barn felt warm and cozy, you had finally understood why it had been such a hit with the wedding party.
you could definitely see you and jack celebrating–
“jesus, fuck!” you hissed to yourself and pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes so hard, you saw stars.
this was a second date that shouldn’t have had happened. how the fuck were you thinking about getting together with some guy, some very sweet, caring and hot guy, one that acted like giving you the world was too little, after everything?
you had your rules, no strings attached being the biggest one of them.
just a date. no strings attached.
just a date. no strings attached.
just a date. no strings attach–
“you okay?” jack interrupted your internal mantra chanting when he came back from the bathroom, looking concerned and so delicious that it made you forget you were about to go on a spiral.
“great, handsome.” the term of endearment slipped out of your lips before you could think, making jack perk up and turn red instantly.
he cleared his throat. “umm, do you know what you’ll order?”
you and jack decided on sharing a charcuterie board, with a hazy IPA for him, that he soon switched for dr. pepper, and a couple glasses of their on-site crafted lemontine moscato for you.
it was another couple of hours of you and jack talking about nothing and everything, and of you falling more and more for him. you learned more about his relationship with robby, how, after everything that happened with him, they had each other to count on. it was beautiful the way he talked about and praised his friend.
you shared some more about you and grace, how you knew she would be there for you for anything (and you for her), and how you couldn’t see yourself without her in your life.
the wine helped you loosen up a bit, so much so that your flirting got bolder and you got touchier. jack ate it up, and gave you as much as you gave him.
next thing you knew, the bill had been paid and you were making out against his truck.
thank fuck jack parked in a secluded spot.
“shit.” jack hissed against your lips when you ran your hand against and softly squeezed his obvious hard on.
with swift fingers, you opened the truck’s door and told him to get in.
“how do i pull the seat back?” you asked as you felt the seat around.
“there a lever under it, in the middle.” jack said, showing you where to find it, and doing what he had just told you with his own seat.
you mimicked him and it pulled back abruptly, making you laugh. you kissed jack again, this time with hurried lips as you fumbled with his belt, your dexterous fingers circling his hard as a rock cock.
you pulled back to spit a glob of saliva on his red tip, eyes never leaving his while you massaged his length.
“you’re so good at this, honey.” jack murmured, eyes and voice filled with want. you smiled back at him, dropping slowly to press a barely there kiss against his leaking head. with eyes still glued to his, you licked a torturous stripe along the prominent vein that ran under his dick, making jack’s grip on your hair tighten when you finally took him inside your mouth.
thank god for tinted windows.
you sucked jack off, hollowing your cheeks, head bobbing up and down, hands covering where your lips couldn’t reach. the glint on jack’s eyes and the look of want and care he gave you made a pit on your stomach rise.
jack was all over you – with the salty taste of his precum on your tongue, with his member heavy on your jaw, with his fingers circling your clit, and with the smell that was so characteristically his – overriding your senses.
it was after a throaty moan, a sign that he was getting you to your tipping point, around his cock, that jack pulled you back.
“come here, honey. i need to be inside of you.”
jack helped you lift your skirt, staring intently to where your body met as you sinked slowly and bottomed out.
circling his arm around you, jack brought you closer and held you tighter, working his hips progressively faster against yours.
a kiss and god, it feels so good.
a thrust and why am i doing this.
a tongue on nipples followed by the graze of his teeth and i want this to last forever
a pull on your hair and fuck, i can’t keep doing this
you don’t know how long it lasted; torn between guilt and pleasure, the mix of his tip hitting your cervix repeatedly and the way your brain played tricks on you, the feel of his lips against your ear as he whispered sweet nothings and the filthiest words known to men got you floaty and how you were letting an honest-to-god-good-man on. you came after a particularly erratic thrust, followed by jack telling you he wanted to feel you forever, and being filled up by jack’s cum and the dread of knowing the best thing that happened to you in years should end.
the drive back was done in comfortable silence and with jack’s hand softly caressing your left thigh, and you questioning a thing or two about the last month of your life. breaking another rule – after many had already been broken – jack dropped you off, with the promise of seeing you again in a few days.
dread took over you the moment you closed your apartment’s door when the fresh memories of your date flooded your mind. the praises, the talks, how his hands felt against your back, the fact that you had forgone a condom and the way his spend was still inside of you after he dropped you off.
you tallied off all the things you said you wouldn’t do and did.
the strings were attached. too attached.
you knew exactly what you had to do.
with shaky hands, you grabbed your phone and typed “i’m doomed” to grace, hitting “send” before getting into a much needed shower.
jack had been in a foul mood for what felt like forever. one day he came in looking renewed for the slew of day shifts he had ahead of him after his second date, and a few later he was telling patients to shut the fuck up like it was nothing.
dana tried to pry on, asked if anything had happened, wanting to know how things were with you – to which he replied with a very short tempered “fine” – and even texted robby to ask if jack had said anything, to which the answer was “no.”
it was after jack gave poor whitaker a less than nice answer to his (kind of stupid) question that dana pulled him out to the ambulance bay and told him to take five.
“this is the type of shit i expect from robby, not you. what happened?”
jack sighed and said your name. “ten days since i last heard of her. no news since a couple of days after our last date.”
“did you do something?” dana asked softly.
“i don’t think so? no. we had a great time, she told me so. she just… vanished. i’ve tried texting her, she replied a couple of times and then nothing. i know she hasn’t blocked me, but all i got was a ‘read’ on my last message.”
dana ran a sympathetic hand over jack’s arm, her face a mix of pity and sadness for her friend. she looked at the watch around her wrist and asked “we still got forty minutes to go, think you can handle it?”
“yeah, i’m fine.”
john, parker and crus came in not long after he went back inside the emergency room, promptly doing the rounds with jack and the day shift residents. he was back at the central hub, discussing with shen a few shift details so he could pass the torch to the younger attending, when jack heard a very familiar voice, one he missed very much. he looked around, his heartbeat increasing when the mere thought of you being hurt graced his mind, only to find out it was coming out of trinity’s device.
“hey, guys.” jack took the phone from the R2’s hand and rewinded the video. he was met with a you he hoped to never see, sad, with bags under your bloodshot eyes, like you had been crying for days. “hey, guys. i’ve been missing for a few days and i know you are worried about me, but i’m fine, i promise! the date went well and mcdreamy was perfect as usual, but–“ you sniffled and wiped your nose “but my feelings got in the way and i… i don’t think i can do this. the experiment is over.”
jack stared at the phone with glossy eyes as the video replayed. he was in a trance, your words echoing in his head over and over again.
it was when parker ran a careful hand over his shoulder and asked “you alright, boss?” that jack woke up, only to find both the day shift and night shift crews staring at him. jack dropped the phone back into the hands of a very stunned trinity, who muttered an “i’m sorry” before he turned around and left.
jack doesn’t know how he got home. the last thing he remembers is asking john to meet him in the break room and asking the younger man for help to set up a tiktok profile for himself, and next thing he knew, jack was in bed, sans prosthesis, watching hundreds of your videos for hours.
his heart was in a rollercoaster of emotions he didn’t know how to name and, quite frankly, didn’t want to feel. jack felt betrayed; he understood that you two didn’t have anything serious, that you were just getting to know each other, but as days passed, all he wanted was to spend more and more of his time with you and cherish your moments together.
jack also felt used. the way you posed the dates as an experiment made him feel like a toy who was easily discarded when it didn’t serve its purpose anymore. did the moments you share together not matter? was it all a play for you to have fun for a couple of hours? should he feel happy that he was the only one who ever got a second date?
six in the morning hit and jack didn’t know when exactly he stopped watching your videos, he didn’t even know if he had fallen asleep at all that night, if he got some shut eye, or if his sleep was so restless that all he dreamed of was your date videos.
the only thing jack abbot knew is that he needed answers.
in the morning after you posted your time off video, when you woke up from another restless night, in place of your dearly missed “good morning” texts, you woke up to the link of your tiktok profile and a “we need to talk.”
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domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
"Just the Way It Is" - Dr. Brendon "The Shark" Park x Reader
Summary: When a new HR assistant director introduces a hospital-wide weight loss program, the last person you expect to be your ally is Park the Shark, an ortho jock you've never really gotten to know.
Tags: fat!reader (mentioned as being over 200 pounds but no other physical description given), pediatric emergency attending!reader, i made kingdon her residents and donnie her nurse bc why not they felt the most pediatrics-oriented to me, kingdon crumbs, pining brendon, protective brendon, slow burn, flirting, first date, SMUT, face sitting, piv (unprotected)
Content Warnings: both direct and indirect fatphobia, discussion of orthorexia, diet/intentional weight loss culture
Author's Note: this beast of a fic has been finished for @genevievedarcygranger as part of my birthday fundraiser, which will continue taking donations through july 31st; thank you so so much for your contribution!!
Word Count: 11.6k
You’re suspicious of the new HR assistant director the moment you meet her.
It’s not that she’s skinny. Not really. Obviously, in health care, you mainly work with thin people; the field is fatphobic as hell, even the doctors who are doing their best not to be. You have maybe two other plus-size coworkers you know, but none in the Pitt. People question your presence all the time in silent moments (and sometimes verbal ones). So it’s not that she’s skinny. But the green smoothie clutched in her manicured hand, the office siren aesthetic designed to show off her itty-bitty waist, the expensive blonde highlights, and the bleached smile raise alarm bells in your brain. And, let’s be honest: Her name is Candice, but she goes by Candi. It’s difficult for you to imagine a more ironic, biting choice than that.
Your initial suspicion turns to straight-up disdain – maybe even hate on your less charitable days – when she announces her very first hospital-wide initiative. She gathers all the attendings and charge nurses into the largest conference room at shift change and launches into a slide show. The very first slide, there’s a photo of a bashful, adorable fat girl, maybe twelve years old, wearing a sparkly pink dress as she holds hands with her dad.
“That was me right before my first father-daughter dance. You might not believe it looking at the woman standing before you today, but I was heavyset most of my life.” Candi goes on, “With a lot of hard work, I was able to lose the weight and keep it off. Now, working in HR, I know that a thinner workplace is a healthier one, which means lower insurance rates for everyone. To promote health and wellness for our staff, we’ll be ringing in the New Year with a Corporate Weight Loss Journey! We can all accomplish our New Year’s Goals together and get some benefits for our teams.”
You shrink in your seat. Objectively, you know that nobody’s staring at you, but it feels like it. In a room where almost everyone’s below 200 pounds, you’re naked and Candi’s just grown devil horns to shine a spotlight on your stretch marks and rolls.
While you yearn for a total building collapse, for the next half hour, she goes over the rules. “The hospital will offer complimentary fitness classes twice a week and a healthier slate of meal options in the cafeteria to encourage the program, but those perks are far from the best part. For every percent of weight lost, individuals will receive tiered rewards. And, if your entire department achieves 10% weight loss on average, there’s a big prize in store to reward everyone for their hard work.” Then she flips to a slide with lots of happy before-and-after photos where all the ‘before’ sides look a lot like you. With that magazine-ready smile, she announces, “Lastly, to incentivize our staff members who need it most, whoever loses the most total pounds will win an all-expense-paid three-day vacation to a US-based resort of their choosing! Isn’t that incredible?”
There’s a light smattering of claps, most of the attendings bored but prepared to accept whatever initiatives HR wants to foist upon them. You definitely notice a handful of more excited claps and whoops, though, and you work to quickly memorize who they come from as a shorthand ‘to avoid’ list.
Candi gives a stomach-turning false squeal and finishes, “Of course, we can’t make this program mandatory, but I’m personally asking all of you as our PTMC leaders to encourage your teams to participate. Any questions?”
Then someone else’s voice rises from the silence. No raised hand. Clear and strong, a man you don’t recognize in dark scrubs and a surgical cap barks out, “This is a terrible program and you should can the whole concept before it crashes and burns.”
Candi’s face falls for a second before it twists up into scorn. “Excuse me, Dr. Park?”
“Do you have any idea how damaging programs like this are to the actual wellness of your employees?” His steady voice barely conceals rage. You sit up straighter to look at him, surprised to see a buff tall guy on the same page as you. “Let’s start with the obvious: You have no idea how many staff members may have eating disorder histories or are currently struggling with body dysmorphia or the countless conditions that make weight loss impossible or damaging. That alone should be enough to stop this.”
She scoffs, “Like I said, nobody is required to participate.”
“That doesn’t change how you’re creating an outright dangerous environment for them,” he argues. No hesitation or wavering in his voice. “Then let’s talk about how hard it is for overweight patients – who make up the large majority of Americans, let’s keep in mind – to trust their doctors in the first place. They already put off care out of fear and receive worse care because of their doctors’ biases; how much worse do you think it’s gonna be if we have management reinforcing those biases? It’s disgusting and I’m not going to endorse it.”
“Dr. Park,” she replies, all soft and condescending, “just give it a chance. I promise we have the best intentions here.”
“Nope, absolutely not. My practice will not be participating,” he cuts back without any sympathy in his voice. Is that a wet patch in your panties? “In fact, I’m gonna personally buy them all prizes for not doing this and for using their brain power to provide the quality patient care they’re paid to focus on instead of wasting their time with vain competitions that value the hospital’s bottom line over the important work we actually do. Maybe we’ll finish with a pizza party.” Standing up and collecting his things, he concludes by telling her, “My subordinates’ bodies aren’t my business; their skills are. Let’s not pretend this is about anything other than lowering the hospital’s insurance costs so the board can maximize profits.”
Next to you, Robby mutters under his breath, “Classic Park.”
When Dr. Park storms out of the meeting, you’re too stunned to move, speak, or breathe.
A few minutes after the meeting ends, the elevator down with Robby and Abbot is the longest of your entire life. They’re your friends, yes, but there’s always been a level of distance between you. They’re the ER Cowboys, the big bad attendings who’ve worked together since the dark ages, and you’re the new attending who campaigned hard to start a pediatric sub-specialty unit in the ED. They both like you plenty, but you also run your own little world that orbits theirs, a bite-sized version neither of them has to mess with often.
You’re trying not to listen to their back-and-forth – Robby talking about his ‘beer gut,’ Jack mentioning his ‘dad bod’ – when Robby nudges you with his elbow and asks, “You gonna get your residents and nurses involved with this thing? I mean, it should be especially important to you, right? Childhood obesity rates rising and everything.”
“Which is something I’m not particularly concerned about working in emergency medicine,” you reply, voice shorter than you’d meant. “Last time I checked, being fat doesn’t make kids break their arms, smack their heads, or develop infections.”
His eyebrows go up, a little surprised at your hard pushback. You’re usually soft and sweet and chatty, exactly the doctor you want helping your baby get better, but he’s clearly hit a sore spot. “I guess that would be a hard no.”
As the elevator doors slide blessedly open, you tell him, “There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to spend any of them thinking about Frank Langdon’s BMI.”
Robby replies, “I think the point is focusing on our own.”
You can tell he doesn’t do it on purpose, but the way his eyes flick down to your hips tells you everything you need to know about what he’s thinking. Spending your life in this body, you can tell what people mean beneath what they’re saying. So you give a tight smile and say, “Well, I’m perfectly fine with mine the way it is. Hope you have fun hating yours.”
As you push past them and beeline toward the lockers so you can escape to your car as soon as possible, you hear Robby turn to Abbot and ask, “What the hell was that? Did I say something?”
Jack rolls his eyes and huffs, “Brother, she’s the only bigger girl on our whole floor. Maybe try being more sensitive than an estranged father at custody trade-off next time.”
“Shit, I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Because you’re bad with women,” Jack says with a clap to Robby’s shoulder. Just as you start to think he might be a safe space for you in all of this, he play-boxes Robby’s chest and says, “Anyway, night shift’s absolutely gonna crush day shift on this thing. Shen’s been asking me to show him the ropes at the gym for months and Ellis used to box. We can cut weight no problem.”
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. “You bastard.”
That night, you eat your dinner in front of your work computer. You give a few nervous parents messages in their portals, sign off on some resident charts, and sort through a few transfers and AMA notices. The whole time, though, your mind keeps drifting back to that doctor from the meeting, and soon enough you find yourself sorting through the hospital directory. Of course, the massive city hospital employs about fifteen Dr. Parks, three of which are attendings, and there are no pictures because the website is behind the times.
Which means you have to use the tools at your disposal.
Pretty soon after coming into the Pitt Jr. the next morning (as your department has come to be called), you take advantage of a lull in the flow to interrogate two of your residents. You find Mel and Langdon at the nurse’s station, making heart-eyes at each other, while they go over a chart. You come up to them like you’re about to commit espionage and ask under your breath, “Do you guys know a Dr. Park who works in the hospital? Big buff dude?”
“Park the Shark?” Frank takes a deep breath like even the thought is harrowing. “Yeah, of course we know him. Everyone in the ED does.”
Your brows wrinkle. “Why haven’t I met him? I’ve been here a year now.”
He scoffs and offers, “Because you’re insanely lucky?”
Mel, always generous, adds in Park’s defense, “It’s because you’re a pediatric specialist. Shark’s head of orthopedic surgery and he has his own private practice, so he’s picky about the cases he’ll take from the Pitt.”
“Thank god we have Robbins,” you say of the incredible pediatric surgeon who’s always coming down to the Pitt Jr. Then, pretending it’s more of a passing interest than a burning one, you press, “Sounds like you two aren’t crazy about him.”
“He’s a huge dick,” Langdon says at the same time Mel explains, “He can be kind of intense.”
They make the kind of conspiratorial eye contact that always makes you roll your eyes, tempted to tell them to just fuck it out of their systems already. “Details, people.”
Frank raises his hands innocently and defers to Mel, who sums it up, “He just…only cares about the medicine, I guess.”
You narrow your eyes at them. “And that’s a bad thing?
“She means that he very actively doesn’t care about anything else.” Frank clarifies, “Like, hates everything. And everyone. Especially emergency room doctors, because we can’t magically control what happens to a patient’s bones before they show up to the hospital.”
You nod slowly but ask, “Okay, so he’s an ortho jock, but what about, like, as a person?”
“I’m not sure he even is one,” Frank replies, his expression completely serious. “The only thing I know about him is that he can squat and bench 450.”
From behind him, revealing that he’s been listening, Donnie adds, “Don’t forget the 550 deadlift.”
Frank groans, “Right, how could I forget the 550 deadlift?”
At your confused look, Donnie explains, “Dr. Park took part in this powerlifting charity competition a couple of years ago.” He takes out his phone and rapidly pulls up a video. “The organization would match every pound lifted with $100 for the top three competitors. He got second – I guess the national record-holder lives in Pennsylvania – but he still donated $145,000 to Operation Rainbow. They do free orthopedic surgeries for kids in developing countries.”
“Jesus.” Trying to actually conceptualize lifting that amount of weight as Donnie scrubs through the competition video until Dr. Park’s on screen, you give Frank a pointed look. “Doesn’t sound like too bad of a guy to me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the attention he was swimming in after had nothing to do with it,” Frank replies, all cynical. “They put it on the hospital’s Twitter and it went kind of viral. That was a tough season for any of us guys trying to date coworkers.”
Mel nudges him on the shoulder. “You’re just as handsome as Dr. Park.”
“But I definitely can’t lift the girls I date over my head.”
She protests, “That’s not what girls want!”
Watching the video of Park’s deadlift on Donnie’s outstretched phone, sweat dripping down his chest and a driven expression on his face, you muse breathily, “It’s not not what girls want.” You lean in closer to the video and observe, “Wow, those are tiny shorts.”
Mel looks over your shoulder and her eyes widen. Almost mesmerized by Dr. Park’s pumped muscles, she agrees, “Not much left to the imagination.”
Frank snatches Donnie’s phone, pushes it back at him, and huffs while grabbing a chart, “Don’t we have work to do, people?”
Donnie snickers, “Jealous little spoil sport.”
It’s not long before the day picks back up, lots of feverish crying babies and vomiting kindergarteners and skatepark preteens with broken arms that need tending. Robbins comes down to set a few bones and schedule a couple surgeries. You fall into the flow of the work you love, comforting parents and supporting students. It’s all going fairly easily until Langdon mentions the weight loss challenge; he goes back and forth between your and Robby’s service, especially for teenage patients, so he catches wind of it first. And then he manages to get Donnie into the idea in a ‘get rid of our dad bods’ way, which has you suppressing groans, and then Donnie ropes in another nurse, and Frank ropes in Mel (who has absolutely no weight to lose) because he can rope her into anything, and then you have to be the bad guy.
All in all, by the time of your last break around three, you’re fed up. You just need to vent to someone who you know agrees with you. So you stomp into the elevator and punch the button that you know leads to orthopedics, trying not to let the storm swirling in your throat control you. At reception, you flash your badge and get waved back toward the offices, where you easily identify Dr. Park’s as the biggest one all the way toward the back with the near floor-to-ceiling window views over the city on one side.
When you knock on the door, you hear an annoyed-sounding, “Yeah?”
But you’re not a shrinking violet who’s turned off by the thought of being an inconvenience. You slip into his office and close the door behind you as he turns to face you. You’re talking before he even has a chance to: “Hi, Dr. Park, I know you don’t know who I am, but-”
“I know who you are,” he interrupts bluntly. You get the sense that he does that a lot. “You started that new pediatric wing in the emergency department. I hired Robbins to my team so you’d have a pediatric specialist to call for all your tiny bone breaks.”
Taken aback for a second, your lips part into a smile. “I figured the board was in charge of that.”
“Please, the hospital doesn’t have the cash to hire a double-board-certified surgeon on short notice,” he scoffs. “I run my private practice out of this suite. I hired her personally; she has hospital privileges just like I do. Pediatric orthopedic surgery’s way harder; I figured if the Pitt’s gonna be bringing in more kids, I’m not gonna have my surgical residents butchering their little bodies in the name of education.”
Leaning against the door, you laugh and tease, “You’re kind of a bleeding heart, Dr. Park. I never would’ve guessed.”
He looks up at you properly. His eyes rake over your body and he smirks. “Don’t rat me out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. What brings you all the way up to the penthouse?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” you start, dropping your eyes from his for the first time in the conversation, “but I just wanted to thank you for saying something during that stupid meeting yesterday. About the weight loss thing. It was nice hearing someone, um, not think my body is inherently bad. So. Yeah. Wanted to introduce myself officially and let you know it mattered to me.”
“That’s not embarrassing,” he replies with a furrowed brow. Like he really can’t fathom it. “You have the right to feel safe in the workplace just like anyone else does. Any administrative program that makes my coworkers, my nurses, or my students uncomfortable isn’t welcome in my department.”
“I wish that was the attitude in the Pitt,” you sigh, flopping down on the loveseat opposite his desk like you own the place. He definitely doesn’t hate the way you look all sprawled out or the way you unapologetically take up the space. You groan, “The other attendings are so committed to it that my students are asking if we can participate.”
“What’d you say?”
Expression tight and unforgiving, you reply stiffly, “That they’re welcome to work toward the individual prizes on their own time, but, as a department leader, I’m not going to encourage it.”
“Very tactful.”
You shrug and admit, “I may not have phrased it that well in context.”
Amused now, actually enjoying your company, Park presses, “What did it sound like in context?”
Giving him a conspiratorial little smile that he can’t deny is heart-poundingly cute, you tell him, “Something along the lines of ‘that prissy HR bitch can’t force me to starve myself to save the hospital money and you shouldn’t be sheep’ if I’m remembering correctly.” He barks out a laugh as you quickly cover it with, “Okay, okay, I know, but, in my defense, they covered the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge with these ‘motivational’ posters that make me wanna puke. How am I supposed to enjoy my sandwich with ‘weight loss starts in the kitchen!’ staring down at me? I’m here eating in my car like I did my senior year of high school when girls like Candi fucking Cassidy called me Piggysburgh. Not even that funny.”
“Come up here and eat with me, then,” he suggests with a shrug. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t make your head spin from the easy, casual selflessness of the offer. “You can use the ortho lounge whenever you need a break, too. I’ll get you a badge for our floor. We’ve got bean bag chairs,” he says with waggling eyebrows like that’s the holy grail of accomplishments. “I always make sure the place is stocked with good snacks since our vending machine blows. Plus, we’ve got Roku. And foosball.”
You meet his smile with one of your own. “Sounds very luxurious.”
“It is. Private practice is magical.” After a beat of charged silence, Park looks you up and down again like you’re his dinner plans and says, “I take my lunches at one. Consider yourself invited.”
The next day, you slip away from the emergency room floor with your lunchbox and into the elevator toward ortho without a word, ditching the unspoken, usual routine of eating lunch alongside Robby and Abbot. It’s the time of day when the three of you have a sort of informal meeting about the different cases you’re dealing with, what needs to fill in the broader emergency department, which students need more support – and the results of the latest Pens game. You know perfectly well that they’ll immediately notice your absence, but, you figure, if they really want your time, they can actually schedule something instead of taking it for granted.
When you gently tap on Dr. Park’s door, you’re met with a sort-of-teasing-but-mostly-not bark, “That better be the cute Pitt Jr. doctor and not your ugly ass here again to ruin my lunch with another last-minute emergency, Peterson!”
You nudge the door open, bite your lower lip, and reply, “Cute Pitt Jr. doctor checking in.”
His eyes shoot up to his hairline and he nearly jumps out of his seat. Swallowing hard to conceal his embarrassment, he course corrects, “I didn’t think you’d actually come. Ah, hi. Hi, doctor. It’s good to see you again.”
“You don’t have to call me ‘doctor,” you laugh as he stands up and grabs his own lunchbox from one of the countless drawers behind his desk. “We can be on a first-name basis since you’re saving me from the hell of lunch with my coworkers.”
Park scoffs, reaching around you to open up his door. “I’m your coworker.”
“Yeah, but you’re cool.”
He chuckles, “I’m cool?”
“You don’t hate fat people,” you amend with a shrug. “That’s a good start for me.”
“Fair enough.” He shakes his head in annoyance at the reminder of what you’re having to deal with downstairs. Then he nods down a hall and says, “C’mon, I’ve got a spot where I like to eat.”
“It’s not the roof, is it?” Your nose wrinkles when you frown and Park catches himself memorizing it. “Jack and Robby are always trying to get me to hang out with them on the roof.”
Park cringes at the thought, leading you decidedly away from the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve had nightmares about being the poor bastard who has to put Robinavitch back together again if he ever actually jumps.”
You snicker even though you probably shouldn’t. “He won’t; it’d be too much of an inconvenience for everyone else.”
“Hey, whatever gets the job done.” He replies with a suspiciously knowing sort of sigh, “No bad reason to stay alive.” He opens up an ‘authorized personnel only’ door with his badge key. You step into a room with a warm skylight at the center of the ceiling, the sun raining down onto a small square garden beneath it, ringed by a few plush armchairs. It’s like a miniature oasis, the walls soundproof, the space insulated from the chaos of the hospital. Park explains, “They were supposed to turn this room into a whole zen meditation space thing for families waiting for their loved ones to get out of surgery, but I very kindly explained to the board that I had patients who needed care and couldn’t afford it, so that money should probably be used to start a surgical angel fund and, of course, they agreed with me.”
Sitting down in one of the inviting chairs, you give him a mischievous sideways glance. “I have a feeling it didn’t sound like that in context.”
“It may have sounded a bit more like ‘you greedy fuckers’ and ‘this disgusts me so much that I’ll move my practice to another hospital,’” he admits with a warm laugh as he opens up his lunchbox, which is an oversized borderline military thing with lots of organization. As he unpacks about a thousand containers, he glances at you doing the same and remarks, “Cute lunchbox.”
You show off the pastel bento-style compartments, arranged perfectly with fresh fruit, your favorite snacks, and a pesto pasta salad you’ve been yearning for all day. “Lunch is the only time of day I get off my feet for a solid half hour. I take it very seriously.”
“I can see that.”
You don’t miss his soft, affectionate smile as he takes in your matching containers and floral-patterned napkins. As you look at his own spread, similar in intentions but different in execution, you muse, “Looks like you’re the same way.”
“I try to be intentional when I eat,” he replies simply, pouring a homemade dressing on a colorful salad made from ingredients in his different small jars. You have to respect a man who maintains the structural integrity of a salad by mixing it at lunchtime instead of in advance.
“You must be a ‘food is fuel’ kind of guy,” you guess, gesturing to his general musculature, “given the whole ‘550 deadlift’ thing.”
He makes eye contact that strikes you as very cheeky and self-satisfied. Cute, even. “That old video still circling around downstairs?”
You nod and confirm, “They were pretty eager to have me ogle you.”
He waggles his eyebrows; you wonder if any of your coworkers have ever seen him so playful or if you’re already special to him for some reason. “Like what you saw?”
Rolling your eyes, you point your fork at him. “Don’t fish for compliments when you know you’re hot; it’s unbecoming.”
Only half-jokingly flexing his biceps for you, he snickers, “Clearly I didn’t have to fish very much.”
You reach across and smack his arm, definitely not giving his muscles a squeeze on the way. He just laughs and shakes his head and goes back to eating. The two of you are comfortable and quiet for a few minutes as you eat. Usually, you’re uncomfortable eating around others, expecting comments on your choices, whether ‘healthy’ or not. But Brendon puts you at ease, not even glancing at what you’re having as he eats.
After a few lunches together, you gather up the courage to ask what you’ve been wanting to since the HR meeting. “Why do you care so much about the weight loss campaign thing, anyway? You’re kind of, like, the exact beauty standard for men.”
“Am I?”
“We already covered fishing for compliments, remember?”
“Touché.” He laughs and shrugs and stabs into his food. “How much honesty do you want?”
“Enough to satiate my curiosity without making you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable to talk about it as long as you won’t be uncomfortable hearing it.”
Getting something of a sense of where this might be going, you nod and tell him slightly more seriously, “I won’t be. I wanna know, especially if you’re gonna be my regular lunch date.”
The word ‘date’ makes him straighten up and preen a bit. “Well, I think I’d like that.” So he takes a slow breath, debates his phrasing a minute, and ultimately barrels into it, talking fast in a way that seems maybe half nervous: “I had an eating disorder when I was younger. Orthorexia. Back then, it was diagnosed as OCD and ARFID. With the education I have now, I can recognize it for what it was.”
The honesty hits you hard. You know without it needing to be said that Park isn’t honest like this with most people. He’s decided, in the same way that you have, that the two of you are allies in some kind of way. The two people vocally against this stupid HR thing, yes, but something that matters more, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on yet.
With you giving him space, no judgment, just presence, he goes on, following the train of thought and memory and letting you join him like it isn’t the big deal it is, “I was a scrawny kid. Wanted to bulk up some in med school to get girls – I know, I know – and then when I went for ortho, one of my mentors mentioned it was good to build extra strength. In this field, you need endurance, grip strength, upper body strength, core stability.” He chews on the thought alongside his lunch for a moment before clarifying, “But I went about it all wrong. Crash diets with brutal full-body gym days. Cutting out anything that ‘sounded’ bad – first it was fats, then carbs, then just about everything bodies actually need. I stopped caring about how my body functioned and got obsessed with how it looked to everyone else.”
His voice goes far away for the first time, fork wavering in the air, and you watch him carefully, waiting with held breath.
Finally, he sighs sharply, “My residency took two extra years because of it. I needed serious help. If the hospital I worked at had some program that incentivized that behavior? I’d probably be fucking dead. That’s not happening in my department.” Finally, his eyes lift up to yours. You’ve never realized just how blue they are, brilliant and light. “I’m sorry it’s happening in yours. You ever need me down there, just call.”
It takes you a minute to speak, so many emotions tangled up in your gut. You start with a simple, “thank you,” but then it quickly spirals out into, “for telling me about your history, trusting me, I guess and for standing up like that in the meeting, and for being so nice to me during all this when you don’t have to, for- for-”
“Hey, stop,” he stops you as your voice speeds up and shakes. He reaches over and gives your hand one quick, firm pulse with his own. The touch lingers. His thumb on your wrist. Like he’s making sure you’re really there. After a beat, he murmurs, “You deserve better than saying thank you for the bare minimum. Everyone does. I know that I get listened to here when most people don’t. If I don’t say something, nobody will.”
And, god, is that sexy.
You just nod kind of stupidly, trying not to get lost in his eyes like some lovestruck tween.
Thankfully, Brendon’s pager goes off, shocking you both out of the intense eye contact that’s begging to end in a kiss or a confession. He drops his gaze first and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the countless feelings that tumble around in his stomach whenever you look at him because Brendon Park does not get ‘crushes’ on coworkers.
After he closes up his lunch box, Brendon stands, touches your cheek with his thumb so casually it makes you want to scream, and offers, “Lunch is on me tomorrow, alright? Let’s grab something fun instead of moping around in the hospital.”
You’re still finding it a bit hard to breathe, but you manage to reply, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
And that’s how it goes for you and Brendon.
You eat lunch together.
You talk.
You don’t tell anyone in the Emergency Department.
It’s not like you’re hiding your friendship with him since there’s nothing to be ashamed of, not really, but he’s sort of your personal oasis. Your escape from the annoying, unendingly frustrating reality of posters that read things like ‘you can have results or excuses; not both!’ and ‘the body achieves what the mind believes,’ which feels particularly insulting given the emergency room of the whole thing. Every time you top off your coffee, you have to passively wonder if Mrs. Thomas in bed eight can eat, exercise, and think her way out of the pressure sores she’s getting from overnight understaffing or Hannah in the Pitt Jr. can stop making excuses to get the result of fixing her respiratory infection.
Hannah’s parents, of course, are the kind of people who very clearly buy into the ideologies now running rampant in your hospital. You can tell in the way her father looks at you like you’re not a doctor. It’s hard to explain. That look. But you know it well. First, the assumption that you’re a nurse; you’re used to that in your colorful scrubs and being a woman in general. There are worse things than being mistaken for the most competent segment of the hospital. But this is beyond that. It’s the obvious implication that you can’t know what you’re doing because you’re fat. That you must’ve made it through med school on something besides merit because your body is proof that you can’t take care of them.
He makes it patently clear when you suggest a course of treatment that he disagrees with. You’re the one with the education, the expertise, the fellowship, the brain, but he’s the one who gets to say, “Why should we listen to some ‘doctor’ who’s going to die of a heart attack before 40? This is fucking ridiculous.”
Keeping your voice tight and professional as your eyes and cheeks begin to burn, you manage to get out, “I’ll send in another doctor for a second opinion,” before turning around and busting out of the patient’s room. You rush a few steps forward, tap Mel on the shoulder because ‘skinny’ seems to be the necessary qualification, nod back toward the room, and then escape to your office while the tears fight for dominance. Thank god you’re an attending now; crying on shift was so much more annoying before you had a door to call your own. You don’t even know for sure what you’re doing until your fingers are already on your pager.
Exactly two minutes later – one walk down the hall and a slow elevator ride – there’s a knock. He doesn’t wait for your response. Slipping inside the door like it’s a secret, Brendon takes in your tears. You’re leaning against your desk with your arms crossed over your chest. With a soft anger in his voice, he asks quietly, “What happened?”
His voice snaps you out of it. It’s a losing battle to stop the tears, but you’re still swiping them away with your palms as you tell him, “I’m sorry; I know it’s- it’s so immature to page you during the workday for something personal when-”
Brendon’s shaking his head and closing the space between you in an instant. His arms wrap around you like they were always meant to fit there. And you finally lose it, blubbering out the whole story to him in sniffly, pathetic half-sentences. How much this whole contest is getting in your head and what your patient’s dad said and how it’s all swirling together into something ugly in your mind. Eventually you whimper into his broad chest, “Maybe I should just cave and play along. If I lost some weight, then everyone would-”
“Don’t do that,” he interrupts. Stern. Like it’s deathly serious to him. “Definitely don’t do that.”
You eye him carefully, eyes wide and shiny. The tears stop when you realize he’s looking at you with nothing but adoration on his features. “Why not?”
His cheeks go pink. You’ve never seen him blush before – not like this, not a deep, neon pink that’s blotchy on his neck above his collar. It’s almost cute, if that were a word Brendon Park was capable of embodying. Eyes trained firmly on what’s in front of him, he says, plain and simple, “Your body is perfect. Just the way it is.”
That makes your lips stop wobbling, instead curling up at the corners. You let loose a tiny, sweet giggle, press your hand to the center of his chest, and tease, “Are you hitting on me in my time of need?”
“Stating a fact,” he clarifies with a hard swallow. Unable to meet your eyes because of just how caught he feels, he goes on, “Don’t let this shit get in your head. It’s not worth it. You’re smart, you’re capable, you’re gorgeous; that big sexy brain of yours doesn’t have room for that garbage.”
You bury your forehead against his shoulder and laugh, “My big sexy brain, huh?”
“Damn straight.” He pulls away from you – reluctant – and sighs, “I should get back upstairs; I’ve got to scrub in ten.”
“Sorry again for-”
“No. Don’t apologize. I, ah, I like being there for you. Glad you caught me when I had a minute.”
“Then thanks.”
“Any time.” He does that thing where he cups your cheek again. It takes everything in you not to nuzzle into his palm. “I mean that.”
“I can tell.”
As Brendon leaves your office, you take a minute to catch your breath behind the door, knowing you need to refocus yourself.
That’s when the rage kicks into his gut.
It’s no secret that Brendon has a bit of an anger problem. Not the kind that has him flying off the handle throwing punches, but enough that he’ll call a doctor a dumbass if they compromise a patient’s care or suggest something particularly asinine. Enough that he can’t stop himself from shoving into the Pitt’s doctor’s lounge, where Robby and Jack are both on break, laughing over coffee like they aren’t part of the reason you’re in your office crying when you should be saving kids from polio or whatever's wrong with them.
The moment Brendon’s in the lounge, all eyes turn to him. He’s out of place. Hulking and determined and mean. Without saying a word, he goes around the tables and rips down the first poster he sees related to weight loss or food off the wall, ripping and crumpling it in his hand. As Robby stands to intervene or at least ask anything, Park shakes his head hard and snarls, “Violation of hospital policy. Section 241. Content of materials posted in common areas must be professional and inoffensive.”
Robby scoffs, on the verge of laughing because of how ridiculous it seems to him, “I wouldn’t exactly consider a poster for an HR campaign inoffensive.”
“Then why was I offended by it, Mike?” He goes for the next poster and gives it an equally ruthless treatment, shredding it and trashing it. “Get all this shit down. Other side of the Pitt, too, the pediatric side. People are complaining”
Watching in shock as Brendon continues to tear down every piece of weight loss promotional content he can find, Robby warns, “Shark, you can’t just come down into my department and-”
Park whips around, pushes a balled-up poster into Robby’s chest, and interrupts, “File a complaint.”
Robby raises his eyebrows to the sky and watches Park stalk out of the lounge, continuing his reign of terror on the bulletin boards that line his way to the elevator. “Ooookay, then.”
Jack releases a harsh laugh. “Who pissed in his coffee this morning?”
When you walk past the lounge, still sniffly and puffy, Robby tilts his head to the side. “I have a feeling it’s about someone else.”
The next morning, you’re lingering near HR’s doors, taking your first break early because Donnie had sent you a text: looks like your boyfriend’s in trouble…
When you’d looked up, you saw Candi Cassidy dragging Brendon toward the administrative section of the hospital, having caught him right after the two of you shared your morning coffee and bitch session in your office. Trying and failing to be subtle, you glared in Donnie’s direction and then high-tailed it over to Human Resources, one hall’s length behind them so you wouldn’t get caught.
You can half-hear the argument behind the door. Candi’s throwing around staff intimidation, employee morale, non-compliance while Brendon’s tossing back hostile work environment, discrimination, bias. HR buzzwords fly back and forth. Voices are clipped and high. Tense. Brendon sounds firm and sure of himself, giving orders, and your brain can’t do anything useful because you’re just imagining what it would sound like to be on the receiving end of that tone in very different circumstances.
After a minute of total silence, Brendon barrels out of the door, clearly still pissed, and nearly knocks right into you. Before he can curse out whatever dumbass doctor got in his way, he realizes it’s you. And his entire being softens – his expression, his tense shoulders, his damn lungs. He lets out a long breath and mumbles, “Shit, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
You nod toward the nearest empty corner, lower your voice, and ask him seriously, “Are you in trouble for your little fit in the ED yesterday? Everyone was gossiping about you all afternoon.”
He snorts like it really is a laughable thought. “No. She doesn’t have any power over me unless I really step in it. Taking down a couple posters isn’t going to do that.”
“So what was all the yelling for?”
Brendon shrugs and averts his eyes, not sure if you’re going to be upset with him or not. “She said I can’t make a scene in front of junior doctors over a new policy I don’t agree with. I said I’d be much happier to make a scene elsewhere if that’s better.”
A smirk flicks at the edge of your cheek; Brendon’s obsessed with the way your skin wrinkles ever so slightly next to your smile. “And how exactly did you phrase that, Shark?”
Almost bashful, he admits, “I threatened to pull my hospital privileges if she doesn’t nix the program. Said I’ll move my practice; UPMC’s been trying to poach me for a decade.”
All choked up out of nowhere, you whisper, “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs and searches your face. Like it’s an answer, he says, soft and sweet, “Well, you were crying yesterday.”
With your heart pounding out of your chest, you try on a half smile. “Technically that was because of a patient’s parent, not the weight loss competition.”
“It’s the whole fucking culture,” he sighs. When he runs a hand through his slicked-back hair, it loosens some of his waves. You wonder how he looks without the product in, morning-tousled and sleepy-eyed. “Candi’s all ‘it is what it is’ about this whole thing, about the ‘side effect’ of making people feel like shit. She thinks it’s worth it. For the greater good. Whatever. My practice doesn’t bring in twenty fucking percent of this place’s annual surgical revenue for the hospital to treat its doctors and nurses like they’re just another expense to lower. Makes me fucking sick.”
Your head spins at the idea, running some quick numbers from the figures that get presented every quarter. “Jesus, your practice is worth that much?”
“220 million last year across all my surgeons,” he huffs as though it’s a footnote. Then he touches your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. Forcing you to look at him. To focus on him. Your knees are weak under the intensity of his gaze. “That’s not the point. I want you to go on a date with me.”
“That’s the point?” You laugh. Honestly laugh. Placing your hand at the center of his chest, you chuckle, “You threatened to cost the hospital two hundred million dollars to get me to date you?”
“No, no, not- not like that,” he’s quick to assure. “I really do think this whole thing is bullshit. You know it matters to me, too. A lot. And I speak up. Always have. But you- Getting to know you has made it matter a lot more, okay? Don’t make me defend myself. Just go out with me.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m begging you.”
You let out a sharp laugh that you stifle with your hand, checking around to see if anybody’s noticed how stupid the two of you are, talking about all this out in the open. Sure that you have a moment of privacy, just to drive him crazy, you corner him and lower your gaze and press, “Tell me honestly: Do you have a fat fetish, Brendon?”
For some reason not taken aback by the question, he debates his answer for a minute, tilting his head slightly as he chews on the words. Ultimately, he decides to be honest: “I don’t think it’s a fetish to prefer big girls. And I don’t think fetishes are inherently a bad thing. I have plenty of fetishes.”
That makes your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”
“Go out with me,” he presses, leaning in much closer than is work appropriate, “and I’ll tell you.”
A little breathless, you insist, “But you do usually pursue plus-size girls?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily.”
“I get that you’re suspicious – it makes total sense, seriously, I swear I get where you’re coming from – but it’s not any different than wanting a tall boyfriend or something, right?” It makes sense to you when Brendon reasons, “We all have our things we like about someone else’s looks when we get a crush. I think you’re hot as fuck, I’m attracted to your body, and you have a great personality in addition to that. Smarter than me by a mile, sensitive like I can never manage. You’re fucking perfect. I’d be an idiot not to ask you out when you check all my boxes.”
“Pause.” Actually, truly smiling now – flirtatious and adorable enough to make Brendon swoon at the view – you needle, “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
“Yeah, I absolutely did,” he murmurs with cheeks rapidly turning pink. “And that’s mortifying for a guy like me, don’t you think? The kind of thing that at least earns a pity date?”
Dragging out your words, doing a terrible job at pretending you aren’t going to say yes, you lilt gently, all sweet and feminine, “Give me a really good reason and I’ll think about it.”
Brendon’s rich blue eyes absolutely sparkle when he realizes he’s got you. “I’ll give you two. First of all, there’s a special art exhibit downtown this month and a little birdie told me through the grapevine that you love museums.”
You curse under your breath. “Mel, you useless romantic.”
“Secondly,” he goes on, lowering his voice. He steps toward you so that you have to back up. Into the wall. Now it’s his turn to check if you’re alone. With one hand on either side of your head, he presses you against the sheetrock, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that has your resolve to play coy evaporating. “If I like fat girls, and I’ve mostly been with them, you know what that means?”
It’s nearly a gasp as you reply, “What?”
“It means I’ll know exactly how to worship you,” he murmurs. Right against your ear. Your toes curl in your sneakers. Toying with you by dragging his finger along the base of your neck, just a slow back and forth, he muses, “Doesn’t that sound nice? A guy who isn’t a coward about grabbing your stomach? A guy who knows he wants to wear your thighs like earmuffs? A guy strong enough to throw you around the way you’ve always craved?” Hands on your waist now, not overtly sexual but already overwhelming in the most delicious way, he purrs, “Gimme a chance, gorgeous, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Biting your lip and shaking your head because you have to get rid of the absolute ache to kiss his smirk right off him in order to practice medicine for the rest of the day, you ask, “When’s your next day off?”
“I have the whole weekend.”
Your eyes brighten up. “Me too.”
“How early do you wake up on Saturdays?”
“How early is your fancy art exhibit open?”
“Ten.”
“Pick me up at 9:30.”
“I could take you to breakfast first.”
“I refuse to go out with you first thing in the morning; I’ll look like a zombie.”
“Prettiest zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re such a suck-up.” When your watch buzzes, signaling that your break’s over, you kiss his cheek softly and say, “9:30 on Saturday. Don’t be late.”
“Never have been; don’t plan on starting now.”
Getting ready for your date with Brendon is actually fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve gotten ready for a date and felt uncomplicated excitement about it. No nerves about your body because you already know Brendon is beyond into it. So you slip into something that highlights every curve instead of disguising any of them, a maroon silky thing with a long lace hem to show off your legs, low square neck that frames out your cleavage, and straps just thick enough to cover your nude bra. The fabric is thin enough to show the delicate line of your thong in exactly the right lighting, which you’re sure Brendon will manage to find at some point during the day.
He rings your doorbell at 9:28. Doesn’t text to say he’s outside, doesn’t honk the horn for your attention. Walks all the way up to your porch to greet you like an adult. And when you open the door, his absolutely floored expression has you rocketing up to cloud nine on a dopamine rush. Brendon reaches out and touches your waist as he steps just inside the doorway. He revels in every inch of you. You become acutely aware that the two of you aren’t at the hospital anymore with the way his eyes are slow, greedy, savoring. He’s checked you out at PTMC before, for sure, but now he’s basically feeling you up with those baby blues as he whistles low, “Wow. Seriously, wow.”
You smack him on the chest as your cheeks heat up, not used to the obvious desire written all over him. When your hand hits the luxurious fabric, you actually notice his outfit instead of the way he’s devouring yours. In a camel-colored knit polo – you definitely don’t miss the subtle sheen of the Versace logo on the pocket in nearly the same color as the fabric – tucked into slightly high light tan slacks, all under a dark brown coat, he looks modern, stylish, and absolutely positively downright edible. His hair’s moussed instead of gelled, slightly wavy and fluffy, and he’s freshly shaved instead of late-night scruffy.
Dragging your hand down the center of his chest, you shake your head and smile. “Who knew the Shark had actual style?”
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your fingers. With a too-charming smirk, he murmurs, “Don’t tell anybody, alright? Nobody would be scared of me at the hospital if they knew I’m the kind of guy who drops a grand on a shirt.”
Grabbing your purse and shrugging on your black leather jacket before stepping out the door after him, you reason, “You put in the time and effort to make the big bucks; you have every right to spend it however you want.”
“I’m glad you think that way,” he replies as he guides you half a block down to his parking spot, “because this is my car, and I’m really hoping you don’t think that makes me an asshole.”
“Yeah, it definitely makes you an asshole,” you breathe as you drag your finger along the freshly-shined blue GranCabrio. “This is one slutty car, Dr. Park.”
He laughs – loud and honest like he rarely can during work hours – and opens up the side door for you. “Does that mean you like it?”
“Definitely.” You grin as you slide onto the rich leather interior. “As soon as it’s warm enough, you have to put the top down and take me somewhere you can drive fast.”
“Yeah?” As he settles into the seat next to you, Brendon puts one hand firmly on your thigh as he pulls the car out into the Pittsburgh traffic. With his fingers driving you clinically insane just sitting there on your dress, he flashes you a hunky smile and teases, “Planning on keeping me around that long?”
“Maybe if you behave yourself today.”
“Oh, baby, I never behave myself when I’m off the clock.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the drive there is easy between you, and that same energy carries on as he whisks you through the museum’s entrance and straight inside. He’d already bought the tickets online and added them to his phone wallet, so you don’t even get a moment of feigning like you would’ve paid for yourself. Slick bastard. Brendon just makes every moment so easy to fall into. Not that you’d expected the date to be hard, but you’d figured there would be some kind of adjustment period going from lunches and coffee breaks to a full-on date out in the real world, no pagers or coworkers to separate you.
Instead, it’s not long before you’re instinctively threading your fingers with his and dragging him from exhibit to exhibit. You clearly know a hell of a lot more about art than he does – it’s obvious when every nod of his comes with his eyes drifting over your body – but he likes listening to you talk about literally anything you want to talk about. Just having your voice all to himself is enough to keep him over the moon among the stars.
When you reach the special exhibit – portraits by Viktor Lyapkalo – Brendon takes the time to slow down and read all the plaques and descriptions alongside listening to you talk. The way he engages with the new material makes you wonder if maybe he’s actually just been to this museum enough times that he’s got all the other areas committed to memory, preferring to treat you like the art.
“I love the way he paints women,” you sigh wistfully as you stand in front of a particularly lovely nude: Evening, from 2007. Brendon stands squarely behind you, arms casually around you. Admiring the work up close, you go on, “He notices all the things that make bodies beautiful. The light and shadow on the curves, refusing to make them smooth and pristine, like every single dimple is worth painting for the rest of time to see. They’re all so…lush. Succulent. Like you’d want to reach inside the scene and take a big bite and the juice would run down your chin like a summer plum.”
“You’re describing yourself there, gorgeous,” he murmurs in your ear from behind. Breath hot. Gravelly. Wanting. His hands roam over your waist and hips and stomach, way too slow and intimate for how profoundly in public you are. But you’ve never had a man so openly desire you like this, so you can’t help melting against his chest. Yearning for more. For half a second, he palms your ass, and then he nips your ear to say, “Never wanted to take a bite of anything so badly.”
Before he can fluster you too much, get the upper hand so you’re melting into a puddle on the museum floor, you turn around and kiss him. He makes the cutest surprised sound at the base of his throat like he hadn’t expected you to match his energy. But then you tangle your fingers in his hair. You push up onto your toes. And then he comes to his senses and kisses you back. Hard. Commanding. Pieces of his control slipping away with every shared breath. His hands are on your waist and your lower back, desperate to touch more, and you can feel the restraint it’s taking him not to bend you over the bench in front of the art and ruin you.
When you accidentally moan into Brendon’s mouth, a security guard in the nearby archway clears his throat. You stifle a giggle and pull back from him. You’re about to apologize, but he’s faster. Brendon’s breath is hot against your ear as he croons, “Can I take you back to my place now or do I have to look at the rest of these paintings when all I can think about is seeing what’s under this dress?”
With a coy smile, you give him one more quick kiss and say, “Bring me back next weekend so I can finish reading everything and we can leave right now.”
His grin is wicked. “You have yourself a deal, doctor.”
You’re all over him the moment you’re in his bedroom, barely taking a second to absorb the expectedly organized and minimalist space, outfitted only with luxurious staples in cream and navy and no needless clutter. Your dress is somewhere on the staircase up to the second floor, discarded haphazardly as Brendon manhandled you through the space, strong enough to basically carry you any time you lose your footing in the dizzying intensity of his mouth on yours.
By the time you’ve pushed through the bedroom door, you’ve yanked off his (extremely soft) polo and gone for his belt next. As you move, you’re shoving him toward his bed with an eagerness that maybe borders on desperation. It’s been a long time and he’s hot as fuck; god forbid. Trying to suppress his grin as he pulls out of the kiss, Brendon orders, “Don’t rush me, baby. We have all the time in the world.”
Forcing yourself to take a deep breath, you teasingly groan at him, “That wasn’t your attitude half an hour ago.”
He reasons, “Half an hour ago there were several miles between you and my bedroom.”
He steps – ever so casually – out of his slacks, revealing extremely form fitting gray boxer briefs, a drop of precum darkening the front, highlighting the delicious outline of his cock. Not letting you drool too much, those precise hands of his go to your bra clasp, unhooking it with the ease of, well, a surgeon. Enjoying the gentle hitch of your breath when his eyes devour you, he kisses over your pulse point just to feel it quicken beneath his attention. When he’s satisfied with the way your toes curl into the plush rug beneath your feet, he finally loops his thumbs beneath the hips of your underwear.
“But now I’ve got you all to myself-” Brendon slides your underwear down your legs, guides you out of them, and pushes you backwards “-in my bedroom-” your knees hit the bed and you fold underneath his weight, staring up at him as he cages you between his elbows “-at my mercy. No need to rush.”
You raise up an eyebrow and chase him for a kiss that he dodges just to drive you up the wall. Dragging your first finger along his bicep, his trap, his throat, his chest, you muse, “At your mercy, huh?”
He nods with a satisfied, painfully charming smirk. “That’s right.”
Your voice drips with lust. He’s never heard it darken like that and it’s definitely becoming a problem for his patience. “Gonna do whatever you want to me?”
“Yup, absolutely.”
You huff a bit and tut, “Well, you sure are just hovering over my naked body for someone with such big plans.”
He grins and shifts his weight back so he can properly look at you. “What did I just say about rushing?”
You sit up and kiss him hard just because you’re allowed to now. You feel his resolve weaken as you palm the borderline offensive ridge of his thick, hard cock. Your ego tingles a bit at the knowledge that, even if he’s putting on a show of waiting, you’re affecting him just as much as he’s affecting you. “God forbid I want you to make good on all that feeling me up at the museum.”
“Fine, you wanna be in charge so bad?” All dramatic, Brendon flops onto his back next to you and taps his lips. “Saddle up, cowgirl.”
You snort out a less-than-sexy laugh, but he finds it just as cute as every other sound you make. “Jesus, Bren, did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m losing my ability to form coherent sentences just thinking about it, frankly,” he teases. You’ve never noticed how much he glows when he’s happy. Then he takes your hand and tugs you toward him, on your knees. “How about ‘come sit on my face right the fuck now’? That work better for you?”
Looking down at his eager expression, nervous and not wanting to disappoint, you bite your lip and admit, “I’ve never done that before.”
It’s a personal offense to him. He props himself up on his elbows as his lips part in true surprise. “Seriously?”
You shrug modestly. “Too nervous to hurt someone.”
“Then you’ve been with weak men,” he says, deathly serious. He gives your thigh an affectionate squeeze and assures you, completely sincere, “Don’t worry; I’ll make sure it’s so fucking good for you. Give me two minutes of trust and I swear you’re gonna love it.”
Well, you figure, he’s never done you wrong with his promises before. So you swing one leg over his chest and hover suspiciously a few inches above his head. His mouth waters when he can finally see the hint of your pussy beyond your soft, inviting mons.
Keeping his voice so sweet and soothing, he adds, “If it doesn’t feel good or if you’re uncomfortable or anything, just tap me and get right off. You’re in charge.”.3.1
Still skeptical of the whole affair, you say, “I know you know already, okay? But, like, I’m not small, Brendon, I could seriously break your jaw or something if I slip out of place.”
Craning his neck to try to get to your pussy, he growls, impatient and starving, “Thankfully I know a few good maxillofacial surgeons.”
“Okay, but what if I-”
Brendon rolls his eyes and yanks you down by the hips so your cunt envelopes his mouth. You let out a yelp and grab his headboard to get your balance. Finally, his eyes roll shut with pleasure as your warm, thick thighs on the side of his head muffle any sounds but your pretty moans. He mutters, dreamy and rough, into your pussy, “That’s better.”
You can’t help giggling as you put your other hand in Brendon’s hair for support, grateful to be with someone who makes you feel so comfortable and safe even at the edge of your comfort zone. With Brendon reverently holding your hips, stroking your stretch marks with his thumbs, keeping you grounded on his precise tongue, it only takes you a minute to find the pressure and rhythm that feels comfortable, where you can get out of your head and trust Brendon and your own legs.
Then it finally starts to get good.
Brendon’s cock strains against his boxer briefs when you finally let out that first real, uninhibited moan he’s been craving as long as he’s known you. It’s a high-pitched, surprised thing that rings around his ears like a bell, the sound slightly dampened by your thighs just the way he wanted. He memorizes the exact motion he did with his tongue to work that sound out and repeats. Again. Again. Your breaths get faster. Shorter.
It takes real, actual concentration for Brendon to stop himself from creaming his shorts when he realizes you’re going to cum on his face. Your thighs start to tremble as you resist it at first, reluctant to lose control in such a vulnerable position. But then Brendon’s strong fingers dig into the plump fat off your ass – hard.
Possessive.
The sudden moment of eye-rolling-good pain drops you completely into your body, all doubts and insecurities abandoned, and you snap. Your fingernails dig into Brendon’s scalp as you grip his hair to stay in the moment. Pleasure skyrockets up your spine in lightning strikes. Timed with the pulses of your cunt, begging to be filled by him.
When it’s finished rolling through you, lungs heaving, you slowly flop off of Brendon and throw your forearm over your face to catch your breath. You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself. Sweat shines on your hairline and your legs still feel like jelly as Brendon turns onto his side to gaze at you with so much adoration it’s overwhelming.
Pupils blown wide and drunken on your body, Brendon sighs out happily, “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you taste.”
“Come here, then,” you giggle, so light and airy with delight that everything has become simple. You kiss him with a greedy tongue and let your own mild tartness linger on your tastebuds. When you pull back, he looks positively dumb. Eyes empty. Nothing but lust in his pretty blues. “Yeah, I do taste pretty good, huh? Bet your cock would like a taste.”
He shakes his head and laughs as he shifts onto his knees above you. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it?”
You spread your legs and bat your eyes and savor just how devoted he looks, like a puppy sitting pretty for its favorite treats. “What is?”
“Being so fucking sexy without even thinking about it,” he breathes, sounding a little shaky as he lines up the head of his cock with your orgasm-slick pussy. “Fuck.”
You roll your eyes even as your cheeks burn. “As if you don’t have the exact same gift.”
“No, I have to think about it a lot. I try. You’re just floating around being this damn goddess like it’s the easiest thing in the entire world.”
“You don’t have to stroke my ego, Bren, you’re already about to fuck me.”
He frowns a bit and stills, not thrusting into you just yet. “You know I’m not complimenting you just to butter you up, right?” At the split second of partial disbelief on your face, he shakes his head and leans down and kisses you hard. You’ve never seen his expression so stern. “Baby, you’re gorgeous. After that first time you showed up to my office, I couldn’t stop talking about you to everyone. It was like word vomit.”
“Now that makes me feel sexy.”
“Shut up; I’m not always good with the word stuff.” He wrinkles his brows to try to come up with the right words. “Every single time I see you, my brain stops working. Everything short circuits. Because I just- I can’t even imagine deserving to be in the same room as you, much less between these perfect goddamn legs.” He shifts upward again, hands rubbing up your thighs as he shakes his head wistfully. “Grabbing these gorgeous hips and getting to play with your amazing tits.” His hands follow his words, toying with your nipples until you’re gasping and grinning. “Looking into your beautiful eyes while I get to fuck you.”
As tears sting at your eyes, you turn your head and blink hard, whimpering out nothing but an innocent, “Brendon.”
“Don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he urges as he kisses you. Slowly, so slowly, as you look up at him with glossy eyes, he pushes his cock into you. When your lips part softly in pleasure at the way he fills you, Brendon murmurs against your pulse in between kisses to your skin? “There’s my girl. Just stay right here with me. I’ve got you. Let me make you feel good.”
And he does.
All the while holding you and groaning sweetness into your ears, your lips, your neck, Brendon fucks you like he’s been designed for your pleasure. He takes his time. He pays attention. When he thrusts just right, making you moan his name loud and unafraid as the head of his cock crooks against your g-spot, he keeps it exactly like that and tucks the sound away in a proud little part of his brain.
With how talkative you are, he’d expected you to be vocal in bed. But you’re just loud. And that’s plenty clear for him. So he does the talking, swearing and praising in equal measure. There’s no performative dirty talk from him, nothing that sounds like it’s straight out of a cheesy porno. It’s just you feel amazing, I’m so lucky I get to have you, fuck, this is perfect. You’re melting under him and you barely notice him snaking one hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit until you’re already on the verge of cumming again, him whispering, “there you go, that’s it” right up against your ear in a way that has your toes curling, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blade and his arm, your breaths teetering on the edge of gasps.
“That’s- When you’re gripping me like that, I can’t-” Brendon’s barely able to string words together as your second orgasm threatens, taken well and truly aback by how good you feel wrapped around him when you’ve completely let go of control and fear and shame. When you’re just his and he’s yours and it really can be just that simple. His balls are already tightening up when he manages to rasp out, “Can I-”
You’re nodding into his shoulder before the question’s even finished, shuddering out a shaky and honest, “Please. Let’s- Together, please.”
And you detonate. Both of you. Locked to one another. You can’t bear to close your eyes and risk missing a single moment of Brendon Park’s soft, rapturous expression when his cum spills inside of you. His borderline angelic blue eyes meet yours – meet them, like a handshake between long-lost friends, a meeting that turns to a clasped hug, reluctant to let go – and you’re filled with his heat and he’s founded by having you.
Brendon’s lips kiss the tender sweat from your forehead as he catches his breath. There’s a tiny, secret little smile that exists only for you on his rough features. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Struggling to stifle a smile that’s yearning to split you open, you nip a quick kiss onto his lips and half-giggle, “You’ve mentioned that.”
“And I’m gonna keep mentioning it,” he replies, warm and wonderful as winter cider, “as long as you’ll have me.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund
Oh my fkn goooooood, this is hot. This is so hot. So fkn hot. No notes. Proper 11/10. Idk, I haven't recovered from finishing this epic of a fic, but holy FUCK, this is just plain glorious--
So far Baelor has seen Anicia in a simple maid/peasant dress, when he sees her in a court dress he will be speechless (And even funnier, maybe when he goes to Dorne Anicia will be dressed in a Dornish dress, well.....Giant veiny Host of Dornish spearmen.
PLZ. he’s not going to survive I fear …. 👀😭
here’s how I see Anicia fashion tho :
healer / servant
I’d say white, blue and green are her usual colors with sometimes brown. light tunic bc it’s the reach and it’s kinda hot but still modest
lady in KL / personal healer to Baelor
okaayyyyy so these are the colours i see her wearing most of the time. i don’t think she’d stick to just one colour, though. colours back then were a luxury, so i imagine both she and baelor would buy dresses in a variety of shades simply because she loves colour. and when baelor once asked her what her favourite colour was, she jokingly answered : “rainbow”….
unfortunately for everyone involved, he took her completely seriously. the man quite literally sent ravens ordering dresses to be made in every colour possible, using the finest silks and dyes they could acquire from places like tyrosh, myr and beyond. that being said, he absolutely LOVES seeing her in red and black ..: aka the colours of his house 🫦
i also see her wearing a lot of back veils and hair nets because they’re practical when she’s working. but even then, she still wears beautiful, expensive things because she enjoys them. she likes being fancy & who wouldn’t want to wear princess dresses whenever they could???? so while practicality def plays a role in how she dresses, she never completely gives up the finer things!!!
at court / fancy dresses for feasts & jousts ect ..
i also think she dresses a little more daringly for feasts and other formal occasions … not necessarily provocatively, but definitely with a bit more flair. lots of beads, rich silks, intricate embroidery, and all the little details that make an outfit stand out.
at first, she worried that it might be too much, but once she saw how extravagantly everyone else dressed, she quickly realised she had nothing to worry about. if anything, she needed to step up her game. after that, she fully embraced it and started having fun with fashion, wearing beautiful fabrics, elaborate accessories & outfits that were every bit as grand as the occasion called for
— his love language for you becomes curated, extravagant indulgence. it’s not just buying you things; it’s buying you the right thing at the right moment to head off a sulk or celebrate a tiny victory. a new perfume launched in lys? a bottle is on your vanity. mention offhand you hate the traffic on your way to class? a driver is assigned to you, discreetly. he studies your whims like market trends and invests in them heavily. it’s how he translates his busy life, into a constant stream of proof:
you are on my mind.
— you become quietly obsessed with his hands. they are broad, strong, with a few faint scars and calluses that speak of old hobbies—sailing, perhaps, or woodworking in his youth. there’s a slight silvering of hair on his knuckles. when he rests one on the small of your back to guide you through a crowded room, the warmth and weight of it feels like an anchor. when he holds your hand, his thumb absently stroking your palm, it feels like a promise he doesn’t need to voice.
— he has a protective streak a mile wide, but it’s never restrictive. he won’t tell you not to go out with your friends. instead, he’ll say, “text me when you get home, so i know you’re safe,” and his voice is so full of quiet concern that you want to text him. if you’re sick, he doesn’t fuss.he just appears with a bowl of his mother’s recipe for lemon-honey tea, a cool cloth for your forehead, and sits reading reports in a chair by your bed, his presence a silent bulwark against any discomfort.
— he knows the difference between a bratty mood that needs indulging and a genuine hurt that needs soothing. if you’re pouting because he worked late, he might have your favorite absurdly expensive dessert delivered with a note in his firm handwriting: just a small taste of my attention for now. tomorrow, i’m all yours. if you’re genuinely upset, the indulgence stops. he’ll wrap you in his arms, his large hand cradling the back of your head, and just hold you. “alright, sweet girl,” he’ll murmur into your hair. “tell me properly.” he makes you feel heard, even when you’re most unreasonable
— he loves sharing his world. a rainy sunday might find him walking you through the subtleties of a vintage arbor gold, explaining the terroir, watching your face as you taste it. or he might patiently teach you the rules of cyvasse, his strategic mind both challenging and encouraging yours. he never makes you feel stupid for not knowing. he makes you feel privileged for being the one he chooses to show.
— he doesn’t get jealous of your male friends. he trusts you implicitly. but sometimes, when you’re animatedly telling a story about your day, your hands flying, using slang he doesn’t know, referencing a concert he wouldn’t attend, he gets this quiet, wistful look in his mismatched eyes. it’s not envy of the people, but of the time—the years of your life he wasn’t there for. he overcomes it by pulling you into his lap, silencing your chatter with a slow kiss, and murmuring, “tell me again. but slower. i want all of it.”
— your life might be chaotic—a demanding job, friend dramas, the frantic energy of youth. his apartment, his presence, is your sanctuary. It’s always quiet, ordered, and calm. the scent of his cologne and old books. the deep comfort of his sofa. the way he can silence the noise in your head just by wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your head. with him, you don’t have to perform. you can just be.
nsfw
— he knows exactly what he’s doing. there’s no fumbling, no awkwardness. every touch is deliberate, every kiss has purpose. when he undresses you, it’s slow, methodical, his eyes dark and appreciative as he reveals each new inch of skin. he takes his time, because he has it, and because he knows the anticipation is a weapon that makes you tremble. “i’ve waited a long time for this,” he might murmur against your throat, his voice a rough scrape. “i’m not rushing a moment of it.”
— he is a man used to command, and it translates seamlessly to the bedroom. his instructions are soft, but absolute. “look at me.” “arch your back for me, darling.” “be still.” there’s a thrill in the submission, in handing over the reins to someone so capable. he wields his authority not to diminish you, but to elevate the experience, to guide you to places you might not have gone on your own.
— he is vocal in the most devastating way. it’s not crude dirty talk; it’s profound, reverent affirmation. “gods, you feel perfect.” “you take me so beautifully.” “look at you, my perfect girl.” hearing those deep, measured tones fracture with desire because of you is more potent than any fantasy. It makes you want to be everything he says you are.
— you are acutely aware of the physical power disparity. the sheer size of him over you, the easy way he can pin your wrists with one hand, the solid muscle of his thighs holding yours apart. he uses this strength not to intimidate, but to overwhelm you with sensation, to make you feel utterly surrounded and claimed by him. when he finally sinks into you, the fullness is breathtaking, a reminder of his maturity, his sheer physicality.
— he engages all your senses. the scratch of his well-kept beard against the soft skin of your inner thighs. the rich, scent of his skin and sweat that clings to you for hours after. the low, guttural sounds he makes at the base of his throat. the taste of him—expensive whiskey and something uniquely him. the sight of his face, usually so composed, etched with raw, desperate pleasure.
— for him, what comes after is as important as what came before. he will gather your boneless body against his chest, your head on his heartbeat. he’ll fetch a warm cloth and clean you with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. he’ll wrap you in his robe or the softest blanket and hold you, often in silence, just stroking your hair or your back. there’s no rush to separate, no post-coital awkwardness. it’s a continuation of the intimacy, a gentle return to the world where he is once again your baelor, who just happens to know exactly how to ruin you in the best possible way.
+ what if you’re bratty
— your brattiness in the bedroom—the teasing, the defiant little smiles, the pretending not to be affected—is a challenge he delights in meeting. he’ll let you think you’re in control, let you play your games, until with a low rumble, he decides the game is over.“enough ”
— when you’re being particularly mouthy or demanding, his favorite tactic is to drown you in sensation. he’ll use his hands and mouth with relentless focus, pushing you past one peak and immediately onto the next, until you’re sobbing and begging, not for more, but for mercy. “had enough?” he’ll ask softly, kissing your trembling stomach. “ready to be sweet?” it’s his way of proving that for all your dramatic flair, your body belongs to him, and he knows its every secret, every weakness.
— he is lavish with praise when you’re good. “perfect.” “so beautiful when you listen.” but he also metes out delicious, shiver-inducing punishment when you’re deliberately difficult. a sharp, stinging smack on your thigh or ass, not to hurt, but to re-focus. a firm grip on your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “you can do better for me than that,” he’ll chide, his eyes dark. for a man who gives you everything, having him withhold his approval, even for a moment, is a powerful motivator. you crave to be his good girl again.
a/n: i actually had separate hcs for modern!baelor x bratty!reader at first, but i thought, why not throw some of them in here too?
“Tell me, does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife, does he lose control when he fucks her, or does that sweet blushing bride of yours recieve the same dreary restraint the realm so adores you for?”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, rough sex, consent is given, this is some dark shit, oral (female and male receiving), minors dni.
Please be aware that I normally don't write stuff as dark as this, but for the love of fuck I couldn't keep this out of my head. Remember to take care of your mental health.
In this AU, Prince Oberyn Martell is the youngest brother to Prince Moran Martell and Queen Myriah Martell. Because I couldn't help myself.
𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 was not a man 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 appreciated being near you, his sweet, innocent wife, who couldn't tell whether a man was being kind with his words, or tempting the wrath of a dragon, which from Baelor's perspective, the youngest brother of his mother, greatly delighted invoking.
Prince Baelor Targaryen had never been a suspicious man by nature. He trusted you, completely, but he knew the kind of man Prince Oberyn was, from his countless paramours, to the many bastards he had sired throughout Dorne, the Red Viper, was not a man Baelor admired, something he had more often than not expressed to his mother when she had informed him that he'd be visiting her.
“Then do me the kindness of keeping that man away from my wife,” Baelor loved his mother dearly, but even now as he stood before her, arms folded behind him, he could not contain the disdain in his voice, “she does not know him as well as I.”
“I cannot recall a single moment where you had been this fierce over Lady Jena Dondarrion. I know who and what Oberyn is. I did not think after Jena died you'd love another.”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between mother and son, heavy as castle stone.
His jaw tightened, mismatched eyes drifting toward the open balcony where the sea glittered beyond the walls of the Red Keep. For a fleeting moment, he looked less the celebrated prince who had broken rebel lines and more the weary man who had buried his first wife beneath cold earth.
“When Jena died,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only his mother could hear, “I believed that part of me had gone with her.”
His mother watched him quietly.
Baelor's shoulders tensed for a moment. “I never intended to wed again.”
“I know.”
“I certainly never intended…” He paused, almost sounding irritated with himself. “...to love again.”
Queen Myriah's expression softened, “And yet you have.”
Baelor gave a short, humorless breath. “I have.”
There was no shame in the admission. Only resignation, as though he had lost a battle he had never agreed to fight.
“You speak of Jena.” His gaze settled upon his mother once more. “I honoured her. I respected her. I cared for her deeply.” His brow furrowed. “But what I feel for my wife now…” He shook his head once. “...it is a far more dangerous thing.”
“Dangerous?”
“I think of her before councils. Before battles.” His mouth became a hard line. “I look for her whenever I enter a room.”
His mother smiled knowingly.
“If she smiles…” he continued quietly, “...the day becomes easier.”
“And if she cries?”
Baelor's eyes darkened, “I would burn kingdoms to discover who caused it.”
The Queen reached forward, resting a hand upon his arm. “You are your father's son.”
“I pray not.”
“You love with frightening devotion, Baelor.” Myriah murmured as she watched Baelor.
“I know.”
“And Oberyn?” For the first time, genuine irritation flashed across the prince's face.
“Oberyn flirts because it amuses him.”
“Likely.”
“He enjoys seeing men lose their composure.”
“Also likely.”
“But he will not use my wife for sport.” His words carried no heat, “I trust her with my life.” His gaze sharpened. “It is him I do not trust.”
His mother regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “You are aware that Oberyn is nearly twice her age.”
“I am painfully aware. He has lived a life of indulgence. He has charmed noblewomen, common women, widows, wives, and maidens alike.” There was no admiration in his voice, only fact. “He knows precisely which words to use, which smiles to offer.”
Baelor's expression hardened further. “And she," he said quietly, “has not spent her life learning to defend herself against men like him.”
“No.”
“She is young. She sees kindness where others hide intention.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “She would sooner believe a compliment sincere than wonder what lies beneath it.”
“That is why you fear this.”
“I do not fear that she would betray me.” His answer was immediate. “I fear that she would not even realise she was being pursued until someone less honourable believed he had been encouraged.”
His mother's eyes softened. “You have never doubted her.”
“Never.”
“But you doubt Oberyn.”
“I doubt any man who finds amusement in testing another husband's restraint.”
Baelor had no intention of allowing that dance to begin. “If your brother so much as corners her alone,” Baelor said with unsettling calm as he turned toward the door, “he will discover that I inherited more from the blood of the dragon than a name.”
It was the fierce protectiveness of a husband who knew his wife was young enough to believe the world kinder than it truly was, and who knew Prince Oberyn Martell was more than old enough to exploit that innocence if it entertained him.
His mother watched him leave, shaking her head with the smallest smile. “Gods help Oberyn,” she murmured, “for my son certainly will not.”
The feast had begun as such celebrations always did.
Music drifted through the great hall beneath painted rafters where dragons and heroes watched from faded frescoes overhead. Hundreds of candles burned in polished chandeliers, casting warm light across crimson banners and cloth-of-gold hangings until the Red Keep itself seemed wreathed in flame.
Silver goblets were lifted in endless toasts, servants threaded gracefully between crowded tables bearing roasted boar, lemon cakes, river trout, and sweet Arbor wines, while laughter rose and fell like waves against the vaulted ceiling.
King Daeron II had spared little expense in honour of Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival from Dorne.
The occasion pleased more than the court. At the king's right hand sat Queen Myriah, once Princess Myriah Martell, whose composed expression had softened into a smile warmer than many had seen in years. Her youngest brother had finally come to King's Landing.
He simply had not come on time.
The lateness itself scarcely occupied your thoughts. Your attention had been claimed by your husband long before the feast began.
Prince Baelor Targaryen was not a man inclined toward grand declarations of affection. His love revealed itself in subtler ways, in the quiet certainty of familiar gestures.
A steady hand resting against the small of your back as the two of you crossed a room. Fingers brushing yours beneath the table whenever conversation grew tedious.
A brief glance cast your way to ensure your cup remained full and that you had eaten enough before he thought to touch his own plate.
It was the sort of devotion few people ever noticed. You always did. Tonight, however, there was nothing subtle about it.
From the moment you had entered the great hall, Baelor had scarcely allowed more than an arm's length between you.
Whenever another lord lingered overlong in conversation, his hand settled naturally around your waist. Whenever you moved through the hall, he guided you with effortless gentleness, never hurried, never rough, yet always unmistakably present beside you.
No one remarked upon it.
Very few men possessed the courage to question the heir to the Iron Throne.
Still, something felt... different.
You leaned closer until your shoulder brushed his sleeve, lowering your voice so only he could hear.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” you asked softly.
Baelor did not immediately answer as his mismatched eyes remained fixed upon the great doors at the far end of the hall. “No,” he replied at last, the answer came too quickly, too smoothly.
You followed his gaze toward the entrance before looking back at him. “You are waiting for Prince Oberyn.”
“I am,” Baelor admitted.
You studied his face for another heartbeat before asking carefully, “You do not sound pleased.”
For the briefest instant, a muscle tightened along his jaw. “I am not.” His voice remained perfectly calm.
Somehow that unsettled you more than anger would have. You tilted your head. “Has he offended you?”
“Not yet.” Baelor turned his head towards you, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against your brow, “But I suspect he might.”
The evening stretched onward.
Musicians exchanged lively dances for softer melodies. Servants cleared one course only to replace it with another. Lords drifted from table to table, exchanging gossip while cups were emptied and filled again.
Even King Daeron's patience began to show signs of strain.
He checked the entrance more than once.
So did Queen Myriah.
Then, at last, the towering doors to the great hall swung open, conversation faltered and Prince Oberyn Martell strode inside wearing the unmistakable smile of a man entirely satisfied with himself.
His embroidered tunic remained immaculate by most standards, though his dark curls had been left pleasantly disordered by hurried fingers. His collar sat ever so slightly crooked, and lingering beneath the perfumes of feast and court clung another scent entirely.
Sweet perfume.
Heavy perfume.
The unmistakable fragrance of a King's Landing brothel.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest moment before pinching the bridge of her nose.
Across the table, several Dornish retainers developed an intense fascination with their wine cups.
King Daeron tipped his head back, staring toward the painted ceiling as though appealing silently to the Seven for patience.
Baelor did not sigh, yet beside you, every muscle beneath his embroidered doublet hardened until he seemed carved from stone.
His hand, still loosely holding yours beneath the table, tightened almost imperceptibly, never enough to hurt—not that you would have minded the pain— only enough for you to notice.
Prince Oberyn crossed the length of the hall with effortless confidence, seemingly oblivious to every disapproving stare fixed upon him, or perhaps he simply enjoyed them.
Stopping before the king's table, he placed one hand over his heart and inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Oberyn said cheerfully. “King's Landing insisted upon delaying me.”
King Daeron regarded him with patient disbelief. “I somehow doubt King's Landing itself bears the blame.”
“It is a city overflowing with distractions.”
“It possesses brothels,” the king observed dryly.
“It does.”
“I imagine one detained you.”
Oberyn's grin widened. “I would hardly describe the experience as detention.” Laughter rolled through the hall, even a few members of the Kingsguard struggled to hide their amusement.
Only one man remained entirely unmoved, Baelor watched him without so much as the flicker of a smile.
The heir's gaze never wavered, steady enough to make lesser men reconsider every decision that had brought them into his presence.
Oberyn noticed immediately and the smile lingering upon his lips sharpened. “Baelor,” he greeted warmly, eyes filled with hidden amusement as he shifted his stance, curious eyes falling briefly towards you.
“Oberyn,” Baelor answered with equal politeness.
“You look well.”
“I was about to return the compliment.” Baelor straightened quietly, head cooking to the side.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “You changed your mind?”
“I remembered where you had been.”
Silence settled between them, you felt yourself frown quietly, shifting as Baelor's mismatched eyes briefly flickered towards you.
Then Oberyn laughed, the rich, unrestrained sound echoed easily through the hall. “It would seem rumours travel faster than I do.”
“They needn't travel,” Baelor replied evenly. “You were thoughtful enough to bring the evidence with you.”
Curious, Oberyn glanced down at himself before discovering the faint crimson imprint staining the edge of his collar.
His laughter only deepened. “So I did.”
You looked from one prince to the other, sensing a tension unlike ordinary dislike.
It was something infinitely more dangerous.
Two men who recognised capability when they saw it and men who respected one another's intelligence and who trusted the other's judgement about as far as either could throw the Red Keep itself.
Without drawing attention to the gesture, Baelor's arm settled securely around your waist.
The movement was slow enough to appear entirely natural.
He drew you just a little closer until your shoulder rested comfortably against his side.
Not for the benefit of the watching court.
Not to parade possession before curious eyes.
He had never needed such displays.
It was for one man alone.
For Prince Oberyn Martell.
A quiet, unmistakable reminder that the young woman standing beside the heir to the Iron Throne was not merely under his protection.
You were his wife.
And Baelor intended that, from the instant the Red Viper entered the hall until the feast's final candle guttered into darkness, there would not be a single moment in which Oberyn Martell could forget it.
Only after the laughter had faded did Oberyn's attention finally drift from Baelor.
It settled upon you.
The shift was subtle, yet every instinct in the room seemed to sharpen alongside it.
Prince Maekar Targaryen, seated further down the royal table, noticed it at once. Unlike his elder brother, Maekar's displeasure rarely concealed itself behind measured courtesy. His pale violet eyes moved from Oberyn to Baelor, studying the heir with quiet vigilance.
Baelor had not moved, not so much as an inch, yet Maekar knew his brother too well.
The rigid line of his shoulders. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The hand still resting at your waist, steady enough to appear relaxed, though Maekar knew the strength contained within it.
Oberyn smiled as though the silence belonged entirely to him. “So,” he said, turning fully towards you, “this is the lady who has stolen the heart of the Dragon Prince.”
His dark eyes lingered only long enough to admire, never straying into outright impropriety, though there was an unmistakable warmth behind them.
“My sister neglected to mention that her gooddaughter possesses such remarkable beauty.”
Before you could think to respond, Oberyn reached gently for your hand, the movement was graceful, almost courtly. His fingers barely enclosed yours as he bowed his head, pressing a light kiss against your knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”
Heat blossomed across your cheeks almost instantly, as no man save your husband had ever greeted you with such effortless confidence.
Flustered, you offered a timid smile before instinctively drawing your hand back towards yourself, your fingers curling against your skirts as though uncertain what to do with the attention.
“Th... thank you, my prince,” you murmured, your voice scarcely louder than the music surrounding the feast.
Oberyn's smile softened. “Shy,” he observed lightly. “How refreshing.”
Before another word could leave his lips, Baelor spoke. “My wife blushes easily.”
Oberyn noticed that innocence almost immediately and Baelor Targaryen noticed the lingering amusement that remained in his uncle's eyes as they followed you like a viper scenting something delicious to sink it's fangs within.
Yet beneath those few words rested an unmistakable message.
Oberyn met Baelor's gaze again and for a heartbeat, neither man spoke and then, with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, the Dornish prince released the matter entirely, lifting his goblet instead.
“As you say, Baelor.”
Across the table, Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose. The storm had not broken.
But it had certainly announced its arrival, and Maekar suspected that this visit would only awaken something in his brother he was not comfortable naming.
The conversation lingered only a little longer before the weariness of the evening finally settled upon your shoulders.
You turned towards your husband, your expression softening as his attention immediately shifted from the gathering back to you.
“My love,” you murmured quietly.
Baelor inclined his head, lowering it enough that only you might be heard. “Yes?”
“I believe I have had enough of feasts for one evening.”
The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “I feared as much.”
You smiled in return, leaning close enough to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. It was a fleeting gesture, tender and entirely unselfconscious. “I should like to retire.”
His hand instinctively tightened at your waist. “I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need,” you assured him softly, laying your hand over his. “Remain a little longer. Your father will expect the heir beside him, especially now that Prince Oberyn has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
Baelor frowned.
“I would rather see you safely to our chambers.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I am hardly embarking upon a perilous journey. The Red Keep is full of guards, and I know the halls better than most.”
For a long moment he simply looked at you.
There was reluctance in his eyes, protectiveness and then, with visible effort, he relented. “If anything delays you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“If anyone troubles you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“And if Oberyn wanders the corridors…”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “I shall most certainly send for you.”
That, at last, earned the faintest smile from him. “You have my leave to retire, then.”
“As though I required it,” you teased gently. His answering look was one of fond exasperation.
You squeezed his hand once before offering respectful farewells to the king and queen. With your ladies trailing behind, you slipped from the warmth and noise of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind you until the music became little more than a distant murmur.
Your absence did not go unnoticed.
Oberyn watched the doors for a thoughtful moment before lazily swirling the wine within his goblet and only when several heartbeats had passed did he glance back toward Baelor.
A slow, knowing smile spread across the Dornish prince's face. “I confess,” Oberyn said conversationally, as though remarking upon the quality of the wine, “I had expected you to follow her.”
Baelor met his gaze without expression, “My wife wished to retire.”
“And you obeyed.”
“I respected her wishes.”
“Hm.” Oberyn took an unhurried sip of wine before resting his elbow upon the table, “Tell me something.”
No one missed the change in his tone.
Prince Maekar's attention sharpened immediately.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest instant.
King Daeron sighed quietly into his cup as Oberyn's dark eyes never left Baelor.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife?” he asked with infuriating casualness. “Or does the knowledge of having such a young woman at his side temper even your legendary stamina? I must admit, I thought your blushing wife would be older. Not such a spirited little thing.”
The hall fell utterly silent.
A goblet stopped halfway to a lord's lips.
Somewhere near the musicians, a serving girl froze where she stood. Maekar slowly set his cup upon the table with a deliberate clink.
His stare fixed upon Oberyn with open disbelief. “...Have you truly decided,” Maekar said at last, his voice low and edged with warning, “that provoking my brother in the king's own hall is a sensible use of your evening?”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
He remained perfectly still, one hand resting upon the arm of his chair, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for indifference by anyone who did not know him.
Those who did knew better.
His silence was rarely empty.
It was the silence of a man deciding precisely how much restraint the moment deserved. “You speak boldly of another man's wife,” Baelor finally admitted, setting down his own goblet, “especially mine.”
Oberyn's gaze sharpened, intrigued. “I wonder if you fuck her like you used to fight,” he said, voice dropping lower. “All that raw power unleashed without mercy.”
Baelor bristled, jaw tightening, fingers curling against the armrest.
Oberyn muttered, almost to himself but loud enough for the table to hear, “A young thing like her should know the beast beneath his skin.”
Oberyn leaned in closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a dagger. “You think she fears your wrath, Baelor? Or is it the quiet storm you carry that unsettles her?” His voice was silk and steel, designed to wound and provoke.p
Before Baelor could respond, Queen Myriah Martell’s voice cut through the charged air, firm and commanding. “Enough, Oberyn. Your words serve only to inflame what peace we have left. Do not tempt the dragon further.”
Oberyn’s smirk flickered, a shadow of respect crossing his features as he glanced at his sister, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim.
Baelor rose abruptly, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor, a storm brewing in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides—every muscle taut with barely contained fury.
But before he could move, Maekar stepped forward with calm authority, placing a steadying hand on Baelor’s arm. “This is not the moment, Baelor. Temper your fire, or you risk burning those you care for most.” His voice was a grounded force, steadying the tempest ready to break loose.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the tension coiling within him fought down by Maekar’s timely intervention. Slowly, he sank back into his seat, eyes locked on Oberyn with a dangerous promise lingering in their depths.
The room exhaled collectively, the fragile balance restored for now, yet the undercurrents of rivalry and restraint thrummed just beneath the surface.
Baelor’s voice dropped low, hard as steel. “Silence your tongue, Oberyn, lest I cut it from your mouth.” His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a clear warning that his patience was threadbare.
Oberyn laughed, a rich, dark sound that filled the room with defiance. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Tell me, Baelor,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper yet carrying venom, “have you ever truly lost control… in fucking her?”
The question hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, daring Baelor to confront the chaos beneath his carefully maintained restraint.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the room suddenly tighter, heavier, as silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken truths and raw challenge.
Baelor’s chair flew backward with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sudden movement shattering the tense quiet. For a brief, electrifying moment, his mismatched eyes, one piercing blue, the other a deep, restless brown, darkened, shadows flickering across their depths like storms brewing beneath calm seas.
“I pray that you take this moment and reflect on how close you were to losing that tongue of yours, for one more fucking words and I shall deprave your whores from singing songs of it.”
A low growl rumbled from deep within him, raw and guttural, barely held in check. Without another word, Baelor turned sharply and strode from the room, his departure leaving a charged silence hanging in the air, words left unsaid, emotions unleashed in his absence.
The tension lingered palpably, a fragile calm on the edge of eruption.
Baelor’s steps slowed as he made his way through the corridors, Oberyn’s mocking words echoing relentlessly in his mind. The sharpness of the insult cut deeper than he cared to admit, stirring a storm of anger, doubt, and something darker, an uneasy introspection he wasn’t prepared to face.
When he reached the shared chambers, Baelor hesitated at the threshold, the weight of his own turmoil pressing down on him. Then, as if drawn by some silent need, he stepped inside, the world narrowing until it was only you and the churning emotions he could no longer keep at bay.
The chamber door clicked shut behind him, the iron latch settling into its cradle with a sound that felt louder than a war horn. Baelor stood with his back to the oak, his knuckles still white from the grip he'd kept on his sword hilt all the way from the hall, from the moment Oberyn's smirk had curled around those words and slid them into his chest like a Viper's fang.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife? Or does the knowledge of having a young woman at his side temper his sexual stamina? Do you ever lose control in fucking her?”
The question had been poison wrapped in silk, delivered with that Dornish lilt that made everything sound like a joke at someone else's expense.
His hand was still shaking. He could feel the tremor climbing from his fingers into his wrist, the residue of a rage that had no battlefield to spend itself on.
Across the chamber, the window seat caught the last light of dusk. You sat there, your hair spilling over your shoulder in a loose braid, the red of your gown pooling around you like a promise. “Baelor? You are shaking.”
You were reading, or had been. The small leather-bound volume rested open on your knee, your finger marking the page, but your eyes were already on him. They were always already on him, as if you sensed the exact moment he crossed the threshold, as if some invisible thread between them tugged at your attention whenever he drew near.
You rose without a word. “Do not,” Baelor murmured quietly, mismatched eyes ablaze with unrestrained fury, “do not come any closer.”
The movement was unhurried, unafraid as your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you crossed to him through the amber glow of the fire, your gown whispering against your ankles, “What has made you so upset?”
The candle on the sill guttered and steadied. The room smelled of beeswax and the faint lavender you kept in a sachet beneath your pillow, the scent that had become, in the two years of their marriage, the scent of home. Of safety and the one place in this court of knives where he did not have to be the Breakspear or the Hammer.
Your palm settled flat against the leather over his heart, “Is it Prince Oberyn? Has he said something?”
Through the boiled hide, through the wool beneath, you must have felt the thrum of his pulse, still too fast, still hunting for an enemy that was not here.
Your voice was quiet, not a whisper, you never whispered, not even in the godswood, but pitched for his ears alone, a current that flowed under the noise of the world and found him every time. You said it without accusation, without concern. Just a fact, laid out between them like a piece on a cyvasse board, waiting to see what he would do with it.
He caught your wrist, “I despise that man. He is my mother's brother, but he does not think when he provokes me.” The grip was firm enough to hold you there, to stop your hand from moving, but he could feel the delicate bones beneath his fingers, the flutter of your own pulse against his callused palm.
He had never touched you with those hands the way he wanted to. He had been so careful. Two years of gentleness, of holding you like you were made of glass, of pulling every blow before it landed. Every night they shared, he had kept himself leashed, had loved you with a tenderness that left him aching and unfinished, had fallen asleep with his hands fisted in the sheets to stop them from gripping you too hard.
You had never complained. You had only ever looked at him with those warm eyes and said I am here, and he had wanted to tell you that was the problem, that he had killed men who looked at him the way you had looked at him, that the hunger you woke in him was the same hunger he fed on battlefields, and he did not know how to separate the two.
But he had never said it. He had only held you gently, night after night, and felt the leash grow thinner.
Tonight, Oberyn had snapped it.
You did not pull your wrist free, nor did you flinch when you held his gaze, your gaze calm steady and unmoved, “What did he say to you?”
“He wanted to know whether I fuck you like I fight? If I know how to make you scream,” Baelor's breath hitched when you reached up and unlaced the throat of your gown, the fabric parting to reveal the column of your throat, leaving the skin bare and visible, the pulsing beat of your heart vulnerable, “if I hammer into you like a dragon given flesh.”
You took his hand, the one he had wrapped around your wrist and lifted it.
His fingers splayed across your throat. He could feel the weight of your head in his palm, the fragile architecture of your spine, the flutter of your pulse against the calluses of his sword hand. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and his hand covered almost the entire breadth of your neck.
He could close his hand. He could squeeze. He could —
“I am not afraid of you,” you said. “Husband.”
The word cracked something in his chest. The leash he had held for two years snapped in a single breath, and the hunger that had been pacing behind it, patient and starved, surged forward.
He bent and took your mouth like a man starved.
There was nothing gentle about it. His free hand fisted in your hair and he yanked your head back, opening your throat to his mouth. “Gods,” you gasped against his lips, a sound that was not quite a surprise, and he swallowed it, licked into your mouth, took everything you offered and demanded more, “Baelor.”
You gave it.
Your hands came up, not to push him away, but to grip the leather of his doublet, to hold him closer. Your nails scraped against the stitching, and the small sound you made, low, hungry, wanting, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock, “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me now.”
He walked you backward, each step a claim as his body pressed against yours, the solid bulk of him driving you across the room until your spine met the carved oak of the bedpost and you had nowhere left to go, “I have been afraid. I have been afraid of breaking you, of wanting to fuck you without the gentleness.”
The post dug into your shoulder blades, and he pinned you there, his hips grinding against yours, letting you feel exactly how hard he was, how long he had been hard for you, how much of that hunger he had been hiding.
His hand was still on your throat, he did not squeeze, “That man has sunk his fangs into me, poured poison into my veins and I cannot stop thinking about proving that I am capable of not being the man the realm adores, I want to show you I can pleasure you in ways I never have before.” Baelor felt the shape of it beneath his palm, the temptation of it, the way your pulse beat against his fingers like a small animal trusting him not to close his hand.
“Is that what you want, my sweet husband? Do you wish to fuck me?”
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you that he had kept you separate, had protected you from the part of him that broke across the battlefield. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable, and you were looking at him with those eyes like you already knew the answer and were waiting for him to find the courage to speak it.
He pressed his thumb against the hollow of your throat, felt you swallow against the pressure. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a confession. “I should not, but the thought of what he had said, what he had made me feel, it unlocked something in me and I cannot,” he shook his head, kissed you once more, grinding against you, because this was not who he was, this was not the Baelor you had come to love and cherish. “I will frighten you.”
You reached up and covered his hand with yours, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. “You won't.”
Something in him wanted to argue, but you were looking at him, steady and unbroken, and your grip on his hand was not a plea, it was a dare.
He took it.
His other hand found the lacings of your gown, and he pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound of parting seams, sliding from your shoulders to puddle at your feet. You wore nothing beneath it, you never did, not when it was only him and the firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, the soft curves of your body laid bare for him.
He stepped back just long enough to tear at his own clothes. The leather doublet hit the floor, then the linen tunic beneath, then the laces of his breeches. He was already hard, his cock curving up against his stomach, and the sight of you, naked, flushed, wanting, made him ache in a way that was almost painful.
He pushed you back against the bedpost, one hand bracing against the wood beside your head, the other finding your hip and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing harder than he ever had, and you moaned.
Not a whimper.
A groan, low and hungry, that vibrated through your chest and into his.
He dropped to his knees, the shift was sudden, and you looked down at him with wide eyes, the question forming on your lips. But he did not wait for it. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the skin of your thigh warm against his ear, and he pressed his mouth to the curls between your legs.
You gasped.
He had done this before, of course he had, every time they coupled he had knelt between your thighs and worshipped you until you shook, but never like this.
Never with teeth.
Never with the edge of hunger that made his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. He licked into you, broad strokes of his tongue that parted your folds and found the bud of your clit, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, holding him there.
He did not need the encouragement.
He ate you like a man who had been starved. “Fuck!” Tongue flat and wide, pressing into you, lapping at the wet heat of you. You were already slick, your arousal spilling onto his chin, and the taste of you, salt and something darker, something that was only you drove him further.
He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk, and he pressed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your clit and circled hard.
“Baelor —”
Baelor didn't let you finish. He swallowed the sound of his name, his mouth clamping down on you with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He wasn't just tasting you anymore, he was claiming you, his tongue driving deep into your soaking heat, mimicking the rhythmic thrust of a cock.
The sensation was overwhelming, the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the brutal pressure of his thumb grinding against your clit. He was relentless, his movements fast and hungry, pushing you toward a ledge you hadn't even realized you were approaching. Every time your hips bucked, trying to escape the intensity or pull him closer, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, marking you as his.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, the words muffled against your pussy. He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to let the cool air hit your drenched folds, before he lunged back in.
This time, he used his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and then he sank his teeth lightly into the plump flesh of your labia. You shrieked, your back arching off the surface beneath you, your fingers clawing desperately at his scalp. The pain was a thin, sharp line that only served to heighten the pleasure, turning the arousal into something jagged and desperate.
He felt you begin to tremble, the tell-tale rhythmic pulsing of an impending climax. Baelor sensed it, and he doubled his efforts. He abandoned the teasing and went for the kill, his tongue flattening out to lap at you in broad, greedy strokes while his thumb maintained a punishing, circular friction on your clit.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. “Give it all to me.”
The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the heat, the wetness, and the sheer force of his hunger. You felt the tension snap. A violent shudder ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of blinding white heat.
Your internal muscles clamped tight around his tongue, milking him as you sobbed his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his face.
Baelor didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking in every drop of your release, his tongue continuing to flick and probe your sensitive depths even as you collapsed, shaking and spent, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. He looked up at you then, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes dark and predatory, showing no sign that he was finished with you.
His name on your lips, broken and desperate, and he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it until you screamed it.
He pulled back, his chin slick with you, his eyes dark and hungry. “More,” he said, and it was not a question. “I want more.”
You did not argue. You let him stand, let him guide you away from the bedpost and toward the bed, let him push you down onto the tangled furs face-first.
The breath left you in a huff as you landed, your hair spilling across the pillows, your ass raised in the air because that was how he had put you.
He climbed onto the bed behind you.
His hands found your hips, yanking you back toward him, and you went willingly, your knees spreading, your back arching. The sight of you, open, wet, waiting, made his cock throb, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip.
He did not make you wait.
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he pushed in without warning. The sound you made, a sharp, keening cry, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. You were tight, so tight, your body clenching around him as he buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.
He stilled, just for a moment, his forehead dropping to the curve of your spine. You were hot and wet and his, and the feeling of you around him, yielding but not broken, was almost too much.
The stretch was a burn that melted into pure, blinding pleasure. He felt every inch of you yield, your walls rippling, trying to accommodate his girth, then gripping him as if to pull him deeper, letting you feel the fullness, the way his cock pulsed inside you, a second heartbeat buried in your warmth.
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, leaving only the tip nestled between your folds. You whined, your hips pushing back, chasing the friction, but he held you there, teasing. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched your pussy cling to him, glistening and desperate. He slammed back in.
This time, the sound was a wet, slapping noise that echoed in the room. Your body jolted forward onto the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets. He followed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, and he fucked into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.
“That’s it my sweet girl, take it.”
Each stroke hit that sweet spot deep inside, the one that made your toes curl. Your moans turned into broken words please, yes, don't stop spilling from your lips like a prayer. He answered by wrapping a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive claim, while his other hand found your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts, driving you higher, pulling you toward that edge.
Your body began to tremble, your walls fluttering around his cock. He felt the telltale squeeze, the way your breath hitched, and he pushed harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own.
When you came, it was with a scream that dissolved into a sob, your cunt clenching in waves, milking him. He buried his face in your hair, groaning, and let go, pumping his cum deep into you, each pulse a hot rush that seemed to go on forever.
When he finally stilled, your bodies were slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the quiet. He stayed buried inside you, softening, unwilling to let go just yet.
But Baelor Targaryen was not done.
His hips slammed against you once more, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber, and you took every inch of him, your body riding the force of his need. He reached around and found your clit, rubbing hard circles as he fucked into you, and you bucked against his hand, a stream of wordless sounds falling from your lips.
He pulled out and flipped you onto your back before you could gasp for breath, your legs falling open, and he settled between them, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance once more. This time, he held your gaze.
This time, his hand found your throat.
He wrapped his fingers around your neck, not squeezing, but just resting there, a reminder of the power he held, the trust you had given him.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
Your eyes locked onto his, steady, unafraid, burning with the same heat that was consuming him.
He pushed inside you.
His hand tightened on your throat as he filled you, a ring of pressure around your neck that you did not fight. Your body arched, your mouth falling open, and the sound you made, a moan that was almost a sob, was the surrender he had not known he needed.
He fucked you like that. His hand on your throat, your gaze locked on his, each thrust driving him deeper into you, deeper into the trust you had laid bare. Your hands came up to grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To guide his pressure. To tell him, without words, that you were his to take, and that you wanted to be taken.
The orgasm built in him like a wave, cresting toward a shore he had kept at a distance for two years. He wanted to hold it back, to stay inside you forever, but you clenched around him, your body shuddering as you came, a sharp, broken cry of his name and the wave broke.
He emptied into you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours as his release poured into you in hot pulses. He collapsed against you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body sheened with sweat.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The fire crackled, the candle guttered. His hand was still on your throat, but the pressure had gentled, his thumb stroking the hollow where your pulse beat steady and alive.
“I did not break,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips brushing his temple.
He laughed. A broken sound, almost a sob. “No.”
“I told you.”
He lifted his head and looked down at you. The shadows from the fire carved his face into planes of light and dark, and in his mismatched eyes there was something raw, not a fear conquered, but a door left open. “I know.”
Your hand came up to cup his cheek. You felt the tremor still running through him, the aftershock of everything he had held back for so long. “Come back to me,” you had said softly. “You do not have to be gentle. But I need you here.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm. “I am here.”
He pulled out of you slowly, the loss of heat making you shiver. The sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the evidence of your fucking, and the sight of you, marked, satisfied, whole, sent a quiet satisfaction through him that was nothing like battle.
He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your hair spilled across his arm, and you sighed, a sound of contentment that he had not earned but that you gave him anyway.
The door was still closed.
But here, in this chamber, with your pulse steady beneath his palm and your body warm against his, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen felt the leash he had worn for two years fall away — and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a second sword, that he would never pick it up again.
His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat, not hard enough to block, hard enough to feel the slow drum of your pulse beneath the pad of his finger, steady now, no longer the rabbit-fast flutter of before, but something deeper, more settled. The rhythm of a woman who had been taken and was not sorry for it.
You lay against him, your back to his chest, as the fire had burned low, casting the chamber in a dim orange glow that made the shadows long and soft. The damp sheets clung to your skin, and the air between you was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the lavender that lived in your pillow.
He traced the line of your throat with his thumb, following the column down to the dip at its base, then back up to the angle of your jaw. You sighed at the touch, a sound of pure contentment, and tilted your head back to give him more access. Like a cat offering its throat to a trusted hand.
The question sat at the back of his throat, heavy as a stone.
He had never asked for it. In two years of careful nights, of holding himself back, of pulling every blow before it landed, he had never once spoken the words that had paced behind his teeth like a caged animal. He had been afraid of what you would say. Afraid of what you would think of him for asking. Afraid that the asking itself would crack something between them that could not be mended.
But you had met him tonight with your throat bared and your trust unbroken, you had looked at the beast he kept leashed and had not flinched. You had told him you were not afraid and then you had proved it, taking every inch of his hunger and returning it with your own.
His thumb stilled.
He felt his own pulse in his temples, a thrum that matched the slow beat beneath his hand. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the curve of your spine against his chest, the warmth of your ass against his spent cock, the way your fingers had curled loosely around his forearm where it crossed your waist.
“Sweet girl,” your name followed and it came out rough, scraped raw by the thing he was trying to give shape to. You did not open your eyes, but you hummed, a small sound that meant I am listening.
He pressed his thumb into the hollow of your throat again, just resting there, a reminder of where his hand had been, of what you had let him do.
“There is a question I have never asked you.”
You opened your eyes then and turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight, and your hand came up to cover his where it rested on your throat. Your fingers were warm, your grip gentle but present.
“Ask it now,” you had said quietly, not a command, not a plea. Just an opening, held steady for him to step into.
He looked at the shadows on the ceiling. At the canopy of the bed, dark velvet that had witnessed every night of his careful restraint. He thought of Oberyn's smirk, of the way the words had slid into his chest and found the fear he had been carrying since the day he first held you in his arms.
“Do you want me to hurt you?”
The words fell into the silence between you like stones into still water. You feel the ripple of them move through your chest, through your hand where it rests on his throat, through the air that suddenly seems too thin to fill your lungs.
You do not stiffen. You do not pull away.
You are still for a long moment, your amber eyes fixed on some point in the darkness beyond the firelight. Your hand remains over his, warm and steady. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb, still slow, still even. You are thinking. Turning the question over, tasting it, finding the shape of your answer.
“I have thought about it,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he almost misses it. “I have wondered what it would be like. Not in fear as I have never feared you, Baelor. But I have wondered.”
His throat tightens. The air in the room feels heavier, denser, pressing against his chest from the inside.
“What did you wonder?”
You shift in his arms, turning fully to face him. The movement brings your body flush against his, your breasts pressing to his chest, your thighs sliding against his. Your hand falls from his throat to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost cruel after the question you just asked.
“I wondered what it would feel like,” you say, “to be marked by you. To carry proof of your wanting on my skin.”
Something in his chest cracks open. A door he has kept barred with two years of gentleness, of careful hands and measured hunger, swings wide on its hinges.
“It is not the pain I want,” you continue, your voice still soft, still steady, your eyes holding his mismatched ones in the dim light. “It is you in it. The part of you that you hide from everyone. The part that fights and kills and comes home with blood on your hands and tries to wash it off before you touch me.”
He flinches.
You had named something he had never spoken aloud, and your hand on his jaw held him there, would not let him look away.
“I want that part of you too,” you said. “I want him in our bed. I want him to take me.”
His hand found your hip, gripping it hard enough that you gasped, a small sound, not pain, not quite surprise. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, and you did not pull away. You leaned into it, your eyes darkening, your breath catching.
“He would not be gentle,” Baelor said, and his voice was not his own. It was lower, rougher, the voice he used on the training ground, the one that made squires flinch.
“I know.”
“He would leave marks.”
“Show me.”
The words hit him like a blow, but not one that hurt. One that woke something in him that had been sleeping too long. He rolled, pinning you beneath him in a single sharp movement, his weight settling over you, his thighs parting yours.
You looked up at him, your hair spilled across the pillow, your lips parted, your amber eyes bright and unafraid. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, and there was no hesitation in your face.
His hand found your throat again. This time, he squeezed.
Not hard.
A test.
A question asked through his fingers. Your eyes widened, just a fraction and your mouth fell open, a soft sound escaping you, not out of distress but rather something in between, something that looked like surrender and tasted like trust.
His grip tightened, “Fuck, sweet girl. You should not allow me to do such things to you.”
The pressure was deliberate, measured, a slow closing of his hand around the column of your neck. He watched your face as he did it, watched the way your breath caught, the way your pulse beat against his palm, the way your pupils blew wide until your eyes were nearly black.
You did not fight. Your hands came up, but they did not push at his wrist. They settled on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the muscle there, holding him.
“Tell me if—” he started.
“I will.” Your voice was thinner, compressed by the pressure on your throat, but steady. “I will tell you.”
He believed you.
He held you there, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his hand a ring of pressure around your neck. The moment stretched, taut and electric, and he could feel everything, your breath against his wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the slight tremor in your thighs where they bracketed his hips.
He bent and kissed you.
It was not gentle, his mouth hard on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hand held your throat. You made a sound against his mouth, a muffled moan that vibrated through your chest and into his, and your nails scraped across his shoulders.
He released your throat. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the plane of your stomach to the thatch of curls between your legs. You were slick again, your body ready for him even after everything you had already done, and the discovery of it, that you still wanted him, that you were still open and wet and hungry sent a pulse of heat through his blood.
He pushed two fingers into you without warning.
You cried out, your back arching, your head pressing into the pillow. He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. Dark, dazed, fixed on his.
“You want me to hurt you?”
You nodded, a jerky motion.
“Then beg for it.”
The words hung between you, heavy and charged. He saw the flicker in your eyes, not fear, but something like surprise, as if you had not expected him to ask for that. As if you had expected him to simply take, to show you the beast without making you name it.
But he needed to hear it. He needed to know that this was what you wanted, not just something you were willing to endure. He needed you to speak the wanting aloud, so that he could believe it.
You swallowed. Your throat moved beneath his gaze. Your hand found his wrist, not to pull it away, but to grip it, your fingers tight on his skin.
“Please,” you said.
Your voice was small, but not weak. It was the voice of someone stepping off a ledge, trusting that they would be caught.
“Please hurt me. I want to feel you. All of you.”
He pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sound that went straight to his cock. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick with your wanting.
He did not push in.
He held himself there, at the threshold, his eyes locked on yours. His hand found your throat again, his fingers curling around the soft column of your neck. The trust in your gaze was absolute, terrifying, beautiful.
“Remember,” he said, his voice low, “you asked for this.”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion. Your body clenched around him, a sharp cry breaking from your lips, and his hand tightened on your throat, not cutting off your air, but pressing, a constant pressure that reminded you who was taking you.
He fucked you like he meant to leave a mark.
Each thrust was deep, punishing, the angle driving him into you with a force that made the bed frame groan. His hand stayed on your throat, and he watched your face, watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your mouth stayed open on silent gasps, the way your body surrendered to every drive of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake. He grunted at the sting, and it only made him fuck you harder.
He released your throat and caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, one of his hands spanning both of your small bones. You were trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the sight of you, spread open, marked, wanting, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Mine,” he said, the word torn from his chest.
“Yours,” you gasped, and the word was a prayer. “Baelor, please more.”
Baelor releases his grip on your wrists, “Gods, sweet girl,” he leans down and kisses you with such fierceness, his restraint snapping, and then his fingers curl around and tighten around your throat and then his other hand grips your jaw, smushing your cheeks together. “You want me to hurt you?”
“Yes.”
Baelor didn't hesitate. The word "yes" was the only permission he needed to strip away the last remnants of his control. He slammed his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you with a violent force that knocked the wind from your lungs. He didn't give you a second to recover before he ripped himself out and drove back in, the wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting your ass echoing through the room.
His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing your mouth open, stretching your lips wide. He wanted to see every flicker of pain and pleasure crossing your face. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, brutal intensity, each thrust designed to bottom out against your cervix, jarring your entire frame.
“You're a pathetic little thing, aren't you?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Begging for it. Begging for me to break you.”
He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even further, exposing your soaking pussy to the harsh light and his hungry gaze. The change in angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock stretching your walls to their absolute limit. You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand crushing your face, your eyes rolling back as the friction ignited a fire in your core.
He released your jaw only to slide his hand back down to your throat. He didn't just press this time, he squeezed, his thumb digging into the side of your neck, cutting off the air just enough to make your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you have craved?”
The oxygen deprivation heightened every sensation, making the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you feel like electric shocks.
You thrashed beneath him, your hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet his punishing pace. He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound, and increased the speed. He was no longer just fucking you, he was conquering you. He hammered into you, his movements frantic and raw, the bed sliding across the floor with every violent shove.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release.
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated dominance. He saw the desperation in your gaze, the way you were completely undone by him, and it pushed him over the edge.
He let out a guttural roar, his hand tightening one last time around your throat as he delivered a final, devastatingly deep thrust. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside you, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.
As he collapsed onto you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, he didn't let go of your throat immediately. He lingered there, feeling your pulse race under his palm, ensuring you knew exactly who owned every inch of your shaking body.
You followed a moment later, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shuddering through a climax that pulled a broken cry from your lips.
The room was warm and dark and smelled of you.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comfort rather than a demand.
“I did not hurt you too much,” he said. It was not a question, but it was. A plea, wrapped in a statement.
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the dark strands, stroking with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
“You gave me exactly what I asked for,” you said. “And you were still here, the whole time.”
He lifted his head. Your skin was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes soft and glazed with satisfaction. There were red marks on your throat where his hand had been, fingerprints blooming like dark flowers on your pale skin.
He touched them with his fingertips, featherlight. You did not flinch.
“I will have to cover those,” you said, and there was a smile in your voice. “The gowns I wear to court do not come high enough.”
A laugh escaped him, rough, surprised, almost a sob. He dropped his forehead to yours, your breath mingling in the space between.
“I am sorry,” he said, but you shook your head.
“Do not be sorry. I am not, perhaps Prince Oberyn will now know that the formidable Breakspear does indeed hammer his wife.”
You held his gaze, steady and certain. Your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“You are mine, Baelor. All of you. And I want all of you. Not the version you keep gentle for the court. Not the one you wash the blood off before you touch me. All of you.”
He closed his eyes. Let the words settle into his bones, into the places that had been hollow and guarded and afraid.
When he opened them again, something in him was quieter. Not tamed, never tamed but no longer fighting itself.
“And if I want to hurt you again?” he asked.
You smiled. A small, knowing curve of your lips that held no fear, only welcome.
“Then you will ask me first. And I will tell you yes. Or I will tell you no. And you will listen.”
It was not a demand. It was a promise, an agreement, forged in the space between his hunger and your trust.
“And if you say no?” he asked.
“Then you will be gentle with me, as you always have been. And I will love you in the gentleness, and wait for the next time you ask.”
The word hit him in the chest like a war hammer.
Love.
You had said it before, in quiet moments, in the dark of your bed, but never like this. Never as an anchor, holding him steady in the storm of his own wanting.
He kissed you. Soft, this time. A promise sealed with lips and breath.
The quiet settled around you like a held breath. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a deep amber glow that made the shadows long and soft. He was still inside you, softening, the heat between you slowly cooling as your breathing steadied.
His hand had fallen from your throat to rest on your chest, palm flat over your heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath your skin.
You were watching him. He could feel your gaze on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips were still parted from the force of his release. Your hand came up, not to his face this time, but to his hand on your chest, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your heartbeat.
“There is more,” you said. Not a question. A statement, delivered with the same calm certainty you used to name the weather.
He looked at you. Your eyes were steady, unafraid, and there was something in them that had not been there before tonight, a knowledge, a hunger that had been awakened and was not yet sated.
“You are still hard,” you said, and your lips curved in that small, dangerous smile he was beginning to recognize. Not the smile of the gentle wife who greeted him at court. The smile of the woman who had asked him to hurt her.
He looked down. You were right. His cock, still half-sheathed in your warmth, was stirring again. The sight of you, the marks on your throat, the flush on your chest, the way your body had accepted everything he had given and asked for more was enough to kindle the fire that had barely banked.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was rough, still scraped raw by the confession he had made, the trust you had given.
You shifted beneath him. The movement was small, a subtle roll of your hips that made him slide deeper into you, and you gasped at the sensation.
The feeling of you, still wet, still open, still wanting sent a fresh ache through his blood.
“Then show me,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. “Show me what else you have been holding back.”
He could have taken you again. Could have flipped you onto your stomach and driven into you with the same brutal hunger that had carried him through the last hour. But something in your voice, in the steadiness of your gaze, made him pause.
He had asked you what you wanted, and you had told him. You had begged for it. Now you were asking him for more, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the same quiet courage you had shown every time you bared your throat to his hand.
He wanted to give you something you had never had. Something that would show you that his hunger was not only a beast to be unleashed, that it could be shaped, directed, used to carry you somewhere new.
He pulled out of you slowly. You made a small sound at the loss, a whimper that he felt in his chest. But you did not protest. You watched him, your eyes tracking his movements as he shifted away from you, as he sat back on his heels between your spread thighs.
The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin was flushed, your hair a tangled halo on the pillow, your breasts rising and falling with each breath. The marks on your throat were dark against your pale skin, fingerprints that would take days to fade. You were beautiful. You were his.
He reached for your hand. You gave it without hesitation, your small fingers wrapping around his, and he guided you, gently, turning you onto your side.
You went willingly, your body moving with his direction, your back curving as you settled onto your hip. He moved behind you, the solid wall of his chest pressing against your spine, his thighs slotting against the backs of yours. You were warm and soft and yielding, and the position was familiar, he had held you like this a hundred times in the quiet of your bed, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist.
But this time, his other hand found the nape of your neck.
He guided your head back, gently, your throat arching as you let him move you. His arm came around you, his bicep brushing against your jaw, his forearm settling across your collarbone.
It was a cage, gentle but absolute, his arm forming a ring around your head and throat that you could not easily escape.
“Baelor,” you breathed. Not fear. Curiosity. A question formed on the edge of his name.
“Trust me,” he said, his lips brushing your ear.
You did not answer in words. You relaxed into him. Your spine softened, your head settling into the crook of his arm, your body molding against his as if you had been made to fit there.
His cock was pressed against the curve of your ass, hard again, leaking a bead of moisture that smeared across your skin. He did not enter you.
He held you there, in the cage of his arm, and let you feel the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse against your back. “You are safe,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no edge in it. “You are always safe with me. But I want you to feel something.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his profile. Your lips were parted, your eyes dark and searching. “What?”
“How it feels to be held by me. Not taken. Held.”
His arm tightened around you. Not enough to hurt, enough to remind you that it was there, that he could close the cage at any moment, that his strength was a constant presence around your neck and head. His hand found your hip, gripping the soft curve of flesh, and he pulled you back against him, the head of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass.
You shivered. A full-body tremor that ran through you and into him, and he felt it in his chest, in the arm that cradled your head, in the hand that gripped your hip.
“I am going to take you like this,” he said. “Slowly. Gently. And you are going to feel every inch of me, from the inside, while my arm stays around your throat.”
Your breath caught. Your hand found his forearm, your fingers curling around the muscle there, holding him as if you were afraid he would disappear.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”
He guided himself to your entrance. The angle was different, your thighs pressed together, and the head of his cock slid against your slick folds, searching for entry.
He found it, the wet heat of your opening and he pushed in, slow, steady, the pressure building as he sank into you inch by inch.
You moaned. A low, trembling sound that vibrated against his arm where it crossed your throat, and he felt it in the curve of his bicep, in the skin of his forearm. You were tight, so tight, and the angle pressed him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting a place that made you gasp and arch against him.
He stilled when he was fully seated. His arm was still around you, his hand gripping your hip, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You were trembling, small shivers running through your body, and your hand had tightened on his forearm until your knuckles were white.
“Breathe,” he said, his lips against your ear. “I am not going anywhere.”
You exhaled. A shaky breath that seemed to carry the tension out of you, and you softened around him, your body accepting the fullness of his presence inside you.
He began to move.
The rhythm was slow. Each thrust was measured, deep, controlled, his hips rolling against you in a steady wave that pushed him into you and pulled him back to the edge before driving forward again.
His arm stayed around your throat, not squeezing, just present, a constant reminder of where he was, of the trust you had placed in his hands.
You made small sounds with each movement. Whimpers, gasps, half-formed words that died in your throat. Your hand stayed on his forearm, gripping, releasing, gripping again, as if you were grounding yourself through the contact.
“Look at me,” he said.You turned your head. The movement brought your cheek against his bicep, your eyes meeting his mismatched ones in the dim light. The angle was awkward, intimate, your face cradled in the crook of his arm as he moved inside you.
“I want to see your face,” he said. “I want to watch you feel this.”
Your lips parted.
A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, and he saw it, the moment the pleasure crested, the moment you surrendered to the slow, steady rhythm of his body inside you.
Your eyes stayed on his, dark and dazed and full of trust.
He fucked you like that for a long time, slow, deep, kissing your brow, swallowing your moans, “You are so good for me,” he would murmur against your skin.
Gentle in a way that was not gentle at all, the gentleness was in the control, in the measured pace, in the arm that held your throat without pressing.
He was giving you the lie of safety, the pretense of softness, while his cock stretched you open, hitting depths you had not known you possessed.
Your breathing changed. Small, quick gasps that came faster and faster, your hips beginning to move against his, chasing something. Your grip on his arm tightened, your nails digging into his skin, and the small sounds you made grew higher, more urgent.
“I am close,” you gasped. “Baelor —”
His arm tightened around your throat.Not enough to cut off your air. Enough to press, enough to remind you who was in control, enough to make you freeze beneath him, your eyes flying wide.
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no cruelty in it. “I want you to feel this longer.”
You whimpered, but you nodded, a small jerk of your head against his arm, and he felt you relax into his control. Your body was a wire drawn taut, trembling on the edge of release, and you held it, waiting for his permission.
He kept the rhythm slow, each thrust pressed him into you, the angle making you gasp, and he watched your face, watched the struggle between surrender and want, the way your lips stayed parted on silent breaths, the way your eyes stayed locked on his.
When he could feel you starting to shake, when your body was trembling so hard that he could feel it in his own, he loosened his hold on your throat.
“Now,” he said.
You came apart.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your cry sharp and broken as you rode the release. He watched your face through it, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your mouth opened on a silent scream, the way your body arched and bucked against him, taking every inch of his cock as you pulsed around him.
He did not let you recover.
He pulled out of you, the sudden loss making you gasp, and he moved before you could draw breath. His hands found your hips, rolling you onto your stomach, and you went willingly, boneless and trembling, your cheek pressed to the pillow, your arms stretched above your head.
He settled behind you, his knees spreading yours, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He did not enter you. He leaned forward, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing your ear.
“Now,” he said, his voice a low growl, ”I am going to stop being gentle, but you need to tell me, my love. You must tell me if it is too much.”
“Gods, please Baelor, fucking use me!”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion.You cried out a sharp, keening sound that was not pain but the shock of fullness, the sudden stretch of him driving deep.
He did not pause. He set a rhythm that was punishing, each thrust slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber. “There you go, let them hear who's fucking you.”
The bed frame groaned beneath you, and you took it, your body yielding to every drive of his hips.
“Baelor!”
His hand found your hair, fisting in the strands, and he pulled your head back. Your spine arched, your throat exposed, and he drove into you from behind, the angle deeper, harder, each thrust hitting the place that made you gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.
“You are mine,” he said, the words torn from his chest. “Only mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped, the word broken by the force of his thrusts. “Yours, yours —”
He came with a groan, his release pouring into you in hot pulses, his hips grinding against yours as he emptied himself into you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled by the pillow, your whole self shuddering through the aftershocks.
He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged against your shoulder. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, the slow return of the world beyond the walls of your chamber.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his body covering yours, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder.
Your hand found his, your fingers threading through his, and you squeezed.
“Well,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips curving against the pillow. “That was not gentle.”
He laughed, a rough, surprised sound that was almost a sob. “No.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. Your smile was soft, satisfied, and full of love
“I did not want gentle,” you said. “I wanted you.”
He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and let the words settle into the hollow places, filling them with something that felt like home.
You turned in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, your body sliding against his as you rolled to face him. The firelight caught the marks on your throat, dark fingerprints blooming like petals on pale skin and he watched your eyes, looking for any flicker of regret.
There was none.
Only warmth, only wanting, only the slow curve of your lips as you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed.
He let you. He let you roll him onto his back, let you settle over his hips, your thighs straddling his, the damp heat of your skin pressing against his half-hard cock.
You were beautiful like this, hair wild, skin flushed, the marks of his hands on your throat like a claim he had not known he needed to make.
“My turn,” you said.Your voice was low, husky, the voice of someone who had been well loved and was not finished. You shifted back, sliding down his body, your lips trailing a path down his chest, over his stomach, your tongue tracing the line of muscle that led to his navel.
He watched you go.
The sight of you, your hair spilling across his thighs, your eyes dark and fixed on his cock made his breath catch. He was already hard again, the blood rising at the sight of your mouth hovering over the tip.
You took him in your hand first. Your fingers wrapped around the base, and you held him there, examining him, your thumb tracing the vein that ran along the underside.
The touch was light, almost clinical, and he felt the ache of it in his balls, in the base of his spine, in the raw need that was already building again.
“I have wanted to do this,” you said, your voice a murmur against his skin, “since the first night you held me.”
Your tongue touched the tip.
A single, deliberate stroke, flat and warm, that tasted the bead of moisture already gathering there. His hips jerked, a reflex he could not control, and you smiled, he felt the curve of your lips against him, before you opened your mouth and took him in.
The heat of your mouth was a shock every time. He had felt it before, of course, you had taken him in your mouth on your wedding night, shy and unsure, and he had let you set the pace, had held himself still while you learned the shape of him.
But this was different.
This was hunger.
This was the woman who had asked him to hurt her, who had met his beast and called it by name, now taking him deep with a confidence that made his vision blur at the edges.
Your head moved, slow and deliberate. Your tongue traced the vein, the ridge, the sensitive spot beneath the head that made his breath stutter. Your hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in time with your mouth, and the wet sounds you made, the small, greedy sounds of a woman who was enjoying herself, filled the chamber.
His hand found your hair, “Gods,” he did not pull. He simply rested it there, his fingers threading through the honey-brown strands, grounding himself in the reality of what was happening.
You looked up at him. Your mouth was stretched around his cock, your lips slick with spit, your eyes meeting his with a question.
He nodded. Just once.
A permission he did not need to speak.
You took him deeper.
The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you did not flinch and that made him throw his head back, “Oh, fuck!”
You held there, your throat working around him, your eyes still on his, and the sight of you, the perfect surrender of your body accepting him, drove a groan from his chest that was almost a sob.You pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock.
Then you went down again. Faster this time. Harder.
Your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth, and the sounds, the wet, obscene sounds of you sucking him, of your throat taking him, of your moaning around his cock, were the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
His hand tightened in your hair. Not to force you, you did not need forcing, but to hold you there, to feel the weight of your commitment, the trust in the way you let him guide you.
He breathed your name, and it was a prayer.
“Gods, that's it, my sweet wife,” he murmured, voice thick with a mixture of longing and relief, as if your presence was the only calm in the storm raging within him.
The moment held a fragile tenderness amid the chaos, a shared sanctuary where unspoken words found their meaning in the smallest of touches.
You responded to Baelor’s urgency with a soft, involuntary moan, the sound blending with his as the intensity of the moment deepened.
When he reached his release, you swallowed it with a gentle, caring motion, a shared expression of trust and intimacy between you.
A moan of your own escaped softly, mingling with the heavy breaths that filled the room, a quiet affirmation of the bond that held you both steady amid the chaos around you.
The space between you was charged, tender, and fierce all at once, a refuge where vulnerability and strength intertwined.
Baelor gathered you into his arms, the fierce tension of moments before softening into something tender and wholly vulnerable. His touch was careful, as if afraid to break the fragile connection you both shared.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours with a delicate reverence. Then, slowly, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans into a quiet, intimate exchange.
The kiss was gentle, lingering, an unspoken promise of healing and devotion amid the turmoil.In his embrace, time seemed to slow, and the chaotic world outside the chambers melted away, leaving only the warmth of your shared breath and the steady beat of two hearts seeking solace in each other.
“I quite liked that side of you,” you murmured, voice low and playful, “hmm, you know what they say. Why ride a horse when you can fuck a dragon.”
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, the fire in his mismatched eyes flickering with both amusement and something rawer, pride, desire, and an unspoken connection that needed no further words.
He tightened his embrace gently, a quiet affirmation that the dragon within him, fierce and untamed, was yours alone.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Baelor's eyes linger on the bruises on your throat and he strokes your skin, “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, you get to rub it in that slimy viper’s face when he realises you do indeed fuck like you fight.”
“Hmm.”
“Gods, Baelor! Again?!”
“I cannot help that you have awakened the dragon.”
Your laughter spills into the air as Baelor rolls over you again, kissing you, worshipping you, ensuring that despite what had just occurred, you will always be safe with him.
tags: smut & fluff, domestic, established relationship (marriage), housewife!reader, butcher!simon, food, body worship & praise, missionary,
a/n: changed a little bit of it for the fic, i hope that's okay! i hope everyone loves it!!
it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, these were little videos that you made when simon was at work. people did a lot worse on the internet! you were mostly in sweet aprons with your username embroidered onto them and occasionally one of the dresses that your loving husband bought you!
you wanted to keep yourself busy now that you were a stay-at-home wife and the income from being part of the creator's program was a nice bonus.
"thank you for the banana bread recipe, mrs. riley!"
"where did you get that dress?"
"i wonder what mister riley looks like! i bet she totally lucked out!!"
you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!
"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.
you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.
"they think that you're like christian grey."
"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."
another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.
"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.
it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!
but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.
"girl, are you okay?"
"who is that?!"
"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"
"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"
you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!
you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.
oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.
before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.
you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.
"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."
his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"
you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."
"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.
he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.
you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.
"simon."
"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!
he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.
i ain't no pretty boy, dove.
but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.
when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.
so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.
"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.
"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.
he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.
"honey."
"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."
you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.
"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.
"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.
he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.
"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.
your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.
he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.
"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."
you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.
"baby." he cooed.
"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.
the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.
"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.
"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.
simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.
you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.
"not too bad for a serial killer."
"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."
before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."
-
the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.
"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"
you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.
"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"
i hope you love this fic! if you have any suggestions, my open! till next time <3
synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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── .✦ The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
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You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
“Y/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
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The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
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On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Mom—"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.
"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.
"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simon—"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmth—unexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messy—messier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."
He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write, please heed the tags before each chapter as this story is 18+
Rewatching A Discovery of Witches, and you know Diana's main attraction to Matthew is that he's her own personal artifact. Harkness should've advertised the series as being "for every girl who's ever wanted to marry a magical antiquity."
a/n: the pictures are used for aesthetic purposes only! reader does not have a physical description! thank you sm for the request anon!! this was very fun to do again < 3 ! my modern!dunk is a bit of a farm man okay walk with me!
MODERN!DUNK did not bother with social media much before he met you. he was a rather busy man, keeping to himself and minding his own business as much as he could. dunk was not a big fan of being perceived by the people who did not matter to him, of possible judgmental strangers having opinions on the way he lived his life or the state of his appearance. he had made a social media account to maybe get in touch with like-minded people who loved horses and enjoyed nature, not to... flaunt himself. it was once in a blue moon that he shared pictures from his daily life, and even then, they were rather candid and poorly captured. dunk was a little ashamed of his photography skills, but those would have to do. having a farmhouse and livestock to look after took most of his free time. there was little left for much else.
he meets you at the supermarket closest to his farmhouse. dunk had seen you around before, but never had the wits about him to approach or strike a conversation with you. luckily for him, it seemed you were more perceptive than he was. dunk supposes it wasn't not hard for anyone, especially you, to realize how lingering his looks were, having caught him a handful of times, big, wide baby blues trained on you in wonder and trepidation. his cheeks have been red too, dammit. but dunk wouldn't beat himself up too much for his clumsiness, for it had landed him your phone number! he could've sworn his smile was about to split his face when you pressed a slip of paper with the neat handwriting on it, urging him softly to contact you whenever he wished. your name was also scribbled on it. dunk blushed. you had such a pretty name. it was only fair of him to offer his own in response with the eagerness of a child.
he wonders, absentmindedly, if you have any social media. maybe you will be curious and look up his name? you do know what he looks like, but maybe you would be curious for more? dunk feels silly for thinking so ahead when he only now got your number. but the thought lingers.
maybe a few more pictures of him on his page wouldn't hurt. what if the pretty lady is curious, after all?
turns out, you are not fond of posting yourself on social media much, dunk learns in the following weeks he spends with you. that's alright, he thinks. nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen! he agrees, after all, more or less, but does tell you about the account he has, shy and reluctant to show you the pictures he posted, feeling like a fool under your scrutiny.
his blush only deepens when you start cooing over his pictures, praising how handsome he looks and how much you love them! dunk feels like he could combust right then and there under all the compliments. the way you pinch your fingers and zoom on some of the photos to see his face better or ogle his muscles. he almost passes out when you comment how strong he looks when he works on the farm. even offer to take his pictures for him next time he feels like snapping a few.
it'll be a win-win for both, you say. he gets to look handsome and you get to look at him.
dunk swears his ears are fuming from how flushed he is, but he nods eagerly anyway, secretly loving the concept of you being the one behind the camera, smiling so prettily at him, your eyes shining.
taking pictures becomes one of his favorite things to do.
a couple of weeks later, and dunk is fumbling with his words, expressing his feelings for you in the most ardent, clumsy way. it's sweet and lovely and so, so honest. just like him.
you two are inseparable afterwards. dunk is over the moon to have you visit his farmhouse more often, showing you every corner and crevice and getting you acquainted with the place. he loves seeing you walk around, interacting with the horses and livestock, and asking about every flower and plant you see. dunk is so in love that he feels like he could burst. you are the loveliest thing he has ever seen, and he wishes to one day take pictures of you, too, just like you do of him. but for now, he's more than happy to be on the other side of the camera, smiling at you and feeling like the luckiest man on earth.
slowly, traces of you start appearing in the pictures. it makes dunk's heart soar in his chest when he posts them for the first time. now people can see that there is someone precious helping him take such beautiful photography, even if it is mostly of himself.
more and more of you start bleeding into the photography, and dunk gets a rosy tint in his cheeks every time someone comments under his post, asking who the other person is.
dunk wants to tell everyone about you. he's not hiding you. never. he is so proud of being your lover, thanking every god out there for bringing you into his path.
he is just... a little nervous. maybe you do not want to put yourself out there so much for people to see. maybe you wish things to be more private, and dunk understands and respects that. he is happy with how things are now.
maybe in the future, he would ask if he can have one or two pictures of your pretty face on his page so people can see who owns his heart and soul.
one day, you mention offhandedly that you two barely have any pictures together, and should take more.
dunk's heart almost stops in his chest out of pure joy and delight, agreeing so, so earnestly, hands already fumbling for his phone.
he keeps all of those in a separate folder, which he names with a cute, simple heart. but it's a heart in your favorite color. he thinks it's cute and romantic. you agree.
dunk does not flood his social page with all the pictures at once. he does not want to make it too overwhelming for you, just in case.
but he cannot help himself as he drops one or two here and there every time he feels like updating his page. now people can see how beautiful his lover is! he's so happy.
sometimes, he sneaks pictures of you, candid and sweet. those might be his favourites.
you look every bit of yourself, relaxed and pretty. capturing you at your most authentic makes butterflies swarm in his stomach, threatening to choke him from how much tenderness he feels for you.
it feels like he has pieces of you with him. he does post those, but also makes sure to print them out and tuck them somewhere in his car where he can see them at all times. the lonely drives feel better now because he gets to look up and see the person he loves most.
dunk's neighbour, egg, often jokes that you two should get married soon.
"you look like those old married couples, anyway!" he would say, and every time, dunk would get this faraway look in his eyes for a few moments, as if imagining it. you, as his pretty, beautiful wife, living happily in his farmhouse and sharing your life with him.
the blush on his cheeks is so bright and warm when his eyes flit to you, already imagining waking up to you every morning and getting to kiss you silly as he comes back for dinner after a hard day of tending to the farm.
maybe he starts making cute, makeshift rings from plants or grass he picks up around his property. and maybe dodges your soft looks and inquiries as to why he suddenly picked up this cute hobby.
secretly, dunk loves feeling like he can protect you, even if you can take care of yourself. he's so proud when he sees you stand up for yourself, even though he wants nothing more than to do it for you. he respects your autonomy and encourages you to be independent.
but he loves feeling needed and wanted.
loves to see how much stronger he looks beside you. how taller. how bigger.
it's a small, shameful part of him that he keeps hidden, like a dirty little secret.
when he can clearly see the difference between your physiques in pictures, he gets so flustered, red from the tips of his ears to the valley of his pecs.
asking you to start a live together is so nerve-wracking, he feels like all the blood rushed to his face, and he cannot find the right words to express how happy that'll make him.
dunk loves you so much, and even though he is happy with how things are, he can only wish to have you closer. so much closer. much more often.
it's a greedy, selfish feeling, but he cannot help it. you are everything to him. the first rays of sunshine at dawn and all the glittering stars in the sky at dusk.
a/n: the pictures are used for aesthetic purposes only! reader does not have a physical description! thank you sm for the request anon!! this was very fun to do again < 3 ! my modern!dunk is a bit of a farm man okay walk with me!
MODERN!DUNK did not bother with social media much before he met you. he was a rather busy man, keeping to himself and minding his own business as much as he could. dunk was not a big fan of being perceived by the people who did not matter to him, of possible judgmental strangers having opinions on the way he lived his life or the state of his appearance. he had made a social media account to maybe get in touch with like-minded people who loved horses and enjoyed nature, not to... flaunt himself. it was once in a blue moon that he shared pictures from his daily life, and even then, they were rather candid and poorly captured. dunk was a little ashamed of his photography skills, but those would have to do. having a farmhouse and livestock to look after took most of his free time. there was little left for much else.
he meets you at the supermarket closest to his farmhouse. dunk had seen you around before, but never had the wits about him to approach or strike a conversation with you. luckily for him, it seemed you were more perceptive than he was. dunk supposes it wasn't not hard for anyone, especially you, to realize how lingering his looks were, having caught him a handful of times, big, wide baby blues trained on you in wonder and trepidation. his cheeks have been red too, dammit. but dunk wouldn't beat himself up too much for his clumsiness, for it had landed him your phone number! he could've sworn his smile was about to split his face when you pressed a slip of paper with the neat handwriting on it, urging him softly to contact you whenever he wished. your name was also scribbled on it. dunk blushed. you had such a pretty name. it was only fair of him to offer his own in response with the eagerness of a child.
he wonders, absentmindedly, if you have any social media. maybe you will be curious and look up his name? you do know what he looks like, but maybe you would be curious for more? dunk feels silly for thinking so ahead when he only now got your number. but the thought lingers.
maybe a few more pictures of him on his page wouldn't hurt. what if the pretty lady is curious, after all?
turns out, you are not fond of posting yourself on social media much, dunk learns in the following weeks he spends with you. that's alright, he thinks. nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen! he agrees, after all, more or less, but does tell you about the account he has, shy and reluctant to show you the pictures he posted, feeling like a fool under your scrutiny.
his blush only deepens when you start cooing over his pictures, praising how handsome he looks and how much you love them! dunk feels like he could combust right then and there under all the compliments. the way you pinch your fingers and zoom on some of the photos to see his face better or ogle his muscles. he almost passes out when you comment how strong he looks when he works on the farm. even offer to take his pictures for him next time he feels like snapping a few.
it'll be a win-win for both, you say. he gets to look handsome and you get to look at him.
dunk swears his ears are fuming from how flushed he is, but he nods eagerly anyway, secretly loving the concept of you being the one behind the camera, smiling so prettily at him, your eyes shining.
taking pictures becomes one of his favorite things to do.
a couple of weeks later, and dunk is fumbling with his words, expressing his feelings for you in the most ardent, clumsy way. it's sweet and lovely and so, so honest. just like him.
you two are inseparable afterwards. dunk is over the moon to have you visit his farmhouse more often, showing you every corner and crevice and getting you acquainted with the place. he loves seeing you walk around, interacting with the horses and livestock, and asking about every flower and plant you see. dunk is so in love that he feels like he could burst. you are the loveliest thing he has ever seen, and he wishes to one day take pictures of you, too, just like you do of him. but for now, he's more than happy to be on the other side of the camera, smiling at you and feeling like the luckiest man on earth.
slowly, traces of you start appearing in the pictures. it makes dunk's heart soar in his chest when he posts them for the first time. now people can see that there is someone precious helping him take such beautiful photography, even if it is mostly of himself.
more and more of you start bleeding into the photography, and dunk gets a rosy tint in his cheeks every time someone comments under his post, asking who the other person is.
dunk wants to tell everyone about you. he's not hiding you. never. he is so proud of being your lover, thanking every god out there for bringing you into his path.
he is just... a little nervous. maybe you do not want to put yourself out there so much for people to see. maybe you wish things to be more private, and dunk understands and respects that. he is happy with how things are now.
maybe in the future, he would ask if he can have one or two pictures of your pretty face on his page so people can see who owns his heart and soul.
one day, you mention offhandedly that you two barely have any pictures together, and should take more.
dunk's heart almost stops in his chest out of pure joy and delight, agreeing so, so earnestly, hands already fumbling for his phone.
he keeps all of those in a separate folder, which he names with a cute, simple heart. but it's a heart in your favorite color. he thinks it's cute and romantic. you agree.
dunk does not flood his social page with all the pictures at once. he does not want to make it too overwhelming for you, just in case.
but he cannot help himself as he drops one or two here and there every time he feels like updating his page. now people can see how beautiful his lover is! he's so happy.
sometimes, he sneaks pictures of you, candid and sweet. those might be his favourites.
you look every bit of yourself, relaxed and pretty. capturing you at your most authentic makes butterflies swarm in his stomach, threatening to choke him from how much tenderness he feels for you.
it feels like he has pieces of you with him. he does post those, but also makes sure to print them out and tuck them somewhere in his car where he can see them at all times. the lonely drives feel better now because he gets to look up and see the person he loves most.
dunk's neighbour, egg, often jokes that you two should get married soon.
"you look like those old married couples, anyway!" he would say, and every time, dunk would get this faraway look in his eyes for a few moments, as if imagining it. you, as his pretty, beautiful wife, living happily in his farmhouse and sharing your life with him.
the blush on his cheeks is so bright and warm when his eyes flit to you, already imagining waking up to you every morning and getting to kiss you silly as he comes back for dinner after a hard day of tending to the farm.
maybe he starts making cute, makeshift rings from plants or grass he picks up around his property. and maybe dodges your soft looks and inquiries as to why he suddenly picked up this cute hobby.
secretly, dunk loves feeling like he can protect you, even if you can take care of yourself. he's so proud when he sees you stand up for yourself, even though he wants nothing more than to do it for you. he respects your autonomy and encourages you to be independent.
but he loves feeling needed and wanted.
loves to see how much stronger he looks beside you. how taller. how bigger.
it's a small, shameful part of him that he keeps hidden, like a dirty little secret.
when he can clearly see the difference between your physiques in pictures, he gets so flustered, red from the tips of his ears to the valley of his pecs.
asking you to start a live together is so nerve-wracking, he feels like all the blood rushed to his face, and he cannot find the right words to express how happy that'll make him.
dunk loves you so much, and even though he is happy with how things are, he can only wish to have you closer. so much closer. much more often.
it's a greedy, selfish feeling, but he cannot help it. you are everything to him. the first rays of sunshine at dawn and all the glittering stars in the sky at dusk.
