Valarr Targaryen x Baratheon!fem!wife!reader—in which, you die in childbirth and Valarr must follow you to the After as he's followed you forever.
TW: DEATH! The reader dies and Valarr kills himself because he cannot live without her. it is ANGST!!! There is also mention of wedding night sex, but it is not graphic. Mainly ANGST!!!!
A/N: This has revived me (just in time for studying for my last final!!)
You were everything to Valarr, every bit of good in this world, every bit of sunshine and moonlight and every hope. You were every wish he’d ever had come to startling fruition. You were the world and the sun and the stars and everything in the universe. You were, simply, everything.
You had been everything and his for years, since the moment he met you as a child, since he asked you at five years old to marry him—not because he knew what marriage was, only that he never wanted to lose you. You are everything to him and yet here you are, dying.
You are dying bringing forth your child, his child. You are his everything, his sun and moon and stars and yet you are dying. You are withering.
The one person who has always held him upright is dying, the one who was calm and gentle, who weathered every storm of his mind. The one who cared for him, not a crown or a legacy but him. Him entire and yet the world was trying to take you from him.
The world was trying to take you, the Stranger trying to steal you from him, your blood leaching out onto the mattress as a baby tried to leave you. The proof of your love was taking you from him. He did not want you to leave, he could not handle if you left.
He knew when he was five. He knew when he was six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He knew that all his life.
He knows that now—there is no him without you.
And there never was.
***
Valarr is tired of the festival, the tourney, the rowdy shouts and cheers of the people. He wants quiet and solitude. He wants to disappear and just be allowed to be a child, but he cannot because he is a prince. The heir of the heir and that means something to these men. These men who set the rules on his life, rules he doesn’t yet understand.
Rules of duty and piety and propriety. Things that are strange, things that his mother tells him not to think too much on, that it matters not, not yet. And yet they haunt the young prince as he wanders, a small toy dragon held tightly in one hand, tiny little fingers curled around the carved wood.
He heard the men whisper of betrothals and brides and alliances, his father answering back in an angry whisper, words harsh, “my boy will marry for love before we ever choose one of your houses!” Valarr didn’t understand quite what was going on, just that it was about him. As it always is.
Which is why he is running. Not forever of course, he’ll need to be back by dinnertime or else his mother will panic and panic isn’t good for the baby in her belly—or so his father tells him. But he is running now, running from the weight of the crown which he doesn’t even want.
“Why do you run, little prince?” calls a soft voice, one light and airy and it startles Valarr, the sound so unlike what he has heard all his life. The sound is that of peace and innocence and things Valarr doesn’t understand.
Yet.
“I’m tired of the court,” he answers, his head swivelling around, eyes scanning every inch of the forest, the glade just behind the tourney fields looking for whoever spoke, whoever spoke in that perfect voice that seems like something that he needs even if he doesn’t understand it yet.
“Courts are very tiring, aren’t they?” the voice continues, the words seeming to come from everywhere in the forest all at once. “But something being tiring is not a reason to run. My father says there is never a reason to run—Baratheon’s are the storm and storms flee for no man.”
“Where are you, voice?” Valarr asks, his head still spinning, sight only that of tree trunks and leaves and foliage on the grassy ground.
“Look up,” the voice says and he does, glimpses of clear blue sky visible through the shadowed stretches of tree branches.
“I do not see you, forest sprite,” he says and he can hear the voice laugh, the sound perfect and precious and like the sound of silver bells pealing and yet at the same time like the rumble of thunder during a storm before the first crash of lightening.
“I sit in a tree, little prince. I am not the sky nor no forest sprite,” the voice says and Valarr looks, peering at every tree until he finds the owner of the voice—until he finds you. You are as young as he, resting on a tree branch, halfway up a tall, towering oak, a dagger spinning in your two small hands, large eyes glimmering with mischief and focused solely on him, looking every inch the forest sprite he believed you were.
“Then what are you? A fairy or a nymph, perhaps?” he calls out, running towards your tree, jumping and catching a branch in his two hands, hauling himself up and towards you, his dragon resting at the base of trunk.
“I am but a girl,” you reply as he reaches you, climbing onto the branch beside you, his back against the trunk, head twisted to you—taking in every inch of you, this forest spirit complaining of the tiring nature of court.
“My father is talking with the court about marriage and betrothals for me,” he tells you, unsure why he tells you this, yet not choosing to think so much on it. That is the nature of children after all. “But I am just a boy! What do I know of marriage and love and alliances?”
“My father is the same,” you reply, your voice light, carrying through the woods, ringing and echoing. “He says the Storm needs a match. Someone proper and strong; someone who will not try to bottle the power. Whatever that means.”
“You do not want the marriages?” he asks you and you turn to him, exasperation in those forest sprite eyes and you shake your head.
“I do not want to be caged!” you cry, standing now, tucking the dagger into a makeshift belt at your waist, jumping once on the branch, Valarr’s heart rushing into his throat, a strange and foreign feeling constricting his throat and his chest, making breathing difficult as he watches you hop up and down on that thin branch.
Fear, that’s what he’s feeling. Fear.
Fear that you will fall and die. Fear that you will die and he will be alone again and just when you were becoming friends. He told you of his fears and now you court death?! That’s hardly fair!
“Stop that!” he demands, his voice every inch the spoiled prince he is.
“Why? I am a storm beholden to no man and I do what I want,” you answer, not rude simply plain. The words simply facts to you.
“Because I do not want you dying!” Valarr cries and he can feel tears welling in his eyes, the same feeling as when his cousin mocks him for his dark hair, saying he’s not Targaryen, not truly—just a bastard in noble garb. “You are my friend and I do not want you leaving me!” He watches you sigh and stop bouncing on the branch, simply sitting down, legs dangling off the edge, eyes wide as they look at him.
“Fine. But the you cannot leave me either since I have no friends either,” you tell him and he can feel the fear abate, a smile growing on his face as the tears dry up, disappear.
“Since both of our fathers speak of marriage…” he muses, lips curving up in a mischievous smile, “why don’t we marry each other and then we never leave each other and are married to our friend?!” He’s excited, very much so and even more so when you nod, once, assent to the arrangement.
“Very well,” you reply, “have you a ring? To marry someone you need a ring?” And Valarr looks down at his hands where the signet ring his father gave him when he was born rests as it always has. He likes the little ring but he doesn’t want to lose you, the first friend he’s ever had, the forest sprite made of storms.
“I have this,” he says, pulling it off his hand and holding it out to you in his palm. “Will it do?”
“Very much so,” you tell him, lips curving in a smile. “Now you have to put it on my finger and then we’re married…Or I think so…that’s what all the Storm’s End ladies tell me makes a marriage and they shouldn’t lie.” He takes the ring and slides it onto your small, chubby finger, the left ring one that you indicate.
“Now we’re married!” he cries and you smile at him once, a pleased sort of smile before you slide off your branch, hopping down until your feet rest on the forest floor and you look up at him, cupping your hands around your mouth and yelling up at him: “Come on, little husband! We must inform our parents of the matters!”
And Valarr follows you, his only friend, the storm in girl’s skin. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he thinks he would follow you forever, no matter where you went.
He did not want to lose you.
Not ever.
***
You were a storm in a human body, a storm wrapped up in beauty and grace and perfection but a storm nonetheless. And storms are strong, they are not supposed to die like this. Die in agony and pain and blood.
Storms are supposed last for a long time, slowly slowly slowly going out, fading away so perfectly, so painlessly. Not like this.
Never…like this.
Never with hands clutching and squeezing, voice screaming and blood seeping and body just…stopping. Storms are supposed to fade not just stop. There must be an end not a sudden disappearance. Storms reshape lands, they don’t just disappear, just stop.
Storms are infinite.
You are infinite. There should be no end to you. Not yet. Not yet. You’re still so young, there is more life to live. More life to live with him. He can’t lose you, he could never lose you. You have been everything to him since the moment he heard you call him little prince, a nickname you have never let go of.
“Just…just hold on, my storm…please, just hang on!” he cries, falling to his knees by your bed, both of his hands clutching yours like lifelines, holding onto you, trying to anchor both you and him here, in this world. He wants his touch to prevent the Stranger from taking you, he wants to be like his ancestors of old.
He wants to be strong enough to keep you here.
“I…love…you,” you wheeze, breaths constricted as the midwives pull the baby, its cry shattering through the room, so strong, so full of life.
The life it stole from you. The life it took from you, the life it takes from you. It is the reason you are dying when there is still so much to live, so much to do, so much to see.
You promised him you would never leave.
And you cannot break a promise.
***
He watches as you step from the carriage, dressed in pure gold, spun through with threads of black, every inch the Baratheon daughter. Every inch the Young Prince’s promised bride.
“Lord Lyonel,” Baelor calls and Valarr turns, orienting unconsciously to his father like always, still ever the boy who wanted to be a man like his father, who wanted nothing more than his father to tell him he loved him. That he was proud. “Wonderful to see you again.”
“And you, Prince Baelor,” your father responds in kind, face splitting in a wide grin, the one that is whispered about by the women of the court as they plot and plan to become the second Lady Baratheon, your mother having passed when giving birth to you, the only Baratheon heir.
“Little prince!” you call out as soon as you see him, those forest sprite eyes glimmering with mischief, lighting up like lightening cutting through the darkness of a stormy night, the stars and sun cutting through the dark clouds. “I did not expect to see you so soon! Is it not bad luck for the groom to see his bride before the wedding?”
Valarr cannot take his eyes from you, wanting nothing more than to take you in his arms and run away with you, ceremonies and propriety be damned. You are his and he is yours and that is the most basic truth of his existence. He exists for you and you alone.
He discovered that when he met you at five, placed the signet ring on your finger—the one still sitting there, glimmering the sunlight, catching off the three-headed dragon.
“You have never cared for luck before, my forest sprite,” he answers, stepping towards you, crossing the distance in two bounds, catching up to you, his hands taking yours, pulling them up to his chest, forehead resting against yours, your breaths his air.
“I am no forest sprite, little prince,” you counter, voice teasing but a thread of iron, hardened and unbreakable, running through it. “I am a storm. One infinite and powerful that cannot be bottled, caged or broken. Ours is the fury, after all.” He watches as you smile, that mischievous smile that you have always had, the one that makes you seem more fairy kin than storm—not that you listen.
“Infinite, hmm?” he asks you and you nod once, the movement echoing through him. It would even if his forehead were not pressed to yours because he would feel every movement of your body always. You are his and he is yours.
“That is the nature of a storm,” you whisper, tone lilting and falling and rising and soaring. “You think it has broken, but it is never really gone, simply biding its time before returning.”
“Then if you are an infinite storm,” he muses, “that must mean you’ll never leave me.” The two of you are all that exist in the moment, every around you having faded to nothing more than blurs on the side, focus on each other and each other alone.
“I promise, little prince,” you whisper and the teasing tone is gone, the words not a continuation of a jest, but a vow. An informal one, but one just as powerful nonetheless.
“I shall hold you to that, my…storm.”
***
“Stay! Just stay with me goddammit!” he cries, his head falling to the mattress, pressing against your joined hands, pulse stuttering and slowing to a stop beneath his fingers. “You need to stay! You promised!” His words are not truly words, not truly screams or cries or yells, no they are roars. They are animal and primal because he needs you.
He has always needed you and even more so now.
“We…cannot—always…maintain…that which…we need…to…little prince,” you whisper, the words ragged and wheezing and he lifts his head, looking at you through eyes that cannot truly see, so lined with tears that the world is barely more than blurs, smudges.
“But…you promised me,” he whispers, the fire inside of him dwindling in the face of you, of your love, of your dying eyes still faintly glimmering with the shine of mischief, of fairy troubles.
“And…I never…shall,” you breathe out. “Am always…in…here,” your one hand presses against your chest, above your heart, the one that’s slowing slowing slowing, dying dying dying. “Never…gone.”
“But I need you here,” he cries, the tears falling too fast to truly try to stop. They fall and burn like fire, like the nature of his blood has only truly come alive in the wake of losing you. “I need you with me!”
“I…love…you,” you breathe, your hand rising, shaking and quivering from your breast to fall upon his head, sliding to rest upon his cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth, the gesture like that of a butterfly kiss, barely there and quivering all the while. “Always…will.”
“Please,” he begs but you are gone, hand slipping from his face, body going lax and eyes now glassy and dead, the glimmer of fairy kin gone.
Stolen.
“COME BACK TO ME!” he roars, crawling up the bed, crawling to you, pulling you against him and shaking you.
Begging you, to just come back and be with him.
To maintain your promise.
***
He watches you as you approach, mismatched eyes glimmering as you twirl, dancing around the dancers on the stone floor of the Keep, exasperation glimmering in those perfect, fairy kin eyes.
“Why do weddings take so damn long?” you cry, falling into his arms, his body reacting, twirling you just slightly as he lifts you up, managing to somehow pull you closer against him, yet it is not enough. Will never be enough.
“People love us, my storm,” he whispers, voice happy and relaxed, tone full of love and amusement. Amusement that only grows when you place your feet back on the floor and look up at him, exasperation growing, fairy kin eyes narrowing at him, the storm of your nature shining through.
“They could love us a little less,” you mutter, glaring at the people around you, lips, those perfect, plush lips, pressing into a line at the sight of the courtiers dancing and laughing and talking, drinking deeply from their cups. “Or you could love me a little more.”
And that is when Valarr realizes what you want, what you are waiting for. You were waiting for him, possibly for a long time and he had been too dense to understand. To notice.
And so he remedies his mistake, guiding you from the hall, up the stairs to the chambers you shall share, the ones which will be the walls of your future, the walls that protect and guard the two of you, shelter you and your love, watch as they grow.
He shuts the door behind you, his gaze falling to you, hands careful and gentle as he undoes the laces which hold your gown upon you, slipping the dark red and gold gown from your body, guiding you out of it, of your small clothes, letting you strip him, his body coming alight under your touch.
And then his lips find yours, the kiss sweet and innocent before deepening, a collision of tongue and teeth, hands roaming over each other’s bodies, naked form to naked form, the two of you walking to the bed, him pressing you down, his body entirely too hard and rigid, but he ignores.
He ignores it, taking to you, to your body, your pleasure. He worships you as you were always meant to be, delighting in the way you unravel around him. Delighting in the way you cry for him. Not his touch, but him in you. The joining.
And he obliges, sliding inside of you, the feeling too much and yet not enough, strange and all too perfect. He would happily remain like this for all his life, but desire surges and he finds the rhythm of snapping his hips forwards, driving up into you, his tongue still covered in your flavour, the taste of perfection, of storms and dreams and wishes and sins.
And when he comes undone, you coming undone around him at the same time, he collapses beside you, pulling you close against him, your chest to his, delighting the way he can feel your heartbeat in his chest, knowing you have the same.
Knowing you can feel the evidence of his life as clearly as he can feel yours. And for a moment it is enough, more than enough with the way your lips are pressing against his, lazy kisses, soft kisses, deep kisses. But it’s not enough.
“Did you mean your promise that you would never leave me?” he asks now, his voice surprisingly quiet and you look at him with surprise, those fairy kin, storm-bred eyes glimmering with surprise and hurt and fear and love.
“Yes, of course,” you whisper, voice fierce, tone fiercer. “I meant every promise I have ever made to you.” And he holds you closer, the feeling of more than enough spreading through him, calming at your words.
“I just cannot lose you,” he whispers, watching as your perfect eyes widen in knowing, understanding.
“I promise I shall never leave. Never.”
“I shall hold you to that, my storm.”
***
“Your Grace,” one of the midwives calls out, her voice cutting through his cries, his desperate pleas of come back to me, just come back. “What about your son?” He glances over, eyes still so full of tears and pain and loss, betrayal anger and inevitability that he cannot see, not truly, not clearly, but at the same enough because he can see the colour of your eyes in the bundle that the midwife holds.
And it is too much—and not in the right way.
He knows that there are two ways having a child and losing a wife in the same breath can go, knows because your father chose when you were born to love you and because his chose to love Matarys, but he cannot.
He cannot love the child that took you because if it had never been born, you would still be here, alive and vibrant and warm in his arms, laughing and dancing and twirling, causing mischief as every inch the storm.
He cannot love the thief of your life.
“GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” he screams and the midwife is startled, taking a step back and away, the child held loosely in her hands and Valarr wishes she would drop it, that it would die as punishment for taking yours.
“But he is your son!” she argues and he only pulls your body, pulls you, closer to him, tears still streaming, sight now impossible and he thanks the tears for he cannot see your eyes in that thief.
“GET IT OUT OF MY SIGHT!” he roars and the midwife runs, the Maester following behind until the room is empty, empty of all but you and him.
And he pulls you against him, catching the scent of you, cutting through the metallic smell of blood and the sour scent of death. He can smell you, can feel you, can almost pretend that you are warm and alive, blood pumping through your body, that it has not seeped and dried into sheets.
No. No, you are alive. You are. He is holding you and you are breathing and your heart is pumping. You must be because you promised.
“Come back,” he whispers against your skin, voice cracking and breaking and shattering, throat thick with both shed and unshed tears. “Come back to me. Come back and love me. Please. You promised me!”
And that is what he whispers into your body’s skin over and over and over, you promised me.
***
“I thought I would find you here,” he calls out to you, watching as you stand with your arms spread wide, spinning and twirling in the rain as if you are embracing the storm, dancing with it.
“Where else would I be, Valarr?” you reply, your voice sounding like heaven, calm and quiet and joyful, the sound of laughter in a voice and he loves it, loves you. “When the sky opens up, it is because it calls me home!”
“Home is underneath the rain?” he asks, stepping out into the yard, feeling the droplets land warm and light upon his skin, his hair, plastering it down onto his forehead as he walks to you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, holding lightly as he begins to sway with you, your arms wrapping around his neck in response.
“I am a storm, little prince,” you tell him, lips curving up into your fairy kin smile—the one that matches the gleam in your perfect eyes. “And a storm should find peace in the chaos of itself.”
“Why are you more poetic when you speak of storms then of me?” he asks and is delighted by hearing your laughter, the sound still that of thunder in a lightning storm and silver bells cutting through stillness and silence. The sound so perfect that he wants to bottle it up and save it for whenever you are apart.
Which is never, but it could happen. One day. Maybe.
“Because I need not be poetic of you,” you answer when your laughter has quieted, one hand coming to cup his cheek, the rain still falling on the two of you, faster and heavier than before. “I love you and I am yours and you are mine and no poetry could ever express that. We,” you lean forwards, pressing your lips to his, the kiss turning deep and hungry, tasting of love and fire and spring rain, “are infinite,” you finish when you pull away, storm and fairy kin eyes turning black as pupils spread.
“That we are, my storm,” he replies, leaning forwards, capturing your lips in another kiss. And another and another and another because one is never enough. “That we are.”
***
Valarr knows not how long he stays there, holding your body to his, only that it has been long enough for the sun to set and rise again, for the moon to sleep and wake again, for night to eat away at day and for day to grow stronger, defeating night for time again.
He knows not how long he stays there, holding you close, only that it is long enough for your body to grow rigid in his arms, stiff and unyielding. Only that it is long enough for you to truly disappear, soul disappearing with the Stranger, the body in his arms no longer you and yet still you.
He knows not how long he stays there only that it is long enough for his tears to turn to memories, images of you and only you dancing through the room. He can see you as a teenager on your visits to the Keep, climbing trees and swearing and teasing. He can see you dancing in Baratheon gold and the Targaryen red. He can see you, you, you, you—a thousand different iterations, but always still you.
He can see you and where else would he want to be? He is surrounded by every you that you have ever been. He can see you at five, ten, fifteen, twenty. He can see you as you were weeks ago and years ago and it is enough.
It has to be.
Because you are all there has ever been. All there ever will be and he wants you and only you and yet you are not here. Not truly at all, no. No, he’s surrounded by memories of you, hearing your voice, but not being with you.
Your warmth is gone, your tender touches are now just ghostly skims of memories against his skin and it is not enough but it has to be because he can never get you back.
But this? These memories, as much as he wants to stay here, he cannot because this is no life. This is a half-life and he promised you a life, not one half-lived. He promised you life and death. Sickness and health.
Life…and death.
And it is then that the memory he needed surfaces, the sight of you smiling, a Queen piece in your hand sitting at the edge of the bed.
And he lets himself fall into memory one last time.
***
“What would you do if I ever died?” he asks you, eyes on you, not the chessboard as they should be because he is, after all, losing. And losing badly.
“Depends,” you answer, your bishop taking his final pawn. “Do we have children in this hypothetical or no?”
“Children,” he answers and you shrug, watching as he moves his knight forwards, scoffing at the location on the board.
“I would mourn you and wear black for the rest of my life and never marry another,” you tell him and he looks at you, confusion in his eyes, confusion warring with happiness, knowing that even if he were gone, he would be the only one for you.
“And without children?”
“I’d hurl myself off the balcony,” you tell him, tone thoughtful as you move a pawn to the left, taking the knight he’d just moved. “I wouldn’t want to live without you in either hypothetical but children need a mother. No children…well, I’m free to follow you into the Stranger’s hold. And personally, I like the idea of meeting my end and seeing it happen and watching it as my soul takes the Stranger’s hand and my body smashes into the ground.” To punctuate the statement, you clap your hands together, a giggle escaping from your lips as he moves his rook forwards two spaces.
“Very graphic,” he tells you, watching as you lift your queen, twirling it between your fingers.
“What about you? What would you do if I died?” you ask, slamming your queen on top of his rook, the chess piece ricocheting off the board and landing on the stone floor with a clatter.
“Children or no?” he asks you, noting that he only has one more rook and his king—at this point, you’re just toying with him.
“Both, humour me,” you tell him as he slides his rook to the side.
“If we have children…I’d have to stay because that’s what’s necessary but no children? I’d follow you to death…just not sure how,” he answers, watching as in one move, you take his rook and place him into checkmate, the game done.
“The balcony is a solid choice, my love,” you tell him, giggles leaving your lips as you take in your win, but the giggles don’t last long because he pulls you to him, across the board, pressing his lips to yours.
And then he follows you down to the bed.
***
Valarr stands, knowing that when he joins you in the After, you will be angry, but also, that you will get over it. You must. Because he promised you life and death and so he must follow you.
He has to.
There is no him without you, you know this. He’s told you this and you promised him you’d stay. That you would never leave him and he cannot let you break that promise. He must follow you so that you are not a liar.
He is doing this for you, for him because he only exists with you. He is Valarr and he is a prince and he is yours. Above all else, he is yours and he only knows how to be yours. How can he live without you?
The truth is, he cannot.
And it is that truth which pulls him from the bed, his arms still holding onto your body, unwilling to let you go, unwilling to be parted from any form of you. Instead, they will find his broken, dead body with yours.
Life and death shared.
He rises and crosses to the balcony, holding tight to you and looking down at the grassy knoll far below, the one that will soon plummet up to meet him and he looks at the body in his arms, the one that is you but not and he nods.
And then he steps forwards, falling off the ledge, gravity taking its toll. He watches as the ground comes rushing up at him, not a single scream leaving his lips because this is what is needed. What he promised you and what you promised him.
And he will not see the two of you made liars.
It is when the ground is oh so close that he sees you standing there, your hand outstretched and he reaches forwards, taking it and stepping towards you and away from what once was.
He is gone before his body hits the ground, before it shatters with yours, before his blood mingles with yours upon the ground. He is gone, with you.
To the After.
He is not there when his father, holding the bundle of child made of him and you, finds the corpses, the silent screams of a strong man echoing. He is not there to see his father break, to see his brother break. To see a strong family shatter.
To see his father cry and his brother curse. No, he is gone, blissful and unaware, knowing only the after, knowing only you.
Because it is there, in the After, when he is able to tell you why he followed. Why he will always follow you, through all the lives there could ever be.
“There is no me without you,” is what he told you but he needn’t have because you knew. You had always known.
Summary: Your relationship with Jack is new so when Dennis tells you that Jack used to wear a ring, you immediately jump to the wrong conclusion and block Jack (1.7k)
Warnings: angsty, happy ending, mentions of Jack losing his wife, Jack's traumas, use of pet names, mentions of food, reader thinks that Jack is a cheater, Jack just wants to be happy again (by being w u)
You hum to yourself as you go over the patients charts at the nurses station.
"Well aren't you a ray of sunshine this morning?" Dennis sneaks up on you.
"Hey, Dennis." You greet him, smiling big at him. You've become a great friends ever since you joined the ED. He was already there for a few months, so he showed you all the ropes when you came.
"What got you so smiley this early?" He looks at you amused.
"I've got a date with Jack tonight." You mumble out before your mind can even process what you just did.
Shit, you've been keeping your relationship with Jack quiet. Not because you are ashamed or anything, but because it's still so new so you are trying to figure it all out.
"Wait what?" Dennis frowns deeply at you. "He's the mysterious guy you've been seeing?"
"Yes, but please don't say anything to the others yet." You close your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief at how those words just slipped from you.
Once you open your eyes, Dennis is looking at you like you've grown another head. "What is it?"
"I-I...come here." He drags you into one of the free rooms, shutting the door behind y'all.
"Dennis, what's wrong? You're kinda scaring me." He looks like he might puke as he stands in front of you.
"I really, really hate to be the one to tell you this..."
"Tell me what?" You ask, completely baffled. "Just spit it out."
"Abbot's married." You think you might have heard wrong for a second.
"Did you just say he's-he's married?" Your face goes white, joining the absolutely terrified expression on Dennis'.
"Yes. I've seen him wear a wedding band in the early days. He doesn't wear it now, but I just thought it was for safety reasons. Not-Not for shit like this."
You are shaking your head, hand in front of your mouth. You might actually get sick.
What the fuck is wrong with him? He's been taking you on the best fucking dates of your life. Being the most thoughtful and the kindest gentlemen. Whispering doting words in between stolen kisses. All while his wife waits for him at home?
You know the thing between you two hasn't been going on for too long, just barely a couple of weeks, but it makes you feel like such a fool.
Damn it, the man takes you out on 3 dates and you're already imagining your future with him. Meanwhile, he already has that whole future.
What the fuck.
There are tears streaming down your face when Dennis pulls you in and hugs you tightly.
"I'm sorry. "He says even if he didn't do anything wrong. His heart just aches for his close friend.
-
You get through the shift on autopilot. Everyone notices it because not an hour goes by that you don't get asked if you are okay.
No. You definitely aren't okay. You were supposed to go out on a date tonight, but instead you are going home to eat a tub of ice-cream to mourn a relationship that barely even started.
You pull your phone out as you head home. Jack is supposed to pick you up in an hour but yeah that's not happening.
'Don't bother coming here anymore. I already know the truth.'
It's all you text Jack before you block his ass. You don't have the strength to do anything more about it today. Cursing him out and then telling his wife the truth is a task for tomorrow. Today you are just going to cry.
Not even twenty minutes later, there's a knock on your door. You already know who it is and you don't bother opening up.
He's not crazy enough to shout or bang on your door again when it's so late. But he's crazy enough to call your friends.
Dennis's face shows up on your screen, and you pick up with a sniffle.
"Yeah?"
"Are you crying? Shit. Fuck. "Dennis sounds genuinely upset as he says that. "Fuck, y/n. It seems that I might have made a mistake."
"You didn't. I'm glad you told me."
"No, I mean-"
"Promise, Dennis, you didn't do anything wrong."
"No listen to me. Just open your door and let Jack explain, okay?" He says firmly before you can interrupt him again.
"He called you?"
"Yes. But I promise you. That everything will be okay after he explains, please just open your door before he comes bite my head off."
You shake your head, even more confused then before. But you trust Dennis. "Fine. I'll call you later."
You hang up and hastily wipe away your tears. You don't want to see Jack but the fact he'll get to see how much he hurt you brings a little satisfaction to you.
You slowly open the door and find a very much distraught Jack on the other side. You don't know how it's possible, but he looks even worse than you.
"Angel..." His attention immediately snaps to your face and he sees the dried tears there.
"I-...Please let me explain." Jack takes a hesitatant step closer to you. He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable or more upset.
"Okay. You have five minutes." You say quietly. You open your door wider, inviting him in, and he instantly steps inside.
You don't go far into your apartment because obviously, you don't think he'll have something to say to change your opinion about this. Even if Dennis's pleading is stuck at the back of your mind.
"I've been meaning to tell you." Jack starts, and you immediately roll your eyes, blinking away the stinging sensation.
"I know we only had a few dates, but I really like you, sweetheart and I know you already feel the heaviness of my life so I didn't want to add another burden just to scare you away."
"For once, I didn't want to scare somebody right away just because my life's fucked up, because I'm fucked up. But I guess I messed up, and I'm sorry, angel."
There are tears in his eyes, too. But it's his expression full of fear of losing you before he even really had you what makes you tear up even more.
Jack takes a shuddering breath before he speaks again. "Dennis was telling the truth. I used to wear a wedding band. I had a wife, we were together for a while until she passed away."
Jesus. You flinch so hard like somebody physically hit you. You didn't expect to hear those words from him and now you feel like the biggest idiot. He's been through all of that and you jumped the gun without a second thought.
You didn't even give him a chance to hear him out before jumping to the conclusion that he's an asshole. When in fact, he's never ever given you a reason to think anything bad about him.
"Jack..." you whisper sadly. "I'm so fucking sorry." And then your hands are around him, hugging him so tightly in hopes that he might understand that you didn't know and that you feel so bad about your reaction.
"I'm the one who's sorry, angel." He whispers against your neck where he's crouched down to hide his face to breath you in.
"She's been gone for five years now, and I thought I'd never find someone to share my life with again. Until I met you, sweetheart. I can see myself sharing my life with you, if you'll still have me." He says as he pulls away from you to gently wipe away the wetness on your cheeks. He can see himself being truly, madly in love with you as well, but he doesn't say that. Not yet.
"Of course, I'll have you." You murmur, aching to kiss his sad face away before having to talk more.
"Thank you." Jack says sincerely, relief flooding his body. His eyes dip towards your lips, too.
"And your life is not a burden. You deserve to be happy, I want to make you happy. I'm not going anywhere. We all have our demons to fight, and doing it with somebody makes it easier. " You state softly, raising on your tiptoes. Your lips hover inches from his.
"I'd love that so much, angel." Jack whispers wholeheartedly, before he finally connects his lips with yours. It's like the stone lifts off of your heart. Just a simple kiss from him making you feel better.
Jack sighs into the kiss, heaviness leaving his body in waves. He deepens the kiss just to have you close to him a little while longer. Plush, soft lips making all the worry dissappear.
When you finally pull apart, you catch your breath and then you say, "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions without even speaking to you."
"I understand, okay? You reacted accordingly, but for the future, let's just talk things out before we get angry at each other, please?"
You nod eagerly because if this relationship is going to work, you need to communicate properly.
"Yes, please." You reply as you unzip his jacket, and crouch down to untie his shoelaces.
"What are you doing?" Jack finally chuckles. "Undressing me already?"
You roll your eyes at him again, this time playfully. "Don't you want to stay? It was supposed to be our date night. We can have a movie marathon."
"Of course, I want to stay." Jack quickly pulls his jacket off and kicks his shoes off. He follows you towards your couch and says nothing about the ice-cream.
"Remind me, to scare Dennis the next time I see him." He states in all seriousness as he takes in the clearly break-up setting you have in the room.
You chuckle, pulling him after you onto the soft cushions. "He was just looking out for me."
"I know, angel." Jack's gaze softens because even if Dennis pissed him off, you were right. He is a great friend to you.
Jack settles next to you, hand immediately tugging you against him. "Okay, remind me to buy him his favourite coffee tomorrow then." Which only makes you chuckle more because only Jack will go from annoyed to sweet in a matter of seconds.
summary - while you and robby were busy falling apart, jack was busy falling for you.
cw - mentions of character death in the past, jack’s wife, cancer, military (nothing specific), pretty vague depictions of depression, ANGST, yearning jack pov
a/n - sorry robby you got voted off, maybe you shouldn’t have yelled at samira idk! but srsly guys this took way too long, and i was going to make it one long part but we didn’t even get to the juicy part yet 🥴 sorry. but at least you get this now instead of waiting right? right??? idk. also, do we like keeping the same pics? that’s what i’ve done for series in the past, but idk i feel like it needs to be more jack centric now. lmk. multiple more parts to come, but don’t worry the one shots will still be in this week, to hold you over for part 3 ig!!! 😚
---
Jack Abbot was a simple man. He needed very little to survive. Maybe that was why he had done so well in the army, giving orders, packing his entire life into one green pack, running off of the nutrition bars and what little water they rationed in the field. At home in the states, he had virtually one outfit for each occasion. One for lounging, one for events, and his scrubs for work.
His apartment was nice, but somewhat bare. A few pictures on the wall, housewarming gifts from his family and friends, one throw blanket, two couch pillows, and two bed pillows. His office-slash-guest room had a naked couch that could fold into a bed, though it was rarely ever used, and a desk where he worked. He probably spent more time at that desk than anywhere else in the place.
Perhaps it was this prudent nature that led him to his wife. She was neat as a pin, coming from a military family herself, her dad having helped Jack enlist for the scholarship. See, there were relatively few things a human needed to survive, and companionship was one of them. This was a fact Jack was very much aware of, and a resource he never struggled to find. He and his wife met in high school biology, paired together in a group project about the cell cycle.
While Leanne was quick to divvy up the work into equal weight and responsibility, and complete her portion in one night, the third member of their group was decidedly less invested. Betting, no doubt, on his teammates completing his portion out of annoyance and academic ambition, he decided to leave every task until the night before the project was due; a night he also mysteriously disappeared from home and was unable to answer the phone. Jack and Leanne rushed to the library, grumbling together about their so-called teammate, and bonding over shared dislike for the boy.
Leanne was pretty, smart, sharp, and so unbelievably out of Jack’s league; so, naturally, it took all of one week for him to fall for her. Miraculously, she followed suit.
This was surely it for him, Jack would think, throughout the years that saw their prom photos, letters overseas, first apartment, and engagement. Right on theme, they decided on a courthouse wedding and a small reception in Leanne’s parents’ house, then on to their small but clean and cozy condo. Her love was all that held him over the long tours. On the worst nights, camped in enemy territory, watching soldiers die, Jack would imagine their future together. He would be honorably discharged from the army, get a good job at the respectable hospital downtown, and have a few kids. Or a hoard, with his red curls and Leanne’s gap-toothed smile and dark eyes.
How was he to know that that vision would never come to be?
They had already known his last tour was going to be his last, even before he lost his leg. The transition was hard, but eased by his wife’s steadfast determination and optimism. She was sure that stability was right on its way — and it was, in some ways. He completed physical therapy with a new and high quality prosthetic he got better at using every single day, and his position at the local ER was secured… but then came the diagnosis.
It was quick after that. Limited treatment options were exhausted, and three years later she was gone. Jack never imagined she’d be the one to go. Hell, he’d spent years in a warzone, had too many near misses to count, lost a limb, but there he was at the end of the day, safe at home, packing up her things in an empty house.
He slept on his brother’s couch while his realtor showed people around the property. As soon as it was sold, he was halfway across the coast in Pittsburgh, in a big apartment that used to belong to a friend of Robby’s, an old face from med school. The friend had also left behind an attending position for Jack to fill, and he did. Nights. It suited him better, gave him the day to occupy himself, so he didn’t spend hours in the dark lying awake, falling into his mind’s traps and pitfalls.
Things got better, of course, however slowly. He started therapy and took up running again, something he hadn’t done since before his leg. He had a whole new city to explore, and reluctantly allowed Robby to be his guide, introducing several of who are now Jack’s closest friends.
He found his feet, but it seemed he was determined not to move forward from there. While he watched his brother get married, his sister get her PhD, and met his niece, and then his nephew, he stayed stagnant. He didn’t want to push himself too hard, because it was only recently and delicately he was perched in this nice little pocket of life. Keeping nightmares to a minimum, and his mind focused on work, was really all he thought he could ask for. It was as if he could feel the darkness humming around the edges, just waiting for him to fall back in. But he was stubborn.
Sometimes, though, his therapist, Riley, would venture a question about his love life. Or, lack thereof. He would almost always answer the same way.
“I’ve already had a great love. It’s more than most people get in a lifetime. I just can’t picture myself doing it all over again.”
While this was true for years, he couldn’t stop himself feeling the loss some nights, not just the loss of Leanne, but the loss of companionship. He never admitted it to his therapist, very reluctantly admitted it to himself, but he missed the closeness so deeply, sometimes it left an ache behind. He tried to be okay, but the truth was, even when he was as okay as he had been in many years, each return to his barren, dark apartment hit him someplace soft. He cooked alone, ate alone, slept alone. It took a toll.
Leanne made it clear, near the end, that it was her wish for him to “move on” in whatever way he could, to find love after her, to live the life he had always wanted to. He knew she’d hate how he sequestered himself away, socializing only for work and more work. It was just like her, in her solid, logical way, to instruct him on this, and he wanted to honor her request — after all, she had never steered him wrong before.
But was he ready? Was he ready to let her go, and let someone else into the spaces only she had ever occupied? Or, was he even capable? It was well known he didn’t love often, but when he did, it was intensely. He didn’t do flings, hadn’t so much as glanced at another woman since Leanne’s passing. He wasn’t sure the opportunity would ever even present itself, that maybe his heart was too damaged and scarred from the loss to ever function normally.
Until he saw you.
God, what a privilege it was, to have seen you. It was a summer’s day, about four years since he started at PTMC, and it was sweltering. Jack had great tolerance for heat, and for cold — really he could make it in all sorts of climates. You, on the other hand? He could tell straight away you were worse for wear.
You had a sheen of perspiration, that you kept wiping away but that really only served to enhance your glow. Baby hairs stuck to your dewy skin, one in your mouth, that you pawed at frustratedly as Dana showed you around. Your chest was rising and falling somewhat rapidly, and you looked annoyed. Still, you nodded along to Dana’s instruction, even smiling at each new face, though Jack could tell it took much effort.
He was covering for Robby, who was running late. It was just as well, as he’d been stuck with the victims of a crash all morning. It was — he glanced at his watch — nine in the morning, just past, and you couldn’t have been at work for much more than three hours, if not two. He allowed himself a grin. Would you last the whole day? Some inexplicable part of him desperately hoped you would.
“Ah, and here’s the night shift attending, Dr. Jack Abbot,” said Dana, and she didn’t sound much more enthused than you looked.
The pair of you strolled up, and with your eyes on him, Jack seemed suddenly unable to keep his on you, though he’d been roving your figure just seconds before. You stuck out a hand, and gave your name.
“Nice to meet you,” you said, with that same whisper of a true smile, but rather bright eyes. He just nodded, shaking it, and attempting a smile of his own. “Night shift, huh? What could have possibly enticed you enough to pull you out of the air conditioning into this mug?”
Dana chuckled.
“If you hadn’t noticed, Dr. Abbot, our air conditioning is still down, and correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, turning to you with a twinkle in her eye, “but I don’t believe our new attending is a big fan of the heat. Can’t blame her, myself.”
Dana’s grey scrubs were lined with sweat, as were, he now noticed up close, your dark black ones. Your eyes flew up and down, appraising him.
“You don’t look very fussed,” you said, shaking your head. “How are you not sweltering in here?”
“No, yeah it’s… hot,” said Jack lamely, then he cleared his throat. “So — new attending. New to the area?”
He could’ve listened to you talk for hours on end. He wanted to memorize your voice along with your words. You grew up in New England, one of four, a dog lover, though you hadn’t had one since your twenties. You’d gone to Harvard for undergrad and medschool, and actually completed a trauma surgery rotation and worked in the OR for a few years before deciding to switch to emergency medicine.
“After doctors without borders, I realized I couldn’t be cooped up in the operating room waiting for patients to be brought up, you know?” you said, as you filled up your water bottle in the water fountain Dana had showed you to. “I really needed to be here, in the chaos. Not that surgery isn’t chaos, of course, just — different.”
“Sure,” said Jack, trying valiantly not to let his gaze linger on your lips. “Must have been tough, though, going back to being a student.”
“As tough as any other aspect of medicine, I suppose,” you said, sipping your water. “I still say it was easier than the first residency.”
As you tipped your bottle back again, a solitary droplet of water escaped and slid all the way past your chin and down your sweaty neck before you caught it. He swallowed thickly, angry with himself, and turned his head away. As he did, his eyes locked onto a familiar frame in the distance, walking closer.
“Hey brother,” said Robby, slapping Jack on the shoulder as he reached the fountain. “Thanks for covering.”
“No problem,” said Jack, though Robby’s eyes were already fixed onto you.
“And you must be the new attending,” said Robby, smiling warmly. “I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Call me Robby.”
The two of you shook hands. Jack used the time to recollect himself. He’d been incredibly pent up, emotionally and physically, for the past eight years, but it hadn’t seemed to have any affect on him until the very second that part of his brain lit up again. And you certainly lit him up.
“So you’re Dr. Abbot’s ticket to get the hell outta here?” you joked, and Robby laughed.
“That’s me.”
You turned to look at Jack.
“Got any crazy plans?”
Jack shrugged, but Robby opened his mouth first.
“Jack’s a workaholic,” he said. “All he ever does is work, sleep, and eat. He’s even worse than me.”
You quirked a corner of your mouth.
“I see,” you said, turning your attention back to Robby. “So I should go to you for the best bars in town, then?”
Robby’s smile widened. Jack felt a flicker of annoyance, but Dana yelled about an incoming trauma, and that was that. You bid him goodbye, as did Robby, and he was able to slink home.
That night he had a lot to think about, and he lay awake to do so, staring at his lazily spinning ceiling fan. Mostly, it was about your smile, and chuckle, and the way your hair fell around you. The bright sparkle in your eyes, and how clearly brilliant your mind was.
He shuffled around, throwing his sheets off of himself. It was inappropriate to be thinking about his coworker in such a way, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something about you filled every corner of his brain in an amazing way, a way he hadn’t felt in almost a decade. And it only seemed to be getting worse.
It took him a week to fall in love with his wife. It only took him three days to start falling in love with you.
He started coming in during daylight hours whether or not he was scheduled to work that night, jumping at the opportunity to cover for day shift attendings, and lingering long after seven AM just to be near you. What baffled him most was that the more he learned about you, the more different from his wife you seemed. Leanne was neat, contained, and often stoic. She approached situations logically, and made firm decisions. She was, in many ways, his twin.
You? Couldn’t have been more opposite. You laughed loudly, cried when you needed to, and let your heart have just as much of a say as your brain in leading your choices. Emotions played easily and clearly across your bright face. When tired, your attentions never wavered, but you draped yourself dramatically over chairs and desks, allowing yourself a moment of near comical lamenting before carrying on. You let your work and personal life intertwine and somehow seemed only better for it.
You were full of life, and humor, and feelings so deeply personal Jack sometimes wondered how you didn't explode. You were messy, with your possessions sprawled across the entire work station at any given time of day, but unbelievably put together in issues of the mind and soul. He had seen you put the pieces of each team member back together within the first few weeks of knowing you. You let yourself and those around you fill fully with whatever emotion took hold.
And Jack was mesmerized.
It seemed that it wasn’t the habits of the person, for him, but the core — beneath it all, both you and Leanne had unbreakable morals and pure, strong hearts.
After a month of you, plaguing his every thought, he finally plucked up the courage to mention you to his therapist. Not just how wonderful he found you, but all the qualms of reopening this chapter of his life. Even before love and loss, Jack’s experience with dating was minimal. It was a concept that nearly terrified him.
“Well, you’re careful who you give yourself to,” said Riley during an early morning session. “It costs you something. Casual dating would be your personal nightmare.”
Jack shifted in his seat. He was too old fashioned to stick with online therapy, so the hazy morning light shone on his work scrubs.
“Yeah,” was all he said, eyes on his sneakers. “’M too old to be wasting my time, I guess.”
Riley smiled.
“This woman must be special,” they said. “You rarely have such a reaction to a person.”
He grunted.
“So… maybe you owe it to yourself to see this through?” they said. “It seems like this type of thing doesn’t come your way all that often, does it?”
No, it didn’t. And as time went on, Jack allowed himself to imagine a world where he asked you out and you said yes.
The next time he worked a day shift with you, he spent most of his free time seriously considering the possibility. It was nerve wracking, just the thought of it. He hadn’t asked anyone out since the tenth grade, and surely asking a grown woman to accompany him to a local panera via a note would not be considered socially acceptable.
He watched the clock as it struck seven, then half past, knowing his chance was slipping away when he saw you start packing up. He was just about to dismiss the whole idea when Robby entered his peripherals. Jack turned. Robby was dressed not in scrubs or casual sweats, but in jeans and a nicer bomber jacket. By the looks of it, he’d trimmed his beard, and he smelled like cologne.
“What are you doing here?” asked Jack gruffly, forcing his eyes back down to the pad he was meant to be charting on. “Got a hot date?”
“Yup,” said Robby, and Jack snorted.
“Who, Noelle from upstairs? She’s been hinting at you for about…”
He trailed off. You were stepping up to them, smiling somewhat nervously up at Robby, who smiled softly back.
“Hey,” he said. “You ready to go?”
“All ready,” you said. “Are you ready to tell me where we’re going yet?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile never wavered. Jack suddenly felt very sick and hot all over, much hotter than he felt on the day he met you. His hands started shaking so badly he had to drop the ipad back into the rack so you wouldn’t notice. He shoved them into his pockets when Robby turned back to him.
“We’re heading out,” he said. “You good here?”
He just hastened out a nod, willing the pair of you to start walking and stop looking at him.
“Oh, and Jack,” you said, and his insides stung with the tenderness in which you said his name, “will you make sure Kiara gets in to talk to curtain three? I don’t want her escaping before we can offer help, yeah?”
Again, he just nodded, and pulled his face painfully into what he hoped was a convincing grin, though keeping his face angled away from you all the same. You and Robby said your goodbyes, and then Robby led you out, giggling, into the night.
“Y’okay, kid?” said Dana, assessing him closely over her glasses. “You look a little flushed.”
He shook his head, trying to move his tongue and finding it very dry.
“Fine,” he said lowly. “Didn’t know those two… were…”
He gestured vaguely after the door you’d disappeared behind. Dana crossed her arms.
“They haven’t been — I mean, not really,” she said. “According to Princess, this is their first date.”
He tried to let this reassure him. A first date could mean anything. Maybe by the end, they’d find they really were better off as friends. Or it could go terribly, and they’d barely speak to each other again. His insides soured with guilt at the thought that that would still be preferred to a date that went excellently, even if you and Robby were his friends.
That night as he climbed into bed, he realized with a pang how much, despite what he told himself, he really had wanted to ask you out.
Though he was itching to, he kept himself from immediately texting Robby the next morning to see how it went with you, lest he get caught giving advice, or else hearing lurid details. He tried to keep his head about him over the next couple of days, but his thoughts kept drifting to you. Both you and Robby seemed perfectly cheerful during hand offs, so he figured it was safe to assume his unfortunate image of the two of you never speaking again wouldn’t come to be.
About a fortnight had passed when he asked Robby about seeing the Penguins game one chilly Monday evening he knew they both had off. Robby’s answer sent a bucket of ice down his stomach.
“Can’t, man, gonna watch it with her,” he said, and Jack knew exactly which her his friend was referring to.
He moved his eyes downward to his fidgeting hands.
“Second date?” he asked.
“Third,” said Robby.
“Nice,” Jack choked out, then, unable to stop himself, “how’s it going with you two?”
Robby’s smile was too giddy for Jack’s liking.
“Really well,” said Robby. “She’s amazing. I’m thinking of taking her up to my grandpa’s cabin next month, over the holiday weekend.”
Jack looked resolutely up at the board, though he wasn’t reading.
“What makes you think you’ll both get the holiday weekend off?”
Robby chuckled, slapping Jack on the back.
“I am the Chief Attending. You’d cover, right?”
Jack chewed his lip too hard, sending the tang of blood across his tongue, and gave a weak smile.
“Sure.”
And he did. And his smiles got more convincing as time went on. Despite himself, he never expected the relationship to last very long. Each time Robby vented to him about a fight you’d had, or he noticed tension between the two of you between shifts, he expected to get invited out for beers with Robby where the older man would drunkenly admit to him about why you broke up.
To be fair, Robby had rarely had a relationship last more than a few months in all the years Jack had known him, and he wasn’t the healthiest individual. But shouldn’t it have made Jack happy that something finally seemed to be working out for his old buddy?
Maybe if he didn’t have to see it so often, he could forget how much it hurt. To see Robby’s hands all over you and wish they were his. To see your warm, loving smile that was never really directed at him. To watch you humming to yourself after Robby dropped you off, delirious with happiness, knowing he would never get the chance with you he wanted.
So, when someone from his army days reached out with a volunteer opportunity for a SWAT medic, he didn’t hesitate to take it. More time keeping busy, less time free to worry about you. The emergency room was one thing, but being back in the field under gunfire where a split second decision could not only save or lose you your patient, but your own life — that left little room in his brain. Which was exactly how he liked it.
He never regretted his decision to join, however risky the job was. Not until he told you and Robby about it at your monthly group hockey nights. The look on your face, eyes so full of anxiety, had him questioning every decision he ever made.
“SWAT? Really, Jack?” you had said, eyebrows pinched tight, open bag of tortilla chips forgotten. “So there’ll be guys shooting at you every week?”
He chewed his lip, feeling immensely guilty and a little stupid, but luckily Robby spoke up before he could.
“Honey, it’s okay,” said Robby soothingly, running a hand down your arm. “Jack’s trained to deal with these situations. He’ll be fine.”
“How could you possibly know that?” you asked incredulously, setting down the bag and crossing your arms. “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, but… wasn’t the army enough danger for one lifetime?”
“Well, he survived, didn’t he?” said Robby jestingly.
You sent him a sharp look, but at that moment, Ellis and Shen yelled at someone in the background, and Robby rushed away to see who had gotten a penalty or a goal.
Jack would very much have liked to disappear into the group as well, shielded by the TV’s roaring crowd, the chatter about the Penguin’s chances for the cup; but you were still standing there, eyes distant, earlier smile long gone, and it was his fault.
He set down his beer and picked up your abandoned chips, continuing to fill the bowl while he waited for you to speak. After a while you heaved a sigh. Then your hand found the crook of his elbow. He shivered. He hoped you didn’t notice.
“Just — please be careful, Jack,” you said softly, staring imploringly into his downturned eyes. “I don’t want Robby to get a call that you’re half dead somewhere with a bullet in your back, or — or you lost another limb, or —”
In a moment of pure impulsivity, his free hand covered yours on his arm, and his gaze met yours.
“I’m not about to let that happen,” he said firmly. “I promise.”
You stood there staring at each other. Then, very slowly, you turned your hand upwards, and your fingers linked with his. Neither of you said a word. Jack’s heart was pounding in his throat, too fast.
“Okay,” you said, hushed.
His eyes flitted between yours. This was perhaps the closest the two of you had ever been, if you didn’t count rushing around during messy traumas. And he certainly didn’t. When he was wrist deep in someone’s chest cavity, he didn’t have time to appreciate the color of your irises up close, or the very light smattering of freckles over your nose, or the one loose eyelash resting on your cheek. His fingers twitched on the chip bag, itching to brush it away.
Suddenly, there was a loud uproar from the small crowd in the living room, and you yanked your hand back. Jack was quickly looking anywhere but at you, hand groping for his beer and taking a large sip, sending a small leak down his chin and onto his white shirt.
You grabbed the newly refilled chips and salsa, and turned back towards the doorway.
“We should probably go see what all the fuss is about,” you said lightly.
“I’m right behind you,” he breathed.
Ten minutes later, when he finally gathered the courage to reenter the fray, you were tucked securely under Robby’s arm while you argued spiritedly with Donnie about the Chicago Blackhawks lineup. As he eased himself into an armchair, you sent him a fleeting, familiarly friendly smile. He smiled back, head still full of you.
Despite your conversation, he was never more sure that joining SWAT was a good idea by the end of the night.
As he worked more and more shifts with them, he spent less and less time out with you and Robby. But consequently, that meant spending less and less time with all his other friends, too.
He hadn’t attended a hockey viewing party since the one where he told you his plans, and he was relieved. Even though each time he cancelled, you texted him something sweet with a heart emoticon. He ached to be near you, yet each time he was, he filled with a different type of sting.
He tried not to let it affect him, make him lonely, if only for the hope that his therapist wouldn’t notice and force him to confront the situation.
One day, about five months into yours and Robby’s relationship, therefore about five months of radio silence from Jack on his “mystery woman”, his therapist dared raise the issue again.
“So…” they started cautiously. “I’ve noticed you haven’t mentioned that woman again. The doctor.”
Jack just squeezed his hand where it was resting against his crossed leg, and shrugged in what he hoped was an offhanded way.
“She has a partner,” he said. “It’s not a big deal. Kind of a relief.”
He could feel their eyes on him, and he forced himself to meet their gaze. They stared at each other for a while, but if Riley sensed something, they kept it to themselves, for which Jack was grateful.
Riley never brought up the topic again, and neither did Jack. He told himself it was okay to keep one secret from his therapist, as long as it was really only one. And it was, he made sure. There was just something about it, something in the way it made him feel, like a pining adolescent, that made it incredibly uncomfortable for him to talk about.
He operated in forced ignorance. He didn’t let himself dwell on you, always kept active and moving, certain that if he slowed down for too long, you would suffocate him. His one comfort was that he was sure neither you nor Robby had any idea of the war that raged within him.
Though he was drawing back a little, you didn’t stop inviting him over, or texting him, or smiling when you saw him. In fact, you were almost more open. You’d pat his hand and say, “Let me know if you ever need to talk,” and he would say, “thanks, doll, but I’m fine.” And he’d smile, and you’d smile back, and he’d be left with that ever inconvenient eruption of flutters in his stomach.
He learned to live with it. Then, one day two years in, he’d heard you were moving in together. Not only that, but you were buying a house. It threw him for a loop, to say the least. Buying a house was a big, complicated, cementing milestone. It wasn’t easy to get out of.
He almost expected Robby to chicken out before they could sign the papers, but when you came in to work one day raving about the perfect house you found, and that you were a shoe in to get it already, he put all expectations aside.
He might have been fine, if it weren’t for the housewarming get-togethers, and the painting parties, and the oh so painfully domestic discussions on house owning you had with Dana about roof tiling, or copper pipes.
He decided to divulge a half-truth to Riley.
“I’ve been thinking, and I think I’m a little lonely,” he said. “But I also don’t like the idea of finding someone to date.”
Riley raised their eyebrows. They looked a little surprised, but they didn’t need to know that the only reason the idea of finding someone to date was distressing to Jack was because he’d already found the perfect woman. He just couldn’t do anything about it.
“Okay,” said Riley. “That’s perfectly understandable. Now, I don’t know how exactly this would work with your schedule, but I remember you telling me about your dog growing up. Daisy, right?”
He nodded, confused. He had mentioned that offhandedly months and months ago. Daisy was a reddish-brown, fat labrador who he worshipped as a kid. She lived for fourteen years, his first and last dog. He remembered crying in a bathroom stall in his sophomore year dorm when he got the news that she was gone.
“Why not try getting another dog?” said Riley. “You know, dip your toes back in the water. Practice cohabitating with another creature. Like a stepping stone. Dogs are great for healing.”
“Healing?” he asked warily.
“Heart, soul, mind, even body. It can be surprising how effectively a dog’s company can help with loneliness.”
Jack flipflopped for a few days, from the logistics, dog’s needs, would they really be happy with him, to, I might die if I don’t have a little puppy in my hands right this second.
As he moved through his apartment getting ready for work one night, he started to picture it. Where the water and food bowls would go, whether or not the dog would sleep with him in the bed, the amount of toys he could fit comfortably into a bin next to the TV stand.
So, the next morning after his shift, without breaking for breakfast, he walked straight over to the shelter. He found himself in an aisle filled with dogs. It was bleak; the lighting and squeaky vinyl flooring were much like that of the hospital, but dingier, like it was in desperate need of an upgrade no one could afford. It was lined with bare stalls closed in with plexiglass windows, so that all the dog could see was shelter workers and the occasional adopter as they strolled past.
Each dog had a low, scratchy looking canvas bed with one blanket and one toy. Jack didn’t like it in there. His heart ached for the poor puppies with nowhere else to go.
He walked nervously up and down the halls, peering into each kennel. Some dogs were right up against the glass, some cowering in the corners, some sleeping, some playing, oblivious to his presence. He was just thinking that maybe it was a bad idea all along, when he spotted Betsy.
She had a dog barking on her right, a dog howling on her left, but she was lying on her bed with her face under a blanket. She was a German shepherd, a big one, with her classic pointy ears poking up from under the cover. Her bed was a little too small; if she didn’t curl into herself, her butt would fall right off the end.
Though her eyes were obscured, her ears were active, and the second she heard him approach, her little face popped up. Maybe he was crazy, but there was something about her big brown eyes that tugged on his heart strings like no other. He took one step closer, hands reaching for a hole in the glass, when a voice very close to him made him jump.
“Hey!” It was a shelter worker, older but tough looking, with equal amounts of smile and frown lines, and a purple streaked poof of curls sitting on top of her head. “I’d be careful with that one if I were you.”
He glanced back at Betsy, who had eased out of her lying position and whose ears were now rather low. He noticed her tail still gave a little wag when this woman showed up, though. But then it was tucked, and Betsy’s eyes were locked on Jack, tracking his every move.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah,” said the woman, Via, according to her name badge. “She’s a retired K9, usually real well behaved, but she’s got a thing about men. Doesn’t trust them. She was dropped here a few months ago, they said she was retired but she’s only about six or seven. If you ask me, she wasn’t treated very well. Something must’ve happened to cause them to dump her for no apparent reason.”
“That’s awful,” said Jack, watching Betsy, still as a statue.
“That’s how it goes,” sighed Via. “I’m glad she’s getting some interest, but I think she’s gonna have to go to a woman-only household.”
Jack rubbed his chin. God, he needed a shave. It should have been that simple. She didn’t like men, he needed one that did. But some inexplicable feeling had him reluctant to leave this girl here.
“Can I just try?” he said pleadingly. “Please? Just — just give her a treat, or something?”
It felt like Via was x-raying him, the way her eyes narrowed.
“Okay, fine,” she said eventually, reaching into her pocket. “Only because she usually would have started shouting like a madwoman by now. Here.”
She handed him a bag of chicken flavored treats. Moving slowly, both out of necessity for his leg and in an effort not to startle Betsy, he crouched down beside the glass door as Via inched it open. He grabbed a treat in one hand, and let it rest in the palm outstretched but low to the ground.
Betsy didn’t move, just watched Jack with great mistrust in her eyes. He didn’t dare move, but after a while, her nose started to twitch, sniffing hopefully at the air. There you go, he thought. She was interested, she had to be hungry, and he had something she wanted. Still, he could tell she was hesitant. Hesitant but considering it.
He got a sudden twinge in his right leg, but was still determined not to upset the delicate situation, and so didn’t move. But in this stand off, Betsy quickly gained the upper hand. Figuring it was probably fine to shift his weight just a touch, to move his heel a centimeter to the right, he tried.
Immediately, his foot slipped and he lost balance, catapulting himself backward onto his ass with a huff. The little stick of chicken fell from his grip and rolled to the middle of the distance between him and the dog.
Instantly, Betsy slunk over and gobbled the treat right up. Sure that he had blown it, Jack tried to sit up, but she didn’t move from this spot some fifteen inches away from him. Via wordlessly handed him a second treat, which he held a little closer to his body than the last one. Via made a quickly stifled noise of surprise when Betsy so quickly reached out her wet little snout to take the treat, even sniffing around him for more, and offering him a few soft licks on the hand.
“Hi, sweet girl!” he whispered, which earned him the smallest of tail wags.
“Well who knew,” said Via with a smile. “Looks like you’re the exception to the rule.”
It wasn’t just as easy as that, unfortunately. Jack took her for a walk, with which she did very well, then came back the next day for an in depth interview where Via and another worker determined he was fit to take care of a dog. There was another play session with Betsy, a house visit, and only then was she officially his.
After a week or two, when Jack felt Betsy was really settled in, he sent you a text.
Hey. Minor life update: I got a dog. I assume you would want to come by and meet her at some point.
It took about point-two seconds for your bubbles to appear.
HEADING OUT NOW
WILL SHOW UP WITH COFFEE
🥰🤩🐶🐶🐶!!!
Well, it was certainly sooner than he expected, but he supposed that was his fault for not anticipating this reaction from you. He had never known you to pass up any pet interaction, even on the street. You’d actually pulled over ten minutes before a movie was supposed to start to ask a woman for permission to pet her baby whippet.
Twenty minutes later, you had buzzed his apartment three times, and moments later had burst through the door with eyes only for Betsy.
“Hi baby!” you squealed, shoving a tray of drinks into Jack’s hands without a glance his way, and getting down on your knees. “Oh, you are such a pretty girl, aren’t you?”
It took even less time for Betsy to bound over to you, tail whipping up a storm, than it did for you to exclaim over her. In seconds you were flat on your back and she was laying on top of you, slobbery kisses covering your face while you laughed.
Jack watched the exchange with a smile as you scratched up and down her back, scattering a shower of dog hairs over your jacket and pants. This was his favorite version of you, giggling and beaming and alight with happiness. He loved your dumb, annoying baby voice and the way your eyes crinkled with the force of your grin.
“Did Robby come?” he asked.
“Parking the car,” you said lazily, stroking Betsy behind the ears. “I couldn’t wait, I had to come up and see this pretty pretty baby.”
Betsy’s swishing tail suddenly stood up straight, her ears perking up, and her head on a swivel. She noticed something before you could even register the sound of footsteps approaching the open door. As Robby stepped into view, she turned straight around, stepping protectively over your supine body, hair on end.
“Hey,” said Robby, none the wiser. “What’s up? You got a dog?”
A low, rumbling growl sounded from Betsy’s chest, causing Robby to stop in his tracks.
“Uh, yeah, this is Betsy,” said Jack. “She’s not too fond of men.”
Robby tentatively stepped over the threshold, then scooched sideways to grab his coffee from the counter.
“But she made an exception for you, huh, Abbot?” you said, pulling yourself up to resume stroking Betsy’s head. “She’s a good judge of character. Yes you are, honey, yes you are, so smart.”
“Babe,” said Robby, sounding affronted. “She hates me!”
“Yeah, makes sense, since you hate dogs,” you said shortly, focusing hard on just Betsy. “Since you’re a dog hater.”
Robby sighed, and it was immediately clear to Jack that this was a well established issue.
“Just because I don’t think it’s a good idea to get a dog right now, does not mean I hate dogs,” said Robby.
You just sniffed, still pointedly not looking at him.
“Why don’t you want a dog?” asked Jack, unable to stop himself.
“We just don’t have the time —”
“We have the time!” you piped. “We can get dog walkers during the day, and it's not like we always work shifts together. Plenty of doctors do it. Look, Jack’s doing fine and he’s just one person!”
“I’m not getting back into this right now,” said Robby, and there was now a note of irritation in his would-be breezy voice. “Not now while this dog looks like she wants to murder me. What do I do?” he asked Jack. “Does she warm up?”
“I don’t know,” said Jack truthfully. “Doesn’t seem to be happening, does it?”
“I mean, she warmed up to you, right?”
“No, she just didn’t do this,” he said, gesturing to her posture.
“Great,” said Robby, and he was definitely irritated now. “Perfect. Why don’t I just go? I think that would make everything easier.”
“Yeah yeah, you go,” you said, coaxing Betsy back into your attention. “Love you, but bye.”
Robby huffed out a laugh. Jack pretended to be very invested in his coffee.
“You’re seriously gonna —”
“Yeah, I’m seriously gonna,” you said, with a steely look in your eye. “Take Jack if you want, I don’t care. I need some puppy time right now, okay?”
“Okay,” said Robby, in a rather convincing voice of forced calm, though he certainly closed the door a little harder than necessary, and his goodbyes to Jack were so low he could barely hear them.
When Jack finally sneaked a look at you, you were glaring at your bent knee on his floor, looking frustrated. Who exactly you were frustrated with, he wasn’t sure. But with Robby out of the picture, Betsy took up licking your face again, which succeeded in getting a smile, even if it wasn’t quite as wide as it was before.
He hated standing in the silence with nothing but the sound of Betsy’s tags clanging together and nails clicking against the hardwood floor. He cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I shouldn’t have pried. I didn’t mean to cause an argument.”
You smiled wryly.
“You didn’t cause anything. I guess I just wasn’t as over it as I thought.”
Jack still felt guilty.
“Yeah, but still —”
“It’s really not a big deal, Jack,” you said kindly. “We’ll cool off, and then we’ll kiss and make up. It’s fine.”
You picked up the toy Betsy had been chewing before your abrupt arrival, a rope with a squeaker on one end, and started a game of tug-of-war while Jack watched, feeling useless.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” he said gently, taking your chai out of the cupholder and carrying it over to you. You shook your head lightly.
“You’re Robby’s best friend, not mine,” you said.
He shrugged.
“Sure, I’ve known him longer,” he said, sipping his drink. “But you’ve technically known me longer.”
You snorted, a sound like music to his ears.
“You mean those odd thirty minutes before he came into work?” He shrugged again. “Yeah, that really makes or breaks a friendship.”
He sighed. Then he leaned down and grabbed the side of Betsy’s rope that you held, slowly but surely pulling the dog, and so you, towards the living room. You scooted behind them on your butt, and when you were resting against the couch, he slipped off your jacket.
“Jack,” you whined dramatically. “You’re tricking me into a heart to heart.”
“Yes, because I can tell you’re upset,” he said, throwing the coat over the back of an armchair and collapsing on the couch. “Now talk.”
You leaned your head completely back against the footrest so you could shoot him an unimpressed look upside down. He grinned.
“Finally speechless?” he teased. “You’re usually such a yapper.”
“Hey!” you said indignantly, slapping his thigh.
“That wasn’t meant as an insult,” he said. “I love it when you talk… I hate filling silences.”
He took a hefty sip of coffee, which was doing nothing to calm his thrumming heart. You closed your eyes briefly, then hoisted yourself up onto the couch next to him. Betsy followed suit curling up immediately on your lap. Then ensued about three minutes of you cooing at her, of course. Jack leaned his elbows on his knees, towards you, ready to listen.
“It’s… it’s stupid,” you said quietly after a while, eyes remaining, once again, on Betsy.
“If it’s making you upset, it’s not stupid,” he said solidly.
“Well,” you sighed, “The house has a backyard. I’ve wanted a dog for forever, but Robby’s been saying for a year now that the apartment wasn’t right for one. Now we have a yard, I thought maybe he’d be ready. But it feels like he’s making dumb excuses. Like about work, or time, and stuff.”
“Why do you think he actually doesn’t want a dog?” asked Jack.
You huffed.
“I don’t know, maybe he never really liked dogs, and he just pretended because he knew I did,” you said, tucking your feet up under you. “In which case he was lying to me, for like a while. Or maybe” — you took a second before speaking, as though you really disliked what you were about to say — “maybe he doesn’t want to commit to a pet with me.
“And I know, I know that’s so stupid, I mean we’re literally buying a house together, and we’ve talked about marriage” — now it was Jack’s turn to take a breath — “but maybe he’s just saying these things to placate me, and he’s still waiting for someone better to do all these other things with, like maybe getting out of a mortgage and splitting finances is easier than dividing custody of a dog, and —”
“Woah, woah, woah, slow down, sweetheart,” he said, placing his coffee on the couch side table and scooching towards you. “I think you’re catastrophizing, just a little bit.”
You smiled slightly, rubbing your hands into your eyes tiredly.
“Is that a term you learned in therapy?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I think you need to take a deep breath. Come on.”
You did a couple rounds of measured breathing, and Jack could tell from the slight shake in your exhales that you were fighting tears very hard. He wanted to wrap you up in his arms. Instead, he rested a friendly hand on your shoulder.
“That’s just your anxiety talking,” he said soothingly. “I’m not in Robby’s head, but I’m willing to bet everything I’ve got that that’s not it. I’ve — I’ve never seen him so happy as he is when he’s with you. Do you get that?”
You nodded, blinking rapidly.
“I just wish he was better at communicating,” you said, and Jack accidentally let a chuckle slip.
“Sorry,” he said, “sorry, but — that’s the Robinavitch experience. I’m pretty sure he communicates more with you than with anyone else.”
You tried to laugh with him, but the thought seemed to slightly dishearten you. You rested your chin on your hand, your elbow on Betsy, who offered you a few more kisses.
“Sometimes…” you started so quietly Jack had to lean further in. “Sometimes it feels like I’m trying twice as hard as he is on the emotional side of things. And then I hate myself, because — well, everyone’s different, right? One hundred percent looks different for me than it does for him. Right?”
He knocked his knee into yours.
“Is that something you picked up from your therapist?”
The small smile that you granted him was finally genuine, however quickly stifled.
“Yes,” you muttered.
You looked into his eyes thoughtfully, and he felt glued to the spot, like he couldn’t break contact even if he wanted to. Even after years, the color of your eyes struck him the same way they did upon your first meeting. They had a quality of glittering in the light, like jewels.
“Why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with you?” you whispered.
There was a moment of ringing silence. Even Betsy stopped cleaning her paw like she knew something just happened. You looked shocked at yourself, perhaps even more shocked than Jack. Jack, whose brain was short circuiting. Then you snapped back to reality.
“Oh my god,” you said, and Jack was sure he could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your face from the fifteen inches in between you. He shuffled backwards on his cushion. “I didn’t mean that! I swear, I really didn’t, Jack — don’t tell Robby, please don’t, it —”
You looked so genuinely distressed, and closer to tears than ever. He wanted to help, but he was feeling rather fuzzy in the mind at the moment.
“I don’t want him thinking that was true, I was just upset, that’s all — I mean, I say that sort of thing to Cassie all the time, I think — I think I just forgot where I was…”
You were standing now, slipping on your jacket. Betsy jumped down from your lap, wagging her tail as if she was going with you.
“Doll, it’s okay,” he said. “I know you didn’t mean it —”
“— I really, really didn’t!”
“I know,” he said calmly, as calmly as his voice would go, and smiling. “I mean, it may be different from Robby’s, but I have plenty baggage of my own. Doubt you’d be much better off.”
You laughed nervously at his joke, smoothing your hands over your hair like you always did when you were flustered.
“I know! Everyone has baggage, and living with someone is always hard,” you said sternly. You were speaking out loud, but Jack had a feeling you were reprimanding yourself. “But I love him, more than anything. And he loves me.”
Jack was spared answering by the sound of your ringing phone. You scrambled for it, and Jack could see Robby’s face smiling up at you. He was wearing a pair of what he recognized as Dana’s sunglasses, lined with rhinestones. He looked so different from the man who had stormed out of the apartment not fifteen minutes ago. You clicked the green button.
“Hello?” you breathed, anxious as though your boyfriend might have somehow heard what you said. “Yeah. I’m — I’m with Betsy and Jack. Listen, I’m sorry about before. I don’t want a dog if you aren’t ready for one… yes, I’m sure… I’m not upset anymore, I promise… I love you, too. So much.”
Jack let your voice fade a bit as you wandered back towards the door to put your shoes on, heart pounding. Betsy trotted obediently behind you. He waited until he heard you say goodbye, with many more “love you”s, before rising and following you into the small entryway right off the kitchen.
“Don’t forget your chai,” he said, holding it out for you once more.
“Thank you,” you said absently as you tied your laces. “Really, Jack. For everything.”
He just smiled back, somewhat superficially though you didn’t seem to notice.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
You leaned down for a lengthy goodbye with Betsy.
“I’ll see you soon, baby girl!” you said softly, cracking open the door. Then you turned back to Jack, looking unsure. “We’re good, right?”
“Perfect,” he said, and you smiled a relieved smile.
Then you were gone. He waited until the sound of your footsteps faded from the stairs before heading straight back to the couch to collapse. Betsy sat whining at the door for a while. When she finally understood that you were gone, she eeyored back towards Jack, looking for answers.
“You really like her, huh?” he said, scratching behind Betsy’s ears. “I get it. She’s great, isn’t she?”
He laid back against your side of the couch, and he could smell your intoxicating shampoo. You smelled like chamomile and lemon. For a second, he allowed himself to press his nose into the upholstery, inhaling you… then he realized how creepy that was and sat bolt upright.
Betsy, unaware of his troubles, jumped up to occupy the recently vacated spot on the couch. Maybe she could smell you, too. She rested her soft chin on Jack’s hip, and he gave her shoulders a scratch.
“I miss her too,” he sighed.
And somehow, the sting was lessened by her warm, steady presence at his side. Maybe the answer was to move on. Find someone else. Maybe it was only then that he could start to forget you. And you could just be Robby’s partner, and his, Jack’s, coworker and friend. And he could hang out with you and not feel hollow when you left.
So when the cute neighbor one floor down asked for his number, his first thought was how do I get out of this. His second was fuck it.
***
Leading up to the Saturday night date, Jack had a series of highly unusual and nightsweat-inducing dreams. Most of them included a lot of kissing you, blissful happiness, and then losing it all in one ice cold, terrifying moment he remembered Robby existed. Robby’s expressions of outrage and betrayal were enough to wake Jack three hours before his alarm and keep him up. In one particularly upsetting one he had just before the date, he asked you out before Robby had, and you were living in a nice house outside the city. Everything seemed perfect until he was bombarded by the image of you, sitting across from Robby, saying why couldn’t I have just fallen in love with you?
Seeing as he spent the hours between five and seven PM going over it as he got ready to go out with another woman, he was banking a lot on this date. In an ideal world, Amanda from downstairs would absolutely enthrall him in just one night, driving you from his head completely. Did he realistically think that that was about to happen? No, but it never hurt to hope.
Amanda was a perfectly nice woman, and perfectly boring. She suggested the small Italian place they sat at, and it was fine. Plain. The food was just okay. Jack wasn’t really tasting it, more focused desperately on not letting the silence sit for too long. It wasn’t too hard; he just had to ask Amanda a question about herself.
She could talk as long as you could, almost, but he found himself zoning out during Amanda’s long winded stories, a stark difference from the rapt attention he always seemed to have a never ending supply of for you.
Her voice seemed a little grating after a while. Still, it was better than the silence. He picked at his pasta. She kept leaning over and stroking his arm with her fingers as she laughed. He was good at faking smiles, but his chuckles were weak at best. She didn’t seem to notice.
Around the end of the meal, while Jack cursing the waiter for taking his sweet time to clear their plates, and praying to whatever god was out there that Amanda didn’t want desert, she shifted in her seat and in doing so, knocked the point of her heel against his right leg.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said.
“What? Oh,” he said, about to dismiss it, but something else came out instead. “It’s a prosthetic leg.”
He lifted the pants a little to show her the metal. Normally, he wouldn’t dream of disclosing this on a very first date, scared of judgement or pity. He found, however, that he didn’t really care what Amanda said about it. Her eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows shooting up under her bangs.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, looking a little embarrassed. “How did — I mean, if you don’t mind me asking —”
“I was in the army,” he said. “Field medic.”
“Wow,” she said, looking so genuinely awed that he had to leave the last few bites of pasta left in his bowl. “Thank you for your service.”
I need to get out of here.
He forced out a painful smile, drinking deeply from his glass of water. Oh, how he hated when people thanked him for doing something he’d never do again. He was young, and easily talked into the grand idea of serving his country while getting a free education. His parents didn’t have any money, and Leanne’s father made it sound amazing. Real amazing.
He was one of the lucky ones, who had a home to go to after getting discharged. He wasn’t serving anyone but billionaires when he was in the army.
So sure he was that he would never speak with Amanda again, he allowed himself to lie about lactose intolerance to get out of going to get ice cream. Before she could propose an alternative, he asked to walk her home.
Though he had been worried it would have so clearly been the brush off she’d get upset, the offer seemed only to entice her further. Just as she had smiled gooily when he insisted on picking up the bill; apparently chivalry really was dead, seeing as they quite literally lived in the same building. He’d have had to go out of his way not to walk her home (a tempting idea).
As they approached the front door, it suddenly struck him that she might expect an evening kiss. Quickly, he brought up a topic sure to kill any romance.
“I feel like I should tell you,” he said, “I was married.”
To his dismay, Amanda didn’t look surprised, nor put off by his words.
“I figured,” she said, pointing to his left hand. “Why else would you wear a ring? I would’ve asked you out ages ago, but I thought you had a wife. Then I noticed you never walked in or out with anyone, and you never mentioned her.”
Taken aback by the amount of attention this random neighbor had apparently paid to him, he struggled to speak for a moment.
“Right, well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I feel obligated to tell you that this is the first date I’ve been on since she passed away.”
For maybe the millionth time that night, Amanda gave a phony gasp, and brought her hands to her chest.
“She’s dead?” she breathed. “I’m sorry, I figured it was a nasty divorce, or something. How did it happen? Was she… also in the army?”
“No, no,” he said, almost amused. “It was, uh, cancer. Glioblastoma.”
Amanda let out a horrible simpering noise, and laid a hand on his bicep. Far from the intended effect, she now looked even more interested in him than ever.
“That’s awful,” she said.
They reached the steps. Surely, surely, she couldn’t expect anything now. Could she?
Deciding it was better to take awkward elevator rides than to string her along, Jack was steeling himself for a quite unpleasant conversation.
“Listen, Amanda, you’re a great lady,” he said, and she smiled shyly. “And I had a gr — good time on the date. And I really thought I was ready to move on, but I don’t think I am. I’m sorry.”
Amanda’s face fell.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said awkwardly. “I just wanted to tell you, it has nothing to do with you. This is my issue.”
“I understand,” she said. “And — I appreciate that.”
“It’s only right,” he said with a sad smile that she mirrored. “Thanks for the night.”
Once inside, she got in the elevator, and he took the stairs at a deliberately slow pace. Only once he was sure she had passed did he dare move on to his floor, and he let out a heavy, pained breath as he closed the door behind him.
Betsy perked up as he entered, then came bounding over to greet him. He gave her some scratches.
“Hey, girl. Hey. Wanna go on a run?”
She was certainly better company than Amanda, Jack thought. Although, the more time grew between him and the date, he started to question his own memory.
Was she really that awful, or was she just not who he wanted her to be? She was pretty, a nice dresser, and intelligent. She was a college professor at UPenn, which had to be both lucrative and interesting. She must have told some stories; he couldn’t remember. No, he decided, he hadn’t given her a proper chance.
And with you on his mind, he realized, he couldn’t have. Not Amanda, not anyone. With a strangely empty feeling in his stomach, he decided the only thing that could possibly help the situation, or else the only thing left to try, was distance. A you detox.
So he pulled back, seriously this time, but carefully. The last thing he needed was you catching on, and asking uncomfortable questions.
He didn’t pick up day shifts if you were on; the slight reduction in volunteer hours he had when Betsy came home turned in the other direction, and he was now working the equivalent of a part time job with his team; he continued hanging out with Robby, but made points to choose activities he knew you didn’t like, such as football games instead of hockey, or bars for foosball, a game you for some strange reason couldn’t seem to get the hang of and which led to so many meltdowns as a kid that you banned it for yourself.
He saw movies he knew would freak you out, and got pizza at the place you thought tasted like puke, and read books by authors you didn’t like so you wouldn’t have anything to talk about. And no one batted an eye, because no one expected him to know the intimate details of your likes and dislikes as well as he did. Coincidence, it must have been.
It was helped by his working more and more, limiting his time outside of work anyway, so it wasn’t just you he was cutting back on time with.
When Robby started struggling, Jack was starting to feel sure the detox was working. You finally fell out of his head, replaced by rampant worries, and he almost wished to switch back.
That was probably why he didn’t notice the strain on you. Why he didn’t reach out to you like he did to Robby.
When you showed up in front of his apartment late one night with a packed bag and a flood of tears, it seemed obvious. He had gotten so good at blocking out the things you did that made him dizzy that he hadn’t realized when they stopped. And it felt like all the progress he’d made fell apart upon the sight of your pretty features so warped with anguish and grief. But he stopped caring in that moment, because you needed him — you needed him, so it didn’t matter how you made him feel. He opened his arms, and you fell into them.
And though his stomach raged with guilt and disgust at himself, Jack couldn’t help but bring back an echo of your words as you sobbed into his shoulder…
Why couldn’t you have just fallen in love with him?
---
hope you enjoyed! would appreciate any feedback on the pictures! xoxo
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
word count: 5k
warning: smut | PinV | blue pill | oral sex (both receiving) | overstimulation
summary: Bucky took something Sam gave him as a joke... turned out it wasn't a joke
a/n: i'll admit, this is purely porn with plot
The Tower was silent, eerily so.
Bucky liked it that way sometimes, when the others were off on assignments or out enjoying the city. Silence gave him space to think. Or not think.
Today, he’d planned on the latter.
A few days ago Sam, being the same and usual Sam, had slipped him some modern help laughing as he tossed a bottle into Bucky’s lap and winked. “You're a hundred years old, Barnes. Might as well try what the rest of us use now and then.”
Bucky had scowled, rolled his eyes but yet shoved the little bottle into his drawer with no intention of touching it.
That morning was different.
His mind was too loud, his body tenser than usual, and thoughts of her hadn’t stopped plaguing him.
Y/N.
She was everything he wanted and nothing he thought he deserved. Y/N was fierce, loyal, funny in a way that disarmed him, and way too good at dodging his awkward flirt attempts.
He tried so hard not to stare at her when she trained. Tried harder not to listen too closely when she laughed but most days, he failed miserably.
When he woke up he was already hard and aching, tons of thoughts of her were already tormenting his mind, he remembered Sam’s stupid joke and he gave in. “Just to get it out of my system,” he muttered, swallowing the damn pill and dragging himself to the showers like a man on a mission.
No one else was supposed to be in the Tower anyway.
“What could go wrong?” He muttered to himself at the empty room.
Y/N stood in the kitchen in leggings and an old Stark Industries hoodie, barefoot with her hair damp from her own shower, sipping coffee and scrolling on her tablet. She had stayed behind from the latest op to recover from a minor sprain, nothing serious, but Tony had made a fuss and ordered her to “take a break or face the wrath of Black Widow.”
The quiet was nice and peaceful.
She rinsed her mug and went back to her room. Until she heard a deep, muffled groan echo down the hall. Her head tilted. That was… definitely a male groan. Her brows furrowed. Only a few of the guys had voices that deep, and only one of them lived on the same floor as her.
“Bucky?” She called.
Silence.
Then another low, frustrated sound almost like pain. Or…
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.” She muttered.
In the privacy of his room, Bucky gritted his teeth and gripped the edge of the bathroom counter. This was not what he expected. He was used to… control. Training, pain tolerance, discipline. But this? The moment he wore his underwear, there was fire under his skin. But it wasn’t due to the hot shower he just took.
The pill was working far too well and his body was strung tight, aching desperately. He leaned over the bathroom counter, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to breathe through it. He cursed. “I’m gonna kill Sam,” he muttered under his breath, palming himself through his boxers as another wave of heat rushed through him. “Stupid, cock-”
He barely made it to the bed, panting as he laid back against the sheets, metal hand gripping the sheets while his flesh one wrapped around his cock. Underwear around his ankle but it wasn’t working. Not enough. Not the person he craved. Not the skin to skin he really wanted.
He stroke himself fast and hard, precum dripping down his shaft, muscles tense and abs flexing with every thrust of his hand. His lips parted as low, desperate groans filled the room. “Fuck… can’t… fuck… not enough…”
Knock knock.
He froze.
“Bucky?”
A voice.
Her voice.
Just outside the door.
His stomach dropped. Blood rushed to all the wrong places, the same wrong place. He scrambled on his feet jumping from the bed to the door, holding it closed. Boxer rushed on, painfully tight on him. “Y/N—what are you doing here?”
“I live here? What are you doing?” She paused. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he groaned, forehead hitting the door. “I mean, yes. I mean—please don’t come in.”
There was silence for a beat. Then her voice, lower. “I thought I heard something. Are you sure?”
“Mmff… yeah… I’m fine,” he murmured, voice barely audible. Hearing her voice was killing him. Keeping his forehead against the door, his hand slid down his body inside his boxer. He gripped himself again, tightening the pressure.
Outside, Y/N frowned biting her lip. “You don’t sound fine.”
He swallowed hard, frustrated that he couldn’t speak clearly. “Just… wait a sec,” he said, trying again, voice cracking. His metal hand pressing on his lips, trying to muffle the noise coming out of his mouth.
He tried so hard to calm himself. He moved toward the bed, sitting on the edge of it. Legs spread open and hand moving faster on his cock.
“I’m okay… I swear…”
The door opened a crack. He’d forgotten to lock it. Bucky didn’t even try to lung forward or pushing it closed again.
She was already peeking in, eyes wide and lips parted and then she saw him.
Flushed, shirtless, wearing only a pair of very thigh underwear. Hair damp and sticking to his neck and very clearly… affected.
His hand was still around his cock, she glanced down smirking. He winced like you’d just caught him watching porn at work. “This is not what it looks like.”
“And what does it look like, Bucky?” She asked, voice soft but tinged with something sharper. Teasing. Dangerous. He hesitated, sitting better on the bed.
She raised a brow. “…Did you take something?”
His face flushed red, ears burning and eyes on the floor, too ashamed of looking at her face. “…Maybe.” He growled. “Yes, okay? Sam gave me a damn pill days ago and I thought I was alone, so I-”
“Why?”
He swallowed. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” He snapped, embarrassed beyond reason.
She didn’t look disgusted. Or scandalised. She looked… intrigued? A little smug?
The blue pills weren’t meant for someone like him. Not officially. Not for a super soldier with an already enhanced everything, strength and reflexes and stamina and… libido. “You look like you’re in pain,” she said softly.
“I am,” he grit. “I didn’t think anyone was here. I wasn’t gonna… hell, I don’t know what I was gonna do.”“Well,” she said, locking the door behind her, “you’ve got a few options.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
She leaned against the wall. “You could wait it out. Could take a cold shower. Or…” She moved toward Bucky, he flinched a little once she sat on the bed near him, brushing against his hip. “…You could let me help.”
His breath hitched. “Y/N… don’t tease me.”“I’m not,” she said, voice suddenly serious. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, Bucky. If this is how the truth comes out… so let it be.”
The look in her eyes nearly undid him. Heat but softness at the same time. There was lust and even something else he didn’t get immediately. It was something that burned even hotter than the pill in his system.
“Say the word,” she whispered.
He leaned closer, metal hand cradling her jaw, the human hand trembling slightly as it rested on her waist. His forehead pressed against hers. Sitting near each other, his fire rise. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “I want you.”
Then his lips were on hers, hungry and desperate holding many months of tension snapping like a live wire between them. She gasped into his mouth, fingers digging into his back as he backed her up against the mattress in a second.
He hovered her, grinding against her. Bucky kissed her like he was starving. Not rushed but yet devouring her. Lips slanting over hers, tongue sliding in with a low groan. His metal hand firm around her hip while the other roamed her skin like he couldn’t decide what to touch first. Her neck, her waist, the swell of her breasts under her hoodie.
All of it was his to explore.
Y/N felt the weight of him between her legs as he pressed her back against the mattress, hips grinding with purpose. He was hot and hard and heavy against her, and there was no mistaking the effect of that little blue pill. “Fuck,” she breathed as he kissed down her neck, nipping just beneath her jaw. “This isn’t going to wear off anytime soon, is it?”
His chuckle was low and rough. “No. You’re in for a long day, sweetheart.” She pulled his mouth back to hers, kissing him deeper this time, moaning when his fingers dipped beneath her waistband.
He found her soaked, already slick and swollen, and he hissed through his teeth. “Jesus, you’re wet. For me?”
“All for you,” she whispered, rocking into his touch.
“Gimme a little show doll… strip for me,” Bucky ordered her.
She didn’t wast a second. Rushing up from the bed, Bucky laid down resting on his metal arm. The flesh hand goes directly to his cock as he removed his boxer. Bucky was now fully naked, stroking his cock.
Y/N stood at the end of the bed, mouth open as he saw Bucky in his glorious state. She began playing with the edge of her hoodie, letting him seeing some skin. She lifted the hoodie, no bra nor shirt under it.
Her boobs peaked out and Bucky stroke himself faster. “Good, perfect boobs doll.”
He moaned the last word.
Not wanting to tease him more, she slid leggings and undies in a swift movement.
“Come here now.”
She knelt on the bed and crawled up to him. He slid his hand on her waist and pulled her down on the mattress. His finger circled her clit slow, deliberate and teasing. She tried to grind harder, closing her legs but he gripped her thigh and spread her open wider.
“Patience,” he growled into her ear. “Wanna feel you come apart on my hand first.”
He sank two fingers inside her. Her head fell back, a choked moan escaping her lips as he curled them just right, finding the spot that made her hips buck involuntarily. “There,” he murmured, thumb rubbing tight circles against her clit while he pumped in and out with slow, merciless rhythm. “That feel good?”“Yes,” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “God, Bucky…”
He kissed her again to swallow the sounds she made, fingers never slowing. The metal of his other hand gripped her thigh, holding her open, strong and unyielding. She was about to came with a gasp, trembling, clenching around his fingers as her legs shook. He stopped and she grunted but he didn’t even give her time to whine. He dropped to his knees in front of her on the floor, pulling her on the edge of the bed.
“Wait… what are you…”
His mouth latched onto her soaked pussy before she could finish the sentence. She nearly screamed. He licked her like a man possessed. Slow at first tasting her, then with more urgency. His tongue flicking over her clit in sharp, wet strokes. He groaned against her, hands gripping her thighs, keeping her open as he feasted on her like it was his goddamn job.
“Bucky… fuck… I can’t…”
“Yes you can,” he growled, mouth shiny and wet. “Give me what I want.”
She came with a cry, hips twitching and thighs squeezing around his head as her vision went white. He stood quickly after that, lips slick and eyes blown black with lust. She could see how hard he still was as the pill hadn’t worn off in the slightest.
His cock straight in the air, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip. “Condom,” he muttered, rifling through the drawer.
“I’m clean,” she panted, pulling her hair off her face. “And on the shot.”
His eyes darkened. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure?”
She nodded, kneeling on the bed close to the edge, wrapping her hand around his cock and stroking it slowly. “I want all of you. Nothing between us.”
Bucky jumped on the bed, just as she slid in the middle of it. She spread her legs, Bucky saw her pussy still glistening from his saliva. He took his cock in his hand, playing with her folds with his tip.
“Bucky…” she whined.
“What?” Bucky replied smirking. His cock now slapping on your pussy. “Don’t you like a little teasing first?”
You shook your head no.
Bucky looked at you. Eyes closed, hair tousled on the bed.
The first thrust stole both their breaths. He slid in deep, stretching her wide and they both moaned at the contact, at how good it felt. Raw and bare, heat against heat.
He paused only a second, breathing hard against her neck. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “So tight, fuck… so perfect.” Then he started to move.
Deep and smooth strokes, slow enough to make her feel every inch of him. His metal hand gripped her waist, holding her still while his hips snapped forward again and again, hitting that spot inside her that made her cry out.
“Wanted this for so long,” he muttered, lips against her throat. “Thought about you every damn night. Touching myself, wishing it was you.”
She whimpered, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “You should’ve said something,” she whispered, clenching around him. “I wanted you too.”“Don’t say that,” he growled, fucking her harder now. “I’m barely holding on.”
But she wanted him to let go. So she clenched tighter, dragged her nails down his back, whispered filthy things into his ear and when she came, crying out his name, he lost it. He cursed, pulled her flush against him, and came with a growl, buried deep inside her. His hips jerked as he filled her with thick, pulsing heat.
For a long moment, they just breathed. His head dropped to her shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck, and the world felt still. “Better than your hand?” she teased after a while, voice breathless. He chuckled, kissed her cheek. “You ruined me.” Then, something softer. “I think I love you.”
She smiled, brushing his hair back. “Good. Because I think I love you too.”
Bucky was still hard.
Even after blowing his load deep inside her, hips trembling with release, he hadn’t softened in the slightest. “Jesus,” Y/N mumbled with a dazed smile, her legs barely working. “That pill really doesn’t quit, huh?”
“It’s not just the pill,” he muttered, holding her close. “You’re in my head. You’ve been there for months.”
She kissed his jaw, flushed and glowing, skin sticky with sweat. “Well, maybe you’ll finally sleep after this.”“I wouldn’t count on it,” he muttered, brushing a hand between her thighs. “Still hard as a damn rock. You’re lucky I’m not bending you over the sink right now.”
She shivered from the pleasure. “Why don’t we compromise?”
He looked at her, and lifted her in a second.
The bathroom was already fogged up from the earlier shower but now the steam was rolling thick again, curling around their naked forms as the shower sprayed hot against their skin.
Bucky stepped in behind her, arms snaking around her waist, cock already nudging against her ass.
“I should be tired,” she murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled the side of her neck. “But I’m not.”“That makes two of us.” He turned her slowly, pressing her back against the tiled wall.
The water ran down her curves, glistening across her chest as she looked up at him. His soaked hair sticking to his skin, lips parted, chest rising and falling in anticipation. “You look like something out of a dream,” he muttered. “And I’ve had a lot of dreams about you in the shower.” She smirked, trailing her fingers down his chest, over the lines of his abdomen, until she was gripping his thick and still aching cock again.
“Like this?” she asked, stroking him slow under the water.
He growled low in his throat, eyes closing for a second. “Exactly like that.”
Then she dropped to her knees.
The water cascaded over his shoulders as she licked the head tasting him. Her tongue teasing the tip before her mouth went down over him. He hissed, one hand bracing against the wall, the other threading through her wet hair.
“Fuck, Y/N… your mouth…”
She hollowed her cheeks bobbing her head slowly. Her tongue was dragging along the underside. Bucky’s thighs tensed, groans echoing in the tile chamber but he didn’t stop her. He didn’t dare, not until he was twitching in her mouth, dangerously close again. “Baby,” he gasped, pulling her up before he could lose control. “I wanna come inside you again. Please.”
She leaned in, kissing him deep. He picked her up and she wrapped her leg around his waist as he pressed her back to the wall. He lined up and thrust in her deep enough to made her clench.
Her moan was broken and breathless against his lips as he filled her again, sliding home to the hilt.
“Still so tight,” he growled, thrusting slow, grinding against her. “Can feel you clenching already.”
She clung to him, nails raking down his back. “You feel so good, Bucky…so big…” He fucked her slow and wet, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the shower. His mouth moved over her throat and her collarbone, biting and sucking marks into her skin. “Mine,” he whispered between thrusts. “You’re mine now.”
“Yours,” she panted. “Always was.”
That broke him.
He slammed in harder and faster, arms flexing as he pinned her to the wall. Her cries grew louder, water running down their bodies as he fucked her through another climax. Y/N felt her legs shaking, as her nails digging deep inside his back. He came with a groan against her neck, hips jerking, cock pulsing inside her for the second time.
They stayed like that for a while letting the water wash over them. Bucky finally pulled back, brushing soaked hair from her face, his expression softer now. “You okay?”
She smiled, resting her forehead against his. “Better than okay. You?”
He nodded, though his cock still hadn’t gone completely soft. His body was high on her. At this point it wasn’t just the pill, it wasn’t even just the sex itself.
It was her. It always had been.
“Round three,” he teased with a tired grin. “Eventually.”
“God help me,” she whispered with a laugh. “You’re insatiable.” He kissed her gently, sweet and slow this time. “Only for you.”
She should have been tired, really tired, but Bucky’s cock still semi hard for her along with his eyes absolutely stuck on her made her less tired. They dried themselves and got back in Bucky’s room. He let her pass first, as a gentleman but also taking a look at her ass.
“Feeling his eyes on me,”
“Can you blame me?”
She turned around. “Do you have something in mind?”
He took a look at the floor, then at her.
“Barnes do you wanna fuck me on the floor?”
“Would you let me?” He looked down, almost shy.
“I’d let you do anything you want,”
Bucky smiled as he moved closer, then kissing her. At last he knelt. He kissed her stomach, then her thighs. “You’re addicting…”
She lowered on the floor, lips to his ear. “How do you want me on the floor?”
“Laying down,” a kiss. “On your stomach,” another kiss. “Spread your legs a little…” one last kiss.
She rushed turning herself on the floor. Her ass fully in sight. Bucky let his finger slid on her body, then he lowered and kiss her back thighs. He gave her ass a little slap, kneading her cheeks with both hands. He spread them a little, licking her pussy. He positioned himself better, cock in his hand. As he did before, he tapped her pussy with his cock. He slid inside her. Her core still warm and welcoming. He grabbed her hips as he moved his weight on his knees. He pounded in her hard and deep.
“Buck,” she moaned as she tried to move her arm behind. “Come closer… crush me please… I need it…”
“Are you sure?” He snapped his hips once more.
As she nodded, he lowered on her. His chest against her back. His hot breath in her ear. He licked her neck, nibbled at her lobe. He lifted her torso, just enough to grab both her boobs. His weight completely crushing her.
“Fuck me harder Bucky…”
He removed his hands from her chest, letting her down on the floor. He yanked her hair in a fist, pulling her head behind. As his hips snapped harder. Precise thrusts hitting her spongy spot inside.
“Oh my god,” she moaned breathless, her nails on the floor like cat claws. “Just like this… don’t stop please… don’t stop…”
He didn’t, in fact he pounded more and more in her pussy. He felt a cramp but didn’t stop. He knelt completely pulling her up with him. She was now on all four, exposed and sweaty. As he slapped her ass once more, she came. Her legs trembled, as her pussy clenched on him just as she wanted to keep him in there forever.
He followed her second later. Another flush of him inside her. He remained there hands on her hips, cock inside her and forehead on her back.
On the other hand, Y/N’s knees threatened to break the balance but she stayed there feeling his weight on her.
Once their breath were calmer, he stood up. She lost balance and felt on the floor. Bucky immediately picked her up again.
He opened the shower, turning on the hot water. Sensing the heat he entered with her clinging on him like a koala.
“Can you stand?”
“If you hold me yeah…” she muttered, face crushed into his chest.
He kissed her head, picking the shampoo. He washed her hair, then his with the remaining foam. It was now time to take the body wash. He picked the bottle and squeezed some on his hands. Y/N was in a sleepy state, against Bucky’s massive frame. He slid his hand on her body, massaging and cleaning her. Her skin so soft.
“I can get used to this,” she said, caressing his hair once he lowered himself to wash her legs. “It’s nice,”
“I want you to get used to this,”
He stood and stole another kiss from her. He got out the shower first, picked a robe and put it on. Then he took the other robe and slid on her body. He stroke his hand on her clothed body, then circled her waist. She found again her spot on his chest, standing there in the foggy bathroom.
The tower was still empty when they eventually finished and they finally went to bed, cleaned and satisfied. Y/N laid on his chest, hand on his heart. Bucky felt her weight on his torso, as his arm circled her body protecting and keeping her there.
The morning after Bucky was whistling, actually whistling, as he padded into the kitchen barefoot. When he woke up, he kissed Y/N’s lips first.
“We’re gonna have to face the other… especially Sam…” he said, looking down at you.
“I’m gonna thank him so much. Best sex I’ve ever had,” she looked at him noticing an almost sad expression on him. “Bucky… I know it’s not only the pill. I’ve dreamt about it for so long…”
He smiled. “I’ll let you know it was not the pill… 100% you…” She corked her eyebrow up. “Alright 80% you and 20% the pill,”
When you got up, he threw on a hoodie over his bare chest. He picked something from his wardrobe for her.
He was smiling like he hadn’t done in months, maybe longer.
They both entered smiling and holding hands seeing the only one Bucky didn’t want to see.
Sam Wilson.
He was seated at the breakfast bar eating his cereal and froze mid-spoonful. He blinked, lowered the spoon. Then slowly turned to look at Y/N, who trailed into the kitchen, wearing Bucky’s hoodie. “…No fucking way,” Sam said, deadpan.
Y/N paused. “Morning, Sam.”
“You,” He pointed his spoon between the two of them. “You did not. You seriously?”
Bucky walked right past him to the coffee machine, not bothering to hide his grin. Sam dropped his spoon. “When?!”
“Yesterday,” Y/N said cheerfully, grabbing a mug. “In his bed. Then the shower. Then the floor.”
“The floor?” Sam covered his ears. “Stop. I don’t need a play-by-play!”
Bucky chuckled, sipping his coffee. “You did give me the damn pill.”
“I gave it as a joke!” Sam shouted, now half-laughing, half-horrified. “I didn’t expect you to actually use it!”
“Well, you gave a super soldier a pharmaceutical-grade sex drug,” Y/N said, raising an eyebrow. “What did you think was gonna happen? The tower was empty.”
Sam slumped over the counter like a man in defeat. “I thought maybe he’d get a little action. Not that he’d break the fucking foundation of the building.”
“C’mon,” Bucky said, smirking. “You should be happy for me.”
“I was until I realised I was gonna hear about your Olympic-level sex marathon over my Cheerios.”
Y/N leaned in, lowering her voice dramatically. “You should’ve heard him moaning… best sound in the world… I have to thank you, Sam.”
“OKAY!” Sam stood up, backing away. “That’s it. I’m moving out. I’m done. I can’t live like this.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Bucky said, sipping his coffee.
Sam stared at him. “You barked at me the other day for breathing too loud while you were watching The Crown and now you’re here walking around like it’s Valentine’s Day morning in a goddamn Hallmark movie.”
Bucky shrugged. “I’m relaxed.”
“Too relaxed.” Sam snorted.
Y/N was giggling now, leaning into Bucky’s side as he wrapped a lazy arm around her waist.
Sam gave them both a long, unblinking look. “Fine. You guys are cute together,” he looked at them. “But stop with the sex Olympics…”
“Can’t promise you anything,” Y/N said laughing.
Sam smiled, seeing his best friend happy.
Once they were alone again, Bucky picked her up on the counter. She spread her legs and Bucky positioned himself between them. She circled his neck with her arms, pulling him closer.
“I love you, Bucky. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, doll.” He kissed her. “I’m sorry for this… this wasn’t how I meant to let you know about my feelings.”
“I like how you let me know about your feelings…” she kissed her ear, the space on the neck above the ear. He flinched from pleasure, even tho the pill’s effects were completely washed out of his body.
Summary: your housemate’s brother and friend come to your place to drop a few boxes and a very weird shaped plant for her. What none of you expect is to be poisoned, and there is only on solution: fuck the poison out of each other.
Warnings/tags: 18+ mdni! Smut, threesome(mmf), double penetration, creampie, age gap(reader’s around26-27 & rabbot is their canon ages), sex pollen! Basically the i’m so horny i have to get fucked or i think i’ll die trope, they also come on her face, English isn’t my first language, rough sex cause they are insatiable! They come a handful of times. NO BETA!
Word count: 2.5k+
An: I wrote this in forty minutes... also the first 500 words are basically the set up the rest is smut... and i made myself tingle while i was writing it soooooo
“And the shower head is also broken. Just fucking great.”
You hop down from the chair you’ve placed in the shower stall, groaning at the thought of changing so many things before moving in completely, as if you didn’t have a massive argument yesterday about the lack of light in one of the rooms with the landlord. It has to do, it’s gonna be for two years anyway. Get your master's degree and run away from Pittsburgh.
There are three loud knocks on the front door, echoing in the walls as another set of raps on the wood follows them. With a deep, annoyed sigh, you walk toward the front door, cursing the landlord once again for not choosing a door with a peephole.
“Hey!” the man in the front says — shorter than the other guy with graying curly hair and a black t-shirt on, “How are you—”
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” You ask, glaring at the older men as they stand with different boxes in hand, the taller one holding a large, ungodly-shaped plant as well, “It’s kinda creepy to find two men at my door at this hour.”
“Right, well, we are here to help Jess move in,” the tall guy says, giving you a soft smile, but you only narrow your eyes at them, looking between them to see if they are really harmless or not.
“I’m Jack, and this–” the curly guy — Jack — turns his gaze to the other man before he looks back at you, “Is Robby, we’re just here to drop this off. And it’s too fucking hot out here, so please, let us in.”
“How do you know Jess?” You don’t budge, catching a whiff of the unusual scent that is probably coming from the plant in Robby’s hands, “‘cause I don’t wanna get into any trouble.”
“I’m his brother, Jack Abbot, now for the love of god–”
“Fine, fine! Jeez, get in! It’s not that hot outside anyway,” you roll your eyes at them, pushing the door fully open, watching them closely as they take off their shoes and kick them neatly to the side, moving toward the sitting area to put all the boxes next to Jess’ other stuff, “She didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“Yeah, it was a last-minute call,” Jack says, scrunching his nose as Robby walks past him to put the plant in the corner of the room next to a wall in front of the couch, “What the fuck is that? It smells worse than Gloria’s perfumes.”
“I wish I knew,” Robby sighs, his own face twisting as he smells the leaves a bit closely, “It smells so bad. Why’d Jess pick such a horrible thing?”
“That’s a really good question, because she also picked this hole for us to live in as well,” you reply, feeling your heart rate rising slightly, “half of the shit is broken, rent is too high, and the entire house will probably smell like basil if we ever cook. Tell your sister she has shit taste.”
“First of all, it’s not that bad, and second—” he steps closer to you, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you, “My sister’s taste isn’t as bad as you think. The place is pretty close to your university, so quit nagging.”
“Do you have an AC? Or a fan or something? The heat is getting worse, Jesus,” Robby groans, pulling on the neckline of his flannel shirt, sweat gathering around his neck, “I know it’s almost fall, but you better turn the fan.”
“I don’t know–oh.”
You feel a sudden rush of warmth in your belly, moving straight to your core, going lower and lower with each passing second. Now it is your time to start sweating, your top clinging to your chest and stomach, and your shorts to your thighs.
“I’m gonna open a window,” Jack clears his throat, walking to the windows in the kitchen quickly, grabbing the handle very, very tightly in his grip before he pulls it open, “Fuck…”
“Okay, um,” Robby stands with his hands on his hips, looking down at his feet before he drags his gaze from the floor to you, looking you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. He scoffs and shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he drags his hand down the back of his head to the side of his neck, “I think you should go to your room.”
“Why?” You know why. Something is going on with how your thighs clench, with how wetness gathers in your panties, and how you can spot a visible bulge in Robby’s jeans.
“He’s right,” Jack nods and leans over the counter, not even daring to look in your way. There is a shake in his voice, a tremble in his shoulders as he pushes himself up and straightens his back, “Go to your room, lock your door, and stay fucking inside. We’ll unpack and leave.”
“Wh-what’s going on?” You rub a hand down your face, trying to relieve some pressure by rubbing your thighs together, but it’s in vain because you are sure nothing you do will ease the throbbing of your cunt, “Fucking explain, aren’t you a doctor or something like Jess said?”
“Go. To your. Fucking. Room.” It’s Robby who is glaring at you now, a deep groaning rising from the depths of his chest as he catches the sight of your bare legs seeking pleasure.
“Can’t we… do something about it?”
“No! Because if… fucking Christ, just go–”
“Because what?”
“Because if we touch you, then we won’t stop until whatever this effect is is gone.” Robby answers when he senses Jack is also getting unbearably hard in the confines of his jeans, “You don’t want that. It’s not us.”
“But… but it’ll be faster–”
“Don’t answer her,” Jack snaps, shaking his head with his hands on his hips, “Go to your room and don’t come out until we leave.”
“Okay, okay,” you nod and scurry off to your room, slamming the door shut without a single glance at the men.
You are unbelievably wet, in a way you have never experienced before. It’s not just whatever has gotten into your body; it’s also because there are two undeniably hot and extremely attractive men pouncing around your house with arousal written all over their bodies, clearly.
You should stay, get your toys, and fuck yourself dumb until you don’t have any energy left. But there is a tiny voice in the back of your head, a string that is pulling you towards them. You should ignore it, probably for the best, because not only would you have fucked Jess’ brother, but you would fuck his best friend too.
“Fuck it,” you barely hear yourself through your pulse echoing in your ear as you mumble the words and swing the door open, marching outside towards the living room.
Robby is the closest to you, hunched over the couch with one hand squeezing his bulge. He doesn’t see you when you basically bolt in his direction, only when you grab him by the collar of his flannel shirt and smash your lips to his.
It’s obvious he doesn’t have the power to push you away, not with the way he kisses you back immediately and starts squeezing your asscheeks in his large hands, slotting his tongue in your mouth.
Robby guides you back with quick, steady steps until you hit Jack’s hard chest behind you. Now his hands join Robby’s as they tug on your clothes and kiss all over your skin, baring your sweaty body completely.
“Please, please, fuck me,” you whine against Robby’s throat as he looks at Jack over your shoulders, communicating wordlessly before Robby nods and grabs the back of your thighs, picking you up with ease and walking to the couch to sit with you straddling him, “I need it so bad, both of you.”
“You can’t take us both without–”
“I can, and I will,” you cry out, pawing at Robby’s belt while rolling your hips down over the bulge in his pants, getting the belt undone before he swats your hand away and pushes the fabric down.
Your mouth waters at the sight; his dick is huge, fat is a better word to say. Long, thick, and a pretty shade of pink with a leaky mushroom tip and a bush that you would have nuzzled your nose against if you weren’t practically dying from the waves of arousal in your veins.
“Jack!” You whimper, reaching behind you when you feel the extreme heat of his chest against your naked back, even though he isn’t touching you. But you hear him dropping his pants and groaning as his cock bobs out of his boxers.
“It will hurt–”
“Don’t care, I just need you to fill me, please–”
“Alright, alright, shh,” Robby kisses the side of your face, pulling you down on top of him until you are lying entirely on him, your wetness dripping over his cock, and he has to bite your shoulder to not moan in pleasure, “Fucking hell, you’re soaked.”
“Fuck me already,” you grab the back of the couch, giving him your best puppy eyes before turning around as best as possible to look at Jack, catching him stroking himself with his jeans around his thighs and t-shirt abandoned on the floor, “Please?”
“Fine,” Jack grunts, stepping forward until he is between Robby’s spread legs, planting one foot next to your thighs before he positions himself behind you, “Robby first, then I will join.”
You nod dumbly, waiting for Robby to finally start, and when he does, you are shaking at the barest contact. He grabs the base of his cock and lines up the tip with your winking hole, and you throw your head back already from the intense feeling, slowly lowering yourself until you are sitting snugly on his cock.
Everything feels ten times stronger; he is fucking big, and he is stretching you out so deliciously, yet it’s not enough. You need more, you need both of them inside your cunt right now, or you will turn hysterical.
But it seems Robby has another idea. With one thrust upward, you are coming, moaning and trembling on top of him, squeezing his cock so hard that he, too, starts coming, filling you up quickly with his hot cum.
Jack lets out a low groan when he sees the two of you at the height of your climax, but he doesn’t like that he is the only one who is not getting relieved.
“Fuck, let me join you,” Jack whispers to himself, planting one hand on your ass and pulling one cheek until you are open to him, bending his knee a little to push the fat tip of his cock against Robby’s and inside you.
You wail out, nails digging into the cushions, but you would rather die than tell him to stop. Because there is no pain, only pleasure, double it even, no, no, triple it. It’s so intense, and it feels so good to be locked between two men old enough to be your father, even – a young one – but their cocks feel so heavenly rubbing against each other and stretching your hole until there is no room.
Robby throws his head back, twitching inside you as he feels Jack’s heat in a way he has never felt before, clutching your hips as he looks at his friend with dark, hooded eyes and sweat gathering at his hairline.
Jack is first to break, moving his hips a little, pushing himself deeper, and letting out a shuddering sigh when he feels Robby’s cum running down both of their lengths.
Everything is so intense; you don’t know who starts and who finishes, but in the meantime, you are crying and screaming their names as they start actually fucking you. Whatever has gotten into your systems is enough for the three of you to abandon morals and move your bodies like animals in mating season.
You come. Hard. Hard enough that you think you might have blacked out for a few seconds. You feel euphoria rushing through your arteries, pulse spiking madly, and legs shaking as you gush around their cocks, walls clenching around them tightly.
They both come at the same time; Jack has to hold himself up by dropping his chest on your back and grabbing Robby’s shoulder as his balls tighten and he bursts inside you.
Robby is the same, except he lets out a deep chesty groan as he gives you the biggest load he has ever experienced. Both of them stuff you full to the point they can feel the other’s cum coating their dicks and dripping out of where you are connected.
What is unusual that catches your attention is that they are still hard. Harder than before, even. But Jack pulls out before you can ask, standing on shaky legs behind you with his jeans getting stained white.
“You’re hard,” you slur out the words, raising your hips and moaning when Robby’s dick is pulled out with a filthy squelching sound, and you feel the run of the warm cum down your thighs.
“I have a solution for that,” Jack runs a hand through his hair once before he helps you down on your knees in front of him, “We’re already really fucking close again…”
“Please,” you catch up on his tone pretty quickly, sitting with your palms on your thighs and sticking your tongue out.
Robby stands up as well, chest and face as red as a tomato, as he stands next to Jack, his hand already stroking his cock while his eyes run over your naked body.
You reach for their dicks, closing your eyes and starting to stroke them at a fast pace, feeling the pressure building up in your cunt again – the need to have another orgasm hitting you sooner than you imagined it would. But you’re not thinking right, so maybe you’d have to ask them to make you come again after you give them what they deserve.
“Fuck–”
“That’s it–”
They groan and grunt in union, but this time Robby throbs in your hand first, and you feel the ropes of cum that shoot from his dick on your face, tasting the saltiness of his seed on your tongue before Jack comes on your cheek and eyelids.
You keep stroking them until their sounds turn into whines and whimpers, and you feel them pulling back from your grip. You gather the cum off your face with your fingers, opening your eyes while you look at them, both flushed and semi-hard as one of them takes the couch and the other keeps his weight up by his hand on the closest wall.
“How long until the effects wear off?”
“Until you feel sane again…” Robby says through ragged breaths, “And getting rid of that fucking plant…”
“And coming until you don’t feel like dying.” Jack finishes the sentence, looking at you from beneath his lashes, “Will Jess come home tonight?”
“No, she’s staying at her friend’s place.”
With a look shared between the two men, you are sure your day is only starting.
Summary: A moment in the gym, before the shift, where an idiot decides to say something about Brendon's wife.
Warning: Body shaming, verbal harassment. Possessive and protective behavior (Brendon Park himself). Explicit language, dirty talk.
Words: 1034 (short one)
Taglist: @my-whole-brain-is-crying @leksi-rae @chelle-1515 @minienix @mythologicallyversed @mxtokko @tears-of-acid-and-sluts @susp3ndedindusk @helenaellie @rei-scorpio @ivy-stuffs @dutch3-10 @catharticdesire @sidneysidney123 @fics-from-the-dead @eddiemunsonguitar @thedragonsrose @mynameisbaby9 @simply-lovley44 @dr3obsessed @mayabbot @bbblackmamba @harryswizzle @alphafemale-15 @rabbotseatcarrots @b38596012 @lipsunsmokedcigarette @pastlecow @kingtitus @stevieharrington71 @asfaraslifegets @noyaisasimp @loki-trickst3r @miahelen @xoxoloverb @brown-eyes-cello-and-books @seitmai @boricuas-fic-recs @outpostsworld @ohheyitssj @thedragonsrose @justanothersadperson93 @hcrm @vastscoutweapon @multifandom301 @travelingmypassion @carson1gg @mintoblobo @redhooduwu @twdhtgawm @annabethboleyn @ichibella @ramenblutte @happyendingarentreal @gardeniarose13 @jgoose13 @ilocuras24 @noxytopy
The gym—absurdly expensive, yet unfortunately worth every penny of the annual membership Brendon paid for—was unusually crowded for such an early hour. You both had gone before your shift to make up for the days you’d missed.
You were finishing a set on the leg press, "focused" on the effort—or rather, the effort of not drooling at the sight of your husband. A few yards away, Brendon was loading a barbell with a weight that drew every eye in the room. With bulging biceps, a shirt soaked in sweat, and a presence that would make any man think twice before crossing him, he looked like a Greek god.
You paused to rest and drink some water, wiping the sweat from your neck with a towel, when you felt a presence beside you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Brendon drop his barbell, alert and ready to intervene but allowing you to handle the situation for the moment. It was a younger guy with a smirk of pure smugness and an overconfidence that screamed "trouble"—clearly a facade to compensate for a lack of character.
"You know..." the idiot began, his eyes scanning your body in a way that made you feel instantly dirty—nothing like your husband’s always appreciative gaze. "Your technique is good. Though with those curves, if I were you, I’d hit the cardio harder. You’re a bit... 'filled out' to be wearing those leggings, don't you think? Don't get me wrong, I just think you'd be much hotter with a few less pounds."
You froze, water bottle halfway to your lips. The air around you seemed to drop ten degrees; over the stranger’s shoulder, you caught Brendon’s gaze. He was waiting for your signal to step in.
"Hey, don't take it the wrong way, gorgeous. Just some advice from someone who knows about aesthetics," he added, reaching out a hand to touch your shoulder. "If you join my routine, I guarantee in a month we’ll have dropped those..."
Your patience, already hanging by a very fine thread, snapped. The condescension of this fucking prick and his attempt to invade your personal space were the final straw. You let out a dry chuckle, a dismissive sound that stopped him cold. You lowered the water bottle, letting your gaze sweep over his body with evident disdain.
"Aesthetic advice? From you?" you asked, your voice laced with venom. "You’ve got to be kidding. First of all: don't dare to touch me. And second: I don't need you to train me."
The stranger blinked, confused. His smug smile wavered. You took a step forward, invading his space with the absolute confidence of knowing Brendon had your back.
"Tell me something..." you raised your voice so everyone could hear. "Is this whole arrogant facade to compensate for an obvious lack of inches in your dick, or are you just born an asshole? Because honestly, for me to notice someone like you, when I have something infinitely better..."
You slowly raised your hand and, with your index finger, signaled over his shoulder for him to turn around.
"...you’d have to be born again. Only a real man can handle a woman like me."
The guy froze. His face went from a pale red to a deathly white. Before he could process your words, instinctive fear forced him to turn toward where you were pointing.
The sight that met him was that of a predator protecting his mate.
Brendon was less than two feet away, practically breathing down his neck. The moment you dropped the "dick" comment, your husband had decided to join the game. His massive chest looked like a brick wall, and his blue eyes were fixed on the stranger with such murderous intent that the guy jumped, trapped between the machines and your husband.
"She’s right about one thing," Brendon’s voice was a low, lethal whisper. "There is nothing you can offer her that I don't give her ten times better. Now, you have two options, little man: you apologize and vanish from our sight, or you force me to show you what happens when someone messes with my wife. You won't like how I handle people who talk about MY perfection personified. Every ounce of her body belongs to me, and there isn't a single millimeter I don't adore."
The guy didn't even reply; he bolted for the exit the second Brendon gave him an opening. Your husband let out a sound of pure contempt and turned to you. His gaze softened with a mix of love, adoration, and possessiveness. His hands moved to your neck, forcing you to look at him.
"Lack of inches in his dick," he repeated with an amused smirk. "I love it when you get aggressive like that, Doll. It makes me fucking hard. It almost makes me want to skip work just to show you how much I like you."
"Don't forget the rest," you teased, though your pulse was racing under his gaze—it felt like he could strip you and fuck you right then and there. "I have something infinitely better."
"That’s my favorite part," he leaned in for a quick but possessive kiss. "That waste of oxygen wouldn't know how to appreciate perfection even if it hit him in the face. I love how your breasts fill my hands and the softness of your belly. Those curves are what keep me awake after a shift, dying to get home to sink into them."
He pulled back just an inch, keeping a firm hand on your hip while checking his watch.
"If we didn't have to go to work, I’d take you home right now to give you a lesson," he confessed with a tight jaw. "We’ll have to save it for tonight. When we get home today, you won't even have the strength to remember that prick's words."
He gave you one last deep, dirty kiss, marking his territory.
"Come on, Doll. We’ve got lives to save." He gave your ass a playful smack that made you instantly wet. "But keep that mouth ready. You’re going to repeat that I’m 'infinitely better' while I fuck you against the headboard."
Jack x reader who has pollen allergy but says she’s fine even tho she isn’t?🙏🙏🙏
hehe love this!! pollen season is upon us and it suckssss
Pairing: Jack Abbot x reader!wife
No TW, just a bit of fun and fluff
Word count: 1.8k
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
“There’s nothing I hate more than family trips”
“But it means we get to see Dave” Jack teases.
“Fucking DAVE” you groan, “permission to start a fight?”
“Baby you don’t need my persmission? I’ll be the first one to place a bet on you winning.”
“Thanks handsome” you smile and roll down the car window, poking your head out to smell the fresh air. Something you were not used to in the city.
“Achoo” you sneeze loudly.
“Uh-oh” Jack teases, “that’s how it begins”
You roll the window back up, but another sneeze comes out of nowhere.
“Might wanna take antihistamine before it gets worse”
“Maybe this weekend, stop being a doctor and just be my husband?”
Jack playfully shrugs and fixes his eyes on the road. He glances over and watches as you fight a sneeze, and he holds back a smirk. A few hours into the drive, Jack pulls over on the side of the road, then gently shakes you to wake you up.
“We there yet?”
“No, but look” He points out of the window at beautiful scenery in front of you. “Let’s take a photo”
You loved how enthusiastic he was about nature, which was the complete opposite of you. You get out of the car, pose for a selfie before you let out yet another sneeze.
“Tha’s number fifteen”
“Fiften what?”
“Sneezes!”
You roll your eyes at him, “i’m fine, Jeez man, take a rest”
Jack approaches you and playfully says, “Don’t call me man, ever again”
You tilt your head with a smug look on your face, “What do you prefer I call you?”
“Handsome? Hubby? Jacky? Baby? What’s next? You’re gonna turn Australian and call me mate?”
“G’day mate” you put on an Australian accent and start giggling.
“Take it back” Jack says as he leans in, pushing you against the car, “right this second?”
“Sorry Jacky”
“Good girl” he buries his face in your neck as he starts kissing it slowly, and you melt at the way his beard brushes against your sensitive neck. Jack’s hands trail down to your hips, lifting you up so you can wrap yourself around him.
“Here? now?” you say between kisses.
“We’re only kissing sweetheart” Jack bites on your bottom lip playfully, “I’m saving the rest of this weekend.”
“But Dave and—“
“Dont. Say. A. Man’s. Name when I'm kissing you!”
“Sooooryyyy”
He pushes himself against you even more, feeling his erection between your thighs. “We’re seriously going to need to get to the lodge ASAP” you can’t kiss him quick enough, “because I can’t wait any longer.”
But Jack doesn't put you down straight away, he takes his sweet, sweet time.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
"You guys are late" Your uncle greets you with open arms and you let out a small whiney noise before Jack pushes you slightly toward him.
"Hiiiii" you put on a fake, excited voice. "Uncle Brian, it's been way too long."
"And the handsome Jack Abbot" he says as he winks at him.
You internally gag at his attempt to flirt with your husband.
"There she is!"
"SOS" you whisper, tugging on Jack's hand as you see Dave walk toward you. Again, another attempt at faking excitement, you say "Daveeee! how are we doing?"
"Missed ya couz"
Another internal gag, followed by prayers that this weekend would pass quickly and peacefully. Jack gets sucked into too many conversations, and beers seem to be passed from every angle. But you, on the other hand, were sneezing. In every corner, you sneezed. You opened the fridge? Another sneeze. You walked outside? Multiple sneezes.
You sneezed so much, Dave yelled, "bless you for the rest of the day!"
"Thanks, Dave" you mumble. "I'm gonna go shower, maybe it'll wash whatever this is, away."
You make your way upstairs and find your room, but you don't jump in the shower straight away, no. You collapse face down on the bed and hide from your family for the longest time. Until Jack comes in and wakes you up.
"Is the weekend over? Please tell me it's over?"
"Dinner's ready"
"Noooooo" you put a pillow over your face, "please smother me and let this nightmare end."
"What's so bad about your family?"
"You've only had one interaction with them, and it went terribly." You shift off the bed and take your top off, revealing your bare chest.
"Wow, okay?" Jack's eyes widen at he looks at your breasts, "Now?? here?"
"I'm getting in the shower, Abbot. Keep it in your pants please?" you tease as you drop your panties to the floor and walk into the bathroom.
"Hey, nope, come back!!" Jack clicks his fingers and you stop and turn to face him slowly. "Abbot?"
"That's your name isn't it?"
"I don't like this new use of anything but a pet name," he says, voice low and rough.
You scrunch up your nose playfully, "Sorry, handsome."
As he leans in to kiss you, you pull a face then sneeze everywhere.
He wipes his face jokingly, and says, "okay i'm getting you medicine"
"Oh stop it will you! I'm fine!"
"You sound like someone had taken your nose away baby"
You give him the middle finger, before hoping in the shower.
Dinner went as anyone would expect. Too many questions about what Jack does, none directed at you, of course, because Uncle Brain has no interest in your career as a nurse. But then the topic of children came up and that's when everyone looked at you.
You were too sneezy, too tired, nose too blocked and eyes too itchy to fight back against anyone's comments. So when asked if you're planning to give them grandchildren soon, you replied, "Sure, of course. Me and Jack are having sex like, all the time."
Uncle Brian choked on his beer, his wife Sylvia dropped a fork somewhere and Dave laughed too loudly for your liking. Everyone else stayed quiet and luckily for you, the children were outside playing.
"Anyways, anyone else having any children? Dave and Luce, what about you guys?" you ask casually.
"Oh, Dave had the..." Luce mimed scissors in her hand, "We had to stop after five"
"Five!" Jack exclaims and then quickly mutters a "sorry."
Luckily for you, you had the excuse of travelling a distance, so you got out of cleaning duty just as dinner finished, Jack following quickly.
Sleep didn't come quickly because the bed shook with every sneeze. Whenever Jack felt himself doze off, you jolted him wide awake. "I'm getting you something from my med bag" he says as he looks at the time and it read 5am.
"Nnnnnooo" you protest, "honnnestly. i'm good"
"Baby you sound like Voldemort and it's really terrifying"
You roll over in bed, turning your back to him, and eventually fall asleep. Two hours of sleep. That was all you both managed.
The family had planned organised fun for everyone, and of course, it was outdoors. You thought you were going to die. With every sneeze, everyone's head turned towards you. During an intense table tennis, Dave lost and instantly blamed it on your sneezing. Jack had not only given you one tablet, but two. When you asked if you could take two, he said casually, "Don't worry about it."
But did the tablets help?
"Achooo" you sneeze again.
"hey Sneezy! Can you like, stop??" Dave snaps.
"Can't help it!" you yell at him, "Does it look like i'm having the time of my life????"
Jack walks over to you, sees how upset you look and says, "who do I need to strangle and how soon?'
"Fuckinnng Dave, calling me Sneezy."
"Bastard" Jack shakes his head. "Is there a lake around? I can easily drown him."
"I wish... but then you'll end up in prison and I have to find a new husband and I really can't be bothered to do that."
"Wow, wow wow, Sneezy, a new husband?"
"Hey do not call me that right now, i'm very emotionally unstable"
"And full of pollen by the looks of it??" Jack teases, but you pull a sad face, and he grabs your waist, pulling you next to him. "We can always take a break and go upstairs?"
"I mean they are all outside..."
"Let's go!" Jack grabs your hands and eagerly pulls you back to the house and up the stairs.
"There's no lock on the door!" Jack says, "i'll get a chair or something"
"No, don't worry. They keep asking about grandchildren, they can see one getting made live"
Jack looks at you with hungry eyes, "damn, this is why I married you"
But not even two minutes into your shenanigans, you kept gasping whenever Jack kissed you.
"I'm snoring like Uncle Brian" you complain, "I can't breathe my nose is so soreeee"
"Want a third tablet?"
"Can I even have a third tablet?"
Jack shrugs, "Honestly, it's not gonna kill you but... it might knock you out."
"Yes please sedate me so this weekend can be over." you say, "if I fall asleep, you just keep going!"
Jack tips his head back and laughs. "Let's try a hot shower and i'm gonna pop out and grab you some nasal spray. Okay?"
"I don't think I need it, i'm finnne!"
Jack pulls a face at you, then holds back his tongue.
"Spit it out Abbot"
"Can you say... My numb nose needs new minty medicine immediately?"
"Fuck off"
Jack chuckles, "if you think you're fine then go for it?"
"I'm going celibate, good luck without me" but before you could leave the bed, he pulled you back on top of him.
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
"Ah, Sneezy is back!" Dave says sarcastically but you just ignore him. You sit around the dinner table, holding back many, many, sneezes until Dave starts picking on you. You had already given Jack the debrief not to create an argument.
But Jack wasn't going to let someone like Dave pick on you, even if you had given him the debrief. So when dinner was over, Jack asked Dave's five kids what their dad hated the most, and they all said the same thing: spiders. So Jack grinned then tipped each child $5 to find a spider and bring it over to their dad.
A little while later, everyone sat around the fireplace outside, and your allergies seemed to have somewhat settled. You then see Dave's five children approach him, holding something in their hands. Before anyone could react, the kids dumped their findings onto their dad.
Five big and hairy spiders crawled all over Dave.
His screams echoed the mountains that surrounded you. You laughed so hard you almost pissed yourself. Just as Dave disappeared into the distance, still screaming, your nose finally cleared.
You turn over to Jack and say, "wanna go make a baby?
⋆ ──── ♡ ──── ⋆
if you're wondering why we hate uncle Brian and the family, read this brain dump
Warning: Swearing, domestic argument, angst, suggestive themes, established relationship, not edited.
Summary: After your fiancé John Price let’s you borrow his car you get into a minor accident. He is less than pleased.
——————
“Fuck, no no no no!” Hands in your hair you gripped your roots in a panic. Your suede heels clicked against the cobble stone as the car door slammed behind you. Running through a puddle to get to the front of the car you felt your breath catch in your throat. Cheeks turning red and head aching from the stress. It did not matter that your new shoes were now ruined and flooded with water as your socks absorbed the brown liquid. What mattered was the sight in front of you.
You were dead.
John had let you take his car for the week because yours was in the shop getting a new alternator. Not needing to go anywhere too far he was weary to hand you the keys under very specific rules. No food in the car, make sure your feet aren’t muddy, no backroads, drive slow; but the biggest rule: don’t crash it.
You broke almost every rule in this one occurrence and you about felt your soul leave your body when you rammed into this brightly colored pole after picking up food. You took backroads to get here and you definitely weren’t driving the speed limit as you blasted music in the convertible. The worst part . . . You actually crashed it.
The front bumper was bent inward and looked like it was going to fall off as soon as you backed up. It was completely dented in and you knew this was bad. So, so bad. Who would have thought this would happen in a parking lot of all places.
John was going to have a conniption. He didn’t let anyone drive his car. Constantly batting his older brothers off. Saying that he spent too much money and time on this for their carelessness to wreck it. And he did in fact put a lot of money into it.
It had been a project for him since before you two even met. He fixed the whole thing up after it was gifted to him by his father as a ‘thank you’ for his service in the military. Telling his son it was good to have a hobby while home. It was broken down and in poor shape when he received it but that didn’t deter John. He admired his father and a gift like that meant the world to him. The drives they took in it when he visited home after John fixed it up always left the men with shit eating grins. And you just wrecked it.
Tears began to spill down your cheeks before you even realized you were crying. Attempting to take a deep breath and wipe away the tears you looked around to see if anymore just witnessed you mixing up reverse and drive. Thank goodness no one was in the lot saving you from even more embarrassment. Taking a final deep breath you pulled out your phone, making the call you hoped you never had to. The line rang three times before it picked up.
“Hello?”
“Dad! I just crashed John’s car into a pole.” You wailed holding back the panicked sob. There was a long pause, static filling the other line.
“Dad?”
“You hurt?” He asked, you couldn’t detect any emotion in his voice.
“No I’m fine! I-“
“Oh you’re fucked, sweetheart.” He joked without humor. You brought your hand to your mouth bitting down on your finger nails (a nervous habit.)
“That car is his fuckin’ pride and joy. You should be calling him not me.” Your dad always had a straight forward attitude. Never being much help besides an ear to bend.
“What do I say?”
“Fuck if I know.” His voice was coarse, you could tell he was rubbing his face in that stressed out way he always did. “John, I crashed your car. Please don’t call off the wedding.” Your dad imitated your voice in a very unflattering way.
“You’re no help!” You snapped.
“And you’re a shit driver. Call him. He’ll bite your head off but I bet he’ll be more concerned that you’re okay. Just hold your neck or something when you see him.” The advice was far from helpful. In fact it was actually horrible advice. You scoffed at the idea of faking hurt to manipulate John into not being mad. Letting out an exasperated sigh you said a quick ‘I love you. I’ll call back.’ And hung up with a huff. It was to scary to call John so you called a tow company instead.
———-
“C’mon Y/N. Just go in.” You pleaded to yourself in a whisper. You had been standing in front of your apartment door for at least five minutes. It was two hours later than you told John to expect you home and you were in a cold sweat. Biting your lip you put your key into the lock and turned it. Squeezing your eyes shut you entered the fully packed up apartment.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to come hom-“ John’s voice cut off but he was near by clearly being in the kitchen since the door was adjacent to it.
You still had your eyes closed, a panic setting in. Your eyes fluttered open at John’s lack of talking. Turning you could see him in front of the sink washing up the dishes he used for his dinner. His face was deadly serious. Eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you. Tear stained cheeks, quivering bottom lip, and the biggest tell; avoiding eye contact. Little did you know the first thing he noticed was the lack of jingling car keys.
“What did you do?” He asked grabbing a dish towel and drying his hands.
John could read you like a book and that was mainly your fault. Never being good at lying or hiding things from him. He always knew when you had fucked up just by the way you walked into a room.
“I-I’m so sorry.” Turning to him your mustered all your bravery to admit your horrible mistake.
A stoic expression fashioned itself on his face as he stood up straight crossing his muscular arms over his chest. He was in red plaid pajama pants and a black t-shirt. Blue eyes narrowed as he looked at you expectantly. Without hesitation you babbled out the truth.
“I thought I was in reverse but I was really in drive. I didn’t mean to run into the pole it just happened. I drove backroads, I was way over the speed limit and it’s all because I was picking up takeout. But my shoes weren’t muddy, I swear they got muddy after I crashed into the pole. It’s at a shop now I told the guys it doesn’t matter how much it costs to fix I’ll pay it. You’ll have it back good as new! I promise.” Your words died off at the end as you saw the pure rage take over John’s features. He raised a hand quieting you. You couldn’t help but gulp down the rock in your throat as you tried to hold back your emotion.
“Are you broken?” He asked with soft eyes.
“No I’m completely fine. I-“
“Call the shop. Tell them to bring it here. I’d rather fix it myself.” Was all he said as he turned and headed to your shared room.
“John, I’m so sorry.” You pleaded trying to walk after him only for him to slam the bedroom door behind him.
————-
A loud whistle stirred you from sleep as your eyes fluttered open. It stoped as soon as it stared. Must have been a dream. Morning sun was the second thing to great you as you stretched, a small groan leaving your lips, eyes swollen from crying. Sitting up you rubbed your sore lower back. The only time you ever slept on the couch was when you fell asleep watching tv. This was the first time in your relationship with John Price that you had been exiled to the couch. He was the one here every other time. God, this sucks. No wonder this couch is a good deterrent from being an asshole.
“Good morning.” You jumped out of your skin, not expecting your lover to be leaning against the living room door way. Two mugs in hand.
“Morning.” You whispered back taking in his shirtless figure, plaid pants hung low revealing the waist band on his white boxers. You brought your eyes shamefully down to your hands, picking at the newly applied purple polish. Pulling the blanket onto your lap embarrassed to not be in proper pajamas. Only dressed in a white tank top and thong.
“You didn’t have to sleep on the couch.” The tone of John’s voice was soft, still gruff with sleep.
“Yeah, I did.” You said it as a confession. It felt like you deserved a punishment for your mistake. You ruined something so pure and valued of John’s and you didn’t deserve forgiveness let alone a peaceful nights sleep.
“It’s just as much your bed as mine.” The floorboards creaked under your fiancés weight as he sat next to you on the couch. Placing both mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of you, taking your blanket and tossing it over his lap as well. His thigh now flush against yours, the coarse hair rubbing against your soft skin.
“I-“ you shivered under John’s gaze.
“Love, listen. I’m fuckin’ angry at you.” John admitted taking a breath, his left hand roughly falling on your right knee.
“But I don’t want to be. More importantly I know it was an accident. And one thing I’ve learned loving you. Is that you punish yourself worse than anyone ever could.” Taking another deep breath through his nose his eyes shut for a moment only to meet your teary eyes again.
“I forgive you. All I ask is that you help me fix it without complaint.” A cascading tear was caught by your fiancés calloused thumb. His other hand falling gently to your other cheek as he wiped away your tears.
It was impossible to hide the sob that came from your throat. In no way did you ever expect to be forgiven let alone to be able to make up for it by just helping. Placing you face into your palms you sobbed pathetically feeling like a fool for having thought John would leave you over something like this. John’s arm wrapped around your shoulder pulling you into his chest as he allowed you to cry into him. It was rare when you actually had a breakdown and it broke John’s heart to think this was all because of how scared you were because of how he could have reacted. It reminded him of how cruel he was in the past. Unable to control his anger and unleashing it on such an apologetic person. It reminded John that no matter how positive you were with a happy demeanor, you were still a damaged person. A person you chose people pleasing over your own needs and suffered because you would do whatever it meant to make it up to your loved ones. Even if it meant betraying yourself.
“Yes, I’ll do anything-“ you were shut up quickly as John’s chapped lips met yours.
The kiss was firm as if to to reassure you everything was okay. You stayed like that lips pressed firmly for a moment. Neither of you pulled away as you began to kiss more desperately falling into a momentary make-out. Tongues mingling and little gasps falling between you, along with your tears. John pulled away first. An air of mischief about him as a devilish grin took over. Your tear stained cheeks spurring him to lighten the mood.
“No complaint when you help. I mean it.” John held your face in his palms.
“I promise, no complaining.” You half yelled, more than eager to make up for your mistake.
“Please don’t be sad. I mean it. All is forgiven.” John said earnestly. Kissing your cheek and bring you in for a hug.
“Thank you.” You smiled bashfully leaning into the crook of his arm.
“Good. Now, you have to wear short shorts and a white crop top, no bra. I will spray you with a hose at some point.” You couldn’t tell if he was being serious. The way his eyebrows wiggled slightly and smug expression made you think he was joking.
“Don’t be a perv.” You giggled slapping his knee gently.
“Well you could wear the outfit or accept that you’re never allowed to drive my car again.” John leaned back throwing his arms over the back of the couch, manspreading.
“I’m never driving that thing again.” You admitted easily.
“So no to the outfit?” He asked in a disappointed tone.
“No, John. This isn’t one of your pornos.” You giggled.
Summary: Rumors of a dragon around Dragonstone leaves Baelor worried. He knows the dragons died long ago, but he sends Valarr to investigate. What the young prince finds leaves him shocked.
Based on this post and this beautiful artwork I saw. I'm so thankful for people that share their talents.
The dragons were dead. They were. They had been for years.
But there were rumors. There always had been. The smallfolk would swear to see something in the corner of their eyes in the sky some days. But there was no basis or evidence that it was dragons to blame.
Baelor had heard the rumors growing up. But ever the reasonable man, he put no stock into it. He remembers bringing it up to Maekar once, who scoffed into his ale. It was not brought up again after that.
Until now.
A guard from Dragonstone had traveled all the way to the Red Keep with urgent news.
"I witnessed something, your grace." The man shuttered again, barely able to meet the Hand's eyes. "I've never seen a thing like it. Great big beast, it was."
The Hand sighed. He already knew where this was going. So many rumors surrounded Dragonstone at this point. But he let the man continue.
"Thought it a bird at first. But when I looked up, it swooped down in the water. Had to be… gods, I can't say how big. Bigger than a ship. Bigger… it just swooped down when it thought no one saw it. But I did. I did, your grace."
Baelor did not see madness in his eyes. Just fear. He played with his rings. "And what did this beast do when it swooped down?"
"It just… it caught fish. You and I both know fish are getting scarce in the bay in Dragonstone. Perhaps it is growing more desperate. That is why we are only seeing it now."
"If I gave you a page, could you draw this beast from memory?"
He nodded frantically. "Of course, my prince. I… Nothing would make me forget the sight."
Baelor Breakspear waiting patiently for the guard to finish his work. And as he did so, his mind wondered.
What would he do with an airborne threat such as this one? What did it want?
When the page was lifted to his eyes, he froze.
He knew that sight well.
He took the page between his fingers with reverent awe.
"The Grey Ghost," he whispered as he traced over the shape. "You've seen the Grey Ghost?"
Baelor had studied the Dance of the Dragons as a child. He knew every dragon by heart. He knew them just by their horns. Just by their color. But this dragon, this one had always been different.
It was assumed that the Grey Ghost had perished with the others. It was so aloof in nature that it had no riders and was never claimed.
People swore it had been eaten by the Cannibal long ago.
And as much as Baelor wanted to believe this dragon did not exist, he could not ignore what a man of his guard had seen.
It left him with a lot to ponder.
…
Word got around quickly.
And by "got around," it found its way to Aerion.
And Aerion had not stopped pestering his father and uncle about it.
"Send me," he pleaded again, practically sprinting to catch up with his father. "Tell Uncle Baelor I can go. I will tame this dragon and take it for our house. I have dragon blood, father. I know this is my destiny."
Maekar had been hearing his whines for days. Aerion had been obsessed with dragons for years. But the idea that one might still exist? It made every nerve in that boy ignite.
"I am strong. I will not let it best me. You've seen me on horseback. I am perfectly capable—"
"It is a dragon, not an unpracticed lord," Maekar finally sneered. "Nothing can prepare you for such a task."
He didn't let the words phase him. "Then I will prepare as I can. I will practice or… study. I know everything about the dragons, father. I know the Grey Ghost is elusive. No one could get close to him. But I could. I can. If Uncle and Grandsire give me a chance."
"I…" Maekar sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stopped walking. "I can… bring it up, I suppose. But that is a far from decided decision."
Aerion smiled. And for once, Maekar was touched by his second son's happiness. It had been so long since he'd seen such joy radiate from him. "Thank you, father. I will do anything. Anything."
"Good. Quit following me, then."
He brought it up to Baelor soon after. They sat in the Hand's solar, drinking Dornish wine in the darkened room. His face was lit by candlelight. "And what will you do of your dragon problem?"
Baelor's breath caught. "So even you are aware of this."
"Everyone seems to be. It's all they speak of anymore. Personally, I am tired of it. There is no dragon at Dragonstone. And there never will be. They died all those years ago. It's fucking nonsense."
Baelor squinted. "Aerion asked you about it, did he not?"
He let out a grumble. He hated how well his older brother could read him. "He did. And he wanted me to ask you to send him to scout."
Baelor hummed and fidgeted with his goblet for a moment. "While I do believe a diplomatic mission could be good for Aerion, this is not the one."
"I understand."
"Not because he would be bad at it. In fact, I had not considered him. He knows much dragon knowledge. It could have been useful to have."
Maekar's head snapped. "You would have fucking considered sending my son to that… thing?"
"We do not know what it is," Baelor comforted. "For all we know, it could be a bird. It could have done Aerion well. But the matter is already settled."
He frowns. "What do you mean?"
Baelor rested against the back of his chair comfortably. "I've already sent Valarr to scout."
Maekar blinked once, then twice, before sitting forward. His voice lowered. "You sent your heir to scout a dragon?"
"I sent him to my castle. I am the Prince of Dragonstone, am I not? He was the best to be sent. I cannot leave the King, and Valarr is the only one who can be sent to my castle without suspicion. I am trying not to worry the people."
"The people always worry, Baelor!" He slammed his cup down. "What if they are all right? What if there is a dragon there?"
Baelor's brows gave a slight twitch. "We shall hope Valarr is properly studied, then."
…
Four days of Valarr wandering the island.
The servants and guards knew of his mission. They all steered clear of him, knowing that where he was, a dragon could be also.
He spent every waking moment at the shore, pacing this way and that for signs of life from a beast larger than castles.
He initially wanted to keep his horse near for easy travel to chase the dragon down. But he quickly realized that a dragon would only see such a horse as food.
Instead, Valarr drug along a sheep.
It was loud and smelled horrid, but it could catch attention. It could be the upper hand he needed. He only needed to find where this beast was.
Day seven and things were looking bleak. The sky was as grey as ever. The waves rolled in a constant motion, almost lulling him to sleep every moment he stayed out here.
But by day ten, he saw it.
A cloud darkened to a black at first. It was sudden, too sudden to be a brewing storm. Then from that cloud came a familiar shape.
The Grey Ghost broke through the clouds above and drove to the water.
The animal was quick. And Valarr could only stare for a while.
It dived down, swooping low and catching a fish with its talons before quickly disappearing up in the clouds once more.
Valarr gawked. Then swallowed deeply.
Baelor received his letter not long after, saying that it was indeed the Grey Ghost. The poor Hand could only wait patiently to see how his son could fair with the very animal that his blood belonged to.
Valarr found tells after that. He saw how the beast grew closer to civilization as the fish in the bay dwindled. It was growing desperate for food.
He tracked the thing once he noted its patterns. And he soon found its nest.
The thing rested on the eastern side of the Dragonmont. It was warm there, and safe from humans that were too nosy for their own good.
No. Here, the Grey Ghost could be alone.
For a moment, as Valarr sat and watched the beast rearrange the nest until it was content, he worried that there were other dragons. If there was one, why not others?
And he shuttered at the thought of the Cannibal. It was known to rest near here.
He forced the thoughts from his head. If the most shy dragon rested here, then no one ever came. And that is that.
Valarr started small. He'd studied dragons since he was a boy, as all Targaryens do. He knew dragon habits and lifestyles.
So while the thing was away, he brought a sheep to the nest. He tied the rope to ensure the peace offering stayed put. He knew it might not musk his scent enough, but it would have to do.
He waited patiently until nightfall.
The Grey Ghost returned and immediately smelled the change before it noticed the sheep. It cried out and looked around as if expecting an ambush.
But there was only a sheep.
Valarr smiled to himself. Alas, a small victory.
But that smile quickly fell.
The Grey Ghost let out another cry and nudged at the terrified sheep with its snout. It wanted the thing gone.
Of course, how foolish could he have been? The Grey Ghost was particular. It wanted things a certain way and only lived a certain lifestyle.
It was the pickiest of all the dragons in history.
It nudged again, but it only make the sheep choke on the rope keeping it in place.
The dragon was getting more and more worked up, snorting and crying.
Finally, Valarr decided he wouldn't wait to see what would happen. He jumped up and stepped into its line of sight.
He held his hands up as he stepped a bit closer. "Easy, easy. I'll get it. I will help you."
The Grey Ghost roared now at the sight of a human. It clawed at the nest, ruining what it had so perfectly made.
"Kostan dohaeragon ao (I can help you)," he tried in High Valaryian.
It seemed to respond better to that one, though still tense.
"Iksan Valarr, se eman zaldrīzes ānogar iemnȳ yno. Gīda, se rȳbagon naejot ñuha elēni (I am Valarr, and I have dragon blood inside of me. Calm, and listen to my voice)."
He got closer now, close enough to see the Ghost's eyes staring down at him. It had stopped for a moment just to listen.
"Nyke nūmāzma ao daor ōdrikagon. Emā zūgagon ñuha lentor. Yn gaomis daor shifang ao. Gaomagon pōnta? (I mean you no harm. You have scared my family. But they do not understand you. Do they?)"
The dragon let out a sound— one that Valarr took for a good sign.
"Nyke gīmigon ao. Iksā se nudho tolīmorghon. Ao kisalbar va klios se glaesagon qrīdrughagon hen humans (I know you. You are the Grey Ghost. You feast on fish and live away from humans)." He tilted his head. "Le nyke dohaeragon clean aōha nest (Let me help clean your nest)."
To his surprise, it let him. He crossed into the nest and untied the sheep, noting the way the dragon watched his every move.
The sheep ran off, but Valarr did not even care to see it go. He watched the dragon instead.
He was in the middle of a dragon's nest.
He blinked. "Sorry, sorry… Ēdrugon sir. Kesan urnēbagon syt danger (Sleep now. I will watch for danger)."
And the Ghost let him. It snickered for a moment before resting its head. It still watched him, but there was something in its gaze now that was different. It was contemplating, thinking of something.
Valarr had not slept properly in days. And while he meant what he said about keeping guard, he could not help the way his eyelids closed.
…
Valarr woke just before the sun.
It was still a bit dark, though the light was soon to rise from the east. He sighed softly and shifted.
He felt warm. Like something was sharing heat.
That's when he remembered what had happened yesterday.
His eyes snapped open.
But there was not a dragon.
Instead, he recognized the feeling of a body quickly moving away from his. The warmth left, and he caught a glimpse of long hair before it disappeared behind a rock.
Another human. One with hair a blonde so icy it almost seemed grey, but he did not recognize them.
He sat up and looked around for the Grey Ghost. It was gone.
Valarr was a good man, a prince that vowed to protect all. And a human stuck in this predicament with him, especially if this one was not of dragon blood, would only endanger both of them.
He stood and approached the rock. "Excuse me. It is alright. You're safe with me. Let me help you."
"Gaomagon daor māzigon va (Do not come near)," travels a voice. A woman.
Gods, he could not let a woman die up here. Where had she even come from?
"My lady. Please, come out from there."
A sudden cry from her made something in him break. It sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.
He rested his hand on the rock now, daring to try to peer over to the other side. "I will not hurt you." He tries again this time with a softer voice.
This time, he sees the top of a head peeking out at him. That almost grey hair. Light eyes. Human, and yet…
"Emā zaldrīzes ānogar (You have dragon blood)." Her voice was soft. Meek in nature. He understood now. She was shy.
He smiled gently before pausing. She was speaking High Valyrian? Where had a peasant or servant girl learned something like that? "Kessa. Skoros issi ao doing kesīr? issa dangerous (Yes. What are you doing here? It is dangerous)."
Something sparkled in her eyes after that. "Issa ñuha lenton ao iōragon isse (It is my home you stand in)."
He froze.
"The Grey Ghost."
She hums.
The Grey Ghost, so reclusive that they did not even know it was a girl. And now a human girl somehow.
"Kessa ao ivestragī nyke ūndegon ao? Ēdruta ao ruaragon hen nyke? (Will you let me see you? Must you hide from me?)" he asked.
She considers it for a while, too long in his opinion. "Gaoman daor hae humans (I do not like humans)." She hesitates. "Yn nyke hae ao (but I like you)."
He nods. "Nyke hae ao tolī. Kostagon nyke ūndegon ao? (I like you too. May I see you?)"
His hopeful charm and soft spoken voice worked, for the Grey Ghost stepped out of hiding.
Valarr was in awe.
He had imagined beautiful women. He had imagined things that he hoped would one day make his heart feel something. But none of it compared to this.
A dragon in human form. A real dragon, not just blood.
He suddenly felt the need to fight for her, to die for her, to do what it took to care for her.
"Iksā daor hae tolie (You are not like others)." She tilts her head up at him. "Iksā daor hae mirre tolie nyke ūndegon (You are not like any others I see)."
His breath catches when she draws close enough that he can feel the heat of her body through his clothes.
"You… Iksā biare, pār (You are happy, then?)?" he whispers.
She then leans into his neck and sniffs deeply. It's improper and almost invasive, especially for a woman to do to a prince. But he lets her and even holds as still as possible to please her.
Then, she nuzzles against him.
Chosen by the one dragon that had never chosen someone before.
There was one known dragon left in the Realm, and it was now his.
summary: park accidentally washes your number off his hand, you make him a list of things to do to get it back. (wc: 1.9k)
pairing: brendon park / f!reader
content: fluff and humour. park is still moody but a softie for reader. grumpy x sunshine. pilates princess!reader who is a menace. related to these fics. the idea is to write each thing on the list as its own little blurb/fic!
pilates princess!reader agenda
Park didn’t think twice when the sanitiser spat into the central part of his palm, because it had been drilled into every medical professional to make use of the dispensers located throughout the different zones to prevent unintentional spreading of infections. Plus, it had just become habitual at this point.
So, when the inky blue smear from a ballpoint pen slathers up to his wrists; it was safe to say the realisation seeped into his bones almost instantaneously from his grave mistake.
(Being stoic enough, none of the fellow Ortho doctors took note of the miniature change of expression.)
Brendon Park had just rubbed your phone number off in one swipe. Your cute hand-writing turning to a streak of diluted blue, dissipating with his palms rubbed together. Part of him chastises the other half of him that had dipped into the deep waters of the Emergency Department with a poor execution of flirtations and—what he classed as—an impressively old school way of getting a woman’s phone number.
It made sense why it hadn’t gained further traction in the more modern era of exchanging numbers.
In spite of the minor blunder, Park continues his day throughout the OR which includes, repairs for traumatic fractures, the odd joint replacement and Laminectomy to relieve some poor patients pressure that had been pressing on their spinal cord.
He has every intentions when a vacant space in his schedule becomes apparent to march back down to the ED, and catch you for your number again. This time; with his phone in hand.
Unfortunately, that plan goes haywire when a patient was wheeled in with an infected prosthetic joint. Park proceeds to make his soured mood from the increasingly complicated surgery, everyone’s problem in the Orthopaedics department.
Park kept it in his best interests to prevent you from receiving the same fate as his fellow co-workers after a tricky surgery that could’ve been prevented if the prior surgeon hadn’t butchered the prosthetic, and left his emotions to stew into a simmer before he finds you again.
It doesn’t take more than twelve hours before he’s swimming about the ED with an unrelenting facial expression of disconcert. The two nurses, Perlah and Princess, huddle together to whisper in Tagalog as he passes, his head giving them a subtle nod to acknowledge their presence as he walks by them.
The same isn’t said for when Dennis Whitaker catches his eye, in that mouse-like wonder he carried.
“You need something?” Whitaker asks, unsure of what waters he’s treading in.
Park slows, low-browed as he bestows a judgemental gaze upon the resident, “Not you.”
“O-kay.” Whitaker murmurs, returning back to his charting without further elaboration needed.
The Orthopaedics doctor rounds the hub, head on a swivel to catch a glimpse of floral pattern beneath dark scrubs with the occasional acknowledgement to the peers that he was more lenient on the patience side with. Sets of eyes follow him with the question in repetition: Who called for Shark?
Dr. Robby shares the same sentiment when he saw the infamous sharp features peer into the trauma room he was currently in with a handful of residents. He had been sporting a teaching cap to the younger generation of doctors whilst walking them through a nasty head-on car collision with collateral damage following behind in gurneys.
It was your reaction that had Robby’s brown eyes drift from Park the Shark toward you, where you openly stared with the body language that only furthered Dr. Robby’s suspicions of the happenings between the mean-mugging Ortho doctor and his cup always half full rather than half empty, resident.
You perk and then smother your joy by clearing your throat, gloved hands clasped together with your eyes narrowed at the open gash on the patient’s chest.
“Anybody know why Park the Shark is stalking Trauma Two?” Santos says flippantly, suited in a white gown and blue gloves.
You press your lips together.
Robby—however—does not. He looks directly at you with a tilt of his head, “I have a few guesses.”
It makes your skin prickle with embarrassment that your Chief Attending continued to prove the reason as to why he was top of the food chain in the ED of the PTMC. Aside from Dana Evans, the geriatric male—not even close to that title, but it had made him laugh dryly when you had said it to him—was the eyes and the ears of the whole operation down in the Pitt. Observation was key to run an Emergency Department; and it seemed as if Michael Robinavitch was in abundance of it.
He doesn’t dismiss you, nor does he attend to your affairs with Park the Shark; who remained stood outside of Trauma Two like a bodyguard and not a highly sought after doctor a few floors up.
Seems like he had all the time in the world when it came to you.
Once the patient had been overseen by Dr. Garcia, the group of residents are prompted to move onto other ailments dotted on the board overhead. You move behind Dr. Robby, who flashes you a knowing look over the rim of his glasses and you dip beneath the arm he was using to hold the door open for you.
Park walks in formation with you. Prompt and ever so casual. (Definitely not a man on the edge of begging over some digits.)
“You are starting to stick out like a sore thumb down here,” you point out, knowing his growing attendance in the Pitt was catching unwanted attention. You rub your hands together with sanitiser between them, “There’s a joke going around that you’re the shark in shallow waters, that’s gotten a taste for human blood.”
“Does that make you the human I tasted?”
You scrunch your nose up, “Don’t be crass.” you make a beeline for a free computer, sitting down with Park leering over you as you work. “What can I do you for, Sharky?”
Park has a hand against the back of the desk chair you’re sat on, his head lowers as if he’s checking over some notes that are none of his business; on the monitor in front of you.
The closeness draws out a smile from your lips.
“I sanitised your phone number off yesterday.” Park mutters, eyes darting across a blank document. He points to it for theatrics, “I brought my phone down this time, so you can just input it there.”
“Oh, I can, can I?” you croon.
“You don’t want to?”
You shrug as Park turns his sharp eyes to you, “I don’t know…it didn’t seem that important if you just—” you wave your hand about as you playfully speak, “—lost it.”
“It was an accident.” Park says in a softer tone because it’s you he’s speaking to.
“Intentional dressed up as an accident.” you retort and begin typing a string of random letters into the document you had opened, feeling amused by the upper hand you’ve been gifted. “My number is a privilege to have. Seems like you lost that privilege, Sharky.”
Oh good, Park thinks, you’re going to make him beg.
He shifts beside you, throat bobbing as he conjures up a lighthearted apology. Despite the softening of edges that you had done in the time that Brendon Park got to know you, he was still a brash, direct man with little room for humour. So—ironically—the bone doctor was losing in his attempt to find his funny bone in this sudden back and forth you had created.
Instead, you answer for him.
“It can be undone. You seem like a man who thrives in harsh working conditions, and I can provide you with harsh, Park.” you goad him cruelly, “I have expectations when it comes to grovelling, and usually they come in a more physical form than verbal.”
Park blinks. Were you asking for a sexual favour?
Evidently, you saw the same thought cross his blank expression and jump to mend that idea, “No, you do not need to whore yourself out for my number. However, let me know your schedule, and you can prove your worthiness for my digits again through hard labour.”
There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation, no argument that came to the forefront of Park’s mind as you ordered him about like a dog in training. You yanked his leash, and he came bounding after you—didn’t mean he didn’t slightly curse your defiance in his mind. Either way, he silently fished his phone out from his pocket and opened up his schedule for you to take a look at.
Each minute you two spent in each other’s company added more curiosity to everyone’s lips. (They were just ensuring you were okay, for the most part.)
Neither of you cared to notice as you opened up your calendar to mirror Shark’s schedule for Orthopaedics.
You reach for his phone, “Do you mind?” you ask politely with those sort of twinkly eyes that makes Park’s knees go a bit soft. You smile up at him when he willingly hands it over, “Thank you.”
You soon find out that Park the Shark’s calendar is nothing but a strict regime. Work, run, work, therapy at 5PM, food shop and more work. So the rumours were true: he was a lone shark.
What better way than to brighten that loneliness up with some decoration?
Satisfied, you hand Park back his phone, noting how he had spent the time you had been punching information into the empty dates on his calendar; by making the surrounding doctors and nurses scarce with a mean look to make them back off.
“You can come do these things with me.” you say happily when you lock the computer screen, “Fun things.” you add.
Park scrolls through his calendar with one finger. His brows pinch, “…Pilates?”
“Yes!” you clap your hands together, “Ooh! You’ll love it.” (He wouldn’t.) When Park gives you a disapproving look at the list of things you added to his week, you dramatically deflate on the spot, “Come on, Park. You know it’s okay to be multifaceted? It isn’t a crime. You Ortho Bros are such meatheads.”
(Risqué insult, but it paid off.)
“Do I look like I go to Pilates?”
You give him a slow look up and down, “…Do you need me to answer honestly?”
Park could’ve kissed your smart mouth. He went for the latter of a short huff that could’ve been mistaken for a snippet of laughter.
Your own face cracks with a big grin, “These are my expectations, big guy. If you don’t want to do these things with me, well, my number just wasn’t meant to be. Was it?”
“It was. You’re just playing a mean game.” Park states as he tilts his chin upward, staring down the slope of his nose at you.
It was incredibly attractive, to be honest.
Even with the little resistance, Park was prepared to play the long game with you at the core of it. If he had to attend a Pilates class everyday at the crack of dawn, then so be it. It would also mean he’d catch a glimpse of you out of scrubs, and greedily take up your spare time with his brooding presence; not that, that phased you.
He slots his phone back into his pocket, “I’ll see you tomorrow for…Pilates, then.”
“Okie-dokie!” you pat his broad back as he turns to take leave. You speak lowly, “I can’t wait to see you in your Pilates get-up.”
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
content: Maybe you won’t be able to ruin everything you touch if you stay in bed.
words: 2.4k
cw: MDNI 18+ suicidal ideations, depression, mentions of miscarriages, mentions of struggles of infertility, mentions of past infidelity, lmk if I missed any
a/n: this is probably the heaviest chapter yet, and I ask you all to proceed with caution
more of the do I wanna know? universe
A common misconception from anyone outside the Red Keep was that you and Baelor only had two children out of choice.
It was not.
They did not know about the lose. The three babes that never made it to the quickening. Even more than never quite took. You wanted more children, but it was never in the cards.
And after everything you had been through you could not feel another loss again.
Until you had too.
It was your own fault. Everything was your fault. You ruined everything you touched you had long realized and this was just another thing to add to the list.
Weak.
Useless.
You could barely do your only job in the world.
Baelor should have ran far away from you and left you to rot in the North rather than bringing you south to darken his life.
His life would have better, his brother and sons lives would have been better than to be cursed and have your presence ruin their pristine line of succession.
A Bolton had no place being Queen. You had heard it time and time again, and you knew they were right. Especially now.
What good would you be as a ruler if you could not even due to your duty as a wife. If you could not even keep the babe inside you safe enough to be brought into this world.
Mayhaps he should just annul the marriage.
He probably would at this point. After everything who could blame him.
You heard the door, and the whispering of your name, but you did not move. You truly felt as if you could not move, your body to heavy to attempt to lift your head seeking out the visitor.
Mayhaps they would turn away if you did not look. Everyone else had since you had finally been cleaned and taken to your chambers. Not that anyone dared looked you in the eyes these past few days.
Maekar stood unmoving from the door, You did not move, as if you were a corpse decomposing rather than a live woman who he had talked to only days ago. He could feel your sadness seeping into him from every corner of the room, and he schooled his face hiding it the best he could.
He turned back to look into the hallway once more to where your eldest son currently stood. He had came in search for his uncle once the news that found him that the midwives and maesters had finally allowed you back to your own chambers after days of being under constant supervision.
He glanced back at you once before moving out the room, shutting the door slightly behind him to not allow your son to see the full sight. "She is okay. Just tired," he lied, and he did not even feel guilty watching the tension in the young man's shoulders ease, "I will keep an eye on her," he promised his nephew.
"I am sorry I bothered you… father is still in council and I-I did not want her to be alone and I know how she—" Maekar cut him off clamping his shoulder slightly, his lips pushed together trying to hide his jagged edges.
"You are not a bother. Never for this. I will stay with her until he is done."
Valarr cast him a nod, a stray look to the door, "I will go be with Matarys."
The man nodded, waiting until his nephew was completely from view when he let the dread fill him slightly. He moved back into your chambers as he looked around the dark room. The currents drawn tight as if it was night rather than midday.
"No one knew they would be releasing you today," he spoke, but you did not answer. You did not move, you did not flinch, and he had to stare at you a long moment to even see the rise and fall of your chest.
The Targaryen let out a sigh before moving toward the bed, he sat on the edge and you could feel the dip of the mattress, but still did nothing. He removed his boots before gently lifting the furs slipping in behind you.
His hands moved slowly, as he pulled you back into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around you as if he could protect you from this.
Though he knew better than that.
He could not protect you from yourself, from your own mind, and he knew this, but he could hold you letting you know he was there nonetheless. He let out a breath, before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Simply holding you there in the darkness.
"I want it to stop," you finally declared, your voice was low, hoarse as if there was a vice wrapping around it trying to cut off your breathing.
"What to stop?" Maekar asked, gently, a contrast to his tight grip on you, because deep down he knew exactly what you meant. And that scared him more than anything ever had.
"Everything," you answered with, so lowly it almost sounded like a whisper.
In that moment he could have told you how loved you were, how yours boy still needed you, and how thankful they all felt that you were in their lives, his and his own children included.
But you knew all that. He knew you knew all that, and instead held you tighter. A promise to be what you needed. To be there for you.
Even if it silently killed him inside. He would take that on, because you mattered more than whatever he thought he felt for you. The realm needed you. Your family needed you. He needed you. And he would not do anything that could fuck that up…not again.
The empty chair felt heavier then any other one every had especially to Valarr. There had been one person at every meal without a doubt, and now for the last moon you had not attended a single meal.
You had not even left your chambers.
Matarys, only two and ten, did not truly understand what was going on like his elder brother, but knew that something was not right with his mother. "When is mum going to join us again?" he asked looking to the empty spot.
"Soon I am sure," the father tried to reassure him, but earned a scoff from his eldest son.
"How would you even know," Valarr grumbled under his breath.
"What?" Baelor asked, not having heard him fully.
"I said how would you even know. You don't even go to see her," the young man muttered pushing his food around on his plate.
And his words were the truth. Baelor had not seen her since that day when he stood outside the birth chambers listening to your cries as he awaited news about your condition.
"Valarr," his father said, though it sounded more like a plea.
Do not do this, but they either did not register or he did not care.
His mismatched eyes shot up from his plate looking to the man, and at that moment he looked more like you then he ever had before. He was his father's mirror, but right now his anger transformed him.
"No! How can you know what is best for her when you don't even see her!" He stared at his father waiting for him to argue, to tell him he got it wrong, "I will go check on her. Someone other than Uncle Maekar should," he replied bitterly.
He pushed himself out from his seat storming out form the solar, the door slamming behind him.
"Is there anything else?" Baelor asked, looking between the members of small council. Spinning one of the rings on his finger, a gift from you for your fifth wedding anniversary.
"There is one more thing I wish to discuss," Grand Maester Malleon declared looking to the Hand for permission to continue.
The Targaryen nodded once causing the man to spare a glance at Daeron before clearing his throat, "The Prince's Lady Wife—" he started, but did not get far.
"My wife is not a concern of this council nor will she be treated as one," the Hand grit out, his jaw clenched so tightly it was an miracle his teeth
"It has been three moons and—"
"I will remind you that you are talking about my wife, and I will suggest that you watch what you say," Baelor said, looking up from the table to meet the elder man's eyes.
You were not a matter of council, and Baelor would never allow you to be treated like one.
The King's eyes flickered between both his son and the maester, "If there is a concern you can bring up privately with the Hand." The man's burning expression said other wise.
Baelor looked up when he heard on the the knocking the door, and a moment later it opened to reveal his youngest brother. "Maekar," he greeted with a nod.
His tone was not cold. It held no true anger, if anything it almost sounded like relief that he was seeking his elder brother out.
"Baelor."
Both brothers stared at one another a moment, "I assume you came to me for a reason."
Maekar almost scoffed. He would have if it not for the fact he was trying to remain calm, "Yes."
Baelor nodded waiting for him to continue. The younger scratched the back of his neck awkwardly trying to think of how to word his thoughts, "You should see your wife tonight. Your sons spend the evening with her before dinner in her solar," he finally stated getting straight to the point.
The smile on the elder's face dimmed as his mismatched eyes filled with a certain grief, "She does want to see me. She told me so after…”
“It was different then she was grieving.” His jaw locked slightly, "You know it is not true. She has not been her usually self lately, but—" he did not get to finish his sentence, before the Hand was speaking.
"She has no problem conversing and spending time with you," he countered, and now the missing bitterness from earlier had returned full force like a hidden animal that had merely been in the corner.
Maekar could no longer pretend that he was a calm man, "You think she wants to see me? You think she wants to eat and bathe everyday? No. She doesn't, but I fucking make her do it anyways, because someone in this Gods forsaken castle has to take care of her."
The words struck a nerve. Exactly like he wanted to hoping to ignite the fail to spend the stubborn man into emotion. He said nothing, but his fists bawled
"I would not have to do it if you only cared for her. She needs someone and you were not there. And for some fucking reason she does not hold that against you, because she thinks everything in life is her fault. So just fucking be there for your wife."
"Do not tell me how to care of my wife," he grit out.
"Then stop being a fucking coward and do it yourself," he said lowly turning away, disappearing throughout the door and leaving him alone with his words.
Baelor stayed outside longer than he would like to admit. Maekar was right. He was a coward, and he was scared of the rejection that was possibly about to come.
What if you did not want his company or his care?
What if you?
What if?
What?
Before he even knew what was happening his body was acting for him opening the door, pausing slightly as it shut behind him with a loud thud signaling his arrival without meaning too.
Oh, shit.
OH. SHIT.
His eyes widened slightly in panic sweeping over the room as he found you and your two sons like promised. You sat in a chair, Valarr across from you in front of you sat a mid-game of cyvasse. Matarys sat on the ground by your feet a book propped open on his None of you spoke merely staring at the man. "Baelor," you greeted with a nod.
"Hi," he breathed out, sounding more like an idiot then he had meant too.
"We are playing cyvasse," you said, gesturing to the board. You looked like you to anyone who would notice, but he could see the dark circles under your eyes.
"Mum is letting me win," Valarr suddenly declared, causing his eyes to drift over.
"I am not letting you win," you insisted, though everyone in the room knew that to be a lie.
That was a lie and he could simply from the fact that you did not look at your son when you had said it.
"She use to let me win during our early courtship," Baelor said, moving into the room like he use to at the end of the day. He grabbed a chair pulling it up toward the other side of his eldest, "Not so much once we wed."
"Most men do not like to loose to their wives."
"I am not most men," he argued.
You were silent a moment staring at him, your gaze moving over him slowly, "No you are not," you finally said, your lips turning up slightly.
"If father helps me will you promise to not go easy on me anymore?" your eldest asked.
You looked down to floor to your youngest, "What do you think, Matarys?"
"I think you should beat them both," he answered with a shrug as he turned the page.
You chuckled ruffling his hair before turning to the father and son, "Alright let us see if the pair of you can beat me."
Though they did not manage to beat you, the game was still enjoyable by all, even with Matarys stray comments as he stood to watch. You felt like a family for once, the evening passing by in happiness that had seemed out of reach for the four of you for some time. He was not sure you would ever truly have gotten to this point again. It was nice. Really nice and he did not want it to end.
Then he looked at you, really looked at you and suddenly the moment no longer felt so warm. Though you were smiling and laughing Baelor could see through it all. He could see the woman underneath that had needed him and he once more failed you.
content warning: nsfw. prostate milking. bodily fluids used as lubrication. jealousy. prince x crossdressing sworn knight relationship. manhandling. implied loss of virginity. hand-job. mention of pegging. dubious consent.
“What makes you believe he is interested in me?”
“The way he stares at you.” Baelor answers as a hand ascends to flatten the hair behind his head down–a habit he often did when he was upset but could not outright say what it was that was upsetting him.
“And if I were to return his affections?” you ask in retaliation, a brow rising when you catch the falter in his gaze and the clenching of one of his hands before he’s able to shield it behind his back.
He retorts, “You have your sworn oath to abide by.” and spins one of the rings adorning his fingers.
“That is true,” the corner of your mouth curls the tiniest bit at his visceral display of jealousy, “it is most fortunate, then, that he prefers the company of men over women.”
Baelor’s eyes widen, body relaxing almost immediately as the wisps of envy unclasp their claws from his heart.
“And, how do you know this?"
With a casual shrug, you confess that you had seen him with a stable boy several months ago, adding, “It was quite the show.” afterwards.
A startled “Oh,” is all the older man is capable of uttering at your vulgar confession, the laid-back manner in which you relayed it to him both jarring and arousing.
“I may be a lady by birth, but I am also a knight by oath and choice,” you explain for the nth time, removing the vambrace that had shielded your forearms from countless attacks earlier that afternoon, “I’ve heard, as well as seen, many things, your grace.”
The admission holds a suffocating weight to it.
“Have you partaken in such activities?” Baelor asks after a pause.
“Of course not,” you reply with a shudder, evidently offended, “I prefer to release pent up energy in the arena.”
“Ah,” he hums, pleased.
You turn to watch his face as you continue to remove your armour, “Have you ever..”
“No, but I have witnessed it.”
His honesty catches you by surprise, halting your movements, “Recently?” you sound far too excited.
Baelor gives a slight shake of his head, “It was during the Blackfyre rebellion,” he moves to take a seat on the bench behind him, “a walk through the woods to clear my head offered more than what I was hoping to find.”
Treading closer, your fingers curl below his bristly chin to study his face, “Did you enjoy it?”
“Not particularly, no,” he answers truthfully, a furrowing of his brows gives you reason to suspect he is replaying the moment.
“What if,” you step closer, until the steel strapped around your knees hits the inner part of his thighs, “it was you and I in those woods?”
Baelor’s breath hitches, the immediate expansion of his pupils a clear indication that he liked that imagery quite a bit.
“You,” your fingers slide into the hair around his nape, “on your hands and knees,” a harsh tug elicits a low groan from the older man, “and I,” his eyelids close when your nails scrape over his scalp, “mounting you.”
His eyes shoot wide open, a sharp “What?” reverberating within the space.
“I would prepare you, your grace,” you assure softly, thumbs moving to caress the lines framing his alarmed stare, “I would enter you slowly.”
His cheeks burn beneath your touch when you move the knee pressing into him upwards, continuing until it’s dragging over the tented centre of his breeches.
“You would sodomize your future king?” his voice is velvety–every exhale that leaves his parted lips uneven.
“Happily, your grace.”
Baelor was purposely riling you up.
He let her touch him, let her hand rest atop his for a beat longer than he should have, smiled at her warmly when she whispered in his ear.
Since you could not ask for his favour, you ride up to their seated forms and ask for hers. With a sweet smile and red, blotchy cheeks, she happily ties her cloth around your lance before returning to his side to watch the tournament begin.
You catch his gaze in the slit of your visor–the playful glint and curvature of his mouth was all you needed to see to know he was thoroughly enjoying the fact that you were seething with jealousy and there was nothing, at this current moment, you could do to ease it.
Unsurprisingly, you are unhorsed almost immediately, causing a roar from spectators that was equal amounts outrage and elation.
You return to your tent with a limp and, less than a beat later, Baelor is stepping inside after you with hands clasped behind his back and an expression of genuine concern on his face.
With an evident desire of inflicting pain on the older man, you push him down into the dirt, ignoring the pain that shoots up your knees when you straddle him.
“Did you enjoy that, my prince?” your words sound slurred behind the helm.
A low groan leaves his chest when you tug open his breeches; your knees move to dig into his splayed palms so that he is unable to reciprocate your touches. With gauntlet-covered hands, you remove his dusky, twitching cock out of its confines and begin to pull the half-hardened flesh with tight, rough tugs.
From the opening of your helm, you see a clear fluid beading at the tip before it drips down the side of his girth, following the pulsating, thick vein that runs down the length of it.
Before he is able to reach completion, you stop and rise to remove the codpiece as well as the thick, woolen breeches that obscure your smallclothes from his eyes.
Baelor’s mouth falls open when you use a dagger to cut through the last remaining layer and, without a lick of preparation, align the entrance of your core with the fat head of his cock and slide down to the hilt. The sound he releases is choked and guttural; a stifled cluster of pleas leave his lips when your tight walls pull him further inside of you.
“Mm,” you’re wincing, hands tightening in the wrinkled fabrics of his clothes.
While the pain is excruciating, it’s also a pleasant burn; it feels like he is splitting you in half, yet, you cannot help but remain flush against him, neck extended backwards as you repeatedly constrict around his cock.
Less than several beats later, you’re moving up and down, the combination of blood and slick that coats his shaft makes every downward slide and upward cant of his hips a slippery, smooth motion. A spring begins to coil tighter within your belly until all that you are able to feel, taste, smell is your prince.
The obscene sound of your sopping core slamming down onto his pelvis ricochets throughout the tent, heightening your arousal at the possibility of being discovered.
The heir to the throne fucking his sworn knight on the unforgiving dirt of a tourney tent.
The thought makes you clench hard–a strangled cry echoes within your helmet as your release washes over you, tightly caging his cock within your inner walls.
“Gods,” Baelor gasps.
Immediately, you rise to relieve him of his boots and breeches entirely; you lay your cape onto the ground, flip him onto his stomach, trapping his weeping cock down the length of his thighs, and move to kneel between his legs.
“May I pleasure you, your grace?” your voice is sultry as you remove your gauntlets.
For a long beat, Baelor does not speak, then, a soft, even-toned, “You may,” leaves his lips. His hands rise to grip the cloth he was sprawled atop, providing you with a view of his bloodied knuckles.
You take your time to work him open, using your shared fluids to loosen him just enough for you to slide a slick, wiggling digit inside of him.
He is just as soft as you imagined he would be, as well as hot and tight.
“Are you in pain, my prince?” you want to take off your helm to get a better look at the way he hugs your finger, gripping you as though he means to swallow your entire arm.
But you can’t, because it would ruin the facade–the image of the prince being spread apart by his sworn knight.
“No.” Baelor chokes, cock dribbling onto the cloth below when your finger begins to curl and twist until you find what it is you’re looking for, and then he’s groaning, “Oh, Gods–,”
It’s easy to find the smooth, spongy bulb you had heard about, the difficult part is slowing the speed in which you stroke it, not wanting him to release so quickly.
“Does that feel good, your grace?”
Gargled, inaudible words leave his throat; his forehead presses into the flesh of his forearm as you increase the pressure of your finger. A sheen of sweat rises over his lower half as the tremor in his thighs intensifies, inciting him to murmur, “I feel as though–,”
You reach up to grasp his neglected cock with your free hand, milking it in tandem with the pace of your strokes inside of him.
“Spread out like a whore for your protector,” the filthy words leave your lips before you can stop yourself, lust licking at every ounce of your being, “what would the realm think if they could see you now, your grace?”
With a pathetic whimper he’s releasing, shooting ribbons of cum over your cape, his own thighs, over your armour–some even lands atop your pelvis.
Your laboured breaths lessen with every beat that passes and soon enough it is the howling cheers and clash of lances hitting steel that once again fills the space.
“Are you in any pain, your grace?” concern for your prince drowns out the dull throbbing between your own legs as you hunch over his shaking form.
“No,” Baelor meekly mumbles once his vision returns, “no, I–that was interesting.”
He moves to lay on his back, the tops of his thighs scratched despite your efforts to protect him from the gravel below.
“A pleasant interesting?”
His shaky hands rise to remove your helmet, then he’s cradling your face to pull you down and press soft kisses over the skin of your heated, sweaty face.
summary: It's been a long day for both of you but as the night sets in, Dunk still won't pay you any attention. You have zero doubt of his affection, but it's high time you convince your knight he needn't always be so gentle with you.
tags/warnings: smut, fem!reader, handjob, rough(ish) sex, riding, moody!dunk, kind of sub!dunk, service top!dunk
wc: 1.5k
A/N: baby's first Dunk fic!!!! everybody say good job jj 😝 lowkey i'm slowly but surely fucking up my wrist bc i also work the fuck out of it at my job so, if im a little slower than usual that'll be why sorry beloveds 🙏. anyway i love my big dumb boyfriend and u WILL be seeing more of him thank u and goodnight.
p.s. if u r following me for the pitt dw i'm not abandoning her!!! we're just taking a little hyperfixation detour...i have a big heart and very flexible legs, there's room for everybody in here
Maybe he’s been less impressive in a tourney than he would’ve hoped, maybe he let himself get roped into a party, only to spot wealthy lords flirting with you across the room while he was fetching drinks. Knowing Dunk, it’s possible he’s just a little hungry.
Either way, your poor knight is in a pissy mood. Arms folded over his chest, lip jutted out in the cutest little pout. Slouching in your tent, he watches you get comfortable, striding back and forth with the ribbons on your bustier undone.
“By the Seven, it’s warm,” you keep complaining, fanning a hand by your face and pointedly glancing in his direction. As the sun sets, you can’t have long before Egg returns; courtesy of Dunk’s only tentatively maintained curfew. The knight in question is huffing through sweat-shiny, reddened cheeks himself, yet still refuses you even a taste of the attention you’re after. You’ve been at it so long, you’re almost certainly hotter now than you would be if you could just sit still for five minutes. Unfortunately for Dunk, you’re as stubborn as you are pretty.
“Are you honestly just going to sit there and sulk?” you demand, finally stomping to a stop right in front of him. It does Dunk absolutely no good to have such a sight before him: your hands on your hips, glowering down at him and periodically blotting away sweat with your skirt. The long flashes of your legs nearly break him, but he won’t. He can’t.
“Beg pardon, m’lady. But you should leave me be.”
“And why’s that?” Another wipe of your forehead, skirt hiked up high enough to see the weathered top of your stockings. Dunk pushes himself as far back into his seat as he can get. You give him absolutely no respite, taking a slight step forward that puts your unbound chest right in his face. He swallows, hard.
“M’lady…”
“Suddenly, you seem in much higher spirits, Ser.” You lower yourself into his lap, rubbing your hand languidly over his crotch as he twitches into what just might be the most raging boner he’s ever had in his life.
He takes a stuttering, deep breath and circles his hand around your wrist. Whether he means to push you away, hold you still, or shove your hand into his breeches, even he has no idea. “Please, my love. Don’t.”
“But why?” Your strength should be no match for his, but when your hands finally do reach for the tie on his breeches, Dunk simply cannot fight it. Jaw ajar in a silent moan and eyebrows downturned, he continues holding onto your wrist. You stroke him at a torturously slow pace, fixing him with a stern glare. “Duncan.”
His grip tightens and his mouth shuts. In fact, so do his eyes. Even a glance might undo him, may certainly snap the dangerously taut bounds around his desire. Because of course, of course he wants you. He always wants you.
“I’m not…” His thumb strokes your wrist and he reluctantly pulls it away, to give it a sloppy kiss, still with his eyes shut. “Today hasn’t been my day, my lady.”
“Then let me help,” you urge, shuffling impossibly closer and nodding downwards. “Did it not feel good?”
“No, it–it always feels good. You’re always–I love you so much. All of you, everything you have to give me. It’s just…I can’t.”
Your body doesn’t move an inch, but your head tilts ever so slightly.
“If I…If we…” He sighs. “I don’t mean to be untoward.”
“Do it, I dare you.”
He chuckles and brings your foreheads together, thumb brushing against your cheek. “This is how I like to treat you. How I should treat you.”
You pout. “I am not a china doll, Dunk.”
“Of course, but–” He cuts himself off with a rasping groan. His hips hitch upwards and his grip on your waist tightens and for a fraction of a second, he allows himself to think of it. Grabbing you, manhandling you, making good on his title of husband and fucking you senseless. To feel his blood pumping for something more meaningful than honour, to make him good for something that matters, that isn’t jousting or royals or riches. To use this brutish, hulking body for love. For you.
“Please, my lord. You’re upset. Let me make it better.”
Again, he bites his lip through another groan. He shakes his head and tries to pull back, but there’s nowhere for him to go. You know what it does to him, to give him titles he doesn’t deserve. Titles that sound weighty and legitimate coming from your mouth, a blasphemy that has him imagining himself as a king.
Slow and teasing, your hand is back in his breeches, his hips raising to meet your touch without a second thought. By the time you’re grinding on his thigh and whispering sweet nothings into his ear, Dunk’s bad mood is nearly forgotten and all that tension is concentrated into one thought: serving you.
He lifts you both off the chair to pull down his breeches and wastes no time pulling you ever closer. “So wet,” he whispers into your open mouth.
Your arms wrap around his neck as he buries himself inside you, your mouth pressing wet, hot kisses over every spot of his face you can reach. “Show me.”
“Hm?” Dunk can’t seem to stop groaning, half-certain he’s close already. It’s pathetic; he’s barely moved at all and your clothes are still on.
“How you were afraid you might treat me. Show me what these big, strong hands are capable of. I want to see–Mm” Throwing your head back, you bite your lip and grip his hair with a fierceness Dunk has never felt from you before. “Show me the knight I have in my charge, hm? The man entrusted with my love, my pleasure. My life.”
This undoes him entirely. He’s been breathing through brewing moans, whining into your neck, tensing his thighs to keep himself still. You’re a good woman, a kind woman, a person who has shown him some of the only tenderness he’s ever known. He shouldn’t, he keeps thinking. He shouldn’t. But you–you wretch–know exactly how to work him, play him like a fiddle. You pull down the top of your blouse so that your chest spills out. Soft, pliant flesh, right there for the taking. Grabbing, sucking, kissing. As you wrap your arms closer around him, you coil strands of his hair around your fingers and give him one long, slow grind of your hips.
“Show me, Dunk.”
And who is he–this mere hedge knight–to deny you?
“Gods, m’lady.” His hands clench around your waist. His heels dig into the ground. Before, he was letting you set the pace and simply holding you through it. Your grip in his hair tightens even further as he slams you, over and over, onto his lap. For a moment, his eyes slide shut. Though he struggles, he insists on keeping them open, keeping his half-lidded gaze trained on you. “M’sorry–Gods–Feels so good. Tell me if it hurts.”
You can’t even respond, lip bitten and a droning whine escaping your throat as he at once pulls you onto his dick and thrusts into you at an unforgiving pace.
“Tell me,” he grunts. His hands go from your hips to your chest. He squeezes, then ducks his head down to suck and nip at the skin around your nipple, while his thumb works on the other. He rubs relentless circles and groans, his free arm holding you tight against his body. “Will you–ah, my love, so fucking good.”
He can’t stop asking and apologising, begging as overwhelmed tears spring into his eyes.
“Does it feel good, m’lady? Am I–” Yet another pained groan.
“You are, Ser.” You moan into his neck. “You’re so good to me. So good, Dunk.”
The pace only gets more aggressive. Dunk’s moans flow freely and loudly, deep from the centre of his chest, his palm pressed flat against your back, practically pushing your hearts together. Your thighs slap as he snaps up into you, his voice fills your ear and now he’s gripping your biceps, pulling you downwards and filling you without giving you a second to breathe. You squeeze around him and he’s so close, all he needs is to hear it one more time. Of course, you know this.
“So, so good, Ser.” You’re soaking wet and clenching around him, showering him with breathless praise as your orgasm ricochets through just about every cell of your body. “Such a good boy. My big, strong knight.”
When he cums, he tries kissing you. Even as you lean down to help him, all he can manage his licking into your mouth as wild, keening moans leave him. His hips keep stuttering and he leaks out of you, back down himself as gradually smaller spurts of warmth fill you up. Tears roll down his cheeks and his chest heaves with breaths. It’s all he can do to stay conscious when you lean in to lick a stripe up his face and press a tender kiss right where his tears just were.
“M’lady, I–” He twitches inside you. “We don’t have time to go again.”
But he swears that the second you do, he won’t do anything stupid again like wasting that time sulking.
synopsisyou were Robby's star pupil, his favourite person, but when he catches you and Jack in the middle of performing a high risk procedure you definitely shouldn't be doing he can't handle the jealousy. so really, is it your fault if your pushed into Jack Abbots bed, but can't stop thinking about Robby?
warningsjealous&possesive Robby x reader, Jack Abbot x reader, kinda Rabbot, Jack kinda wants Robby in this, language. smut MDNI. fingering, oral (f receiving) breast play, dirty talk, praise, Robby calls while Jack eats you out. handjob
authornotei'm so close to writing Rabbott fics, I need them both!
pitt masterlist. last robby fic! last jack fic!
“What the hell are you doing?”
If you weren't as skilled a resident as you were, as stony as you'd been made, the raise of voice and slam of a door would have stolen you from your attentive work. But it didn't. You didn't flinch. As your hands were all but inside a patient it was a good thing, too.
Jack tutted from over you, the heat of his breath hot on the back of your neck. “Robby...”
“I said- what are you doing?” he barked again, standing in the middle of the trauma room.
Nurses turned to look at him and then back to you and Jack, un-sure of which immovable force was greater.
You only focused on the woman in front of you. Bruises up her arms, blood on her cut-away clothes, tubes coming out of her and into her, monitors beeping with life signs fleeting.
“It's a hypotensive pelvic bleed,” you said through your face screwed in concentration.
“A REBOA? Are you serious, right now?”
“I'm here, supervising, brother,” said Jack, still caved over you like he could protect you from Robby's wrath.
“You're not her attending,” Robby argued.
“No but I'm an attending.”
You could hear Robby's sharp inhale of breath, picture the clock of his head in annoyance and the tight pinch of his eyes. You knew every small give away of his that he didn't know he had. The tightness of his muscles when angers, the way he clutches at his chest for his star of David when silently scared.
The tension in the room chocked you.
Jack was still at your side, a comfort, a gentle wave against the sharp rocks. “Keep going.”
Robby said your name, an edge to it you'd never heard before.
Looking past Jack you found Robbie. He stood blocking the door, gowned up already, arms over his chest. His brows were pulled in, eyes dark as they levelled on you. He was danger dressed as a man.
But in front of you there was Jack, nodding encouragingly.
“Keep going.”
Your hands moved to carry on in spite of Robby's sigh.
“Okay... good...” said Jack as you pushed in the needle. “Femoral artery, couple inches. All right, let's guide wire and introduce the sheath.”
You pushed and did what Jack said, careful under his guidance.
Robby watched all the while, walking slowly around. He knew how well you preened under praise and careful instruction, like a cat purring at an owners touch. Robby knew because it was always him, ever since you began as a med student to intern to resident he'd been there to build you up, crafting you into a perfect doctor.
His perfect doctor.
Apparently he didn't like to share.
“How much saline have you pushed?” asked Robby.
“Five CC'S,” said Jack, without entertaining his attitude.
“Your carotid is weak,” said Robby. “Is it even there?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack caught your gaze behind your goggles, pleading silently. You hadn't worked with him as much as you had Robby, or Langdon or almost anyone in the day shift but he seemed to catch on to your needs at once. “You know what to do.”
With his words you proceeded.
“Push another three CC'S of saline in the balloon,” you ordered.
“Injecting.”
There was a moment of silence as the saline was passed through tubes into the woman.
“How we looking?” asked Robby.
“Radial is up, pressure's up too- BP hundred-and-ten,” said Donnie.
For the first time since Jack dragged you into the trauma to teach you a REBOA, you looked at the patients face. At the blankness of it, the blood splattered at her cheek. There was colour returning to her.
“Check the wound,” said Jack.
You did so, the wound at her pelvis are that had been gushing on arrival had stopped bleeding.
“Looks okay,” you said.
Jack's gloved hand squeezed your gowned shoulder, blood of the woman passing between the two of you. However, it was the physical contact that broke you from your trance, pulling you up taller. “Good job, you saved her life, another couple minutes she wouldn't have made it.”
“She's still not out the woods yet,” said Robby.
You looked back at him with enough time to catch an un-characteristic roll of his eyes.
“Surgery can take her now,” said Jesse from the phone.
“Oh, finally they're ready for us?” teased Jack as he moved around the gurney. “Now that they've missed all the fun.” He passed you a wink that sent butterflies in your stomach rolling around.
The team pulled off gowns and gloves, pulling the gurney out the room.
“Wait-” said Robby, arm out stopping you as you went to follow.
The doors shut behind the gurney before Jack could understand you were behind, trapped in a room with a bear of a man who was failing at concealing his anger.
You waited for him to begin. Whether it were to be a lecture or an approval that you saved a woman's life, you wanted it over and done. The adrenaline was coursing through your body in crashing waves of red. You'd crash if you didn't calm. “There was no time for anything else-”
“- save it-”
“- there was no time for me to come and get you-”
“- stop!”
You stepped back, hands balled at your sides.
It wasn't un-common for any member of staff at PTMC to have Robby Robinavitch yell and demand the stars and moons from a person. It was scary to have him yelling at you, his deemed shadow and golden girl.
Since day one everyone knew you held a special place in Robby's heart.
“I saved a patient's life,” you defended. Was that not the most important thing to be doing? Could you not be attending to at least two other patients while he stood- imposing- in front of you.
“Doing an extremely risky procedure that is only reserved for the senior residents which you are not,” he scoffed out.
“Doctor Abbot was at my side the whole time, he talked me through every step.”
Robby shook his head, chuckling and looking around the room as if to be anywhere but with you. “Abbot-”
“- he believed me capable,” you said. “Don't you think I'm capable?”
His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he turned away from you, stretching his hand to the back of his head and flattening the hair there. When he turned back to you he took a step closer, watching the toes of his shoes meet yours.
“Do you know why I'm angry?”
No, you really didn't.
You took in a deep breath, meeting his eyes that lowered to yours. “Because I performed a high risk procedure.”
“A high risk procedure without me,” he corrected. “You're on day, not night. I'm your attending, not Jack. You get me when you're doing something like that, you understand?”
There was little room for argument. Your body trembled, the mixture of blood on your gloves and the beating of your heart heard in your ears. The lights of trauma two were suddenly too bright; walls too sterile. You nodded.
Robby tsked. “Do you understand?”
Every word was punctured with anger.
You rose to all your height. “Yes, I understand.”
He didn't dismiss you, only jutted his head back as he dragged a hand over his beard.
Without a word, you dismissed yourself.
“I just don't get why he was so.... angry,” you admit quietly.
The lights of the bar were dimmed in a golden light, casting sun set gazes around the bar Jack had told you was a good place to get a drink. He'd led you to a small table by a window with the blinds pulled down, his hand- the one that had saved so many lives- splayed out on the small of your back.
Somewhere along the night Jack's chair had scraped around closer to you. So close with every inhale you could catch the musk on him and his arm was comfortably slung around the back of your chair.
There were two empty whiskey glasses of Jack's and you were still cradling your first, down to the dregs.
“It's Robby,” said Jack with a shrug of his shoulders, but it didn't stop the crease in his brows.
“But he's never been like that with me.”
Was it the fact you'd seemingly lost your favouritism bothering you? More than you cared to admit. More so the fact you didn't understand why he'd yelled.
Why the flare of anger had burned brighter with you saving a life than anyone else?
Why your body had trembled at the rise of his voice.
Jack's body tilted toward yours, head bowed low as he looked up at you through his lashes. “Oh, come on....”
You slurped the last from your straw and looked at him. “What?”
“You don't have to play dumb with me.”
Your own body gravitated towards him. “Play dumb? I'm not playing dumb, what are you talking about?”
Jack chuckled, shaking his head to himself. He sipped the last of his drink. “Robby's...” he trailed off.
“Robby's...”
Jack levelled his gaze to yours. “He likes you.”
The words sat frozen in your brain. You knew Robby must have had some soft spot for you, you knew he liked you. But the way Jack said it, a teasing lift to his voice and the serious gaze of his eyes suggested it was more than the competence of your skills as a doctor that had Robby's affection.
“He doesn't,” you chuckled.
“He does,” said Jack, nodding along with your words.
“How would you know?”
Jack's cheeks dusted a faint pink, the rain on the window behind you dropping like mini thunderstorms. “Believe me, I know.”
You waited for more clarification.
“You have no idea the kind of effect you have on old men like us.”
Like us. Jack didn't just speak for Robby but himself. The pink in his cheeks, the hand on your back earlier. The heat from him was all different now. A wanting.
“Old men?” you smirked.
Jack's eyes darted between your eyes and lips. “Yeah, old men.”
“You're not that old, are you?”
Jack tilts his head side to side.
You peer closer at him as if trying to find the lines of age in his face. “Younger than Robby though, right?”
Jack nods. “Younger than Robby, if that makes any difference.”
“Any difference to what?” you asked, stirring the straw against the ice in one hand, the other holding your chin.
“To you.”
Under the table Jack's fingers traced over your knee, gently, as if he was trying to go un-noticed. You felt it anyhow. Felt as his fingers gripped your knee when you pushed your leg against his.
He watched you, analysing.
“Well,” you began, pushing your leg to kick over the other under the table and moving his hand further up your leg, till his all too eager fingers were splayed over your thigh. “What kind of effect is that?”
Jack was always a serious man at work. Competent and well kept. You didn't expect him to be so well versed in 'playing games'. “I dunno if I can tell you.”
“No?”
Jack shook his head, eyes lingering over his lips and his head tilted to the side, watching you. “I could show you?”
There was lip gloss stain over the straw in your glass, you saw it catch Jack's eyes as he pushed away your empty glasses to provide more space on the table.
“See any time you look at us, it's like-like a tingling sensation,” he said. “Like when you know someone's got their eyes on you.”
His hand that had been riding higher at your thigh darted away, leaving a sudden tremble of everything cold through your body. Instead, he rested his elbow at the table and beckoned your hand to his. He didn't hold it, instead, spread your fingers out and put palm to palm in a tender touch.
“And then when you touch us, it gets worse,” he uttered, eyes stuck on where your palms met. Jack's hand moved around yours, playing with your fingers.
“Worse?” you ask.
“A good worse. Good shivers,” said Jack, pulling at a finger.
“I touch you enough for you to gather all that?”
Jack's dark gaze found yours again. He bit down on his bottom lip. “Not nearly enough as I'd like.”
The door of the bar opened and a gush of wind cooled the heat on your skin. But Jack's eyes were like a furnace that you were sitting too close to, burning yourself and delighting in it. When the door shut again with an un-oiled squeak, Jack reached over.
He plucked the necklace charm from against your chest, the brush of his knuckles against your chest. “Pretty necklace.”
“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky un-characteristically.
“You get it yourself?”
“No, it was a present.”
It was almost as if he didn't have to ask who had gifted it to you. Whose hands had brushed back your hair in the middle of a shift and clasped it around the back of your neck.
Or maybe he just didn't want to know.
Jack's apartment was everything that made him.
As you passed the kitchen and he peeled off his jacket, keeping his lips close enough to breathe you in, you could smell the coffee from the morning plastered to the walls.
When he pressed you up to the sofa to shove his hands down your pants and slide a finger into your wet pussy your fingers scratched at some blanket he had thrown over the back of it.
You caught a glimpse of pictures around the place, a frame of meddles too but his place came to you in flashes and glimpses through pleasure.
“I'm gonna show you,” he uttered against your mouth as another finger slipped into you, worked inside of you. They curled up, your body moving into him at the feeling. “Just how I want to touch you.”
The car ride over had been torture enough. He could hardly get himself inside the car, stealing himself away from you. But your lips had been at his neck at every stop sign and red light. Your hand had ghosted over his crotch and the hardening length of him. As occupied as you'd been in each other in the front seats of his car you'd been beeped at twice.
“Jack,” your voice whispered, lips dragging against his as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you, pulling at the seams of your panties.
“I'm gonna show you just how Robby wants to touch you.”
You wish the name didn't have the effect it did. That the fury you felt at him for how he yelled didn't turn to a throb in your core when Jack said his name.
“You're touching me, Jack,” you said, breathless.
“Yeah... yeah,” he said. “You like that I'm touching you?”
You nodded as his fingers retracted, finding your clit and wetting the bud of nerves, circling it.
“Say it,” said Jack. “Say it.”
“Yes, I like it.”
Jack grinned into the curve of your neck as his fingers plunged back in, working you open and spreading your wetness of the black of your panties. “God, you're making such a mess for me baby, aren't you?”
He worked you open a little longer, mumbling encouragement with every moan and throw back of your head. 'So pretty, arg, you're so pretty baby.'
By the time your stomach was coiling tight like a snake ready to pounce Jack removed his hand from your pants and kissed you again. It was a hard kiss, his clean hand grasping your cheek and keeping you still as he forcefully worked his lips against yours, like it had only just clocked in his head it was you he had on his lips, it was you he was turning to putty in his hand. Like he wanted to forge you into his lips
“Not done yet,” said Jack, hands sliding down to your hips as he guides his nose up and down your neck, breathing you in. “I wanna make you moan on my tongue, like Robby wishes he could, yeah?”
Your body betrayed you, shivering again in anticipation.
Jack's hands stirred you by the hips, urging you to his room. He pushed the door open over your head, licking into your mouth.
“Please... don't mention Robby right now,” you said as Jack fell slowly to his knees in front of you.
His brows rose. He kept his eyes on you as he pulled down your pants, helping you step out of them. “No? You don't want me to mention Robby?” he asked.
You shook your head, looking away from him. You knew you'd soaked yourself through by the small touches and passionate kisses from Jack. But you didn't need to see the realisation hit when he realised Robby's name had as much effect on you as Jack's own touches.
“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me,” said Jack.
With a tight squeeze, you looked at him, seeing the attending of the night shift get closer to your heat.
“See, I think, you like when I say his name, huh?” his nose nudged your clothed clit. “Robby.”
Jack licked a stripe up your pussy, gathering your want through the cloth.
You were left, mouth agape, to catch your breath. Your hands didn't know where to go till Jack peeled off his shirt and guided your hands to his shoulders, your nails digging into the freckled skin there.
Jack wet his tongue with his spit before he rubbed it along your panties again, kissing you there. “I think you're so wet for me, but you're wet for Robby too, huh?”
“Jus-just you, Jack,” you gasped.
He swept a finger into your panties and let the elastic snap back against your skin.
Your body jolted in its wake.
“Not just me, don't lie,” he said, darkly.
In the morning would you realise what you'd done? Jack wasn't your attending but an attending none the less and Robby's friend- brother- at that. Although you and Robby were nothing more than colleagues, it didn't feel right to have Jack licking up your want with his name on his tongue.
“Liars don't get to come, you know,” he said. “So, you get this wet when you think about me?”
“Y-Yes.”
You could feel Jack's smile against your thigh as he pressed a kiss there.
Jack hooked two fingers around the bands of your panties and slowly dragged them down. “Do you get this wet when you think about our Doctor Robby?”
“Yes. Yes I do,” you gasped, your body curling up in the relief of letting go.
Yes, you liked Robby's extra attention. You couldn't even be left angry at his chastising you when it sent a wave of need through you, settling in your core. When you'd been at the bar with Jack, touching him in ways you'd thought about touching your own attending, almost wishing he would storm through the door and see the two of you.
“Good girl.”
Quickly Jack tilted his head back and found purchase in your pussy.
His tongue laid flat against your core.
It didn't stay in one place long. It explored all around you, tasting you for the first time and mapping out delicate spots. He slipped between your folds like he was always supposed to be there, moaning into you.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Mmh, Jack!”
He licked you up, spreading the mess of your want around and cleaning it up. “Taking my tongue so well,” he said against you. He dragged his lips down your thigh, wet tongue dragging up and down.
Your legs trembled as Jack spread the lips of your pussy and buried himself in there again. He pressed his thumb onto your clit, your body lurching at the pressure.
“Oh fuck, J-Jack!”
“Pull my hair, pull my hair,” he said into you.
Your did so. Your hand fell into the short strands of his salt and pepper hair, twirling into the strands and tugging just enough to rip a groan from him.
Jack buried himself into your further, his nose nudging into you deeper and deeper till he was almost trying to be inside of you.
Every time your eyes fluttered shut Jack pulled back, easing up on his work of your pussy and easing the orgasm that was slowly building up.
“No, no- eyes on me, keep your eyes on me, baby,” he said.
You looked down to him. “Jack, I want- I want to come.”
“I know, I know you do baby,” he said, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit again. “You will, I promise, I promise.”
He eased himself up from his knees and helped off your shirt and peeled off your bra before he latched himself onto your breast.
Your back arched into him. His hands felt larger than ever as they curled around your waist and held you in. He groped at your breast, watching it jiggle as he moved before swirling his tongue around your nipple.
“Jack-”
“God, I wish Robby were here,” said Jack as he switched his attention to your other.
“Wh-what?” you didn't know if you'd heard him right.
Jack looked at your breasts instead of you, dedicating time to licking up each of them. “Wish Robby could see how good a girl you're being,” he muttered, almost to himself, like he wasn't talking to you. “How responsive you are. Would you like that? Would you like Robby to watch?”
You imagined it, closing your eyes.
Jack let you.
You pictured Robby sat on the bed, watching. Would he watch with his glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose? Would he keep his hands to himself or want to touch and play? You imagined how big he was, if he'd get hard watching.
If he'd touch. If he'd stand behind you while Jack kissed along your breasts. Would Robby dedicate enough time to the back of you?
“You want Robby?” asked Jack.
Anyone else eating you out or with hands on your chest wouldn't want another mans name on your lips.
Jack seemed to thrive on it.
“Yes,” you gasped.
Jack reached back up to you. “Yeah.... yeah...” his nose ghosted yours as he inched closer to kiss you.
In the slim lighting of his bed room you could see the shine of his lips from your arousal, the burn of red at his cheeks. There was a clink as he un-did his belt, throwing it behind him as he slowly pulled down his trousers.
First you saw the prosthetic of his leg before you trailed up, past the scars, to the heavy set of his cock. It flushed red at the tip, a leak of pre-cum running down. It stood tall onto the thin, greying hair down his sternum.
“Jack-” you reached for him, wrapping your hand around him.
“Ah- ahh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you slowly pumped him. “You feel so good. God, Robby doesn't know what he's missing.”
You tangled your tongue with his as you pumped, growing confident in every pump, in every leak of his cock, in ever groan of him into your mouth.
Would Robby guide you to holding Jack's man hood in your hand? Would his own hand wrap around your wrist and guide you up and down, muttering how good you were doing.
It was like you could hear him in your head.
'What a good girl doing what you're told, so responsive,' you imagined the heavy set of his tongue dragging over your pulse as you wrapped your arm around Jack's shoulders, smothering him in closer.
“I wish-” you said against his lips, making a mess out of you mouth as you squeezed his cock. “I wish Robby were here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, me too baby,” said Jack, slowly wrapping his fingers around your wrist and peeling back your hand. He pulled two of your fingers into his mouth, licking the taste of himself off and into the warmth of his mouth. “Next time.”
Jack eased you back on his bed, crawling over you.
You shuffled up, sitting up on his headboard. “Do you- do you want me to?”
Jack's brows pulled together as he brushed back your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “To what, baby?”
“To ride you? Would it be easier on your leg?”
Jack smiled, love sick. “That's very kind of you sweetheart. Next time, I'll let you ride me like I'm a damn horse,” he whispered as he slowly lowered you down. “Right now I want you to finish on my tongue. Then I'm gonna really fuck you like I've wanted to for so long.”
You watched with a bite to your lip as Jack rolled a condom over his cock before hovering over you.
He stirred the base of his cock against your pussy, rubbing the arousal of you over your slit.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, yes.”
Would Robby hold you against him, keep your legs spread for Jack? Or would Jack insist on Robby going first.
“Beg for it, baby.”
Before your words could leave your mouth the familiar buzz of your phone echoed between you.
Maybe anyone else would have ignored it, sent it to voicemail or let it ring. Except Jack- he moved down his bed, reaching for your pants and fishing out your phone. He smirked down at the contact before holding the phone out to you.
“Answer it.”
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, looking at him. “Wh-what?”
“Answer him,” he said, grabbing your hand and putting the phone it in.
Robby.
You looked to Jack, having no time to ask if he was serious before he was descending on the bed again. His eyes were pointed, gaze locked on you.
You answered, holding the phone to your ear. “H-hey, Robby.”
“Hey. Is everything okay?”
Did he know you'd left the bar with Jack? Did he hear his name called from both your lips?
“Yeah, everything's okay.”
Jack smirked at you.
“I've been calling you all night, you didn't answer,” you could hear the slight accusation in his voice, the small anger you hadn't bowed and answered the phone when he called. He wasn't good at hiding it though maybe he thought he was.
“Sorry I-”
Jack slid two fingers inside of you at once and pumped them without warning.
You caught your breath in your throat. “- I was busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yeah,” you gasped.
Robby stirred down the line. “You okay?”
Jack was looming close enough to you, nodding for you to pull the phone back enough for him to hear.
“Yeah, it's just, cold in my apartment,” you lied.
Jack's brows rose, he mouthed the word, cold?
“Still haven't sorted that heating, huh?” Robby chuckled down the line. “You need someone to come sort that out for you.”
Jack withdrew his hand, dragging those two fingers from inside of you around you, before lowering himself back down. He spread you open, lying his tongue back in.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Want me to come take a look at it?” asked Robby.
“Not- not right now,” you pushed your phone back as Robby scoffed lightly. You sort Jack's attention, begging for the end of the torture he was inciting. His eyes were a haze of lust as he only watched you, shaking his head slowly to feel all around you.
His hand pushed your knee up to your chest, welcoming him in deeper.
“Are you still mad at me for earlier?”
“Y-yes!”
“You are?”
You'd forgot Robby down the line, forgot his question, could only feel the depth of Jack's tongue in you. You bit down on the bottom of your lip. “Yes! Yes! Yes, I am!”
“Okay- well, i'm sorry,” he said down the line. “You just have no idea what seeing you with Jack does to me.”
Jack moaned into you, sending vibrations through your body. His nose nudged against your clit, circling his tongue in you. Your mouth opened, a moan ripping through you that Jack managed to stifle quickly by slamming his hand over your mouth.
“- It's just, I think of you as one of mine,” Robby continued down the line, un-aware's to Jack tapping your phone on speaker and placing it next to you.
Jack dropped his mouth next to your ear, nipping at the lobe. “As mine,” he uttered.
“- seeing you with Jack, I can't stand it, you know I can't-”
Jack went back down to his work, two fingers working inside of you as he sucked in your clit. Your walls are like silk that his fingers thread through with ease, your mind blank with pleasure.
Your moans continued to be muffled by his mouth, he dared not move it.
“- you know I... you know I favour you over anybody else in that ER-”
Your hand reached out for your phone, sure you would come soon and needed to end the phone call.
Jack reached out for you. “Be nice, be nice.”
You picked up the phone and put it to your ear, Jack sucking diligently at your bundle of nerves. “Robby, I-”
“What is it? You sound like you're burning up? You need me?”
Yes, you needed him.
Jack curled his fingers up and you came with a loud gasp, ending the call abruptly as your world shattered in stars of want. Your back arched into Jack's mouth as he laid there open mouthed, taking what you could give him like a man dying of thirst.
Only when your breathing calmed and you could open your eyes to make sense of the world- and Jack's room- did Jack slowly move out his fingers, gently crawling up you body with kisses like butterflies.
You laughed when Jack reached your neck. “Oh god.”
“What?” he said, laughing along with you.
“I hung up on Robby.”
Jack fished for your phone, holding it between the two of you as he rubbed the head of his cock against the slick of your folds. “Then I guess we better call him back.”
pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!stark!reader
summary: Your husband is the most beautiful man in the seven kingdoms. It's only right you collar him to make sure he knows!
contents/warnings: smut (18+), pwp, collaring/leashing, rough sex, biting / blood (minor), breath play/choking, degradation (mutual, lowkey affectionate 😭), marking/bruising, creampie/come play, possessive dynamics (mutual), power play/power exchange (femdom-leaning), verbal humiliation (mutual <3), as always when it comes to these two, the ultimate freak4freak.
notes: Inspired by this beautiful art. I missed my evil lububu and his handler <3
✶ devour me verse.
The collar comes from Lys.
Some merchant's trunk, silk-lined, smelling of rosewater and foreign incense. A slim, jewelled thing meant for the long, elegant throats of courtesans. Gold links fine as thread, set with chips of dark amethyst that catch candlelight like little bruises. A pretty leash for a pretty creature. The sort of adornment pillowhouses clasp around their most expensive offerings before presenting them to men who want the illusion of owning something beautiful.
You find it amusing.
That's the whole of it, really. You turn it in your fingers while Aerion is mid-sentence about something inconsequential—a hunt, a petition, the tedium of some lord's complaint—and you hold it up between you with the kind of idle, speculative look that makes his mouth stop moving.
"Come here," you call out casually. Almost sweet.
Aerion's eyes drop to the collar. Track the glint of gold, the faceted stones, the delicate clasp. His jaw sets, eyes narrowing into slits.
"No."
"It's pretty," you tell him, tilting it so the amethysts wink. "I want to see it on you."
"Then put it on your wolf and admire it there."
But he doesn't move away. That's the thing about your temperamental dragon. The refusal is always louder than the retreat, and the retreat never comes.
He stands exactly where he is, tension drawing his slender shoulders tight beneath his tunic, pale eyes narrowed to slits. You rise from the bed and cross the distance between you, bare feet quiet on the stone, and he watches you come the way a hawk watches an approaching hand, nostrils flaring.
You reach up without an invitation and he catches your wrist in a vicegrip. Hard enough that the bones grind.
"I said no." His voice has dropped into something serrated, all edge, no breath. "That is a whore's ornament. You will not put a whore's collar on a prince of the blood."
"I'm not putting it on a prince of the blood," you say, and your thumb finds his pulse, hammering, frantic, a traitor drumming against your skin. "I'm putting it on my husband."
His lip curls. Genuine, blistering contempt, the kind he wears like armour, the kind that has made grown men step back from him and whisper he's mad. "You've lost your mind, wife. This is beneath me. Take your Lysene filth and—"
"And what?"
You don't raise your voice. You tilt your head and watch him, patient as winter frost, while his mouth keeps shaping poison but his hand hasn't tightened, hasn't shoved you back, hasn't done any of the things Aerion is so very capable of doing when he means his refusals.
His body knows you even when his pride won't permit him.
You can see it in him, the war happening behind his eyes. Hatred and want tearing at each other like dogs. His breathing has gone uneven, the tendons in his neck taut as bowstrings. He's furious, genuinely furious, and he's half-hard already, and the combination is doing something to his expression that looks almost like anguish.
"You also haven't moved," you observe mildly, pressing a little closer.
Aerion's nostrils flare. But his grip on your wrist loosens. It's not a permission, never permission, just the muscles giving out under the weight of what he wants and won't ask for.
You step into the space he hasn't made for you and he lets you, jaw clenched so tight you can see the bone beneath that smooth pale skin, and when your fingers brush his throat he flinches like you've put a blade there, sneering down at you.
You fasten the collar with steady hands. The clasp clicks, quiet as a lock turning. Gold settles against Aerion's skin like it was poured there. Fine links pooling into the hollow of his throat, amethysts glowing dark against all that pale, furious warmth, the delicate chain trailing down his collarbone. His pulse jumps so hard beneath the metalwork you can see it in the tremor of the links.
He is, objectively, the most striking thing you've ever seen.
You let him watch you realise it. You don't hide the way your gaze tracks the gold against his jaw, the flush climbing his neck beneath the chain, the way his platinum hair glows against the gleam of metal.
You take your time with it. Look at him the way you'd look at something you own. Appraising, proprietary, openly pleased with what it's infront of you.
"My beautiful dragon," you murmur, and there's nothing teasing about it. Just a wolf admiring what belongs to her.
Aerion's whole body locks up. there's a crack in his expression and for a half-second you see the raw thing underneath, stunned and starving, before the hatred slams back down like a portcullis.
"Quiet," he warns, voice scraped thin. "Don't call me that."
"Beautiful?" You trace the line of gold with one finger, following it along the tendon in his throat. His skin is burning. "But you are. All collared up for me. All that pride and fury wrapped in gold like a gift." Your finger reaches the chain and curls loosely around it. "Like something I bought. Something I'm keeping."
"I will break your hand," he snarls, but his voice has fractured somewhere in the middle of it, gone hoarse and bitten, and his hands are fists at his sides that aren't moving, aren't reaching, aren't doing anything at all because his body has chosen you over every hateful word in his mouth.
"Look at you," you breathe, and you let your admiration sit open on your face, undisguised, almost tender. "My prince. My pretty, collared husband. Wearing a courtesan's chain because his wife asked and he couldn't say no."
"I said no—"
"Your hateful mouth said no." Your eyes drop, pointed, unhurried, to where the evidence of his body's opinion is unmistakable. "The rest of you has a different answer, husband."
The sound he makes is closer to snarl, like he's about to leap forward and throttle you.
"They tell me these are put on courtesans in the pillowhouses," you tell him, conversational, your thumb stroking idle circles against the chain at his throat. "On the loveliest ones. The ones men cross the Narrow Sea just to kneel before." You lean in, your mouth near his ear, close enough to feel the heat pouring off him. "A collar to say this one is precious, this one is wanted, this one has been claimed by someone who can afford the price of them."
Your lips brush the shell of Aerion's ear. He's shaking. Fine, continuous tremors he can't control, running through him like current through wire.
"But you're not a courtesan, are you?" you murmur. "You're a dragon. My dragon. Collared and flushed and hard for me, and all I've done is call you pretty and put gold on your throat."
His hips snap forward, involuntary, vicious, a jerk of motion so sharp the chain shivers in your grip and his breath tears out of him ragged. You feel the length of him grind against your thigh and the confirmation of what you already knew floods you with something hot and deeply, viciously satisfied.
You smile. Wolfish. The smile of a predator who's found the exact place her teeth fit best.
Aerion's hand comes up and seizes your face. A capture, fingers digging into your jaw, your cheeks, wrenching your head so you're forced to meet his eyes. They're blown black, the pale lavender almost gone, eaten alive. His mouth is a shaking, vicious line.
"You think this is funny?" he rasps, and there's something fraying in his voice, an edge that sounds like it's being held together by nothing but spite. "You think you can play with me, collar me like some—some Lysene bed-slave and then smirk at me—"
You don't stop smiling. You let him see every inch of it. The smugness, the heat, the cool Northern certainty that you've claimed something he'd sooner die than hand over. You turn your face into his grip and press your lips to his palm, unhurried, greedy, and feel his fingers twitch against your skin.
"I think," you say knowingly against his hand, "that you liked it when I called you beautiful. I think you liked it so much your whole body told me before your mouth could catch up." Your tongue skims his palm, just barely, tasting salt. "I think my pretty husband wants to be admired. I think he always has. And I think if I told him he was good right now, he'd come apart."
His hand tightens on your face until it almost hurts. His chest is heaving, every breath hauling through him like he's physically fighting something inside him. You can feel the chain taut between your fingers, connecting your hand to his throat like a leash, like a lifeline.
Aerion stares at you and you stare back. The room is so quiet you can hear the candles gutter and the chain clink, once, with the tremor running through him.
Then he crashes his mouth onto yours.
His teeth catch your lower lip and bite, hard enough that copper blooms on your tongue, and you hiss into it, fingers tightening in the chain. He licks the blood off your mouth and comes back for more, tongue pushing past your gasp, his free hand fisting in the back of your hair so hard your scalp sings.
He's trying to take it back—every sound you pulled from him, every tremor, every helpless grind of his hips—kissing you like he can swallow the evidence of what you've done to him and burn it.
You let him have the violence of it. You open your mouth and take his tongue and bite it, feel Aerion jolt, feel the groan rattle through his teeth into yours. Your free hand comes up and grabs his jaw, holds him still, and you kiss him back with teeth and intention, licking into his mouth with the focused, unhurried authority. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and pull, dragging it out, and the noise he makes is humiliating and so gorgeous you smile.
He breaks away panting, wild-eyed, mouth swollen and blood-smeared, and you don't let him get far.
You tug the chain.
A measured pull, the gold biting into the back of his neck.
Aerion's head tips forward, forced, the angle dragging him down toward you, and you hold him there, his mouth hovering over yours, breathing your air. The chain pressed firm against his throat. His pulse hammers against the links hard enough that you can feel it thrumming through the gold into your fist.
"Stay," you murmur against his mouth. A command. A wolf's word.
You pull again. Harder. A real pressure now, the collar snug against his Adam's apple, gold links creasing the flushed skin, and you watch Aerion's eyes go glassy and his lips part on a breath that has nowhere to go.
He moans.
Not behind his teeth. A real, wrecked, open sound, the kind of sound courtesans are trained to coax from their wealthiest patrons, obscene and helpless and utterly without dignity. The kind of sound a prince of the blood should never make. If anyone else heard it, it would ruin him, you know.
He moans like a whore with your hand wrapped in his leash, and the vibration of it travels through the chain and into your fingers and settles, hot, at the base of your spine.
You hold the chain taut. His throat works against the pressure, swallowing around gold. His mouth finds yours again. Wetter this time, messier, all desperation and no technique, his teeth clashing against yours, biting at your lips like he can punish you for this even as his body bows into you.
You kiss him back with blood on both your mouths and one hand in his hair and the other wrapped in gold links, holding his throat, keeping him exactly where you want him.
Your collared, shaking, furious, beautiful husband. Yours.
Aerion doesn't break the kiss so much as redirect it. One moment his mouth is on yours, blood and spit and the taste of his own undoing, and the next his hands are at your waist, hauling you backwards. You feel your spine hit the edge of the bed frame hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
"On the bed," he snarls against your mouth. "Now."
You could resist. He knows it. The chain is still wrapped around your fist and his throat is still collared in gold and if you pulled right now he'd have to stop, have to kneel, have to wait. You could make him beg for it if you felt like it.
You choose not to.
You let yourself fall back onto the furs and he follows you down like gravity, one knee between your thighs shoving them apart. He wrenches them apart, graceless, nothing courtly about it.
His hands find the laces of your gown and yank. Fabric tears. You hear stitching give, the soft rip of silk surrendering, but Aerion doesn't care, doesn't pause, just drags the ruined bodice down your shoulders and off your arms with the efficiency of a man stripping armour.
"Wretched thing," he breathes, and the words land hot against your collarbone. His mouth follows the words. Teeth scraping the jut of bone, tongue dragging through the hollow of your throat. "Wretched, insufferable—"
He bites the swell of your breast through your shift and your back arches off the bed. His hands are everywhere, pulling linen, shoving wool, ripping where pulling isn't fast enough. Cool air hits your skin in patches—your stomach, your ribs, the tops of your thighs—and his mouth chases every new inch of you like he's starving and you're the only thing left in the larder.
"You think you can collar me," he hisses, dragging the shift over your head and throwing it somewhere behind him. His eyes rake down your body, naked now, spread beneath him on the dark furs, and for one raw second the hatred in Aerion's face cracks and what's underneath is so hungry it looks like pain. "Think you can put a leash on a dragon and smile about it? You smug, superior—"
"Beautiful," you interrupt softly, admiring. Your eyes trace the collar at his throat, the way it catches candlelight as his chest heaves.
His jaw locks so hard you hear the teeth grind.
"—vicious little wolf," he finishes, and his voice has gone thick with something that isn't anger anymore.
He's still dressed. His tunic is rucked, his breeches straining, and when you glance down you can see the dark stain spreading at the front of the linen where he's leaking, where his body has been ahead of his pride since the moment you fastened the clasp.
You let your gaze settle there. Deliberate. Hungry.
"You know," you say conversationally, tracing one finger down the chain at his throat, "in the Lysene houses they auction the prettiest ones. The patrons bid all evening. Wine and silks and perfumed halls, and the courtesans walk among them, collared just like this—" your nail taps a single amethyst "—so everyone knows the goods are spoken for."
Aerion's nostrils flare. A muscle jumps in his cheek.
"They'd have bid high for you." You tilt your head, considering him. That platinum hair mussed, mouth bitten raw, gold at his throat, cock straining wet against his laces. "Very high. A prince with a face like that? Those eyes? That mouth?" You smile, slow and wolfish, briefly dragging your thumb over his full bottom lip. "I'd have outbid them all. Every merchant prince and magister in the room. I'd have bought you for myself and taken you home in your collar and kept you exactly like this. Hard, and furious, and all mine."
A sound rips from Aerion, rumbling through his frame.
His hand shoots to his laces, fumbling, tearing at the ties with shaking fingers, and you watch him strip his breeches down his hips with none of the control he prides himself on. His cock springs free flushed and dripping, slick at the head, twitching with his pulse, and the evidence of what your words have done to him is obscene and unmistakable.
He doesn't give you time to admire it.
His hands seize your thighs and wrench them open. Wide, wider, until the stretch burns and your hips cant off the furs. He settles between them and you feel the blunt, wet head of him drag through the slick mess of you once, catching at your entrance, and then he drives in.
One stroke. All of him. No preamble, no patience, no tenderness.
Your head snaps back. The sound that leaves your mouth is half gasp, half snarl. He's thick and hard, furious inside you, every inch of him a declaration, and your body seizes around him in a clench that makes Aerion's shoulders shudder.
"There," he grits out, teeth bared, hips already pulling back for the next thrust. "Is this what you wanted? Your collared whore between your legs?"
He snaps forward. Hard. Your body jolts up the bed, furs bunching beneath your spine. His hands pin your hips, thumbs digging into the hollows, holding you open, holding you still while he fucks into you with furious, punishing strokes. The narrow cant of his hips drives a rhythm that's all fury and no mercy.
"Spoiled—" Thrust. "—conniving—" Thrust. "—wolf—"
Aerion bites the junction of your shoulder and your neck. Sucks the skin between his teeth hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark, and the sound you make is shameless, back bowing, your fingers scrabbling at his ribs.
He bites lower. The top of your breast. The ridge of your collarbone. Everywhere his mouth lands he leaves evidence. Welts, teeth-marks, the wet shine of his tongue, mapping you like territory he's conquering even as the collar at his throat says otherwise.
You let him have it. The fury, the pace, the bruising grip. You let him think he's reclaiming himself.
Then you wrap the chain around your fist and pull.
The collar bites into his nape. Aerion's head jerks forward, forced, and the angle changes, drives him deeper, and the sound he makes is guttural and broken, so far from princely it would make his father weep.
"My pretty whore," you murmur up at him, and your voice is steady even with him buried to the hilt inside you, even with your thighs shaking around him. "My beautiful, expensive, collared—"
Aerion's hand closes around your throat.
His fingers find the column of your windpipe with the precision of a man who's t done this before, who knows the anatomy, who's imagined the give of it. Real pressure follows his grip and your airway narrows to a reed.
You lean into it.
Your chin tips up, back arching. You press your throat harder against his palm and moan. Open-mouthed, loud, the kind of sound that fills a room and stains the air. The look on Aerion's face when he realises you're not afraid, that you like it, that the compression of your breath is making you clench tighter around his cock, is something you will keep behind your teeth for the rest of your natural life.
"You," he manages, and his hips haven't stopped, punishing rhythm gone ragged at the edges now, his voice husky. "You're the whore of the two of us. Acting like this. Taking my cock like this. Listen to the mess of you. Moaning with my hand on your throat like a—a dockside—"
You yank the chain. Harder than before. Hard enough that the gold bites welts into his skin, hard enough that Aerion's breath cuts short and his eyes roll and his next thrust goes so deep you feel it in the back of your teeth.
Your hips snap up to meet him—deliberate, brutal, grinding him into the deepest, most sensitive part of you—and the wet sound of it is filthy, unmistakable, the slick drench of your body taking his echoing off the stone walls.
His composure shatters.
What's left is animal, narrow hips pistoning, the obscene slap of his skin against yours, his fingers spreading you wider, thumbs hooking your thighs and pulling until you're split open around him in a way that's almost too much. The stretch burns. The fullness borders on pain. You're going to ache tomorrow, going to feel every brutal inch of this for days, and the knowledge of it—the phantom soreness already gathering in your hips—makes you wetter, makes you greedier, makes you tighten around him until he chokes.
"Fuck—"
He hooks your legs over his shoulders. The angle goes deeper, filthier, the wet sound of his cock working in and out of you loud enough that you can hear every thrust, every slick drag, the rhythmic slap of his balls against you keeping time like a drumbeat.
You reach up and wrap both hands in the chain and haul him down toward you, bending yourself nearly in half, pulling him deeper by his collar until Aerion's forehead presses against yours and you're breathing the same ragged air.
"Come in me," you tell him. An order, a wolf's command.
"Do not order me—"
But his hips stutter, his jaw going slack. The muscles in his neck cord tight against the gold links and you feel him break. The first hot pulse of him inside you floods you, thick and sudden, and Aerion's whole body seizes above you like a man struck by lightning.
He spills in deep, wrenching surges, hips grinding against yours with each gush, and there's so much of it—gods, so much—you feel it flood the space where you're joined, feel it overflow, feel the hot trickle of it escape around his cock and drip in slow rivulets onto the sheets beneath you.
The heat of it, the sight of your pretty dragon shaking apart above you, collared, spilling himself into you, desperate and greedy, pushes you over.
You come snarling. Your back arches off the bed, your teeth bared, your fingers coiled in the chain. The pleasure tears through you in savage waves and your body clenches around him. A vice-grip that wrenches a shocked, gutted noise out of his chest.
Aerion's hips slam forward on instinct, burying himself as deep as he can go, and both hands grab your backside, full handfuls, fingers sinking into the flesh, dragging you onto him like he can crawl inside you.
"Fuck—fuck, you're—gods—" Greedy and petulant even now, grinding into your contractions, chasing the squeeze of you. His cock pulses and you feel the fresh hot leak of him, not a full release but close, dangerously close, his body trying to spend itself again just from the clench of yours. "Take it—take all of it, you greedy—perfect—fucking —"
The filth spills out of him unchecked, half-words and fragments, praise tangled up in profanity. His arms lock around you, both hands still full of your ass, and he folds over you, curling, coiling, a dragon wrapping around his mate with his face buried in your throat and his hips still rocking in small, helpless pulses.
Burrowing into you. Trying to get closer when closer doesn't exist.
You hold him through it. Chain slack in your fist now, your other hand in his silver hair, your legs still trembling where they're hooked over his shoulders.
He stays inside you through every aftershock, twitching, half-hard, refusing to pull out even as the mess between you gets obscene. His spend leaks around his cock, dripping in slow pearly rivulets down through your folds, pooling beneath you on the sheets.
You reach between your bodies and touch yourself, fingers sliding through the slick ruin of his release and your own, spreading it over your core, your navel, the trembling plane of your stomach. Painting yourself with the evidence of him.
Aerion watches you do it. His chest heaving, his mouth open, his eyes tracking your fingers with the dazed, shattered focus.
You bring your fingers to your mouth. Hold his gaze. Taste.
His cock twitches inside you. He makes a low, growling sound.
Then, slowly, as if his bones have turned to water, he collapses. Aerion's weight comes down on you in a controlled fall, his face dropping into the curve of your neck, his breath coming in long, shuddering pulls against your pulse. The chain goes slack between you. The collar shifts, warm against your collarbone where his throat presses.
For a long moment there's nothing but breathing. The guttering candles. The cooling sweat between your bodies. His heartbeat thuds against your ribs, gradually slowing.
You burrow into him. Turn your face against his chest and press your mouth there. Teeth grazing his sternum, his collarbone, the smooth skin over his ribs. You nip. Suck a patch of skin between your lips and release it flushed. Your tongue drags through the salt-sheen of his sweat, tracing the cut of muscle, and your hand drifts up to stroke his chest, his throat, fingertips trailing the chain at his collar, the ridge of his Adam's apple, the hollow beneath.
Petting him. Mapping the territory you've claimed.
Aerion's hand comes up and cradles the back of your head. His fingers thread through your hair, and he shifts, angling his neck, tilting his shoulder down, offering you more skin. Easier access.
"You're an animal," he informs you, voice scraped raw and dry as bone. His thumb traces the curve of your skull. "A feral, uncivilised creature who should have been left in the kennels at Winterfell."
You suck a bruise into the ridge of his collarbone. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and tips his chin higher, baring the collared line of his throat to your mouth with an ease that contradicts every word coming out of it.
"Disgusting habit," he adds, as you nip the tendon below his ear. His fingers card through your hair, untangling, smoothing. Stroking, greedy and possessive. "Gnawing on your husband like a bone. Do they teach you that in the North? Is it in the wedding vows, hm?"
You hum against his skin. Your teeth graze his pulse point and his breath catches—just barely, just enough—and his hand gentles at your nape, cradling rather than holding.
You can feel him preening under it. The commentary is armour but his body is liquid, angling into every scrape of your teeth, every press of your lips. Offering himself up piece by piece while his mouth pretends outrage.
You press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Soft. Almost sweet.
Then you pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
"My pretty whore," you murmur fondly.
The reaction is instantaneous.
His eyes flash, pale lavender burning through the blown-black aftermath, and his hand snaps from the back of your skull to the nape of your neck, gripping hard, fingers digging into the tendons. He drags you up and kisses you. Bruising. All teeth, his tongue pushing into your mouth, tasting himself on you, tasting everything on you.
His other hand slides down your body. Between your thighs. Through the mess of his own spend. He pushes two fingers into you easily, so wet you barely feel the stretch of him, just the sudden fullness and the obscene sound of it, his seed squelching around his knuckles as he curls deep.
"Whore," he repeats against your mouth, low and dangerous, his fingers pumping into you with a rhythm that's already building toward something. "You want a whore, wife? I'll fuck you like one." His teeth catch your lip. His fingers twist and you gasp. "Over and over. Till you can't walk. Till the whole Red Keep knows what I've done to you. Till you're dripping with me for days."
You laugh. Breathless, warm, the sound vibrating between your mouths. Your hand finds the chain and you pull him closer—not hard, just a steady pressure, a reminder of what's still fastened at his throat—and your legs wrap around his hips, drawing him in, fitting your body against his like a key turning in a lock.
"Good," you say.
His fingers curl inside you, his mouth finds yours again. The collar gleams between you in the candlelight.
