summary: joffrey's birthday brings a huge surprise for Sandor when you return to the capital for the celebrations. the bond that was thought to be lost resurfaces.
tw: smut MDNI, legal age gap, p in v, unprotected sex, size kink, fingering, dirty talk, kind of public sex, yearning and cursing because is sandor.
note: finally i had time to write, here is part two, which I hadn't planned but definitely felt necessary. i have to say its the first time i write smut so i hope its not too bad. thank u so much for all the comments and support, enjoyy <3!
link to ao3
The sun beat down mercilessly on the tournament field in the eastern grounds of the Red Keep, the air hung thick with dust and blood. Joffrey Baratheon, perched on a raised platform beneath a golden canopy, clapped with childish delight at every ringing blow that echoed across the yard. It was his nameday, and the king had chosen to celebrate it in the traditional way, with blood and steel.
At the center of the field stood the Hound, towering and imposing. His black armor, dented and freshly spattered with red, made him look like a living shadow. The snarling hound-shaped helm silently bared its teeth, hiding the ruin of scars that devoured half his face. Before him knelt a knight from the Stormlands, gasping, sword broken beside him, the Hound’s blade already pressed lightly against his throat. And the crowd roared for death.
Sandor felt no pride or happiness at those cheers in his favor, nothing but the familiar, grinding weight of hatred, the same hatred that had kept him alive all these years.
From the platform Joffrey shouted. “Finish him, Dog!” So he gave the crowd what they wanted. A single swift motion, and a bright river of crimson spilled across the ground. Still breathing hard, he dropped to one knee before the king, but his heart lurched when he looked up, his heart nearly stopping the moment he noticed you.
Just arriving, making your way to your mother, with the elegance of someone who belongs with ease without failing to stand out. The wind that traveled from the Blackwater Bay played with your hair as though the sea itself had carried you back, he felt his knee trembling, and for a second he thought he was going to collapse right there in front of the crowd.
It was funny how weak he felt at the mere sight of you right after he had just killed a man with ease.
He managed to bow is head as the protocol demanded, but his dark eyes never left you, not for a second, desperately trying to know if this was some cruel trick of his own mind. But there you were, not a hallucination. Those strange feelings he had never managed to put in the past started rising up inside him again like a wave that will soon end up crashing again the rocks.
You were dressed in Dornish silks, in a wine color with gold embroidery that caught the light and made you shine like you had just walk out of a dream. Myrcella stood beside you, clinging shyly to your arm, while your mother smiled again at the sight of her two daughters whom she had missed deeply.
You were back.
Sandor removed his helmet, his face now in full view of everyone under the bright light of the sunny day, because he didn't care if the young ladies of the court were terrified and all the men were disgusted. He knew that nothing about him would be new to you and that you would continue to look at him in that stupidly kind way only you could give to a beast like him.
Your eyes, those rare eyes that Robert had passed only to you, locked onto his when the victory was announced loudly, without the slightest trace of fear at meeting the face most people recoiled from, you kept your eyes on him, and there was something in your gaze. Not pity or disgust, but recognition, that same thing you always offered in the past and that he hadn’t felt since the day you left.
Joffrey leaned forward, grinning with smug pride as though he himself had been the one swinging the sword. His voice came out high and excited, the voice of a child who’d just been handed a new toy. “Rise, Dog! You fought well today!”
Sandor rose slowly, helm still gripped in his left hand, sword in his right. Sweat ran down his burned face. He moved and took his usual place, at the king’s right, one step back. Close enough to protect, far enough that no one had to endure his presence too closely. But his posture was rigid, every muscle coiled tight beneath the steel.
From there he could see you even better. Just a few paces away, on the other side of the throne, flanked by a Lannister guard and right next to your mother. He had never liked the idea of having a place there, next to all those people he secretly hated, and yet now he was grateful for the privileged view that had been offered to him.
Your eyes found him again without a trace of embarrassment and a small, almost imperceptible smile curved your lips. The very same smile he had dreamed of every night since you were gone, the one he had never managed to forget.
Sandor’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear, but something worse, a type of weakness maybe, a dangerous hope that had no place in a man like him. He growled low in his throat, a sound lost beneath the cheering of the crowd. He tried to control himself, looking away as if he wasn’t dying to glance at your way one more time.
Joffrey, oblivious to everything, waved a bejeweled hand toward the arena.
“Next fight!” And two other knights came out and the fight started again.
You took a seat next to your brothers and your mother, too engrossed in the conversation and festivities to turn your attention back to the enormous shadow behind Joffrey, who was taking advantage of everyone's distraction to satisfy the hunger he had felt for you in your absence.
The celebrations dragged on long after the sun had bled into the horizon, the Red Keep’s great hall transformed into a riot of laughter and too much wine. Musicians played until their fingers cramped, servants moving everywhere with trays that never seemed to empty, and Joffrey, had finally been coaxed, or rather, half-carried back to his royal chambers sometime after the moon reached its zenith.
Sandor Clegane had performed his duty as always, the silent shadow at the king’s back, one hand never far from the hilt of his sword. He had seen Joffrey safely carried behind heavy oak doors, exchanged the curt nod with the two gold cloaks posted outside, and then without a conscious decision he turned his boots toward the wing where he knew the rest of royal family slept.
The same path he used to walk before you left.
The corridor was quieter here, moonlight spilled silver through the tall arched windows, painting the stone floor in pale stripes. He meant only to take up his old walk outside your door, lean against the wall like a gargoyle, and let the night pass in the familiar burn of wanting something he could never have.
But you weren’t inside this time. You were out on the narrow balcony that overlooked the Blackwater, elbows braced on the stone balustrade, a half-empty goblet dangling loosely from your fingers. The night wind carried the faint salt tang of the bay and tugged at the thin silk of your nightgown, that left little to the imagination.
Your hair was undone now, the long strands danced with the soft night breeze. You didn’t startle when his heavy footsteps sounded behind you. Instead you turned your head slowly, eyes glassy and bright, lips curved in that same small, reckless smile you’d given him earlier in the yard.
“I thought you had broken the habit.” You said revealing that it had never been a secret to you that he used to spend the nights he could standing guard outside your chambers even though it wasn't part of his duties.
Sandor stopped a careful three paces away. Close enough to catch you if you swayed but far enough to feel confident that he wouldn't lose control. “Was busy making sure your sweet brother didn’t choke on his own tongue.” he grunted in a sarcastic tone. His gaze flicked to the goblet. “How much of that Dornish red have you drowned yourself in, girl?”
You laughed, low, breathy, nothing like the careful court laugh you’d used all day. “Enough to survive the festivities” You lifted the cup in a mock toast toward him.
He watched the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly around the stem. Watched the flush high on your cheeks and the way the moonlight slid along the curve of your throat when you tipped your head back to drink again. You were completely drunk.
“Almost nothing has changed, huh?” You said, turning your gaze towards the garden below, dimly bathed in the moonlight. Sandor followed your eyes and let out a low grunt not knowing what words could possibly entertain a woman like you.
But you were drunk enough to not be able to shut up. “I’m gonna get married you know?…” At those words Sandor felt something ignite in his stomach and burn everything inside him. He had to hold back the curses before you started mumbling again. “And I don’t feel anything for him, I don’t wish to go back…but gods Myrcella loves that place.”
Your words ceased to be coherent, and Sandor could only think of those stupid fantasies he had created even before you left the first time. He wanted to run away with you to a place so far away that no one could ever take you away from him again.
You set the goblet on the balustrade with exaggerated care and then you turned fully toward him, a long silence stretched between the both of you, your eyes lost in his, making him want to reach for your face and press a long kiss on your lips. He noticed that the scar on your cheek had disappeared completely and he tried to memorize in those few seconds your face again, to recollect the little details that had changed with time.
You moved swaying but you still managing to take two steps towards him. One hand shot out to steady yourself against the stone but the other one reached, slow and deliberate toward the side of his face. Sandor caught your wrist before your fingertips could brush his burned skin, with a strong grip that would have make any other girl tremble in fear.
Suddenly his heart raced. Sandor thought you must be too drunk to realize what you were doing. His grip on your wrist grew stronger without him even noticing but still you didn’t back down.
“Don’t.” he rasped. Your eyes, those damn beautiful eyes were still on him with that stubborn warmth that had always undone him. He couldn’t understand how anyone could want to touch something so awful. He felt scared. An almost foreign feeling for a man like him.
“Why not?” you murmured in a voice that felt like you were challenging him. And he cursed the seven gods for how weak he felt in front of you.
“You’re drunk, you don't know what you're doing.” Sandor answered in a dark and almost angry tone but right after that he let go of your wrist like it burned him and stepped back. “Go inside.” He said nodding towards the door of your chambers like he was scolding a kid.
He needed to stop this situation before the worst in him took over and he obeyed the drunken proposition you had just made with just a subtle gesture. Sandor didn't even understand where he had gotten the strength not to bend you over that balcony and fulfill all of the dirty fantasies that had started to play in his mind the moment he saw you standing there alone.
You didn’t obeyed to his command, and instead you closed the distance again until your feet brushed the edge of his boots. You had to tilt your head far back to meet his eyes.
“I think I need help getting back to bed...” You said in a barely audible whisper that send a shiver through his body. He could smell the wine in your warm breath and he knew this was dangerous the moment he felt his cock hardening.
For one dangerous heartbeat he imagined tasting the wine on your mouth, letting himself be the beast everyone already thought he was and take advantage of the vulnerable state you were in.
But the thought of waking to your regret, to the way your eyes might look at him when the wine wore off, was enough to make him reconsider everything. You didn’t deserve to be taken by a monster.
He caught your arm with one of his hands and turn you toward the open doors of your chamber, not in hard way but enough to make you move and kept you from falling.
“Inside.” he said again, quieter this time. Almost pleading, trying to keep his thoughts away from anything that involved him on top of you.
You let him guide you, steps weaving, the warmth of you pressed against his side was torture as his mind betrayed him with the curiosity of how your skin would feel under the fabric of your gown.
Once you reached the bed with his help you lay down, letting out a long sigh before looking at him again, silhouetted by the low fire burning in the hearth. Moonlight and firelight fought over his skin. “Will you stay?” you asked. Voice small and vulnerable in a way that strangely turned him on. “Just… outside. Like before.”
You were a complete spectacle, lying on the bed in the moonlight that managed to filter through the windows, the silhouette of your body outlined in the light fabric of your gown. Your eyelids were opening with increasing difficulty, and to Sandor, the whole image felt like something out of his darkest dreams.
He had imagined you like this so many times, and now he was trying with all his strength not to lose control.
He swallowed but in the end nodded, he couldn’t refuse you, not when you speak and looked at him like that, like you trusted him. Your smile this time was softer and tired. ”I missed you…” You said in a whisper, the words felt forbbiden coming from your lips.
No one had ever said such sweet words to him. He stayed still in silent, his eyes darted away trying to act like he hadn’t heard what you just said, he saw then his old handkerchief he had gifted to you the day you left. It was nicely placed on the top of the small table near the window and It was surprising to him that you still had that.
Before he could move you mumbled again. “I dreamt of you so many times…” You shifted slightly on the bed, letting out a long breath, a few second later your eyes finally closed completely as you murmured more words that Sandor couldn't decipher.
He watched you for a few seconds, the way your chest rose and fell calmly as your last words echoed in his mind. It was too dangerous to allow himself to believe your words, to allow himself to feel that you desired him. After all, it was impossible, wasn't it?. That a princess like you could one day reciprocate the storm of emotions he struggled to suppress.
Trying to compose himself and stop his racing heartbeat, he left your room, closing the door behind him and letting out a long sigh. He had no idea how he had managed to remain stoic until now.
Your words and your beautiful image, now etched in his mind, would undoubtedly stay with him for the rest of the night. He suddenly noticed the cup you had left on the balustrade and took the opportunity to finish the remaining wine while imagining the taste of your lips that had caressed that same cup.
It would undoubtedly be a difficult night to spend alone with his dangerous thoughts and only a few meters away from you.
The stables at that hour were nearly empty, most of the knights had gone to supper, leaving only the soft snorts of horses and the occasional scrape of a hoof on stone. Sandor preferred it this way. No eyes on him. His armor was discarded on the floor and now he could move freely on his casual clothes.
He had spent the entire day dodging you. He’d seen you three times, once in the outer yard at dawn, walking with Myrcella toward the sept, your laughter carrying on the cool air like something fragile and wrong in this place and he’d turned on his heel before you had time to get close to him.
Later, mid-morning, you’d passed the training yard with two Lannister ladies trailing behind like brightly colored birds, the moment he caught the flash of your Dornish silks in his peripheral vision, he walked in the opposite way, toward the armory without a backward glance, even though he wished so badly to look at you.
And then at midday, worst of all, you’d been in the gardens with your mother and Tommen. He’d been on his way to relieve one of the gold cloaks at the postern gate when he saw you kneeling beside a bed of late-blooming roses, showing the boy how to snap the stem cleanly. The sight of your fingers so soft and careful, had nearly undone him. He’d stopped dead in the archway for half a heartbeat before forcing his boots to move again, faster this time, until the gardens were behind him and his pulse no longer thundered in his ears.
He couldn’t be near you. Not after last night.
Not after the way you’d looked at him on that balcony, wine-loose and reckless, your hand reaching for the ruin of his face like it was something worth touching.
He’d spent the night outside your door again, same as the old days, listening to your soft breathing through the wood until the sky paled. Then he’d left before the servants stirred, before anyone could see the Kingsguard’s sworn shield reduced to a dog waiting for scraps.
He couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t stand there smelling your skin and wine while every filthy thought he’d ever buried clawed its way back up. So he’d avoided you. After all, your destiny was already written, you would marry a fancy lord and live far away from him.
In the dimming light of the stables, he ran the comb down Stranger’s black flank in long, steady strokes. The stallion stood calm for once, ears flicking at flies. Sandor concentrated on the task like it could drown out the image of you.
He didn’t hear your footsteps at first. But he felt the shift in the air and the way the horses lifted their heads. You stood just inside the wide doorway, outlined against the dying light, still in a elegant gown like the one you’d worn to the tourney, deep green this time, sleeves rolled to the elbows like you’d been helping somewhere. Your hair was braided loosely, a few strands already escaping. You looked smaller without the court around you, but no less dangerous to him.
Sandor kept combing after he caught a glimpse of you. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.” You said in a friendly voice, like you were addressing one of your friends. He grunted but kept his eyes on the horse. You took a step closer, the straw crunched softly under your feet. “Sandor.”
His name in your mouth still sounded wrong. He finally turned his head again, just enough to glance at you from the corner of his scarred eye. “What d’you want, girl?”
You stopped a respectful distance away, close enough to speak low, far enough that he couldn’t reach you without moving.
“Did I do something to upset you yesterday?” Your voice was more serious and steady, he noticed your fingers twisted together in front of you. “I don’t remember much, and you have been avoiding me...” You swallowed. “If I did, if I said anything cruel, or… improper. I’m sorry.”
He barked a short, ugly laugh that made Stranger’s ears flick back. “Improper.” he repeated, tasting the word like it was sour. “That’s what you’re worried about? Being improper to me?” It was funny to think that a woman like you would be interested in not offending a dog like him.
Your brows drew together. “I don’t want you thinking I…”
“Thinking what?” He turned fully now, facing you, the comb still gripped tight in one fist. But you didn’t dare to answer, maybe because of the tone of his voice or because you didn’t know how to put it in words.
“You shouldn't be here...go back.” He ordered, turning to his horse again, ending the conversation before you could utter another word.
But you didn’t leave and he cursed the gods for how stupid and stubborn you were. He was so angry, not to you but to himself, to that dark impulse that started growing inside him. After all there was just you and him, all alone, it would be so easy to…
“Anyway I apologize…”
“Stop.” His voice was colder this time, like he was trying to warn you, and he noticed the way your body trembled slightly. “I don’t need your apologies. I need you gone.”
He watched you take another step. “Why?” Your voice was quieter than before, but not weak, it sounded like you were challenging him. “Why do you want me gone so badly.”
He laughed, more snarl than sound. “You fucking know why, last night you were drunk, saying all that stupid bullshit about dreams…and I’m not a fucking saint.” He stopped himself, jaw locked so tight his teeth ached.
You didn’t flinch, he noticed in your eyes that you remembered something suddenly, and still you didn’t step back. Instead you closed the last of the distance until his chest was nearly touching yours. He could smell you now, and he could feel the heath of your skin beneath silk. It made his stomach twist.
“Finish…” you said softly. “What else did I said?”
He was towering over you now, you had to crane your neck to meet his gaze. The dying light caught the worst of his scars, turning the burned half of his face into something monstrous under the stable lanterns. But he couldn’t care anymore.
“You insolent brat.”He answered and your eyes locked on his. You didn’t seem to be scared but quite the opposite.
A long silence stretched between you both, loaded with that heavy strange feeling that something bad was about happen.
And eventually it did. You pressed your lips against his without hesitation, standing on your tip toes and clinging to the neck of his shirt, a strange feeling of surprise grew inside his stomach.
For one frozen heartbeat Sandor simply stood there, every muscle locked, the comb still clenched in his fist like a weapon he no longer remembered how to use. Your mouth moved against his, hesitant but determined, lips parting just enough to let him feel the wet heat of your breath. Your small hands fisted tighter into the front of his tunic, knuckles brushing the scarred skin at the base of his throat.
He should shove you away. He should snarl something cruel, turn his back, walk out and never look at you again but instead his free hand shot up and seized the back of your neck, thick fingers tangling in the loose braid, holding you exactly where you were. A low, broken sound tore out of his chest, half growl, half groan and he crushed his mouth down on yours with all the violence that would scared a soft woman.
There was nothing gentle in the way Sandor Clegane kissed. He didn’t know how, he just took and devoured. His scarred lips slanted hard over yours, forcing them wider while his tongue pushed inside to claim the sweet heat beyond.
You tasted like every forbidden thing he’d ever wanted and that would never be allowed to a man like him, his cock twitch painfully against the laces of his breeches.
You whimpered into his mouth, the sound vibrating straight down to his groin, and he felt your body arch instinctively toward him, soft breasts pressing against the hard wall of his chest. The comb finally clattered forgotten to the straw. “Fuck.” he rasped against your lips when he finally dragged in a breath. His voice was deeper than you ever heard. “You stupid girl…”
But you only rose higher on your toes, one hand sliding up to cup the burned side of his face, and kissed him again, slower this time, as if you could gentle the monster with nothing but the press of your mouth. Your thumb brushed the rough skin with such tenderness it made his stomach clench in something dangerously close to pain.
Sandor snarled and spun you both, slamming your back against the closest wooden wall. Stranger snorted and shifted startled by the cracking noise of the wood. The impact jarred a soft gasp from your throat, but you didn’t pull away. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the wool of his tunic, and the little sting only made the blood roar louder in his ears.
He dropped his head, mouth dragging hot and open along your jaw, down the slender column of your throat. He bit, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark, right where your pulse hammered. You moaned, hips jerking forward, and he felt the dangerous urge to slip his hands down your dress.
“Sandor.” His name again, breathless and wrecked. It sounded obscene coming from your pretty mouth.
“Fuck…” he growled again, his hands were already moving, rough and impatient, yanking the fabric of your gown up to your hips. “Tell me…” He said in an out of breath tone. “Tell me stop right now.”
“Don’t stop.”
Something inside him snapped. And he practically lifted you off the ground with both hands on your hips, your skirt rolled up around your waist, exposing your legs to the afternoon air, trapping you between his body and the wall behind you.
His fingers found the slit in your smallclothes and pushed inside without warning, two thick digits sliding through slick, swollen folds. You were soaked, hot and slippery and clenching around him like you’d been aching for this for a long time. A filthy curse left his lips as he curled his fingers, stroking deep, thumb finding the tight little pearl at the top and rubbing firm, relentless circles that slowly drive you mad.
Your head fell back against the wood with a thud, a broken moan spilling from you. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, every time your hips rolled greedily onto his hand. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice dark and full of desire. “Dripping for me. Fuckin’ shameful.”
He added a third finger, stretching you and preparing you for something much bigger. His other hand worked at the laces of his breeches, freeing his cock with a hiss of relief. It sprang heavy against his belly, thick and veined, the head already glistening. He gave himself one rough stroke, spreading the wetness, eyes never leaving your face.
“Legs around me,” he ordered, voice hoarse but you still obeyed instantly, ankles locking at the small of his back. He notched the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, sliding it through your slick, teasing you both until you were trembling.
Then he pushed in, slow at first, letting your tight heat swallow inch after inch, groaning deep in his chest at the impossible velvet grip of you. You were small, so fucking small compared to him, and the stretch made you gasp and dig your nails into his shoulders. He paused halfway, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”He rasped, the words gentle even in that heated moment.
He knew you deserved all the tenderness and pleasure a woman could receive. He was afraid of hurting you, he could do it so easily, and he knew it. But despite all the time he had spent longing to feel what he now was feeling, right there you were his priority once again.
You shook your head, eyes wet, and rolled your hips, taking him deeper. “More.”
Sandor cursed viciously and snapped his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The sound you made, half sob, half moan, would live in his head until the day he died.
He fucked you like a man who’d been starving for years. Each thrust slammed you back against the stable wall, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet night, mixed with the harsh rasp of his breathing and your broken little cries. And neither of you cared if there was someone near to hear or see something.
“Look at me,” he growled when your eyes started to flutter shut. He had fantasized so many times about that moment when his hands roamed your body and became familiar with your figure, which he had admired from afar, and your gaze, intoxicated with pleasure, rested on his. Now, that same image, which a few days ago seemed to him like nothing more than a wet dream, was now coming true before his eyes.
Your gaze locked on his, and it nearly undid him. He felt your body tightening, thighs trembling around his waist, and he reached between you to rub your clit with the rough pad of his thumb, relentless. “Come on, girl,” he snarled against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Come on my cock.”
He was filling you up so completely that you couldn't even utter any other word than his name between moans.
You shattered with a sharp cry, back arching, cunt pulsing and milking him in tight, rhythmic waves. Sandor fucked you through it, hips stuttering, until the pressure at the base of his spine became unbearable. With a guttural roar he buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, spilling hot and thick inside you, hips jerking with every pulse until he was empty and shaking.
For a long moment the only sounds were harsh breathing and the shift of horses.
Sandor stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to the wood beside your head, arms trembling with the effort of holding both your weights. Your fingers stroked gently through his hair, down the scarred side of his face again, and he let you, too wrecked to pull away just yet.
He should be ashamed and scared of what this would cost you both, but instead all he felt was the terrifying certainty that he would burn the entire fucking realm to the ground before he let anyone take you away from him now.
“You’re mine.” he whispered roughly against your damp temple, voice barely audible. Those words that he had always been forbidden to say, now flowed freely from his lips.
He didn’t pull out yet. He wasn’t ready to let the world back in. Not when you were still warm and soft and wrapped around him like that.
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Hello! Huge fan of Dark Blue, it's so amazing. Wondering if you could write a Sandor x Reader where reader is a highborn lady, and she is already experienced but everybody think she is an innocent lady. And she seduces/flirts with sandor eventually leading to some smut 😋
Tags: SMUT, 18+ content, Sandor is turned on by trust, romcom, PiV, fingering, arranged marriages, swearing, prone-bone, Sandor is an asshole, no use of y/n, rough-ish sex, reader has hair, WILL CONTAIN MISTAKES
Summary: Lady Ruttiger never faced any issues luring men into her bed. The rules are simple, and with an innocent enough face and a kind disposition her reputation has gone unchanged despite her amorous pursuits. It seems, however, that the rules of seduction do not work for her husband, Sandor Clegane.
Warnings: SEXUAL CONTENT: MDNI!!! thank you.
A/N: Guys I am back... and i think i lost some of my polish,.... Thank you to lovely anon for the compliments also :))))))
“Gods be good!” Ser Raynard Ruttiger rubs his palms over his face and groans loudly. He looks, for a moment, to be melting in his papers, like the candle stubs lining the wooden edge of the desk.
“Of all houses, House Clegane! They will think I hate my own dear daughter,” he says, his eyes flying over his paperwork, without ever truly reading a single word.
His nephew, Eustace, smiles under the thin line of his mustache, and throws another knife at the edge of the nearby screen. He is sitting on a chair before the desk, one leg thrown over the armrest.
“Oh, you worry too much uncle, worse matches have been made. It is not Gregor you are considering, whose wives die so easily, but his brother.”
“Well, who knows, Sandor’s brides could die just as easily! We do not know because no lady would have him” screeches Lord Ruttiger.
“But Lady Ruttiger would,” points out Eustace, adjusting in his chair.
“She is a fool! One I raised.” Raynard rubs at his nose.
Eustace thinks him a it ridiculous for worrying so much about a match he meekly accepted without any complaint. The matter of Lady Ruttinger’s marriage is quite easy, and requires no such whimpering. Lord Ruttiger engaged his last daughter to the first eligible man their overlords, the Lannisters, offered. He had plenty of time to call off the wedding, or think the arrangement over when the news was fresh. Yet he simply agreed.
Eustace stands to tug his knives free from the screen.
“She is a strong lady, and quiet when she has to. She will fare well, dear uncle. Now—“ he grabs his bow from the corner of the dark room and sends a dashing smile Ser Raynard’s way “-I am going hunting” he announces.
“And leaving like so!” Ser Raynard shoots up in his seat, so fast Eustace reckons it looks as if a snake must have bit his arse. In truth he is the same color of a poisoned man. He dispels the thought with a shake of his head and shrugs.
“The day is good, and my brother had our servants pack the tents already” he says. Before he can turn to leave Ser Raynard rushes to him, the sound of his heavy belt buckle and the coin purse at his side make his steps rattle like a handful of silver stags.
“If you happen to see my daughter…try to spy in her heart, just to be sure she is not making decisions too suddenly, and she is not too afraid of the man she ought to marry,” he says. A peculiar flavor of guilt paints itself across his features, turning his face an unpleasant color.
Eustace nods slowly, hands tucked in his belt where the throwing knives hang heavy.
“Of course, if I happen to see her…I will” he says, patting his uncle’s hand until it dislodges from the fold of his tunic. The man nods slowly, swallowing heavily, but not quite regaining color.
“She is just a poor dear maiden” complains Ser Raynard, going back to his desk while rubbing his palms over his creased forehead, unable to quite erase the lines of worry etched there.
“Do not fret, dear uncle, it is no good for your health” says Eustace, before ripping open the door and rushing out of the study, leaving Ser Ruttiger alone and sweaty at his desk.
——————
The pier expands beyond the interior garden, branches spill into the arcade and guide the soft sunlight on the flagstone below. The orange tint of the walls colors the light, highlighting the folds of Lady Ruttiger’s fine dress.
Suddenly a movement is heard among the bushes, and a leather boot steps out of the greenery to settle on the low wall enclosing the arcade, where Lady Ruttinger is sitting.
She gasps, but the sound turns to a chuckle when she lifts her eyes to catch her cousin Eustace stepping out of the branches, his face pulled in a gallant smile, and his hands grasping the thin stone pillars to keep himself upright.
“Eustace!” She gasps, her face turning a happy color. She sets her embroidery aside and cranes her neck to look at her cousin better, where he stands above her. “I thought you were out hunting, with all the other men. Have they left you behind?”
“Left me behind?” He asks, then smiles brightly, “If they have their wits about them, they won’t. No hunting trip can be successful without my bow.” He points with his thumb to the bow on his back, his smirk widening even further.
Lady Ruttiger shakes her head softly, pleasantly exasperated, and looks at him better once he hops down to the floor and faces her fully.
“But it is not me who is leaving,” Says Eustace, looking at his cousin with an intelligent glint in his eyes.
To him, she looks nothing different from the little girl he used to play with in his youth, but the more he hones his attention on the details of her face, the more the signs of aging become loud, and are impossible to erase fully. Her face has taken shape, and her eyes are now smaller, more pointed, and handsomely placed on the face of an adult woman. Gone is the child he knew, just like the boy she remembers.
“You speak of my marriage,” She smiles. Just as Lord Ruttiger had said, not one inch of her expression reveals fear, despite the threat of an union with a Clegane hanging above her.
“Of course,” says Eustace, tilting his head to spy her better, yet she turns back to the pier, hiding her expression from view. “Do you not worry? That you will marry a Clegane, and exchange your fair name for his?”
“I only worry about not marrying. That matter has aged my father, and left me without any company. Of all the girls I once knew, none remains unmarried, and my sisters, and cousins, all bear the name of a husband.” She says softly. The words finally betray some worry but her face is placid when she allows him to see it again.
“I grew bored of my singularity.” The finality in her tone makes Eustace sigh.
“Your father worries: to send a maiden to such a… brute.” Says her fair cousin, adjusting his belt and puffing out his chest.
His face suddenly gains the seriousness men adopt when attempting heroism. Lady Ruttiger’s eyes widen, and the more she looks at him the more her chest struggles to contain laughter.
At last she covers her mouth and hides her head between her shoulders, shook by a bubbling of giggles.
Eustace’s face melts in an expression of surprise, his shoulders drop and his head tilts.
“Why do you laugh? My dearest?” He asks, he lowers his head to look better at her, but she hides further into her chest, her shoulders shaking in laughter shield her pink face from view. Eustace blinks, stupor written over each one of his features. He stands back up, shoulders straight and eyes wide in concern.
“I see nothing humorous in what I said,” He comments, nudging her foot with his own leather boot. Feeling a bit left out from the joke he thinks himself dumb, and grows a bit irritated by the laughter.
When Lady Ruttiger simply waves him off with a delicate hand and wipes her face from amused tears, Eustace frowns, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Ach! You women and your strange ways. You will make me go mad as you have done your father,” he mutters, but, despite his annoyance, a grin splits his expression apart, unable to be crossed at his cousin for too long. His gloves hand lifts to rest on her back and Lady Ruttiger looks back up at him, her face soft with what remains of her laughter.
“I will miss you, my dear cousin.” He says. She smiles.
“Contrary to what my father may say, I will not die, nor be ripped apart by any monster.” She says, and her fingers graze over his hand on her back.
“Go now, else your brother really will forget about you, and we will have no game for the wedding feast.” She murmurs.
Eustace smiles, nods, and rushes off in a hurry.
—------------------
Sandor is fearsome. That much Lady Ruttiger knew even before the marriage. Much is whispered about him, much idiotic gossip she knows she will soon be part of. She wonders what sort of role she will take in the stories wisewomen spin for young brides.
She would like to have the part of a brave she-knight who takes on the terrible monster, yet, she struggles to walk uphill on sunny days and can barely lift her clothing chest when empty. She attempts to think of something else, perhaps the dutiful wife who suffers much but is rewarded with a seat next to the Mother in heaven. Her nose wrinkles. How ridiculous.
Then perhaps the beautiful and good noble soul who melts the heart of the giant–
“What are you looking stupid for?” Sandor, her new husband, sits uncomfortably on the seat opposite to her in the tiny garden of Clegane Keep. The sun is high and it filters through the vine above her. There are flowers, tufts of them, seemingly recently planted in heavy ceramic pots that look much like those farmers use to plant small trees in.
“Looking stupid?” she asks. One of her legs is crossed over the other, and her foot bobs lazily under the heavy hem of her skirt.
Sandor spreads his legs and leans back in his chair.
They have been married scarcely two days and Sandor is yet to lay in bed with her. He is crude, and she knows he must not like her very much. It is not shyness that drives him away from the marriage bed, far from it. Nothing in his vocabulary or his demeanor is timid. He simply seems to resent their marriage, even if it granted him possession of his father’s abysmal land.
On the night of their nuptials he said he did not ‘put his dick inside dry cunts’ and that she better ‘choose the prettiest swine herd if she wanted to have fun’ before leaving the room with a flagon of wine, drunk and angry, to sleep gods only know where.
She sat for a long time, blinking stupor and rigid as a broomstick, in their wedding bed, looking at the unlit fireplace in the dark. It was a long and lonely night, yet she felt no shame or anger. She imagines many nuptials end similarly among nobles, and perhaps she was lucky, considering how drunk and angry he was, that he simply stormed off.
She looks at him now, in the fresh air of the gardens.
She has seen him not-scowling before, but she reckons he doesn’t look much different when he is frowning from when he is at complete ease. His expression is heavy on his features, just like the scars, which she observes studiously to dispel any fear she has of them.
When looking at them long enough, and when really reading between the grooves, they look like nothing but skin, as any other part of him.
“There you do it again, you witch. What is it you want from me?” He barks. In his irritation he seems almost calm, and in calm he looks troubled. She thinks it strange, yet intriguing. She has never seen a face so naturally predisposed to ire and sorrow.
“I was lost in thought, if it answers your queries, my lord.”
“My lord” He mocks, spitting the words out with a frown “You truly are a daughter of nobility,” He mumbles, chewing on the words with all his teeth. Lady Ruttiger tilts her head to the side, tapping her pointer on her lips.
“I take it the title Lord does not please you, as does Ser, so what am I to call you?” she asks, unmoved by his crassness.
He shakes his head, the hair sticking to his scarred side look, for a second, like dark veins filled with angry blood, popping up on his forehead and shiny with sweat.
“I am a dog, my lady, not a man but a dog” He tells her, openly mocking, yet not to her, but rather to himself.
The inflection shakes her out of her politeness for a moment and her face opens up in an honest expression of surprise. He seems to notice she picked up on his self-depreciment and looks off to the land around him, the splatter of yellow grass he inherited even as a cadet son.
“Is that so? I think a smaller dog would befit a lady,” She comments. His face twitches, and for a moment she thinks the gossip may come true, that he is about to launch at her and rip her to shreds, or drag her by the hair to the closest river and drown her.
Instead he straightens up slowly, opening his legs and resting his back on the chair, his face shifts to openly amused. The one eyebrow he has left lifts before falling heavily back down on his good eye, shedding an alluring shadow on his expression. It makes something in her stomach thrill.
“They told me you were a refined lady, not a mummer” He mutters. She lowers her eyes timidly, a shy twitch of her mouth attempts to betray a smile.
“Then they lied” She says, and plucks at her dress “I am not Lord Ruttiger’s daughter, but his jester.”
“Aye, I reckon that is true, if they married you into my house.” He says. Some of the lighter tone bleeds away from the air, and tension returns. She misses the near sensuous look in his eyes, now that it is replaced by a strange anger.
“Are you unhappy, then? Did you want a lady of finer words and better manners?” she asks. Sandor shakes his head no.
“Bugger all of that” He grunts, reaching for the wine in his cup where he sat it next to his feet. She looks at him, drinking it, the length of his throat bobs with the movement and the strong tendons along the muscles work below the beard.
For once she is glad to hear his honesty, and not shaken by it. Then, if she is not to bleed on her wedding night, and if he is to ask her if she laid with others before him, perhaps he will not be offended.
She tucks one stray hair back in her headpiece and looks at the rolling hills below the gardens. The kennels are a distant dot, yet she can hear the howling of dogs all the way up the hill.
Perhaps, now that the air is light and Sandor looks less cross she could tell him. But… something holds her back, an old fear. It makes no sense to fear now, when she was fearless before in inviting men into her bed, and so liberally as well. But now hesitation stops her.
She loses herself in thought until Sandor stands, adjusting his sword belt.
“I need more wine.” He grumbles, stepping back towards the keep without pleasantries, nor any hint he wants to end the conversation well. She cares not, lost in a reverie of her own.
Now left to her own devices she starts thinking of her new husband, and all sorts of thoughts swim in her head.
She thinks of how he may be in bed. A brute, just like a wild animal. Is that too bad?
“I don’t think so” She hums to herself, cupping her chin in thought. “No, surely, it must be fun in its own way”
She can now truly imagine herself as a she-knight, thanks to a strange thrill of courage suddenly taking her. A sweet sort of bravery, that is almost indistinguishable from need. She straightens up in her chair like a victorious queen, her stomach rumbling with desire.
It must be nice, it must, to share a bed with a man his size. He must be sizable all around, and strong enough to do whatever her mind can conjure. And who cares if he is ugly, from her recollections she knows the fair ones are far from the best among bachelors. The ugly ones often apply themselves much more, and are less vain and selfish.
She imagines there must be no place for empty pleasantries in his bed, that he will take her with the crassness of a client and a whore. That he enjoys touch, perhaps and squeezing skin in his palms, rubbing the fat on her body, burying his face in the soft expanses of her stomach and between her legs. And if he does not know how, then she would teach him.
If truly he is a dog then he can be trained.
She slams her palms on the seat of the bench she is sitting on, determined, all of a sudden, and smiling with that same unashamed heroism that commands men into battle.
Men all look brave, but enjoy being led in the dark of their chambers. She has seen it before, and found no shame in it when she chose her parmours.
Suddenly, a great need to discover how Sandor acts during passion pervades her every thought. She tries to imagine it, but can scarcely think of such a great body in all his nakedness, or the sounds he must make in the throes of passion.
Her face glows hot, and her cold hands are not enough to soothe her skin. She smiles, giddy. Her thoughts turn skin colored, and warm. She imagines all sorts of things, some of which she is sure she is the first to think about.
She is married now, and she must not hide her need anymore, it is nothing but justified as a married woman to want her husband.
She nods to herself.
“Of course,” she confirms. Her eyes slip over the hills below Clegane Keep. She is the lady of this castle, and she will have her husband, as the gods command.
——————-
A good occasion for seduction presents itself two nights later, in the dining room.
The food is decent, and Sandor has downed more wine than she has seen any man consume and still stand. He shrugs off the tiredness of the day from his shoulders when he stands to leave the table, she grabs his hand before he can move away.
“My lord” her tone is sweet like the finest honeydew, she adjusts in her chair to make her stature look even more timid. “-will you, tonight, sleep in our chambers with me? I slept in the same bed as my sister for many years, and I am not used to falling asleep alone, my lord,” she says, her head turns to the side in a well practiced movement. Polite, graceful, and mostly very good to show off the length of her neck and the expanse of her chest.
His eyes rake down her neck to her tits, where the dress pushes them up and apart to make them stand out.
He doesn’t look moved.
Usually men like this specific act, they want to console her, and placate her misery. Above all, they like to be told they are the only solution to a problem, especially when in view of a nice body.
Sandor seems not to drink the lie, sniffing the air like a dog looking for a scent. He looks cross for a moment, then smugness replaces his expression of annoyance.
“Ye are not kidding anyone, vomiting out what your Septas told you,” He says, the darkness of the dining room makes him seem ever more threatening, and it sends a pleasant shiver down her back. But irritation follows it. Her plan is not working.
He places a hand on the back of her chair, and walks to stand right behind her seat. She doesn’t look back, eyes on her plate.
“Trust me, girl, you do not want to lay with the Hound.” He says, his voice simmers like flames, tiny ambers he rolls in his mouth, that heat up his words and force her back to straighten. She shakes her head no, tightening her grip on her handkerchief where it rests on her lap.
“Why not, my lord? You are my husband under the law of men and gods” She attempts. He groans.
“My lord! My lord! My lord! All this cheeping. I thought it was clear I don't like that,” He says “Are noble women not obedient either these days?” He asks. The contempt in his voice is not quite directed at her, yet she stiffens and turns sharply. Her need is making her angry on top of lustful.
Does he not like her? Is he blind to her charms? Is she to be chaste as a wedded woman? She stands quickly, and he moves away out of stupor.
“My lo– Hound! The marriage bed is meant to be shared, I say!” She complains. Was she not fretting over the collar of her dress she would see him smirk salaciously under his mustache.
“This is– This is impolite and improper of you to refuse me.” She whines. He groans, just to hide a chuckle.
“What distresses you so much? You are angry I didn’t tear you apart with my teeth like a beast the first night? Did you have a death wish then, when you accepted to marry me?” He asks.
She whines, high and low.
“You are so unfair, Hound! You put words in my mouth! And I am not asking to be killed at all, for I know you wouldn’t do that!” She starts to prattle, squeezing her handkerchief like she is squeezing water out of it.
“What do you ask for then?” He interrupts her, she doesn’t detect his tone shifting into real curiosity.
The room grows quiet, and she stands still, unsure if she should continue to play innocent, or if it has no effect on him. Sandor starts circling her like prey, forcing her to hang on the seat of the chair.
She spies him in her peripheral.
“You do not know what you are asking for, girl. It is not as your Septa told you, it isn't sweet nor romantic.” He says, tucking his thumbs in his belt.
He lifts his head, proud like a lion from the Lannister Blazons, and less like a dog. He looks down at her, as she imagines he does men in battle when wanting to scare them, with a strange smile that curls his face into an unattractive shape.
She stares at him, then some passion fueled vexation rises in her chest.
“Oh! By the gods!” She lets out, forcing him to drop some of his smugness.
“I did not learn this from Septas at all–” She complains. It was never this hard to convince a man to lay with her, they always accepted, i n the dark of their encounters, with shaking hands and excited smiles, all ready to keep the secret if it meant a good night with a fair lady.
She stiffens when his eyes turn sharper.
“Then who from?” He asks, and the genuine tilt in his voice gives her pause.
“I-... Oh well! I am no maiden, Lord Clegane,” She says at last, too wound up to care anymore.
He blinks at her, then seems to look her up and down, up and down, from the intricate hairstyle to the silk slippers at her feet many times, as if trying to calibrate his entire view of her.
“You? Not a maiden?” He asks, so confused that he forgets to bark at her for calling him lord.
She blushes and her arms shoot away from her body, making the handkerchief flutter madly in the air.
“Is it so surprising?” She asks.
“Yes.” He answers, tone mellow, and not at all the angry jealousy she expected. She almost feels embarrassed, her aggravation melting away into a strange sort of disappointment. She cups the sides of her face and blinks uselessly at the floor.
Surprising? She asks to herself, looking at her fine dress. It is the one with the lowest cut she owns too.
“You are telling me you took cocks before,” His hands are now on his hips and he leans towards her with a strange mocking tone. She never has seen him quite this jolly.
Her eyes go as wide as saucers and she stiffens.
“Why would I lie?” she quips, voice rising high and embarrassed at his bluntness. What an awful way to put it! She made love, she took sweet men in her bed, and shared passion with them. She didn’t just take cocks.
She is sure some servant must be hearing them right now, but her worrying is overshadowed by the bickering.
Sandor looks pleased with himself.
“To convince me to buy the wares” He says. Her nose flares, and her mouth pulls down in a displeased curve.
“You!” she jabs a finger at him and he catches her hand in his. “You are so crude! You really are an animal!” if she had her fan with her surely she would hit him, instead she only has the handkerchief and whipping it in his face does nothing to wipe that smugness off of him.
“Didn’t you want me to bed you but a second ago, girl.” He says, the slit of his mouth, between his neat beard and the mustache reveal a mean set of teeth. His smile makes her shake her head wildly to refuse the ridicule.
“Maybe I changed my mind! Maybe you are not worth the trouble at all!” She says.
“What trouble? I see a woman who wants, wants to much she is ready to fuck a dog.” He says.
“Not a dog! Her husband.” is her quick rebuttal.
“Her husband,” Rumbles Sandor, again close to laughter. He takes her by the waist and pulls her closer. The air is heavy with their gazes, she lets the handkerchief fall on the chair and tucks her hair behind her ear, now a bit more timid.
“Look at my face, girl, and tell me this is the man you want to lay with.” He demands, giving her body a tiny jerk to force her into motion.
When she lifts her eyes the ruined side of his profile is in full light, the scar tissue, the discoloration, the features that almost look inhuman. Any other woman would have tucked tail and run. A face like this is the object of so many nightmares and so much pity across the courts of Westeros.
She looks at it well, until she can count every large bump of skin, and see the glimmer of his eye under the fold of scar tissue that hides his eyelids. She feels like a she-knight now, and she fears nothing, but wants all.
“Is it that surprising?” She murmurs. His eyes narrow, then burn with something hotter than mockery. She shivers.
“Yes.” He answers.
Suddenly she feels him pull her into him and his hands go to her buttocks. She lets out a gasp that stutters its way into a chuckle.
“Oh my!” She mutters, then leans further into the wine-smelling tunic in front of her when he lowers his head to be level with her. He strokes his hand down to her leg and lifts it up to his hip, forcing her to lean more into him.
She hooks her arms around his neck and, although her face grows hot, no bashfulness can be found in her gaze. She looks at him, so close, shed in the shadows of the dining room her looks intimidating. She smiles, giddy. At last it worked it seems.
“The lady said she laid with others, but is as shaky as a virgin,” says Sandor, his hand squeezing her leg through the layers of skirts.
“I just.. would rather not have the eyes of servitude on us.” She murmurs.
She shakes her head no when he attempts to pull her against his cock, then looks at him with enough tenderness to make his skin itch. Her eyes are pure, and sweet and kind, despite all the venom he has been spitting. Sandor almost feels bad enough to let her go.
The self-preserving selfishness he is so used to prevails, and he leads her to his chambers instead.
—-------------
Of all the men she has known he is the hungriest. Not an inch of her goes without being squeezed or licked, even when she attempts to undress.
“Oh– By the gods!” She mumbles as he attacks her neck when she lowers her shift over her chest. His hands grab and squeeze the softness of her hips, and rub lines from her navel to her ribs.
He is big, hairy, and far from delicate. Whereas her previous partners treated her with refined care, handling her with the carefulness reserved for porcelain and gold, Sandor moves her about in a tangle of limbs that feels much more war-like.
She huffs when he tosses her to the bed and lays atop her prone form. He licks the nape of her neck and buries his nose in her hair.
“Mph–” He groans “You are a pretty thing, no wonder those cunts wanted a piece of you-” He says “ever so generous to give it to them,” he adds.
His hands lower to spread her legs, without hiking her up. So she lays stomach down, adherent to the bedding with her legs spread to make space for his knees.
One of his big hands makes sure she lays to the bed by holding her in place. He splays his square palm between her shoulderblades and looks at her from above.
“Oh Sandor–” She asks, enjoying the pawing well enough, but hungry for more touch.
She peers at him from the bedding and he moves her hair off her face to look at her more openly. Then, that same hand lowers to between her legs, testing the wetness between her thighs by slipping the tip of his middle finger in her cunt.
He chuckles, as mean as usual, when he finds her wet, and lowers his face to her ear again.
“I don’t fuck dry cunts.” He reminds her and she smiles timidly in the bedding.
When Sandor undoes his breeches and pulls them down to his knees his cock springs free and hard. It is dark, and it pulsates strongly to escape the loose skin around its head. His stones hang heavy and Lady Clegane manages to get a good look at them when Sandor cups them while giving himself a few powerful tugs.
He groans again, and the hand between her shoulderblades returns there. He mounts up behind her, his thighs over her legs, her stomach hot where it presses to the bedding.
She was expecting his cock, but gets two fingers instead. They slip inside her and spread her around, searching her walls and rubbing on the slick tissue. She tightens rhythmically, moan after moan pulled out of her, until she is singing all sorts of notes and his name over and over.
“I have the biggest, and the scariest cock in all of the Westerlands, did they tell you?” He asks, lowering his lips to her ear before retracting his fingers from her cunt.
“I will open you unlike any other, and you will think of nothing but my codpiece for days, girl.” He says. She scoffs, equally parts amused and exasperated by his vulgarity.
“Oh, please– Please Sandor, just go on with it!” She demands, one foot bobbing against the feather bed.
Just like that, ever the loyal dog, Sandor obeys, and sinks his cock, inch by inch inside her. His hands move to the pillow, caging her into his elbows. He irks up a leg until he has the right leverage to thrust while laying atop her.
She feels her breath get kicked out of her when part of his weight lowers on her back. She closes her eyes, and focuses on the exquisite stretch of his dick inside her.
He grunts, and makes such noises she never heard from any paramour. His front scratches her back with hairs, and the cage of his arms around her neck is a warm one, making her face heat up like a furnace.
But it is so good.
Sandor’s body is pure force, every thrust she feels her whole lower half tingle and tense in rhythm. He mouths the back of her neck, biting the skin and sneaking one hand underneath her to squeeze her tits hard.
His index rolls her nipple until she mewls into his next thrust and lifts her buttocks enough to press on his lower stomach. He presses his hand to her arse, pushing it back down, level with the rest of her.
She rolls her hips side to side, until he is groaning loudly.
“So your lovers did teach you something,” He says, spitting the words out from between his teeth. Instead of a verbal answer he gets another rotation of her hips that almost forces a moan out of him.
He grabs her hips and starts to really hammer his thrusts into his woman, making her melt in the covers and pant like a dog. Breathy, choked wheezes escape her at every pump of his hips against her buttocks.
When Sandor feels like he is about to release he slips a finger beneath her and rubs her enough to feel her come first. It doesn’t take long before she is squeezing his life out of his cock.
He manages enough strength to pull himself out, fighting against the need to bury deeper and deeper into the heat, and finish over her fine back. His cum splatters in a neat line over her spine and across her shoulders.
The pearly white cum looks almost like an elegant stroke of color on such soft skin. He laughs to himself, then pats her arse two times to have her move over. She lifts herself slowly, body still cramped up from behind squished under his weight.
“Oh Sandor!” she says, gathering the sheets to cover her chest, “This was the best I have ever felt.” She says.
It is sweet, even if she says it when he is wiping the cum off her back.
“You will have plenty more whenever you want, my lady.” He says, tone mocking, yet sweetened by the sex. He pulls one of her locks of hair to make her squirm, just to assure her he is teasing.
“I hope so,” She murmurs. Sandor lowers himself into bed and looks at her, covered only by the bedsheet. His mouth splits in an ugly grin.
“I think you will see to that yourself.” He adds, giving her a look. She blushes.
“Don’t make me into a sex crazed animal,” she demands, for once truly demure.
He wipes his cock off with the bedsheet and shakes his head no, scratching his stomach with blunt fingers.
“Then do not assume I spit on women for enjoying men like men enjoy women.” he says.
She beams, then shakes her head, and slips her hand on his thigh, pulling on the hairs there mindlessly. Then she scoots closer on the feather bed until she is sitting right by his side, her head tilts up and she kisses his chin.
They both know this will be far from a boring marriage.
SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.
WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut
Romantic Trope Series
⸻
The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.
Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.
Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.
He didn’t drink.
He didn’t laugh.
He didn’t belong.
The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.
Nor would they tonight.
Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”
Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”
“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”
A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.
Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.
“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”
Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”
Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.
Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.
Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.
Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.
“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”
The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.
The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”
That silenced some.
But not Joffrey.
“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”
Sandor’s eye narrowed.
“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”
The word hung there. Grotesque.
No one defended him.
Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.
He was alone in it—as he always had been.
A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.
Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.
Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”
Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”
Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.
“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”
The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.
And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.
His boots struck stone, hard and fast.
But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.
With rage.
He had endured worse. He would endure more.
But tonight, something inside him cracked.
And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.
The night stank.
Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.
No. That was a lie.
He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.
Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.
And not a single one would touch him.
He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”
That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.
He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.
A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.
She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”
Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.
He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—
“Marry me.”
The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.
Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”
He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”
She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”
Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”
“Proposing?”
“Talking.”
She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”
“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”
Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”
“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”
“And if I say no?”
He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”
A silence stretched between them.
Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”
He did.
Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You may have my hand.”
Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.
She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”
He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”
Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”
He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.
Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”
He blinked again. “A lady.”
“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”
He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”
She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”
She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.
And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.
Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.
He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.
But she said yes.
And that was enough—for now.
It had been thirty agonizing minutes.
The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.
He had never felt smaller.
The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.
“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.
“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.
Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”
“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”
A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.
Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”
“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”
Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.
Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”
“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”
Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.
The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.
He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?
Then—
The great doors creaked open.
Every head turned.
Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.
A herald’s voice rang out:
“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”
There was a pause. Audible surprise.
The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.
Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.
“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”
No one answered. No one could.
Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.
Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.
And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.
The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.
But she commanded their silence all the same.
At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.
“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.
No one spoke.
Then she turned toward the shadows.
Toward him.
Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.
Instead, she smiled.
Soft, amused. Real.
She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.
When she reached him, she looked up.
And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”
The court gasped.
She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.
“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”
He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.
And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.
A laugh.
Rough and brief—but real.
He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.
“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”
The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”
Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.
But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.
“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”
He froze.
Gasps again. Whispers.
Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.
“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”
The room went dead still.
Cersei looked mildly intrigued.
Tyrion groaned under his breath.
But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”
“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”
The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.
But Sandor?
He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.
And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.
The chambers were smaller than hers at home.
That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.
She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.
At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.
The door creaked open.
She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.
Sandor.
His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.
“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.
“I prefer it,” she replied.
There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.
“You’re a stupid girl.”
She turned now.
He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”
She stepped toward him.
Elegant. Calm.
“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.
He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.
“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”
“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”
He didn’t answer.
She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”
His lips parted.
His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.
When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Not softly.
She yanked him to her.
And he broke.
Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.
But she didn’t.
She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.
They stood there, breathless.
He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.
She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.
“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”
She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.
And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.
He didn’t say good night.
But he watched the whole time.
And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.
The bell only rang once.
Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.
Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.
The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.
His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.
He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.
What he did not expect was honor.
The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.
At their head walked her father.
Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.
When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.
Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.
“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”
Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.
A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”
And then she arrived.
The entire Sept seemed to still.
She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.
Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.
She did not stop at Joffrey.
She did not bow.
Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.
He couldn’t breathe.
She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.
“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”
He felt the words in his bones.
The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.
“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”
But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.
“I do,” she said clearly.
Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”
Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.
It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.
“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.
Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”
They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.
But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.
The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.
He didn’t look at her
Not at first.
His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.
He didn’t want her to see.
When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.
He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.
“Stop.” Her voice was stern.
Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.
He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.
But it wasn’t there.
Only stillness. Power. Patience.
And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.
“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”
Something in him unraveled then.
Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.
She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”
She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.
He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”
Her smile curled into his mouth.
“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”
“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”
He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.
“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”
And he lost himself.
He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.
“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.
She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”
He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.
The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.
Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”
A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.
“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”
Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”
“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.
The room went still.
He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”
Silence.
Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.
Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.
Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.
The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.
The doors creaked open.
She walked in alone.
No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.
Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.
She was far too calm.
Far too lovely.
Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.
“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”
Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”
“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”
She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”
He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”
“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”
The throne room froze.
Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.
Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.
Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”
But she didn’t flinch.
Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.
“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”
Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”
The words hung, suspended.
“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.
And they turned to leave.
Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.
Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.
The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.
The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.
His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.
“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”
Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.
She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.
She turned slowly.
The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.
“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”
“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”
Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.
Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.
Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.
Her eyes dropped to it.
“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”
His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.
“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.
Her chest ached.
She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.
Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.
“Sandor,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.
She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.
“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”
He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.
“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”
His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely
She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.
“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”
He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.
Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
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Summary: Sandor has serious self-esteem issues, which make him insanely jealous and possessive of anyone who gets close to you. After a huge argument, things between you two go cold as ice; but Sandor’s not ready to let you go. He will fight for you. Even if it means doing the one thing he swore he’d never do. [Reader's POV!]
Word count: 5600
Notes: highborn lady f!reader x Sandor Clegane; preestablished relationship; huge argument; jealousy; possessiveness; a bit of rough treatment; Ser Loras is kind to you; you're angry and hurt - but Sandor will fix it.
English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3
Dedicated to @mrsrincewind for their incredible art about Sandor <3.
You barely had time to brace your hands against the mattress. Your chin sank into the silk pillow as a rough hand seized your hair, shoving you mercilessly down against the bed.
“Sandor, he didn’t touch me!” you cried, voice muffled by the fine sheets. Above you, the towering form of the King's shield loomed large over your helpless body.
“He laid hands on your waist,” he growled, and his knees sank deep into the mattress on either side of your bare thighs.
“He was taking my measurements!” You twisted and kicked backward as his free hand pushed your skirts higher. All to no avail, for his arm snaked around your middle and hauled you up so that your knees were left dangling in the air.
The motion only stoked your fury. You tried to drive your heels into him, as if you could hope to harm one of the deadliest men in the Seven Kingdoms, but the dark figure pinned you more firmly to the four-post bed and let out a mocking, cruel laugh.
“Let’s settle this like we always do, woman. By bloody fucking.”
That was your bond with Sandor Clegane.
Raw, primal, and savage. A connection forged not in silk or songs, but in need and flesh.
In a court full of schemers, Sandor had become your loyal fighting dog. A strong and steadfast ally who, far beyond conventions and traditional forms of courtship, sought pleasure in the shadows of your chamber whenever his duties afforded him a respite. No honeyed words, no pleasantries to soften the edge, what existed between you neither of you had yet named, it simply burned.
But for all that he was fierce and deadly, he was just as damned insecure when it came to you. The man hated himself more than anything else in the world, and that festering self-loathing convinced him that he was unworthy of your attentions. You had lain together more times than you could count, yet every time he walked away from your door, the shadow of the thought that it might have been the last time he held you in his arms, tormented him.
Ironically, that self-contempt never drove him to step back and set you free.
Gods, no.
You were the best thing that had ever happened to him in all his wretched life, and the fear of losing you terrified him more than burning in the fires of the Seven Hells. For all of that, he had become fiercely possessive and aggressively hostile toward any man who dared to come near you.
Of course, you were well aware of it. You had confronted him about it on several occasions, but instead of the situation improving, it had only worsened. And there were many men now with broken ribs and noses, all for nothing more than offering their hand to help you down from a carriage.
That very afternoon, the court’s new tailor had come to your chambers to take your measurements for a new gown. Hours later, word reached you that the poor man had been found beaten in an alleyway. Three molars was he seen to spit out.
It was intolerable.
When Sandor came to your room later that evening, you raised your voice before he even stepped past the threshold. You would not endure another outburst of savage jealousy, no matter if he was the king’s dog.
The argument was fierce. One more among the countless ones you'd already had over the same matter. Gruff and scornful, he did not yield to your shouting, flinging back every reproach with twice the venom. Both of you said things you regretted the moment they left your mouths, and then, in an attempt to end the quarrel and set things right, Sandor resorted to what always worked for you both. He lifted your body mid-sentence, cutting you off in the roughest way and tossing you unceremoniously onto the bed.
You both enjoyed the fantasy of the helpless maiden being forced by a warrior. Every time, Sandor would ravage you with the fury of a charging beast, claiming every inch of you while the intense pleasure drowned your reproaches in gasps and moans.
But tonight, you weren’t having it.
As you kept fighting and begging him to release you, the hand gripping your head released you to shift behind your back. The metallic clinking you knew all too well told you he was unbuckling his belt. You kicked harder, striking his thigh. The attack only earned you another coarse laugh and a harsher grip on your hips.
“That’s it, woman,” came his vicious voice from above, “give me an excuse to get rough.”
Furious and with a fire rising uncontrollably in your chest, you braced your hands on the mattress, screaming and shoving hard to twist beneath him. So much rage must have poured from your throat that the man, startled, eased his weight for you to turn onto your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, and your hand shot upward in a wide arc aimed at his scarred cheek. The man caught your wrist with the swiftness of a wolfhound, stopping you just an inch from his face.
Something shattered between you.
You both were breathing hard from the surge of adrenaline. Your lips parted and trembled. In his eyes burned a storm of fury and endless sorrow in equal measure. He released your wrist roughly and tilted his burned chin upward.
“Go on. Slap me if that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely, offering you that terrible, ruined face.
You stared at him with a glacial glare, but the words you spoke next were colder still.
“Get out. If you cannot master yourself… if you cannot set aside your pride over this, then do not come back to me,” you said, heart thundering against your ribs as though the Smith himself were trying to shatter your ribcage from within.
Sandor’s dark eyes dimmed in an instant. He gave you the emptiest, deadest look as he straightened up. The space that opened between your body and his burned like a wound. He didn’t speak another word, only fastened his belt in silence, bowed his head, and turned toward the door with heavy, miserable steps.
The sound of the iron bolt slamming shut made you flinch, though that wasn’t why your hands were shaking.
-*-
An entire sennight passed without either of you speaking again. He didn’t come looking for you. And you spent your days surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting, distracting yourself as best you could with the tasks of daily life - reading, chatting, or embroidering.
You would lie if you said you didn’t miss him terribly. Every morning, you woke to find your bed empty and cold, and the aching pain in your guts only grew with each passing day.
Often, when you found yourself in the Great Hall and King Joffrey honored you all with his presence, your eyes would drift toward the space behind the throne. For just a few seconds, they would linger on the threatening shadow that always stood there - alert and vigilant. Yet you would barely catch a glimpse of his worn chestplate before your gaze quickly withdrew, fearing you would meet his eyes.
Before you even realized, the week had turned to two. The court was immersed in preparations for King Joffrey’s name day. Banquets, royal hunts, tournaments... Everyone spoke eagerly about it, for an event of such caliber was always cause for joy and merriment.
The ladies whispered among themselves at the imminent arrival of the handsome knights who would ride in the jousts. Most attention was on the Tyrell and Tarly houses, though some lesser houses like the Swyfts, Leffords, and Westerlings also drew interest. Such a display of beauty, wealth, and power left hardly anyone indifferent.
You, however, paid no mind to the ladies' gossip. Nor did you care in the slightest about the upcoming events. Dismissing your ladies-in-waiting, you spent most of your time in solitude, wandering quietly through the blooming gardens around the Red Keep.
Your mind wandered time and time again to Sandor Clegane. You missed his gravelly voice, the scent of metal, earth, and sweat after a day in the training yard. You missed his presence, feared by all, but comforting to you. You couldn’t understand how a man who had told you he was willing to lay down his life for you couldn’t set aside his pride if you asked him. Perhaps there were different kinds of courage? Perhaps you weren’t important enough to him?
Your thoughts caught in your throat as you fiddled with the peas on your silver plate. You didn’t even know why you had come to lunch in the Great Hall that day. Your stomach struggled to accept the food, and the frantic hustle and bustle of the servants, carrying banners of the houses for the next day’s tournament, was irritating. With a long sigh, you placed your ivory-handled fork on the table and made to rise.
A beautiful white rose greeted you as you stood, held by delicate hands that extended it gracefully before your eyes.
"For you, milady, if I may be so bold,” the bearer of the rose spoke. “I saw you admiring the flowers earlier in the gardens, and though none could compare to your beauty, perhaps this one might help soften the sadness in your eyes."
Your gaze focused on the young man. He was lovely as a maid, with a crown of chestnut curls and eyes like molten gold. The knight of flowers, you thought. Of course, the guests had already arrived for the festivities, and you had hardly noticed. He would likely be competing in the joust tomorrow.
“Thank you, Ser,” you said, taking the flower and smiling politely at him. He offered you a radiant smile of his own, full of perfect white teeth.
“Ser Loras Tyrell, at your service, my lady,” he said in a pleasant voice, then gently brought your hand to his lips.
Your smile seemed to please him, as he offered you his arm with an elegant movement that made his cloak flutter.
“It’s a splendid day. Will you walk with me? I promise to be an entertaining companion and keep you safe from... any possible bee stings we may chance upon in the garden."
His boldness, combined with his light sense of humor, made you laugh. It was a discreet laugh, but sincere and spontaneous. You realized then that you hadn’t laughed in a long time. After a brief moment of thought, you concluded that you could use some flattery from this man who seemed more than willing to make you smile and delight your ears.
“Of course,” you answered, taking his arm.
Loras Tyrell kept his promise to be a pleasant and courteous escort. He was everything Sandor Clegane despised. A man who set himself upon a pedestal, the very picture of all the virtues enshrined in the noble code of chivalry. In little more than an hour, he had boasted of his valor and piety more times than you cared to count.
You had long since ceased to be a girl who believed in such fool’s tales of gallant knights. Sandor had seen to that. And far were you from being the swooning, starry-eyed damsel the famed Knight of the Flowers had taken you for.
But truth be told, you were enjoying yourself, and his knowledge of the different types of flowers that adorned the garden was quite impressive. You were both watching with interest the way the fruits of the trees had ripened, when the childish voice of King Joffrey came from behind you.
“Ah, Ser Loras, I see you are enjoying… the flowers of the court.”
“Your Grace,” you immediately turned and curtsied, lowering your eyes to the floor. The boy was vile and cruel, but for some reason, he seemed to take a liking to you. Who knew for how long.
He prompted you to lift your face. Behind him, his guard dog loomed like an imposing, dangerous black shadow. You didn’t look at him directly, but you felt his eyes first settle on Loras’s arm around yours, then on the white rose you held in your hand. The king’s fingers, laden with gold rings, gently brushed your chin.
“And what better flower than my lady. Beautifully bloomed, but still not watered.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Ser Loras replied, his caramel-colored eyes gazing at you.
Fortunately, you were an expert in the art of subtlety. But by the gods, it was hard to maintain your composure and not scoff at his words. Out of habit, your eyes searched for a hint of complicity in Sandor’s gaze. He would usually return your glance with a nearly imperceptible twitch or a roll of his eyes.
But today, your gaze did nothing to change the unreadable face he wore. His eyes were fixed on a point behind you, and his mask of indifference felt like a thousand wasp stings to your already shattered heart.
The conversation between the two men continued, talking about the weather and the joust the following day. After an exchange of compliments, the king made his desire to continue his walk known. Ser Loras made a small bow and secured his arm around yours. You lowered your head as the little Lannister held your hand to kiss it.
The small royal procession resumed its march, and so did the metallic clinking of Sandor’s armor with every step. He stood more than a head taller than your escort as he passed by your side. His white cloak brushed your hip in passing, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his brow set in a deep frown. On another occasion, he might have slipped a gauntleted hand over your skirt without anyone noticing. Impossible to do so now, with his fist tense and closed around the hilt of his sword.
Your walk with Ser Loras lasted little longer. Your guts were twisted into the world's tightest, ugliest knot, but you could not tell him so. The setting sun on the horizon provided the perfect excuse to retire to your chambers. Even so, he insisted on accompanying you.
Once in your room, your mind spun around the way Sandor had ignored you in the gardens. You collapsed onto the bed, still dressed and with your shoes on, and covered your face with your hands.
Was it over? Was this how your encounters would end?
You were angry with him for being unable to contain his possessive impulses. What were these terrible jealousies born of? Hadn't you shown him, time and time again, by dishonoring your name and risking your reputation, that you had no affections for anyone else?
Affections, you thought. When had he ever shown you affection? Desire, yes. Lust and passion, too. But affection? Your body shuddered at the thought. It was true that The Hound was not a man of sweet words. But still, you longed for him to verbally express his feelings for you.
If he had any.
Nothing would please you more than to hear from his lips what every lady dreamed of hearing from her chosen knight. A bitter and sad laugh escaped your chest. You were ashamed of longing for those words, but most of all, you knew he would never utter them in his life.
Your eyes wandered across your room until they landed on the upper frame of the door. You remembered your first kiss. The way you had stood on your toes in the hallway, tugging at his gorget to pull him down to you. He had pressed his lips to yours with inexperienced fervor as you stumbled blindly into your chambers, so enthralled that he forgot to duck upon entering and struck his forehead against the frame.
That night, you had been equals.
For you, it was the first time you had a man between your thighs, his body starving for warmth as it entered yours, pressing into your maidenhead with a wildness you had never known before.
And for him? It was the first time he kissed, and was kissed in return. The first time he held a woman in his arms, chests bumping against one another as you looked him in the eyes - unafraid, and with no coin to be counted afterward.
Uncontrollable sobs shook your chest. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly in search of some comfort.
It never came. You slept poorly, on a pillow soaked with bitter, hot tears.
-*-
The next morning, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted the little sleep you had managed to grasp. Heavy curtains were drawn apart, and the sudden, bothersome light that poured through the window fell cruelly upon your reddened eyelids.
“My lady, we must make haste. In less than two hours you are expected in the stands,” urged the sharp yet pleasant voice of your handmaid.
You let out a groan most unbefitting of a lady as the woman helped you sit up in bed. Without saying a word about why you had passed the night fully clothed, she unlaced your shoes and prompted another maid to bring a porcelain basin filled with cold water. At the far end of your chamber, two girls pulled your new dress from the wardrobe and brushed it with haste.
“My lady, your face looks weary. Are you unwell?” the same woman asked, frowning as she patted your cheeks with a damp cloth.
You shook your head, though you should have said yes, had you remembered your duties for the day.
“Thank the gods,” she added as she refreshed your neck and shoulders. “It would be a shame if you could not attend the tourney.”
Your eyes widened at once.
The tourney.
“Oh no.” You stared at her with round, tearful eyes. “No... I don’t want to go…”
"You must go, my lady," she said, helping you to your feet. "The king expects you in the noble stands. The entire royal family is counting on your presence… and the lords."
A short gasp escaped your lips as she stripped you down, leaving you as bare as on your name day. Behind you, the other girls whispered to one another about how handsome the knights might be. You cared for none of it. All you wanted was to return to your bed and weep.
While you put on fresh smallclothes, your handmaid held up two dresses, one in each hand. You shook your head, refusing to cooperate, but before you realized it, she had tossed them both on the bed and was pulling a tight corset over your head. You grasped one of the bedposts and let her lace the strings, too exhausted to protest.
“My lady, many knights will look at you today…” she tried to lift your spirits as she cinched the garment around your waist.
You exhaled, dry and mocking. You had not the slightest interest in any knight watching you. The maid mistook your contempt for mere doubt, and as she chose the more elegant of the two dresses you had dismissed, she went on, hopeful.
“Perhaps one of them might even fight for you.”
You barely heard her. Your arms and legs had gone weak as the beautiful velvet gown slipped over your skin.
Once fully clothed, you let your weight fall onto the chair before your vanity. Someone had left a silver tray with grapes and a honey-scented tea on it. As your handmaid undid the messy braid from the day before, you picked a grape and bit into it. Its juice burst across your tongue, far too sweet for the sadness that lingered within you. When the maid finished a hairstyle that highlighted your beauty and grace, she leaned slightly toward you and smiled at you through the mirror.
"The whole court is talking about how Ser Loras Tyrell was enchanted by you while you walked the gardens yesterday."
You sighed. The memory of your garden stroll brought with it a far more bitter one. Sandor Clegane, standing behind the king and ignoring you. The woman must have mistaken again your frailty for love’s weakness, for she carried on.
“He is a handsome man. All the ladies of the court envy you.”
“They’ve nothing to envy,” you said in a somber tone. The last thing you needed was all the women of the court against you.
Your handmaid smiled again, then held up a lovely pearl necklace between her fingers as she looked at you through the mirror. You shook your head, and she frowned when she saw you reach for a simple silk ribbon instead, tying it around your neck as an ornament. It was not the choice she would have made for such a dress, but given your mood, she let it be.
“You look radiant," she said in a last attempt to draw a smile from you. "They say Ser Loras always rides with a white rose tied to his lance. I’m certain he’ll ask for your favor and offer it to you.”
Her effort failed, for you froze.
Gods help you if the man were foolish enough to do such a thing.
-*-
No matter how quickly your maids worked, you were among the last ladies to arrive at the festivities. The master of ceremonies had already begun announcing the tournament. The knights who would face each other had been called, and their titles declared.
The noble stands teemed with color and silk, each house proud in its finery. Ladies whispered behind lace fans while their lords murmured wagers on the tilt below. It was crowded with spectators from all corners of the realm, and the seat you usually occupied had already been taken by another lady. As soon as she saw you, she rose and offered you your chair, but you motioned for her to stay, taking a seat lower down with a poorer view.
More discreet, you thought. Much better.
Once settled, your gaze drifted to the royal stand, where the king and queen offered you a slight nod of acknowledgment. You did the same, with an elegant but brief curtsy.
It did not escape your notice that Sandor Clegane was not behind the lions. Instead, two members of the Kingsguard stood on either side of the king. You found it odd that, on such an important and crowded day, the royal family had dispensed with their dog’s services. The king had many enemies, and many of them were fool enough to try to harm him even in broad daylight.
Then your gaze swept over the muddy jousting field. The earth had been compressed, but the rain had left the ground soft and unstable, unfavorable for heavier horses. Squires and stableboys ran from side to side adjusting saddles, sharpening lances, or preparing ornate armors.
You leaned back in your seat with disinterest. The rasping, scornful voice of the Hound could almost be heard in your head, mocking the false fanfare of the knights and the fevered glances the perfumed ladies cast upon them. The man had infected you with his distaste for such a circus, though the little girl inside you still sometimes dreamed of romance.
Only sometimes, and always in embarrassment, for he was right. They were cunts, the lot of them, with coin and nothing better to do.
With little enthusiasm, you watched as several knights took the field. The stands roared with fervor when Ser Jaime Lannister unhorsed Lord Bryce Caron in a single tilt. You merely sighed under your breath and offered a brief, courteous clap. Then came Ser Balon Swann, Lord Renly, and Lord Beric Dondarrion, all of them as effective and victorious as they were boring to you.
The entrance of an elegant, grey mare, led by a young squire, confirmed that the next participant would be the Knight of the Flowers. The ladies in the stands gasped, and a great ovation arose from the spectators as Loras Tyrell, in his silver armor adorned with sapphires and black vines, appeared before the crowd. A white rose was indeed tied to his lance. You immediately lowered your eyes.
By the Seven, may he not see me and approach.
Your eyes were still fixed on the ground when you heard a familiar neigh and the sound of heavy horse hooves sinking into the mud.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Stranger.
The applause of the stands dwindled, and you immediately raised your head to look at Sandor Clegane, guiding his enormous, ill-tempered stallion across the tiltyard.
“Do not worry, my lady,” said a nearby lord. “Ser Loras is skilled with a lance and will defend himself.”
You barely heard him, so focused you were on the black steed and its rider. He wore the same battered, blackened armor as always. Unlike his opponent, he did not look at the crowd. His gaze was fixed on his nervous mount, which whinnied and resisted.
You looked at the horse with a tightness in your chest. You knew him well. When you crossed paths with Sandor in the stables, the sullen animal would nudge you gently with its muzzle. Sandor often jested about this, reprimanding him for stealing all your attention. The black destrier was as strong and stubborn as they came, and the jousts made him nervous. That was why Sandor rarely participated in them. And that was why he was patting the beast affectionately as they were met with boos and jeers from the stands.
Your blood boiled in your veins. Normally, no one would dare boo Sandor Clegane. But in tournaments, there were always favorites, and the anonymity of the stands gave rise to such things. In any case, as much as it enraged you, Sandor was used to not having the favor of the crowd. And he couldn’t give less of a damn.
Once he managed to calm Stranger down, he placed his dreadful, dog’s helmet on, put a foot in the stirrup, and mounted upon the warhorse in search of a lance. Meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell was helped into the saddle by his squire, more concerned with the mud staining his gleaming armor. Then, the Knight of Flowers spurred his mare into a slow trot, and wherever he rode, was met with applause.
From the other side, the Hound had already chosen any available lance to compete and was rotating his right shoulder to warm up. He then leaned forward in his saddle, whispered something to the horse and tightened the reins to urge it into a gallop across the tiltyard.
“Whoa!” he bellowed, and the horse’s hooves sank into the mud as its rider brought it to a halt before the noble stands. The ladies gasped and squealed. The lords hissed. You watched the scene with wide eyes, unable to understand.
Sandor Clegane seemed confused. He looked this way and that at the crowd, angrily raising the visor of his helmet to get a better view. The horse, sensing its rider’s confusion, snorted nervously. Sandor yanked the reins to one side and urged the animal forward a few paces along the stands, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. Some women looked away as he passed directly before them, but he kept searching.
Searching.
Then you understood. He was looking for the place where you always sat. The spot that, due to your tardiness, was now occupied by another lady.
In an almost involuntary act of compassion, you leaned forward and rested your arms on the wooden railing, making yourself stand out in the crowd. And just then, Sandor Clegane’s dark eyes fixed on you.
“Hyah!” he bellowed, and Stranger seemed to recognize you as well, for it trotted cheerfully up to stand right in front of you.
The women around you held their breath as Sandor’s gloved hand reached for his helmet and yanked it upward, freeing himself from it before you. You felt your blood pulse strongly through your veins. The entire crowd fell silent as the man gazed at you wordlessly, with a seriousness that surpassed his usual sullen expression. His black eyes were locked onto yours like two dark prayers. Still, you could see the devotion behind the darkness. A devotion he had never failed to hold since the first time moment your paths crossed.
“Hey, dog!” you heard the impatient voice of the king shout from the royal stand, “your place is on the other side!”
At this, some in the crowd laughed. Yet Sandor did not avert his gaze from you, nor did you from him. Stranger took a step forward without any command from its rider, and in that moment, the man raised his voice, speaking before the entire kingdom the words he never thought he would say in all his miserable life.
“I ask for the lady’s favor!”
The crowd fell silent once more. The request was more a roar than a spoken plea, likely an attempt to impose his will over his own embarrassment. Your bewilderment kept your body from reacting, not even a breath of air entered your lungs.
Sandor’s deep eyes stared at you with intensity, waiting for your answer. His face was serious, but the unscarred side of his face betrayed a sadness. The soft chuckles returned to the stands, and you realized that your inaction was making a fool of him.
You snapped back to yourself. With a force that nearly made you jump from your seat, you stood up and said in the loudest, clearest voice you could muster.
“You have it, Sandor Clegane. May honor and victory ride with your lance.”
The last words came out somewhat hoarsely. No knight had ever asked for your favor, and you’d never rehearsed the scene. You didn’t know if your words had been the right ones, but what mattered was showing your support to him. And the way the harsh lines of his face softened made you think you had done it right.
Your lips trembled with emotion before curling into a beautiful smile. His eyes lit up at that, and the unburned corner of his mouth twitched upward into the grimace he often made when he saw something that pleased him.
You thought that with that exchange, the man would turn Stranger and the tournament would begin. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in the sand, staring at you. Around you, whispers began to rise again in the stands. You looked at the people, confused, and Sandor’s voice made you focus your eyes back on him.
“The token, my lady…” he said softly, his brow quirked with slight amusement.
Oh! How could you be so foolish! You had to give him something! Stricken with the nervousness of feeling all eyes on you, your mind seemed too clouded to think clearly.
You weren’t wearing jewelry, nor a veil. You weren’t wearing gloves, nor had you made a flower crown... Your hands fumbled clumsily over the sleeves of your dress, searching for a handkerchief, but finding nothing. Then they climbed up to your neck and, trembling, untied the simple silk ribbon you had chosen that morning.
Sandor removed his leather glove and raised his hand to meet yours as you held onto the railing. Were it not dulled by blows, his spaulder might have nearly gleamed with the movement. He closed his hand around yours, and his thick thumb briefly caressed your knuckles. Your heart seemed to leap out of your mouth. The roughness of his hand felt incredibly sweet against your skin after so many days without his touch. The gesture was inappropriately intimate for such a moment, and even the horse seemed to notice, for from the royal stand they watched the animal wag its tail and bring its rider even closer to you.
“Dog!” the king called out with a mocking tone, “Your beast seems to be in love with the lady!”
Sandor grunted, making himself heard over the laughter that echoed through the stands.
“Aye!” He growled, then you heard his voice again, a rough whisper meant for your ears alone. “He loves her. Deeply… and more than his own damn pride.”
The warmth that spilled far beyond your chest made your heart swell, and you laughed, breathless and lowering your head to hide the flush that bloomed across your cheeks. In his eyes burned a desperate question he could not bring himself to ask, but the glimmer in your eyes when you looked up again, put an end to his torment.
Reconciliation.
You were granting him leave to come to you that night.
Sandor drew his hand away from yours and carefully tucked the ribbon into a slit of his vambrace. Then, he dipped his head to you, and after you nodded, kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place upon the tiltyard.
-*-
Ser Loras proved to be a swift and skilled opponent on horseback, but Sandor Clegane won the tournament that day.
How could he not, with you by his side?
But that night, amidst tears and caresses and embraces in your chamber, he won something far more important than applause or a purse of coins. For as he made a commitment of restraint, he earned your forgiveness and your trust. He earned the delight of your smile, and the warmth of your laughter. And kissing you almost as a knight of old would, he earned the beats of your heart, sealing his bond to you with a promise of loyalty and eternal love.
...............
Thanks for reading! <3
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Sandor Clegane x fem reader // you're a maid: misogyny, sexual content 18+, westeros typical attitudes and language, painful sex + size kink, breeding kink, dubcon-ish, abrupt ending
Sandor is used to being given a wide berth.
The maids scurry around him like mice, back and forth and around, most of them used to him if not used to looking at their feet when he’s around. Sheep parting for a sharpeyed herding dog, nervous fillies tensing and changing course as they sense danger— it’s fine.
He prefers it that way, doesn’t want to have to bark all day to unstick the innumerable tittering servants that populate the keep from his sides.
Part of it is his size, the other his burns, the gnarled skin that makes most of the barrage turn their eyes away for fear of finding his eyes and thus finding his anger. Joffrey knows well enough how to use it to his advantage, knew when he chose the Hound for his personal protector.
He’s got no issue with the coin, with the status. Mostly he takes two steps forward and whoever’s got any issue with the king or otherwise takes three steps back. When he’s dismissed from duty he drinks or fucks or takes Stranger out for exercise, anything to numb his mind and shake the energy from his muscles which leaves him feeling like a beehive.
The kennel master makes the dogs run at the shallow edge of the Kingswood if they get too rowdy. He laughs a great laugh when he sees Sandor return sweaty from the same woods atop Stranger for the same purpose, the only man not afraid to.
You’re a nuisance at first. Clumsy for a maid, new— you won’t last long.
He sees you spill three goblets of the good stuff trying to take it up the stairs on a tray, then the next night at dinner a whole roasted quail and all the golden potatoes made special for the queen regent. A splatter of juice at your feet, tears in your eyes, you brush by his shoulder to beg the kitchens for another.
Sandor knows the population of labourers swells and abates nearer to and further from grand events, but he wonders if they’re really so desperate they haven’t thrown you out or let king at you for all the trouble you've caused.
The tourney for the nameday of the golden princess grows nearer, amplifying the chaos behind the velvet curtains where the bluebloods can’t see. The kitchens smell perpetually of bread and meat and herbs, of sweat and toil. You hide there when you can, thinking no one will notice, that nobody can see. His eyes flit to you when he walks by or through, where you’re begging to just be made to peel potatoes or stir a great pot of sweet smelling broth.
“Please, they’re already cross with me,” you whine, soft and insistent, fingers twisted in your cream coloured skirts.
Sylvanna the old kitchen maid always takes pity, always negotiates with the stewards to let you be useful here rather than disruptive in the hall or gods forbid serving a noble. Three of her now grown children work in the keep, and you seem to have weaseled your way into her maternal old heart.
He tries to pay no mind, knows you’ll likely be gone soon after the festivities are over and therefore he doesn’t feel the need to do much more than snap at you when you bump into him and then watch your ass in those skirts move as you scurry away.
Sandor would never force a woman, but he won't keep himself from looking and lusting, of thinking of the way your voice goes high when you've gotten in trouble yet again and how it might sound when you're full of his cock, the way you might look with your dress pulled down and those sweet tits dangling in his face. He's no more than a man, and he'll honor his urges by fisting his cock to the thought of lapping at your cunt if he wants.
He finds you smeared in mud after a smattering of rain one morning, herbs tucked into the apron of your uniform, hands full of leaves, the unnecessary shit nobles need to eat their food. You're rushing, flustered again, hands making a mess of the gardens.
“They'll whip you for that,” he grunts, “looks like a rabbit's been at it.”
You look up, eyes wide with a familiar fear. It makes him sneer.
“I'm to take all the rosemary to–”
“Are you supposed to tear up the roots, too, little rabbit?”
You pause, and your mouth works for a moment. The garden bed is a mess, and half the rosemary you've got is the woody ends, the roots pulled right from the ground.
The realization dawns on you at the same moment he steps forward, and you lean back, whispering, “that's why it was so tough…”
He laughs, neither cruel nor kind. When his leather clad hand curls around the pommel of his shorter blade, your eyes widen and you fall back onto your bum as he draws the steel out.
“I didn't mean to–” you squeak, poor little rabbit. He cuts the remaining herbs and leaves the stump to grow back again, tossing the plants to the ground. You sag in relief.
“Are you simple?” He knows you aren't, he only wants to be abrasive, wants to punish the fear you felt, make you feel silly for thinking he'd cut you down over some rosemary.
He's a dog, not a monster. Though he benefits from his reputation, he isn't Gregor.
“No, I'm not- I'm sorry, I thought…” you look away, standing, mud on your skirt.
“That the castle dog would maul your pretty neck?”
“I'm not used to seeing steel!” You insist. He can't tell if you're truthful. “I was just startled is all.”
He straightens fully, towers above you, feels acutely aware of his face and his stature as he grunts, “no? That was the smaller one.”
You step around him on the soggy garden ground and, like prey, your eyes follow him from the side. He finds it both tired and endearing.
He wonders how you'd look at him should he reveal he's got no sword for you but instead a long hard cock.
“Thank you for your help,” you say quickly, before disappearing.
The next time he sees you is in the stables. Stranger has been snuffling around a ripe new mare, and now nobody but Sandor can brush him down and put him away for the night. Too rowdy, his boy. Too like his rider.
It isn't until the padlock is shut that he hears you again with your tears. Soft, weeping just behind the wall. He pauses.
“I haven't got the coin,” your voice is quiet, miserable, “they haven't paid us yet.”
The low murmur of another voice, something he can’t make out, sounds angry, pointy. He hears you sniffle loudly, hears the shuffle of feet.
The conversation peters off, until he hears you walk around the stable and back towards the keep.
Sandor steps into your path—he can be quiet when he wants.
It’s not the first time he’s startled you (he hopes not the last), and that little squeaky gasp is enough to rush blood to his cock, straining against armor, trying to get at you. Down, boy.
“What’s that you’re weeping about?” he looms, “poor little rabbit. Not enough coin?”
The immediate scrunch of your nose and the pull of your lips makes him pulsate.
“That wasn’t any of your business, Ser.”
“No?” he looks you up and down, lecherous, but not threatening. He stands still, lets you squirm, “not a Ser.”
You return the look, only your eyes are far away, sad and frightened. The anxious expression on your face doesn’t flag his cock, but it does make him curious.
“Someone hurting you?”
That makes you pause, frown. You look up at him and your eyes are more focused, yet no less distrusting.
“Want me to kill them?”
The evening air is all he can feel for a moment, trapped so in your wide eyes, little rabbit girl and the sweet smell of her hair, her wet face, eyes lashes clinging together. You don’t understand— why should he offer such a thing? A beast like him.
“Nothing so sweet as killing someone that deserves it,” he presses, “who is it? Some ugly little whelp you took for a husband? That sorry fuck hit you?”
His eyes search for marks, knowing all too well the kinds of abuses women can suffer, especially in this godsforsaken castle. The image of his brother knighted still haunts him worse than the smell of his own skin charring.
Your mouth opens, moving again—cute— and you shake your head, “no, no. I’m not married. Nobody’s hurting me.”
“Then what?” he presses, reaching out quicker than you can anticipate and cupping his huge hand to your soft cheek. Not married. He looks down at your body, wants to see it swollen, trapped by a babe.
You look up at him, sucking in a soft breath, then rush, “I just need— I need my coin from the steward, because,” you pause for a breath, “because I’m in debt. It’s stupid, it's all my fault. I just need to pay or they said they’ll burn my home down.”
Burn. That makes him freeze. Who’d threaten such a thing against you? You’re a silly, clumsy woman, what kind of trouble could you possibly be in— he isn’t naive enough anymore to believe in appearances anymore, but his gut tells him you’re as sweet as you look.
“What kind of fucking debt?”
“The— they wanted my house. But I grew up there! I was born in it, I wanted to have children there too, and who else has a house? I’m fortunate to have—” he stops you with a hand over your mouth. Littlefinger, that rodent had been buying up property, god knows for what. Sandor can picture it now, men at your door, demanding some kind of tax, punishing you until you're destitute, all for some fucking house he’s sure is smaller than Baelish’s room in the Keep.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Your eyes, impossibly wide. You bravely pull his hand away from your mouth, holding his thick fingers with yours, “no! But how? I can pay, I think, I just need my salary.”
“You think some fucking maids salary is going to satisfy that greedy bastard? I thought you said you weren’t simple.”
It takes nine days to corner that smarmy cunt and make him accept Sandor’s coin, to back down to a threat and the promise that should Littlefinger not turn his sights to another place, then who’s to stop the Hound from separating his head from that scrawny throat?
You find him in less than an hour after he leaves Baelish. You’re panting, sweating, eyes wide and in awe as you see him, “Ser!”
“Not a Ser,” he says, muscle memory.
“How did you do it?” you step close, too close. All your fear is gone, all that weight. He feels a smidge of something warm in his belly.
He tells you the truth—
You touch his armor and look up, wide eyes and sweet face, “how can I repay you?”
Sandor brings you to his preferred inn. Far, but worth the ride for its privacy. The innkeep isn’t afraid of him and the tavern girls are getting there, too. They know he’s there to drink and sleep, sometimes to bring a whore for the night. They know he won’t hurt them.
You lean back against his chest the entire way, watching as the city thins enough to relax, as the smells abate. You’d kissed his cheek and smiled when he asked to take you to bed, naive girl. He wants to marry you, but he won't say it yet. Wants to pump you full of brats and fill that empty house of yours just to see you smile again.
There’s no need for drinks, though he offers anyway— wine? Ale? You shake your head to both, insisting on seeing the room first. I’ve never been in an inn you say, like it's fancy. He supposes you’d have no need to, no extra coin to. It was stupid and brave to try and pay Littlefinger with a maids salary, now you can keep it all.
He pulls your dress down to see what he’s been waiting for for weeks, exposing your tits to the air, hunching down and bringing one to his mouth so he can suck on your tight nipple.
His mouth lavishes them, enjoys the feeling of soft skin in his mouth and the smell of your soap, the breaths form your lips.
When you see him, that angry red bobbing cock springing free from his britches, you swallow, “that— it’s way too big.”
“A maid, then?” he says against the skin of your soft breast, fingers hiking your dress up, finding the wet seam of your cunt. No underclothes. You’re soft there, too, skin and hair caressing his hand, sweet little pussy.
“No,” you shake your head, “I almost got married once. But you're much bigger than he was.”
He laughs, hitches you further up the bed by cupping your lady’s place and pulling, making you squeak. Sandor has always known he’s bigger than most, but he loves to hear it. Especially from a pretty woman, in bed with him without the promise of coin.
“I’ll lick you first,” he bunches your skirts up and pushes them up to your stomach, laying down to reach your pussy.
He’s only a man, and this is just the sweetest sight. You’re damp for him between the thighs, plush and pretty. His thumb finds the junction between your thigh and groin and presses there, fingers curling around your asscheck, as he leans forward and sniffs.
“Oh, don’t!” you cry out, bending so as to pull away.
“You’re in bed with a fucking hound,” he presses his nose to the slit of you, breathing in your sweet musk. You lay back down. Sandor puts his tongue on you, splits you with it, sliding through your folds like tasting the most decadent meal. He pushes it inside, tasting your hole, making an introduction before his cock arrives.
You keen, high, as loud as you want— who’s going to interrupt Clegane in bed? Nobody who wants to keep their head. When he comes up to suck on your swollen clit, you shout your pleasure into the air.
It’s only when he can fit four thick fingers inside you that he sits back up and presses the head of his cock to you, an angry ram battering down the door. You tense for a moment as he pushes in, holding your breath.
“You can take it,” he slides further, “feel that?”
Your pussy squeezes him, involunterarily or not, he snarls with how tight you are around him, “sweetest fucking cunt I’ve ever had. Grateful fucking cunt.”
You make a pained little sound as he pushes in another inch or so, a squeak, your pussy squeezing around him like a vice. He knows he’s a big man, shushes you by rubbing your flank like a horse, “hush, girl.”
“It’s hurting,” you complain, bottom lip pushed out, hips wiggling to try and make space, “just wait—”
“You’re almost there,” he’s not lying, there’s only half an inch or so until he’ll be buried all the way up your snug cunt, but he doesn’t want to make you suffer. No, he just needs you a little wetter, so he waits right there and swipes a tough thumb over your begging clit. You gasp, and whine again.
“San- Sandor,” your hand goes trying to grasp his wooly forearm, but you’re overwhelmed and uncoordinated, eyes glassy, fingers wiggling in the air, “stop, or I’ll come.”
“Come,” he doesn’t stop, pulls back the delicate skin covering your precious clit and presses until he feels it jump and flex against his thumb, “wet my cock.”
A comet in the sky, a star bursting open— you’re amazing to see, so open, shaking and squeezing on him, his cock sliding through the gush of your orgasm to bottom out.
“That’s a good girl,” he encourages, not letting up, sliding back out through your soaked hole and back in. He abandons your clit and instead pulls back the wet lips of your pussy so he can watch himself disappear all the better inside you.
“Look.”
You do, head coming up, unfocused eyes searching for where he's connected to you. You’re so full, he can tell by the way you’re gasping for every breath, fingers gripping your skirts now to hang onto anything, to pull them up so you can see too.
Sandor regrets not tearing the dress from your body when he could, laments that he can’t see your belly so that he can picture what it might look like swollen up with his babe. He gives the fabric you're holding the stink eye, palms itching to hold your middle as he ploughs you like a ripe field.
“How’s that big cock feel in your guts, little rabbit?” he pants, damp with sweat, the room hot. Wonders if his callouses and scars and body hair hurts your soft skin, “gonna be even more full when I give you my load.”
“Mmhn,” you lift your eyes to him, mouth wide and open, “you’ll put a babe in me.”
“Yeah?” he pumps you harder, watching himself disappear, fingers moving to your knees so he can push your legs back further, “can feel how wet you are, doesn’t sound like an issue. You want me to make you a mother?”
“Please,” you nod slowly, rocked up the mattress by his thrusts, “oh, please.”
“Pretty little rabbit,” he grunts, mouth curling into a snarl as he really starts to focus, “don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
The veins in his neck pop, throbbing in time with his cock, back aching from how frenzied he’s becoming. You begin to shout again when you can breathe, fingers clenched, pressed so against the mattress so that you can’t move. He’s going to pump you full, breed you, make you his.
“That’s right,” he snarls, “I’m going to fill you up, rabbit, you hear? Best cunt I ever felt.”
That expression— she must have been made in the image of the Mother— he’s heard it a thousand times, praise for delicate princesses full with the next heir, for the peasant girls that visit the king for him to bless their babies or swollen stomachs. He’s tuned it all out, only ever interested in spilling outside or watching the woman he’s bedded drink her contraceptive.
Sandor understands, now, looking down at you. His muscles tighten, balls drawing up to his body as he fucks you hard with the singular goal of making you withchild. Of planting himself inside you and watching you grow and grow.
He lowers his face to yours and scratches your delicate neck with his stubble, growling promises threats in your ear about the way you’ll need to depend on him after, about how he’s going to marry you after this. He watches the way your tits bounce, wants to see them leak with the evidence of this union.
His pace stays consistent even as he swipes over your clit again, demanding one more time for your surrender, waiting to come until you’ve begun to shake again, begun to cry with the sensitivity.
He pulses inside of you, pressing all his weight down for a moment, snarling like an animal as he makes a mess.
Just as you begin to push weakly at his shoulders, he sits up, gingerly pulling his cock out. You’re wide, swollen, leaking. He pushes a pillow under your hips and lays beside your exhausted body, murmuring, “they make the royal ladies do this to make sure the seed took.”
You turn to him, pressing your forehead to his hairy chest.
“That’s right, bunny,” he grunts, “hows it feel, hm? Nice and bred.”
Summary: Rain on the roof, candlelight on his wounded skin, and a fleeting moment of softness.
Tags/Warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, wound care, mention of violence, domestic vibes, non-graphic intimacy, POV shifts occasionally
Word count: 2.2k
A/N: First time writing for Sandor...
Next part
The inn door slams in his face with a loud sound, echoing through the silence of the night.
Another denial.
Another stare.
Another judgmental comment.
He doesn't care.
He never did.
He knows he isn't welcomed - most of the time when he is accepted, it is out of fear, and then there are times when some have the guts to reject him.
He won't force his way in. He knows better.
The colder air bites at his wounded skin as he turns away from the inn.
With heavy, weary steps he goes straight to Stranger, untying the reins from the wooden post. He pats the horse’s face twice, murmuring that another long night awaits them.
The horse nudges his head into Sandor’s palm.
A chuckle escapes past his dried lips as he watches the warm candlelight from the inn’s windows reflect in the animal’s eyes.
The only presence that doesn’t abandon him.
He lingers for a moment.
One last time, gazing at the warmth inside the building before he is back on the track that leads to the end of the village.
The path is uneven, muddy from the last rain.
Moonlight cascades over it, illuminating his way.
He passes one house after another.
Ghosts of smoke rise from the chimneys, dancing in the air until they evaporate into nothingness.
Candlelight flickers inside, painting shadows on the walls - a mother tending to her son, children playing, a family eating dinner, and a young couple embracing one another.
A life he never knew.
A life he never had the luxury to think of.
A life that never belonged to him.
And he keeps walking.
Stranger’s hooves create a rhythmic pattern on the wet earth.
A reminder.
A reminder of the cold night he must spend on the forest floor.
He keeps walking.
And walking.
Until a sudden noise breaks his concentration.
He looks to his left - a lone figure on the property.
A woman, closing the old barn’s door. Small pieces of hay cling to her hair.
Muddy boots.
Her working shirt with holes in it, skin faintly dirty beneath.
Sweat glimmering in the lunar brightness.
He observes her.
No lust.
Just a strange curiosity.
From the darkness, a strong form emerges.
Barking ferociously.
Charging toward him.
A hound.
A voice calls for it. The dog stops instantly but continues growling, warning him.
You don’t register when Umbra appears from the shadows of the night.
Running toward the fence with one intent in mind - protection.
You call her once, then move toward her.
And you see it - the source of her viciousness. A still form enveloped in obscurity.
You reach for Umbra, her tense body calming under your touch. You speak low, tone steady.
The barking vanishes.
But he still watches.
You return his gaze, taking in every detail about him - his stature, the piercing stare in his eyes. Yet they speak more than he intends to show.
Sadness. Neglect. Loneliness.
Words that will never leave his mouth.
Never.
"You're new here," you shatter the quietude.
His posture changes, straightening his spine. He stares at you again, seeing the silent confidence in your stance - assertive, controlling, knowing.
The dog under your gentle touch eyes him, ready to maul if you command it. A faithful beast, he thinks to himself.
You fold your arms around your body, nodding once.
"I see," you murmur.
He wants to answer, but refuses, head turning back toward the path.
"You won't make it through the night with those wounds," you simply state.
"No need for your pity, woman," his head snaps in your direction.
"No pity. Just the truth."
"What will your people say, huh? Taking a strange, dangerous man in? Not proper, if you ask me," he utters, neutral.
"I haven’t asked for your opinion," you say, stepping closer to the fence and placing a hand on the time-worn wood.
"And let them talk. Half will forget by tomorrow. The rest are old enough to die soon anyway," you continue.
You earn a quiet laugh from him.
"You're an odd woman."
"Tell me something I haven’t heard before," you reply, stepping toward the gate, inviting him in.
He guides Stranger first, then he follows right behind. Umbra stays close, but her aggression is gone. The beast mirrors the calmness of its owner.
You close the gate, explaining that fresh hay is in the barn, and water as well.
He watches as you move toward the house, the dog following you, guarding the front door.
Inside, you move with familiarity built over the years, knowing every corner even in poor light. Your childhood was shaped within this very structure, and it was passed to you when you remained alone.
Just you.
Umbra.
And the horse you brought a few years ago.
The door opens, hinges creaking under the new weight that forces them.
"Boots off," you say from the kitchen.
You hear him mumbling some complaints, along with a few grunts of pain as the sound of metal and leather reverberates through your space.
The wooden floor groans under his weight as he makes his way into the kitchen.
Sandor sees you stirring a pot, steam rising from it. A pleasant, homely smell wraps around the room.
Stew. Warm bread. And a hint of wine.
Your home is decent, enough to sustain you.
A roof above your head.
A bed to sleep in.
A small space for cooking, and a washing area.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
But he can't help noticing things meaningless to others, yet meaning the world to someone else.
Books.
Some drawings.
A tapestry you're still working on, threads hanging low - reds, blues, and black, waiting to be picked by careful hands and given life.
Dried lavender above your bed.
Simple things that reveal your soul.
Then he follows your gaze, indicating the chair placed at the table.
He sits, and in a moment you place a cup before him, pouring some red wine.
The smell is strong - not the cheap, diluted kind.
Sandor takes a good sip, holding the liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing it down with a satisfied grunt.
"Good, isn’t it?" you ask, looking over your shoulder as you ladle stew into a bowl.
"Aye," he bluntly replies, emptying the cup and reaching to pour himself some more.
You set the bowl down in front of him with a wooden spoon. Then you return with slices of bread, smoked meat, and a good cheese.
Within seconds, he begins to eat like there is no tomorrow. Starved, that was him. Drops of stew leak down his beard. Crumbs of bread cling to his lips.
You watch him from afar, busying yourself with washing some dishes.
"Have some more?" Sandor asks, the empty bowl in his hand.
You dry your hands on a clean cloth and go to grab the dish. You fill it to the top, knowing he will devour this one as well.
Your back faces him, and you can’t help but smile a little. A few strands of hair frame your face, veiling your expression.
It feels unfamiliar to share your food with someone. You never had a good relationship with your prying neighbors, so you couldn’t exchange homemade food with them, as some villagers do.
You erase the smile before turning back to him.
"Gods, woman… you should have brought the whole cauldron," he says, looking at the full dish.
"Mind your manners," you utter plainly.
"You’re famished and wounded, yet you still have a damn loud mouth. Just eat."
He stops, eyes fixed on you, and the ghost of a grin appears on his tired features.
"Seven hells," he mutters under his breath.
"After you’re done, I’ll have a look at those injuries," you inform him.
"No need. I’ve had worse," he replies.
"That's why you moan at every move you make," you add.
"Woman..." Sandor lightly warns you.
"I got a name, man," you accentuate the last word like a sharp blade cutting through skin.
He chuckles.
"Speaking of manners... you have a guest under your roof and didn’t care to give out your name," he banters.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from falling into his trap. You won't give him the satisfaction of angering you.
You enunciate your name.
"Sandor," he directly says.
"Good, Sandor. Now let me tend your wounds before you die."
"I said -"
"I don't care what you said," you snap back.
"Stubborn as a mule," he whispers.
He waits for you to argue further, but you simply go and gather the essentials.
You take a few pieces of square, clean fabric. Warm water. Soap. Needle and thread. And a long textile to wrap his stabbed arm.
He sees you return with a wooden basin balanced on your hip and a basket full of the things you need.
You drag a chair across the floor and sit next to him.
Sandor stills. He eyes you - not with suspicion, but not with trust either.
"Let me start with the worst one," you point at his arm.
He simply extends it toward you.
You take it, setting it in your lap.
His warmth seeps through the material of your pants. His hand stays at the side of your thigh.
Not flat.
Not lingering.
Not grabbing.
You roll up his sleeve, careful when you begin to see the wound.
Wool sticking to the open cut.
With measured touches, you clean the area and then pour a stinging herbal blend over it.
He exhales with a low hiss.
You take the needle and move it through the candle's flame a few times.
The metal burns red before slowly cooling back to steel.
You bring the sharp end near the skin - but stop.
Your eyes meet his, asking for permission.
He nods once.
With meticulous, gentle hands you close the wound, leaving behind a trail of small knots.
He grunts a few times, but that's all.
So used to the feeling of pain.
When it's done, you apply an ash-grey paste before wrapping his arm with a white textile.
"Faster than I thought," he comments.
"Practice makes you quick," you respond with a smile.
You look over his body, searching for the next wound to take care of.
And then you see the cut on the side of his face.
You take another cloth, dip it in clean water, and try to reach for his face.
His hand stops you, enclosing around your wrist.
"That needs tending too."
The intensity in your irises makes him loosen his grip.
Your work-worn hand kisses his face.
You don't hesitate.
And he doesn't pull away anymore.
Unintentionally, he leans into your touch.
He wants to laugh at himself for that, but can't resist.
He doesn't even remember when someone looked at his face and didn't flinch.
Or when the last time was someone caressed his face so softly.
Softness.
The world didn't treat him with softness.
Never.
He wasn't spared when he was just a boy.
Not even now that he is grown.
Softness.
Such a strange word.
But your touches speak more.
Gentle.
Tender.
Warm.
He closes his eyes, unaware he’s letting his guard down.
Your hand moves to the scarred side of his face, delicately cleaning the dried blood stuck to the skin.
His eyes open.
And he is met with a caring expression.
Not even his own mother looked at him this way.
You finish, and your hand leaves his face.
A hollow sensation intertwines around his heart.
A chain of thorns squeezing and grasping.
But he says nothing.
He lets you continue without interruption.
But a question keeps repeating in his head.
Why?
And finally, he articulates it.
"Why did you take me in?"
You are busy throwing away the bloody fabric and slowly turn when you hear him.
"Because I know what it's like to be unseen."
He hums once.
Even if he wanted to add more.
To say that you were naive. Or mad for your decision.
But he saw the scars on your body.
The blade hidden near the door, and the one close to your bed.
You were prepared.
You knew violence.
You knew what real life was like.
You knew what it was like to be mistreated.
And to have no one.
"You should rest. Take the bed," you instruct him.
"I have no coin for such treatment," he confesses.
"Don't need your coin. Sleep now," you utter while taking out the thicker wool blanket.
His exhausted body reaches the bed and lies down with a guttural groan.
It smells clean and floral - fragile beneath his rough hands.
You place the blanket over him.
Your eyes meet once again, but no words are needed.
The gratitude is visible.
And the sound of unforeseeable rain over the aged roof becomes his lullaby.
Your soft bed beneath him is his cradle.
And your low humming of an ancient song is a reminder.
Tags: mild descriptions of violence, Sandor stinks, kisses, fluff, Sandor being Sandor, swearing, short and sweet!!, Not beta'd, THERE WILL BE MISTAKES, no use of y/n, third person POV, reader is not described but she has hair
Summary: Sandor wins the tournament, yet only one person is there to celebrate his victory, that is alright with him.
A/N: Writing Sandor being romantic is kinda difficult you guysssss, I think he would be so awkward about it!! Also can you tell I wrote this on the first hot day of the year, i am not ready for summer...
The knight staggers back, the heavy clang of his pate armor follows the movement. He lifts an arm, his gauntlets catching the overbearing light raining in from above. The sun is an angry blister in the sky, looking down on the field of the joust like the king himself.
The crowd gasps in surprise, pushing harder on the fence until the wood creaks in irritation. The sweltering heat rises between the bodies, painting their faces red.
King Robert taps his goblet on the armrest of his chair, demanding more wine to be poured into it. The wine bearer provides, hat slipping over the line of his brow, sweat tickles down from behind his ear making the silk band of the hat slip further down each time he bows to serve the king, he pushes it up with a thumb and scratches the damp skin. The wine itself has grown warm and tasteless.
The knight on the field heaves another breath. His spine straightens with a tremble, drenching his tunic in sweat where the light linen is trapped under the fancy armor. His legs shake in the attempt to hold up the weight of his shape after such a long duel.
“I yield, I yield!” he says, between exhaustion and a chuckle, anything to save face after being battered by the Hound in front of the gaping mouths of the audience. Luckily he can see very little of the audience, and most of his vision is occupied by his opponent, he spies him through the slits of his helm.
Sandor is a heavy column of dark iron in front of him. He holds his morning star in a massive palm. No one can see his eyes from the stands, they are hidden behind the snarling metal mouth of his helm. The dog head seems to heave its own breath, metallic and hot, slipping past the teeth lining the beak of the gaudy helm. His body relaxes ever so slightly when he hears his opponent ask for mercy and the knots of tension hinging his posture loosen, allowing him to stand to his full height and drop the arm holding the club.
He stands like a terrible giant on the ground of the tournament, a truly fearsome silhouette of armor, a strange cross creature out of a tale. The knight swallows thickly, feeling the mucus slipping down his throat and the heat of his muscles burn under the skin.
He attempts to conceal the weary tremble of his body behind methodical movements. He retrieves his broken shield from the dusty ground and bows deeply to the king. Sandor adjusts the hold over his own shield, the three hounds painted on the wood snarl mockingly at the retrieving opponent. They cannot understand choosing one’s life over the joy of a fight, they have been taught nothing but the desire for blood and will be satisfied with nothing less than.
“Your dog won,” Hums King Robert, busy sticking his teeth in the tender meat of a boar rib. He disposes of the bone by throwing it to the floor below, where the servants sit, fanning themselves desperately.
“...again.” He adds, before standing laboriously from his chair. Queen Cersei says nothing to that, despite knowing the comment was directed at her. She simply adjusts in her chair, her back pressing into the padded silk of her oak seating.
Below the fine draperies of the royal stand, and the colorful sigils of the houses, the Hound stands with his feet planted on bloodied ground. The droplets of red blood that escaped from the seams of armor during the days of the tournament have been dug deeper in the sand. No flowers will grow from them.
“I hereby announce Sandor of house Clegane winner of our royal tournament!” shouts an herald, perching above the curious audience on a wooden stand. Trumpets blare, announcing the winner with glorious might. The onlookers shout, their howls are confused between booing and clamoring, unsure if it is right to cheer for the king’s dog, or even applauding the satisfying show of violence.
Sandor bows to the King, his mouth heaving laboured breaths in the mouth of the dog. King Robert sits back, boredly, on his chair and gestures to go on with the celebration. The axe throwing competition is next, and seems to inspire much more joy in the audience, who demand for the tournament to go on.
As usual for the Hound his victories are quickly swept aside; there is no glory promised to a wicked beast, and seems fine with it, after all it is not glory he is after, but gold and the rush of a fight. Even if he won the highest prize promised in the tournament, no cheering follows him out of the stands, and no awestruck gazes lift to greet him.
Once he is beyond the fencing of the tournament grounds he lifts the helm from his head, the heat that built inside the metal cage resembled the sweltering of a furnace and he could not wear it one moment longer. A low wind soothes his skin when his face is finally free from containment. The breeze wipes his hair away from his scars, where the skin started burning and chafes, tight and damp.
No squire follows him to his tent, the knights preparing for the next competitions barely look at him, no clamoring or clapping or howling or even envy follows him despite his victory. Tonight, at the banquet, no toast will be made for him, and no sweet meat cooked in spiced wine will be served to his plate.
Tomorrow his pockets will be full of gold.
Sandor slips behind the yellow flaps of his linen tent, letting them fall closed to preserve the pleasant temperature in the shadow. Everything is tinted of a dim orange light, the sun struggles to penetrate the fabric and properly light the edges of his furniture and the tangled sheets of his cot.
Wine is already there, along with water which he only uses to dump over his head, rubbing his hair clean from the sweat with a great palm. The water slips below the gorget of his armor and drench his tunic. When he peels off the amour, piece by piece, setting it near his chest, the tunic is sticking to the muscles of his chest, matting the hair there and mingling with the abundant sweat oiling his skin.
“My lord, your prize” Says a voice from behind the tent flap, a young man stands just outside the opening, the sun sheds his shadow below the edge of the tent’s walls.
Sandor groans, downing more wine before opening the tent for the squire. He is carrying a platter with silk ribbons and a pouch of gold sat on it. Sandor studies him from below the curtain of his damp hair, still dripping sweet water over his face and down to his beard.
“My lord, your prize” repeated the young man, trembling in the thigh confinements of his hoses. A Lannister boy, judging by the red sheen of his tunic and the blonde of his hair that is lit aglow and almost white by the violent sunlight. Behind him, holding a jar of water and a set of rags stands a much more familiar face.
The boy turns to the woman and stutters “I know not who she is— Ah-” He starts.
Sandor rips the platter from the Lannister squire and grumbles “She is here for me, leave, you have done your due” He spits. The squire is fast on his feet, escaping the frightening stare of the man peering above him.
Sandor holds the tent open for the laundry girl to come through, she does, slipping inside quickly and settling her tools on the floor by the table.
“You are already here, gossipy wench,” He mumbles, rubbing his face from the water, unashamed about the wetness of his clothing and the less than pleasant smell of his skin.
“You won, my lord” She says, looking at him with a curious tilt of her head, “Of course I had to come as quick as possible to give you your respite”
“Stop trying to act like a camp follower, it doesn’t fit your face” Says Sandor, sitting on his cot. She looks at him, standing by the table. Despite her words, and her usual teasing demeanour, her stance is timid now.
“You fought bravely” she whispers, bashful like a princess congratulating her savior. She was there in the stands, pressed elbow to elbow with the whores and the peasants to get a peek of the fighting in the field. He had wanted her to come, even if he did not invite her.
“I did not. I need no bravery to fight. I like beating little boys bloody”
“He was no boy, ser Webber of Coldmoat” She says, she adjusts her belt over her hips. It is not the usual rough leather one, this one is woven wool, of a bright yellow bracketed by dark brown stitching. He looks at it curiously, mostly as an excuse to stare at her hips.
“Is that the gift of a lover?” he asks. She hides her face, shoulders lifting in displeasure.
“Of course not, it was my mother’s” she says “It is old… yet since I never wear it may just as well be new” She says, moving her hips side to side to show it off, and succeeding mostly in drying his mouth and burning him ablaze with a strange hunger.
It is typical of her to specify nonsense like that. He enjoys that more than all he enjoys about her. The way she chitters and peeps and talks and talks and spins wonder into a life as dull as that of a launderer. He likes it most because she is right, she lives truly, and not encased in a brass bezel like the ladies at court, not free to think, see or speak the whole truth. She is life in a city filled with decay.
He leans back, ever so slightly, just to watch her movements and her posture better. His head thrums from the heat and the strain of the fight.
“Are you sure it is not some swine-faced mummer who decided to romance you?” he asks, just to make her body tense up in frustration.
“You are insufferable” she says, and plucks at her poor dress to not look at him.
He beckons her closer with a hand, calling her to his cot. She dips a rag in cold water and brings it to the cot, sitting next to him to press the rag to the back of his neck. Once the cloth is in place her hands slip further down and splay over his back, on his shoulder blades where they rest, soft and warm. He doesn’t mind the temperature of her palms, were they scorching he would enjoy it. The simple press of them there melts the tension holding his bones at an angle.
She doesn’t mean what she says.
Sandor’s eyes fall on the platter where the money is, and circling the fat pouch is a dainty flower crown, tightly woven and secured by a long ribbon. A gift for a lady.
She keeps wiping his face down with a cloth, industrious as a tiny worker ant.
Sandor leans forwards and drags the tiny table closer until it knocks against his cot.
She interrupts her work to stare at him, her mouth ever so slightly agape, so that a tiny slit opens between her lips. He looks at her and hums, then lifts the flower crown from the platter, holding it up with a finger.
She studies it and peers through the circle of flowers to focus on his face beyond it. It has been long since she stopped looking in alarm at his face and the ruins of his features under the drape of his comb over. There is nothing but curiosity in her gaze, and he remembers fondly that even when there was fear there, he rarely ever read disgust on her face.
“This is for the Queen of Love and Beauty” She says, cheeks coloring and lifting in a smile. “Right? because you won, my lord” She says, a hint of mirth slipping between the words when she calls him a lord. He nods.
“You should toss it to a lady by the end of the tournament” She says, removing the wet cloth from his neck and folding it on her lap where the water dampens her apron. She looks down at the floor, where her left leg dangles from the cot.
“There is no lady deserving of it.” He states. She looks up and shakes her head.
“You are too rude Sandor”
“They are all peacocks, vain animals in silk and perfume, do you think any of them deserve this?” He asks her. She avoids the question with a shake of her head.
“They are all fair ladies,” she says.
“They have fair dresses, and fair jewelry bought by fair lordlings for them to show off” Says Sandor, leaning into her until she can hear the pull of his breaths. “But none of them are fair themselves” He says. His lips trail up her neck, he can feel the skin heat up under his kisses.
His hands lift the crown, flicking the ribbons back over her head and lowering it atop her hair. She immediately breaks eye contact with him, fiddling with her woven belt and stuttering.
“Oh– Sandor, this is not–” She says, her hands rubbing together.
“Hush” He says, maybe too roughly, but the movement of his hands belies the sentiment, brushing her hair back so they won't get caught in the heads of the flowers. He strokes her skin, pushing back and forth from the center of her cheeks to her ears.
Her hands lift to graze the crown and she smiles, her face opening up, enough to light up the dark interiors of the tent and burn a blazing hole through his chest, digging straight towards his heart, through his lungs, and flooding his blood like sugar sweetening the water of a well.
“Queen of Love and Beauty.” He confirms, brushing his knuckles on her brows. Her hands slip on the hairy back of his own and she squeezes his rough skin.
“Thank you, Sandor, you are the bravest warrior I ever did know.” She says. He scoffs, plucking the wet cloth from her lap and letting it drop to the floor in a heavy heap. He pulls her to his face with a palm on the back of her head and kisses her from her temple to her ear, then digs his nose into the flower crown to smell the slowly drying flowers.
Outside the knights howl and sing, boasting, arguing, waving over their squires to get ready for the competition. Sandor ignores them, inside his tent, in his arms, his queen of love and beauty smells like a prairie, dotted in sweet scented flowers and aromatic herbs. Inside his tent is the vastness of a garden, open and fresh for him to roll in with his lady in his arms, happy as a dog.
She kisses his chin, then the underside of his beard and the edge of his jaw. Her lips are light, the graze of a petal, like she is trailing a daisy over his skin, a stray hair or two end in his mouth and he simply allows it.
“You can truly be so sweet,” She fawns, her tiny hands digging everywhere, pulling and pushing and caressing him. He rolls his eyes, detaching from her to look at her face, the flower crown almost falls over her eyes, but she adjusts the ribbons to tighten them to her head.
Her movements hold no grace but are as practical as he is familiar with, they are the hands of a woman apt to work, she ties the ribbon so fast and tugs it almost too hard before finger combing her hair. Her hands are of a launderer, her heart is that of a lady in a story.
“Hush, else I will give it to that wrinkled cunt Cersei,” says Sandor. She gasps and presses her hands to his mouth, fighting a grin.
“Someone will hear you!” She says, her smile wins over her mouth “And this is mine now, no one else’s” She says with a tender touch of her hand to his jaw. His chest rumbles with satisfaction, enjoying the weight of her next to him.
He kisses her palm and nods. It truly can’t be anyone else’s.
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Summary: You've always been a little soft. Almost too sweet for a place as dirty as Kings Landing. Turns out your softness has rubbed off on the great and fearsome Hound of House Clegane. (wc. 2.7k)
Warnings: Possibly OOC Sandor (he's soooo soft for reader it isn't funny). Reader is fem-body coded, she/her pronouns, called 'woman'/'lady'.
Listening to: 'Mary On A Cross' by Ghost - "And the truth of the matter is I never let you go, let you go... Your beauty never ever scared me, Mary on a, Mary on a cross."
Love Confessions || Masterlist || AO3 link
You knew how foolish it was to dream. Living in Kings Landing could strip even the sweetest of birdsongs away, you knew that all too well.
But you were a fool.
Though your days of work were hard, and nights of rest too short, you still dreamt that somehow, some way, something wonderful could happen to you. You still saw the darkest, the worst things the world had to offer, but you hoped that it wasn’t all that bad.
Days like this, they weren’t so bad, so long as you got home before the men took their drink away from the tables. For now though, with the daylight still new, banners flapping in the warm breeze, fresh wine flowing, and the chatter before the events began, life was good.
You remember the first tournament you went to, in the first months after your arrival. It could be called being naive or foolish or self-centered, but you tricked yourself into thinking you’d be asked for a favour. You never had been asked before, but you reasoned that a bigger tournament meant more knights and lords, which meant you might finally be asked.
However it meant more ladies too, much more highborn ladies. Baratheon’s, Tarley’s, Frey’s, Lannister’s, Hightower’s, and many more. You blended into the crowd and weren’t even looked at twice. You went to your room that night and cried into your pillow until your tears ran dry. Same at the tournament after that too. And the one after.
Curse your soft foolish dreamer heart.
You were prepared for it now, with all the tournament’s the king likes to put on you had plenty of time to learn to deal with it. Still, an ember of hope lingered.
Sandor Clegane had never met anyone as annoying, as gullible, irritating, soft, doe-eyed, or heart-achingly sweet as you. It drove him mad. You drove him mad. You thought of him as a friend, weaseled your way into his semi-good-graces and left lavender and rosemary in your wake.
Worst of all - how much he liked it.
He was big and scary. Scarred, ugly, people saw him coming and went the other way. He was The Hound, the Lannister’s dog, the cruel Prince Joffrey’s shadow. No one liked him, no one wanted to be his friend. But you always greeted him with a smile.
Which is how you became the only person Sandor had a genuine soft spot for. Which he was now hating. He thought perhaps he loathed you just as much as he yearned for you.
Right now he was fixing up his gauntlets with a clenched jaw. Stuck in disbelief that he was coerced into parading around today of all days. You didn’t know he was going to be joining in the tournament and competing, but it was still your fault.
Barely a few days ago you’d mentioned how you’d never been able to give a favour to a competing ser or lord. The tug in his chest at the way your voice sounded - a resigned disappointment in one of the most lighthearted tones he’d heard in his whole life - told him immediately that he was going to be competing at this tournament just for that sole purpose.
Besides, it turned out that getting time away from the cruel boy-prince's side was easy when the temptation of blood being split was on the table.
And so he, the idiot, was going to go out and prance around like a court fool for the entertainment of all the lords and ladies of Kings Landing - all just to make you happy.
Sandor turned out of the tent and cursed your soft foolish dreamer heart, and he cursed how much he liked it.
You never got to sit close to the king and queen, even though you were one of the ladies who kept Queen Cersei company most days, you were still too lowborn for such a thing as the best seats. You got to stand, instead, closer to the far end, near the back, if not at the back like you were today.
That aside, usually you could see Sandor from your seat nonetheless.
It was easy to seek him out in a crowd, he stood a head above most men, and even easier as of late, since he was more often looking at you already than not. But today he was missing from your sight.
You were halfway to bringing your almost empty cup to your lips when you felt a sharp tug at the back of your dress. The look on your face could've killed as you turned to the culprit, but it softened when you saw who it was.
It was him.
He looked a little bit different though. Odd almost, compared to how he usually presented himself. The thing that stood out the most to you was how his armour looked more polished, his cape traded in for a clean yellow one, and he had that dog-fashioned helmet tucked under one arm.
“Sandor, what are you doing with your helm?” you asked.
He shifted back slightly now he had your attention, and for a moment he looked something akin to fed up. Based on his personality, you knew you probably weren’t his favourite person, but you figured being kind never hurt anyone.
Not much anyway.
“I’m competing,” he said simply. Little did he know, that explained nothing to you.
“What?” you said, stepping closer to him so you both moved away from the prying ears of the crowd. They weren’t paying much attention to you anyway, since a horn blew announcing the first jousters. “You’ve always said you’d never be caught dead in a tournament."
He sighed.
“Are you feeling okay?” you asked, laying a hand on his lower arm, “You aren’t in trouble are you? Oh no, this is some bet, right? How much coin will you get?”
He sighed again, this time gently prying your hand off his armour, and your questions slowed to a halt.
“No, woman. None of that nonsense. Just give me your favour and get it over and done with.” he said.
“My - my favour?” you gawked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, you were complaining about it a few days ago.” he said, “Just give me your pretty little token so I can win and give it back.”
“You’d win? With my favour?” you asked, head tilting.
“Yes.”
“You hate tournaments.”
“Yes.” He repeated, then after a few beats of silence, “What’s your point?”
“Why?”
“‘Why?’ I don’t need to tell you why. Besides, all the other prissy ladies wouldn’t want to waste their favour on me, and you want to give your favour to someone. So shut up and give it to me.”
You watched him as he spoke, waiting for some sort of catch. An admittance or hint of any kind that this was a cruel joke. None came, instead there was nothing in his eyes but honest truth, and something else you couldn’t place.
“And you’ll give it back when you win?” you asked softly.
“Aye.” he replied. You smiled up at him with a small hum.
You pulled the handkerchief from up your sleeve, and folded it neatly into a smaller square before placing it in his hand. You saw how his fingers curled around the silk before looking up, just to find his face inches away from yours.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now was it?” he said, wine-tainted breath fanning over your nose and cheeks. You shook your head, unable to resist the giddy smile that broke across your lips. “I’ll see you when I win.”
He turned to walk away, tucking the handkerchief into the front of his gorget, but you grabbed onto his arm again. Yanking at the ribbon in your hair, it fell free and you efficiently tied the - ironically - yellow ribbon around his gauntleted wrist. When you caught his eye after stepping back to admire your work, he raised a brow at you.
“So all those other 'prissy ladies' know someone spent their favour on the man who won the tournament today.”
Sandor could smell you.
More accurately, the handkerchief you gave him. The lavender and rosemary cut through the smell of steel and horse and dirt, reminding him though his sneer of the reason he was doing this stupid thing at all.
Though if he was being honest, the look on your face when you realised he was serious about taking your favour was plenty of a reward already.
Stranger was restless under him, a warhorse unused to being in the lists and among the crowds. The big black beast couldn’t stand still, was acting how Sandor felt. And he was starting to feel like he wanted to run his sword clean through the poor bastard at the other end of the field.
He didn’t want to shock your little beating heart to a stop with the cruelty he usually wielded. The bloodlust could wait for another day. You required something more gentle.
You deserved it, he thought as the grip on his lance tightened. You deserved it and more.
The sun just started to sink behind the treeline to mark the start of sunset, and the day had ended as it always did on a tournament day; in victory. No one’s cheers were louder than yours.
Sandor had won.
You’d thought it would be so as soon as you started thinking about who would come out on top. With the few who could best him unavailable or unwilling to compete, you doubted you were the only one to think he’d win.
You weren’t any less excited when he finished his final pass having laid his opponent flat on their back.
And, even better, you managed to push to the front row despite the crowds. How? You had no idea. Everyone was so excited to see the Lannister Dog you called your friend face each opponent successfully.
You cupped your hands around your mouth, cheering loudly over the roar of the crowd as Sandor turned his horse on the spot. Even under his helm you could feel his grey eyes fall on you.
He came closer, you barely noticed as he scooped up the wreath of white roses into his palm. The circlette looking more like a bracelet than a headdress in his hand. Only when he stopped his horse in front of you did you realise what was happening.
That little display of flowers was meant to crown the tournament’s queen of love and beauty, and honor given to the victor to give out to the lady of his choosing. A lady who was his wife, his lover, someone who he wanted something more from.
Sandor was giving it to you.
Your head tilted up to catch his eyes as he looked down at you. Stranger shifted under him, liking even less how close they were to the crowds. Then the wreath was gently laid on your head. A featherlight touch brushed along your hair for a threadbare moment before he pulled away.
The Hound couldn’t be seen as tender, even if everything about what just happened told you that was exactly what he wanted to be.
But everyone, and you mean everyone, was watching. Today, the day Sandor Clegane took out the title of tournament champion, and the day he crowned a low-born lady-in-waiting as the queen of love and beauty, would be a day people would write pages about.
Later, with the people having followed the King to the feast that marked the end of the day, you snuck away. You had to find Sandor, and much like earlier he was not among the crowds.
You went to his tent, and found him there instead.
“Is there enough wine in here for two?” You asked, peering through the entrance to find him back in his old armour.
“No,” he started, “You were too slow.” He turned to you as you stepped in.
If he didn’t want you around he wouldn’t have said you were slow. It would’ve sounded harsh, if you knew him less, but you knew him more. If he didn’t want company he wouldn’t have talked so much, you knew he knew that’s how it worked between you. Despite his comment, he made no protest when you leant over and snuck a sip from the goblet on the small table nearby.
When you turned back to him, intent on starting a conversation about how well he did that day, he was already standing barely a foot away, and with what looked like a scrap of cream fabric thrust into your nose.
“Here,” he said, waving the handkerchief at you. You just shook your head, reaching out your hands to curl his fingers back around it with an almost shy smile.
“If you meant it when you gave me this crown, then you can keep it. A token for a token.”
He looked down at you, eyes flicking to the favour before back at you again. He huffed, much like a tired dog, and started stuffing the fabric under his breastplate.
“I want you to know you’d better be the only person who knows I’ll be carrying around a handkerchief." he grumbled when he finished.
“I sure hope so.” you said, stifling a laugh. “If anyone else knows you that well I might kill them myself.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed a laugh. “I’d like to see that.” For a moment everything went quiet. Neither of you spoke. There was a loud laugh from a group passing outside and your gaze fell to your feet.
“So did you mean it?” you asked quietly.
“Mean what?”
“Do you want to court me?” You said. You looked back up at him through your lashes. He was already looking down at you, with something soft and almost loving in his eyes. That realisation, that you’d drawn a look of love from Sandor Clegane, made your heartbeat flutter like a bird in a cage.
His hand raised to your face, a finger trailed gently across your jaw to your chin. It took everything in your soft foolish dreamer heart not to melt on the spot then and there. No one would ever believe you if you told them how nice Sandor was to you, not in the past and certainly not now.
Oh, but you were so close to swooning right into his arms. He’d hate that.
“Yes. I think you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to.” he replied, taking your chin in his hand. “If I didn’t I would’ve made my horse stomp the stupid thing into the mud.”
“So romantic.” you said. The way his eyes focused on your lips didn’t go past you unnoticed. Ah, you thought, so he probably was feeling as soft and gooey as you.
“You got your silly favour, I won, and you got your pretty crown. I’ve been romantic enough for one day.”
“I know, and I’m so ever grateful for it that I could kiss you.” You replied.
“I like the sound of that.” he said, grinning almost from ear to ear as he lent down and kissed you.
His hand was tight on your chin, calloses caught on the skin, and his lips were rough but by the seven - you could tell he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. His tongue flicked out to yours, tasting of spiced apple wine. Your hands slid easily around his neck as he crouched to wrap an arm around your waist.
It felt like he was everywhere, and yet suddenly he didn’t feel close enough at all.
Very briefly your mind fluttered to the thought that this wasn’t proper - if you were caught like this with anyone it would spell nothing else but trouble. He wouldn’t care, you could hear him say ‘fuck them’ even though his tongue was shoved halfway down your throat.
You did care a little more than him though.
Reluctantly you pulled away, easing his chasing lips with a few shorter softer kisses. You could feel his hand clench into the back of your dress, it felt so big resting there.
You could get used to this.
“Tease,” he grumbled, grey eyes honed in on yours.
“I don’t think you mind though.” you replied. He stood up, but kept you close with that arm around you. All you got in reply was a grunt of affirmation. “You’ve gone all soft on me, haven’t you, Clegane?”
“For you. Don’t tell anyone.” he said, almost looking like he was going to lean down and kiss you again. You just smiled.
Could u something with Sandor Clegane x Princess Reader where shes Roberts first and only trueborn child with Sandor as her sworn protector and secret lover?
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS 😞💔
Sinful Decisions ⋆˚꩜｡
Sandor Clegane x princess!Reader 🫧⭐️🪷
Context: Exactly what the prompt asked
Warnings: Heavy smut! MDNI please... Brief implications of sexual assault (not by the Hound)
a/n: My dear anon, 1000 apologies that I took forever to answer your request :') do forgive me and happy reading! PS I made this extra extra long for you so you had more to read after waiting so long for a reply...
Masterlist link
⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Is there anything so undoing as a daughter? Your father would be a fine testament to this saying.
Ever since you were a babe, your father had doted on, spoilt and coddled you to death. Your mother had died when you were young, not long before Robert was made to take Cersei as a wife. But no matter that Cersei had given him sons to further the Baratheon reign, you were always going to be his firstborn child. His trueborn child. Joffrey may be favoured for the throne, but you were favoured in your father’s heart.
Naturally, your father had designated only the best of the best to be your sworn shield and protector. And the cream of the crop was none other than the one they called the Hound — Sandor Clegane. He was a brute who preferred the company of dogs over the company of the highborn. But your father had appointed him to be your guard nonetheless, instructing the Hound to show no mercy to whoever laid a hand on his daughter.
You were skeptical of this Hound at first. You had made a conscious effort to befriend all your prior bodyguards, and those knights had all become close confidants of yours during their service. But the Hound was different. You were both intimidated and offended by his stubborn silence and brooding nature. All your attempts at communicating with the giant were met with a sullen frown or, on a good day, the occasional hmph and scoff of acknowledgement.
But you never gave up. Days turned into weeks and months of you chattering away at the Hound as he had no choice but to follow you around the Red Keep. You inquired about his favourite flowers (he didn't have one), his favourite birds (he thought they all tasted the same), his favourite songs (he only laughed dryly in response to this question), and eventually the Hound had grown somewhat comfortable in your presence.
It surprised him to acknowledge how easy it was to converse with you. How intentional you were with your words, and how attentive you were when he actually spoke. No one had ever paid him this much mind before. And while he never asked you any questions in return, you noticed how he had stopped leaving your queries unanswered.
And so your relationship with the Hound slowly grew into something that resembled a friendship. But there was more than met the eye. Something else had bloomed between the two of you... Something sinful and addictive... A secret the two of you would have to bring to your graves...
Today was Joffrey's nameday.
The little gremlin was eager to dance and drink the night away, listening to Lords and Ladies alike adulate him for how much he'd grown over the year — how much you resemble our dear King, Prince Joffrey! Hurrah!
The dining hall was packed with nobles and servants, their chatter bouncing off the walls and mixing into an incoherent buzz of voices. You sat quietly to the right of your father at the head of the room, pecking at your dinner.
"Are you bored, sweet daughter?"
You turned your head and chuckled as your father offered you a sympathetic smile. He knew you held no love for big feasts and parties unlike your half-brother.
"Nonsense, father. I of all people am delighted to see my brother Joffrey make it another year into his adolescence. What a fine gentlemen he is becoming." Your words were dripping in sarcasm, and this made your father laugh heartily.
Cersei must have heard your little quip as she shot you a contemptuous scowl.
"Perhaps the Princess would be more cheerful if she danced a little with some of the Lords here tonight," Cersei suggested. You couldn't help but roll your eyes a little. Of course she wanted you to go mingle amongst the bachelors of Westeros. She wanted nothing more than to marry you off to some nobleman.
"Thank you for your suggestion, Queen Cersei. But perhaps the Princess is most happy where she is," you replied, flashing your step-mother a courteous smile.
Cersei opened her mouth to respond, ever the sharp-tongued woman, but your father quickly raised his hand and waved her off.
"My daughter will dance with whoever she pleases. If none of the Lords here tonight do not earn her fancy, then she will not dance."
Cersei nodded amicably and turned back to Joffrey on her other side, her training as a Lady Lannister coming in useful as she swallowed her pride. You looked off into the distance and noticed the oil lamps had dimmed down a fair bit. Almost two hours had past since the beginning of the feast.
"Father, may I be excused? I'd like to retire for the night," you said sweetly, patting your father's forearm discreetly.
The King was too engrossed in watching the jester's performance to hear his daughter properly. "Of course, sweet daughter. Take care."
And when he looked back to check on you, you had already slipped out of the dining hall.
You hurried down the corridors of the Red Keep, light on your feet as you climbed up many flights of stairs. You stopped only when you reached the castle turret. It was walled in on all around in a perfect circle, save a small opening in the cobblestone where you could stick your head out and feel the cool night's breeze. You leaned your elbows on the ridge of the opening, sighing as you felt the chilly air brush against your cheeks and chest.
There was a rustle of steps behind you. You smiled to yourself.
“You’re usually more prompt than — Ser!” You jumped back a step when you turned and realised it was Ser Meryn that had followed you up the flight of stairs. "Forgive me, Ser Meryn, you startled me.”
Ser Meryn bowed modestly, but there was an unmistakeable smirk on his face. A smirk that only a woman would recognise as sinister. He reeked of ale and you immediately felt your stomach drop.
The knight approached you gingerly, like an awkward schoolboy trying to appear taller and bigger than he really was.
"Chilly night, isn't it, Princess?"
You gulped and nodded, fidgeting at the hem of your dress. You had never liked Ser Meryn. He was an abrasive and pompous ass who thought too much of himself than he deserved. Not to mention he was a bit of a pervert who always stood too close to you for comfort.
"What are you doing out here all alone, Princess?"
Your mind began to race thinking of an excuse to coax him back to the dining hall. You had no intention of being alone with the knight any longer.
"I just needed a breath of fresh air. The smell of cooked deer never sat well with me. Shall we head back now?"
The knight didn't seem to get the hint. Or if he did, he was blatantly ignoring it as he took a step further towards you.
“I hope it is not too bold of me to say, Princess, that you have grown to become a very fine young lady.”
You writhed in discomfort at his words, fighting with every ounce of will to flash him a dignified smile instead of punching him in the guts. “You are most kind Ser. Shall we return to the dining hall? I’m sure my father is wondering where such a valued member of his kingsgaurd has gone.”
Ser Meryn only chuckled dryly, as if amused by your urgency to go back to the ceremony. He took another step forward, his darkened sunspots and cracked lips illuminated by the moonlight. You instinctively stepped further away until your back was pressed firmly against the cobblestone walls.
“Why in such a rush to get back? Is it a crime for a knight to appreciate the beauty of the princess he has guarded for so long?”
“I am getting hungry again, Ser Meryn,” you asserted more firmly this time. “Let us go back.”
“The party can wait, Princess,” Ser Meryn said as he closed the distance between you two. “I think I have a better idea for us to pass time.”
You snapped and curled your fist into a ball. But before you could deliver a much-deserved blow to Ser Meryn’s face, there was a great thud of boots against the ground, and suddenly a firm hand grasped Ser Meryn’s shoulder from behind, spinning him around with such force that the knight let out an emasculating yelp.
The Hound barred his teeth and shoved a steel dagger against Ser Meryn’s jugular.
“One more word to the Princess and I will pierce this blade so deep into your skull it’ll take 10 men to rip it out,” Sandor growled, his grip on Ser Meryn’s tunic was so tight that he was almost lifted off the ground. Ser Meryn mumbled something incoherent, but the fear in his eyes was apparent.
“Now fuck off before I tell the king and he’ll have you beheaded in the town square.” Sandor released the coward who scrambled away like a dog with a tail between its legs.
You exhaled the tense breath you had been holding, finally relieved in the presence of a trusted face. The Hound turned to face you.
“What do you think you're doing? Running off like that?” Sandor barked, the lines of his brow creased with frustration. “Imagine what he would have done if I hadn’t shown up in time, huh? What then, Princess?”
You crossed your arms defiantly. “Well, I was waiting for you. Or might you have forgotten our little arrangement, Hound?"
Sandor was not amused. You could see the gears in his head turning as he tried to formulate a response, but to no avail. You sighed and rolled your eyes complacently.
"Oh well. I guess I'll just retire for the night then." You yawned, stepping to the side as you made your way to the stairwell exit.
But Sandor was quicker and he grabbed your forearm instantly, spinning you around.
"What a brat you are, Princess. I save you from a rapist and this is what I get? Not even a single word of thanks," he scowled. If you didn't know him so well, you would have thought that he was threatening you. But there was no anger in his eyes, only an unmistakable glimmer in his eyes that you've grown to recognise. A glimmer of desire.
Gently, you placed your free hand on his chest and looked up at him with an innocent smile. "What kind of thanks do you want?"
Sandor's chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm as he held onto your arm. A beat of silence passed between you two as neither of you dared to make a move. Many a time have the both of you shared this moment of stillness. The moment a decision had to be made; to walk away with one's honour, or to indulge in an unspeakable selfish sin. And the decision was the same every time.
Sandor released your arm and grabbed you by the waist. He pulled you to his body and crashed his lips into yours. He tasted like ale and sourleaf. His kisses were hungry. Needy. Devout.
Instinct kicked into both of your bodies as Sandor lifted you off the ground, pressing your back against the cobblestone wall. You wrapped your legs around his torso as your hands cupped his face, tracing the scars on his cheek that you knew so well.
"Sandor..." you whispered into his mouth. You could feel his hardness grow between your legs. Your body ached for him. "I need you."
For all the stubbornness and defiance that Sandor Clegane possessed, when his woman asked something of him, there would be no hesitation in his mind to give her whatever she willed. And you were his woman.
Sandor set you down on the ground and began unbuckling his breeches. His lips never left yours, and his tongue only grew hungrier for your taste. You were soaked just waiting for him.
"Turn around," he commanded. You obeyed immediately, turning to face the wall and pressing both palms against the stone. Sandor hiked up your long dress from behind, drooling at the sight of how perfect you looked.
"Come back a bit," he croaked, enormous hands gripping your hips as he pulled you further against the wall until you were fully stretched out. He pushed your feet apart a little more before lowering himself to the ground.
In the span of his life, the Hound had only ever knelt for two things. One was his king, purely out of duty. And the other was pussy, purely out of devotion.
You gasped as you felt Sandor's hot mouth against your heat. He ran his tongue across your slit, making you yelp as you dug your fingernails into the wall. He grabbed the back of your legs with ease, head tilted all the way back as he began to eat you.
"Gods Sandor..." You panted, already squirming as he flicked his tongue over your clit. He pressed his lips against your entrance and sucked hard, relishing in your juices as they dribbled down his chin. His burly arms kept your legs from buckling inwards as he coaxed more ungodly sounds out of you.
"Sandor! Please... Please I need more... Please," you begged, mouth agape as he grazed his teeth against your clit, sending shudders down your spine. You knew he was smirking as he rose from the floor.
"Tell me what you want, Princess." Sandor grabbed your ass and leaned over you, his massive body pressing down heavy on your back. "I'll give it to you, Princess. Whatever you want. Tell me."
You felt his cock press against the back of your thigh, precum leaking from the tip and dripping down your leg.
"I want you. Now."
That was all the reassurance the Hound needed. He guided his cock to your entrance, the tip swollen and hot as he rubbed it against your folds. You moaned and bucked your hips backwards uncontrollably. Sandor only laughed at how desperate you were for him.
With a low growl, Sandor pushed his cock into you and both of you gasped together. His thick cock stretched your walls so perfectly you could come then and there. As he began to move, one hand grabbing your hips, the other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged it until your neck was craned upwards to the ceiling.
His grunts echoed throughout the turret as he thrust into you, each time with more passion than the last. This was his heaven. This was his prayer to the gods. Your core tightened as you felt every inch of him pulse through you.
"More... More Sandor, please..." You moaned, legs twitching as you closed your eyes in pure bliss. Sandor hummed and snaked his hand down from your hips to your cunt. His calloused fingers found your clit with ease and he pinched your sensitive bud teasingly. You cried out, tears brimming at your eyes as the sensation rippled through your body.
"Whatever you want, Princess... Whatever... Princess..." Sandor repeated in a quiet chant, lost in his own world of pleasure as he rubbed circles on your clit. Your walls squeezed around his cock so good and he felt every fibre of his muscles tense.
"I'm gonna come Sandor... Oh gods... Sandor!"
Sandor only growled lowly as he felt you pulse around his cock. He could read your body like no other. His thrusts became sloppy and his grip on your hair tightened, stinging your scalp in a way that brought only ecstasy to your brain.
"I'm coming Sandor... Oh!" Before you could scream, Sandor released your hair and clasped his gigantic hand across your mouth, muffling your desperate cry for pleasure.
Your entire body convulsed as you came, walls gripping around him and vision going blurry with tears. Sandor came with you, his thick, hot load shooting up into your womb. You bit down on his finger as you rode out your high, Sandor's hand still dancing delicately on your clit. You felt his cum drip down your thighs and spill onto the ground as he pulled out.
He turned you around and caught you as you collapsed into his arms. He steadied you with your back against the wall, his arms on either side of you, as you both caught your breaths. And in that moment, as the night breeze filled the air, with you in his arms, and his seed in your womb, Sandor thought to himself that if the gods struck him down there and then for lechery, he'd die a happy man.
Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.
Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (reader’s dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!
Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!
Word Count: 21k
-
The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.
The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. They’re a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe you’re too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.
You prefer brown eyes, anyway.
Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-
You blink, and force a smile.
The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. “So, do you wanna maybe-“
A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.
“Move it, pal.”
Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.
The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.
“I-I…are you her…”
“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”
The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.
“I was on a date.”
Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”
You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”
He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”
“I don’t do jobs anymore.”
He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.
“I told you, that was a date.”
“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”
You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”
Craig’s smile falls a little.
Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.
“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”
Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“
“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”
You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.
When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.
“He’s out of prison, you know.”
You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”
“He keeps asking about you.”
Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”
Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.
“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“
“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.
Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.
And then it was all over. Just like that.
Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”
“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”
You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-
“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”
Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”
-
Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.
Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.
You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.
-
“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“
“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”
“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“
“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”
Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“
“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…
Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.
“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.
“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”
-
He’s in the yard.
Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?
He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.
He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.
“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.
You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”
-
“You’re bleeding.”
You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.
“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”
Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.
“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.
He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”
You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.
“Why? Would that bother you?”
“Yes.”
You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.
His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…
“Stop looking at me like that.”
He doesn’t. “Like what?”
“Like you want to kill someone for me.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.
But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.
This is not that plan.
And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-
His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.
“I’ve gotta…go inside.”
He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.
-
“We should talk.”
You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.
“Let go of me.”
He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”
“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.
You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.
As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.
But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.
The job. Focus on the job.
You can do this.
-
You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.
You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.
So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.
It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.
When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.
“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”
“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.
“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”
You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”
~
Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.
Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.
You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.
But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.
Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.
And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.
“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Look at me.”
He doesn’t. You snap.
“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.
“Stop it.”
“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.
“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.
When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”
“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”
He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.
“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”
You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”
He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.
“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.
The world explodes.
His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.
You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.
And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.
His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.
“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.
“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.
His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.
“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.
It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.
His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.
Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.
You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.
The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.
After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.
He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”
“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”
He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”
-
The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.
Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what.”
“You look nice.”
“Shut up.”
The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.
“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”
“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.
“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.
When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.
Fine.
-
“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”
“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”
“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”
You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”
“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”
-
You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.
Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.
You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”
At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.
“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.
“What?”
“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”
“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.
“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”
You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-
He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.
That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.
-
“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”
Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…
“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.
The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-
“We need to talk.”
You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”
“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“
“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-
The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.
“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”
In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.
Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.
He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.
His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.
It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.
“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”
“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”
-
When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.
Pope punched him back.
When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.
“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.
“This is bullshit. They-“
“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”
You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.
“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”
She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”
-
“What the fuck was that?”
“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.
“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”
He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”
“And whose fucking fault is that?”
His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”
“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick.”
“Pull the truck over.”
He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”
“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”
He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”
“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”
“Just let me talk to you. Please.”
“No.”
His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.
You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.
-
Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.
“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.
He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.
“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”
You frown. “Then why did you…”
He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Well, not anymore.”
“I was never-“
“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”
You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”
He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.
You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.
“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”
He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”
You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.
“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”
“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”
You snort. “Craig-“
“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”
You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.
You believe him.
-
When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.
“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”
“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”
“What?”
“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.
“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”
“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”
“Tell me what?”
“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.
“Tell me what?!”
“Just tell her.”
“I’ve been trying-“
“Tell. Me. What?”
“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”
Oh. Oh.
‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’
“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.
You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.
And then you walk into his room.
You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.
Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.
“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”
He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.
Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-
You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-
Fuck.
“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
He watches you. You watch back, tense.
“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”
You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”
“Three years.”
Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”
“Three. Years.”
“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.
You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.
“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.
“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”
And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.
For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.
His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.
But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.
Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.
His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-
You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.
“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”
“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.
“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”
You push past him, and walk out the door.
For once, he doesn’t follow.
-
“Where is she?”
You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out.
“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.
“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”
Yeah, sounds like you.
“So, you gonna talk to her?”
Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.
But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.
When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.
Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.
But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.
He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.
He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.
Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.
Just…not yet.
But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.
-
The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.
It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.
He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-
His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.
“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.
Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”
“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”
Son of a bitch.
“He’s joking.”
“Three.”
Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.
“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.
“Two.”
And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.
“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”
“Who was that?”
“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“
His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”
You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.
It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”
Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”
“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”
“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.
“We’re leaving.”
“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.
He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”
You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.
And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…
You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.
“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”
You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…
Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.
His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-
Goddammit.
“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”
The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.
You don’t say another word.
You just leave.
-
The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.
Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.
“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.
“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…
Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”
Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.
“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”
You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.
Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.
And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.
His.
-
When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.
Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.
And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.
You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.
Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.
You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.
“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.
“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”
Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.
“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.
“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”
Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.
You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.
“Do you want a sandwich?”
You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.
“Sure.”
-
The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.
When Pope opens the door, there you are.
Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.
“You fixed my door.”
He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.
Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-
“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.
“Yeah.”
“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”
His brow furrows a little more.
“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.
“It was creaking.”
“How many times have you broken into my house?”
Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Andrew.”
You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.
“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”
“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.
“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”
“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”
“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”
“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”
“You don’t know that I still love you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”
You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.
“You fucked up my job.”
“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”
Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”
You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.
“Coffee?”
You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”
And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.
-
Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.
Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.
Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.
But you did well. Really well.
And then, after dinner, you disappeared.
Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…
“Hi.”
Shit. “Hi.”
“Wanna sit down?”
Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.
He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.
“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.
He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…
“So what’s wrong?”
You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”
“Too well?”
“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”
He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.
“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”
Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.
His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.
“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.
And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”
-
It’s a fucking whirlwind.
You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.
He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.
The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.
“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.
“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.
He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.
“Tell me you want this.”
You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.
You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.
You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.
“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.
And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.
It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.
“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”
You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.
For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.
“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.
And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.
“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.
He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”
-
Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.
At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.
“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.
“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.
-
The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.
Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.
“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.
“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”
“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”
“I didn’t.”
You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.
-
For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.
And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.
He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.
There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.
Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.
He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.
You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.
And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.
You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.
He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.
You’re not ready for that.
So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.
“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.
You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.
Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”
He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”
“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”
“Or both.”
You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.
Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.
“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”
Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.
“Sure. Where are you?”
-
Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.
Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.
“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”
“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.
Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.
He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?
“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”
“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.
“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“
“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.
“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.
-
Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.
You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.
And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.
You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.
“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”
“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.
And then you smash the glass against the wall.
“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.
“Gimme another.”
He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.
And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.
And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.
That is, until Pope Cody shows up.
You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.
That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.
“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.
“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.
“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.
“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”
Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.
But you’re too late.
“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”
Pope punches him in the face.
You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.
Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.
You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.
The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.
Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.
You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…
And puke on his shoes.
You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.
“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.
He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.
You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.
You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.
It feels like home.
-
“Look who finally decided to come home.”
Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.
“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.
You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.
Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”
It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.
“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”
That hits you. Harder than it should.
No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.
…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-
No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.
Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.
And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.
And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…
You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.
That’s love.
And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.
“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”
Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.
You walk out the door, instead.
-
He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.
He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.
You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.
“You’re mad at me.”
You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.
His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.
“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”
You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.
He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.
“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”
You curl a little closer.
“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”
He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.
“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”
Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”
And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”
-
The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.
And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.
“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.
“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”
You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”
Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”
Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.
Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.
“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”
“You broke up a bar fight.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?”
“It was…between me and Craig.”
You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”
“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”
Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…
“Have you slept?”
He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”
Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-
“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.
His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”
He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.
“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“
“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”
He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”
“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”
Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”
“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”
He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.
“You two back together?”
“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”
You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”
His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.
You scoff. “Shut up.”
-
That’s the problem with good things. They always end.
You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.
“Do you wanna go home?”
You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.
You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-
Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.
“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”
You leave before he can follow.
-
“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.
“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”
“What the fuck do you want this time?”
“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”
“Pope had nothing to do with that.”
Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”
“Fuck you.”
“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”
You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”
You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.
“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”
He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.
-
“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.
You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”
“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“
“I need it now.”
He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.
His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.
“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”
“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”
His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”
“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.
It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.
Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”
He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”
-
Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.
God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.
Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.
“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.
“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.
“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”
You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.
“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.
“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”
“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”
“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”
“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.
Fuck.
“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”
Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”
You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”
“He’ll just take it off.”
“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“
You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.
“Get. Away. From. Her.”
Shit.
“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.
Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.
“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”
He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.
“Where is he?”
“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”
And he does.
One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.
But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.
And you let him.
Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.
You’re waiting for him in the hall.
You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.
“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.
“No.”
You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.
“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”
He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.
-
A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.
When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…
To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…
He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.
You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.
When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.
“What was that for?”
He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”
“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.
He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”
You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.
You believe him. You really, really believe him.
“Take off your clothes, please.”
He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”
“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.
Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.
Well, not anymore.
“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”
“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.
“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”
“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”
“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”
“Like father, like daughter.”
“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.
It all happens so fast.
In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.
This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.
The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.
You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-
And then the gun goes off.
-
You wake to an empty bed.
Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.
Huh.
The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.
Naked. Staring at the moon.
He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.
“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”
“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.
“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”
When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.
“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.
“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”
Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”
You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.
“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”
“I’ll do anything for you.”
“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”
He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.
“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”
“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.
“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”
-
For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.
It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.
You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…
Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.
“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”
You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.
You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.
Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.
“No. No no no no no!”
Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.
There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.
Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”
Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.
“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.
When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.
Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.
“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”
He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.
-
“Holy shit. What happened?”
Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.
He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”
“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.
“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”
You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”
“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”
“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”
He does. He looks like he might have been crying.
“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not lying.”
He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”
“Too late. You done puking?”
He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.
And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.
“I love you.”
You stop, and furrow your brow.
“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”
Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”
“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”
You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.
Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.
“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”
He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.
“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.
He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.
“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”
-
Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.
Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.
“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.
“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”
He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.
“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”
“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”
There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…
-
“I love you.”
The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.
You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.
“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.
You shift, and he goes very, very still.
“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.
“…Hi.”
“You just said you loved me.”
“I…thought you were sleeping.”
You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.
“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”
He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.
“Andrew?”
“…a while.”
You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”
His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”
“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”
-
A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.
“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”
“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”
Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.
But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.
“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”
You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.
Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.
“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.
“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”
You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…
-
When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.
You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.
Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.
“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.
He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.
“I thought…I thought you were-“
“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”
He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“
“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”
“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.
“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”
“Since I first met you.”
“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”
“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”
“Never found a perfect time.”
“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”
He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”
Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”
“I’m glad I did it.”
“I know.”
And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.
“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.
“When the drugs wear off.”
You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”
“When they say you can.”
Hm. “Can we have sex?”
He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”
“I like where this is going.”
“I’ll never leave you again.”
“Keep talkin’, Cody.”
“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”
“Take me now.”
The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”
-
You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.
He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.
It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.
But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.
A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.
His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.
“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”
He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-
And pulling back.
You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.
“I have another idea.”
“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”
His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…
And pulls out a ring.
“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.
“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.
Synopsis: Working nights in the emergency department at PTMC is unpredictable. One moment you're stitching up lacerations, the next you're running a code, and somehow the coffee is always cold before you get a chance to drink it.
After three years as an ED nurse, Y/N has learned to expect the unexpected. Between the organized chaos of the night shift, the friendships that keep everyone going, and the patients who change everything in an instant, the emergency department has become a second home.
The one thing she never expected was Dr. Jack Abbott.
As shift after shift brings them together, professional respect begins to blur into something neither of them is quite prepared to face. But in a place where every second matters and lives are constantly on the line, some feelings are easier to ignore than admit.
Or at least... they try.
Contains This story contains medical emergencies, emergency department procedures, trauma cases, CPR and resuscitation efforts, injuries, blood and medical terminology, patient death and discussions surrounding loss, mature language, workplace stress, slow-burn romance, flirtation, emotional tension, and themes involving healthcare professionals. While inspired by The Pitt, certain medical scenarios, timelines, and character interactions have been adapted for the purposes of fiction.
Note: Me again, hi. I posted part 1 and started writing part 2 so the wait wouldn't be long. Please give me some more ideas y'all want to see, because I'm in the groove writing these. I hope y'all enjoy, because I know I did!
-------------
The trauma rolled through the doors exactly two minutes later. Whatever had almost happened in the supply room disappeared beneath muscle memory.
"BP's dropping."
"Two large-bore IVs."
"Hang blood."
"Let's move."
For the next hour, neither of you had time to think. Abbot was all clipped instructions and steady hands. You answered before he even finished asking. The rest of the team moved around the two of you like a practiced dance.
No lingering glances. No almost touches. Just medicine. By four in the morning the department settled at least by emergency department standards. The overdose was stable.
The little girl with the broken wrist had gone upstairs after showing everyone her bright pink cast. The "snake bite" had been discharged with instructions to avoid arguing with garden equipment.
Lena had muttered, "Medical miracle," as he walked out.
Six-thirty arrived faster than anyone wanted. The sky outside the ambulance bay windows had turned pale blue. Night shift looked exhausted. Day shift looked entirely too awake.
The familiar wave of fresh scrubs filtered through the department, carrying travel mugs and breakfast sandwiches.
"Morning," someone called.
"No," Lena answered flatly.
Several people laughed.
"You all look terrible," one of the day nurses observed.
"We're glowing," Mateo corrected. "It's called sleep deprivation."
Report began. You handed off your patients one by one, answered questions, signed your last chart, and finally closed your computer. Your shoulders immediately felt ten pounds lighter.
You stretched, wincing. "I think my spine actually filed a complaint," you muttered.
Lena snorted. "Mine quit around three."
Across the nurses' station, Abbot was finishing report with Robby. Professional. Calm. Composed. Exactly as he'd been for the last several hours. Not once had either of you acknowledged what had happened.
Not once. As everyone started gathering their bags, you spotted Santos pulling her stethoscope from her backpack.
Perfect. "Santos?"
She looked up. "Yeah?"
"Can I... steal you for a second?"
She studied your face for half a heartbeat. "...Sure."
The two of you wandered toward the empty staff lounge. The moment the door closed, Santos crossed her arms.
"What happened?"
You blinked. "What makes you think something happened?"
She gave you a look. "You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The one that says you've been emotionally compromised."
"I have never—"
"You absolutely have."
You sighed dramatically. "Fine."
Santos waited. Patiently. Mostly. "Well?"
You rubbed the back of your neck. "So..."
"So?"
"I may have almost..."
She leaned forward.
"...kissed Dr. Abbot."
Silence. Complete silence. Then. "You what?"
Your face immediately heated. "It wasn't planned!"
"It rarely is!"
"It just... happened."
Santos stared at you for a solid five seconds. "No."
"Yes."
"In the hospital?"
"...Supply room."
She closed her eyes. "The supply room."
"I know."
"The one twenty feet from the nurses' station?"
"I know."
"The one everyone uses?"
"I KNOW."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Start from the beginning."
So you did. You told her about hiding in the supply room. About him finding you. About the conversation. About him saying he noticed your smile. About him admitting he always knew where you were. About the humming.
"You hum?" Santos interrupted.
"I did not know I hummed!"
She laughed. "I am never going to let that go."
"Focus."
"Right."
You continued until you reached the part where he'd brushed your hair away. Santos stopped smiling.
"...He did that?"
You nodded. "And then...The Vocera went off."
She groaned. "Oh, come on."
"I know."
"No." She pointed accusingly toward the ceiling. "The universe has terrible timing."
"I think the trauma patient appreciated it."
"Still." She shook her head.
"So..."
"So."
"What happens now?"
You looked down. "I don't know."
"You like him."
It wasn't a question.
You nodded once. "...Yeah."
"And he likes you."
"I think so."
Santos laughed softly. "I don't think there's much mystery left."
"There are about twelve hospital policies standing between us."
"And one of them is his job." She added
Your smile faded. "I know."
She rested a hand on your shoulder. "Just... be careful."
"I will."
"But don't pretend nothing's there."
You looked toward the doorway. "I don't think either of us can anymore."
You left the lounge a few minutes later. The department was quieter now. Night shift had mostly disappeared. Day shift had officially taken over. Lena and Mateo were already halfway to the elevators.
"You coming?" Lena called.
"I'll catch up."
She raised one eyebrow. Mateo noticed where your eyes had drifted. Toward Abbot.
He grinned. "We'll save you an elevator."
"Mateo."
"What?"
Lena grabbed his sleeve. "Leave her alone."
"I'm encouraging workplace communication."
"You're encouraging gossip."
"Also true."
They disappeared around the corner, still arguing. You walked toward the physician’s workroom intending to grab your jacket. Instead...You found Abbot alone. He'd taken off his scrubs and replaced them with jeans that looked almost as worn out as you and a tight black compression shirt.
He looked just as tired as you felt. He glanced up when you entered.
"I thought you'd already left."
"So did I."
For a moment neither of you moved. The hospital around you had shifted into morning mode. Phones rang. Stretchers rolled past. Someone laughed down the hall. Life continued. Inside the small room, it felt strangely still.
"I talked to Santos," you admitted.
He smiled faintly. "Should I be worried?"
"No...Maybe a little."
He chuckled. "I imagine she has opinions."
"So many."
"I believe that."
Another quiet settled between you. Not awkward. Just... careful. Abbot slipped his stethoscope into his bag before speaking again.
"I've been thinking."
"Dangerous."
"It usually is."
You smiled despite yourself.
His expression softened. "I meant what I said."
Your heartbeat sped up. "In the supply room?...... I know."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"I know."
"I've tried not to notice you."
That caught you off guard. "What?"
"I've tried." He looked almost amused with himself.
"I told myself you were just my colleague."
"I am."
"I told myself that was all."
His eyes met yours. "It stopped being true a long time ago."
Your breath caught.
"I don't know exactly when." He leaned lightly against the desk.
"Maybe it was when you stayed three hours after your shift ended because a patient's wife was terrified to be alone."
You blinked. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything." He smiled.
"Or maybe it was when you cried after losing your first pediatric code and came back the next day anyway."
You hadn't realized he'd known about that. "I didn't cry in front of anyone."
"No." His voice was gentle.
"But I saw your eyes afterward."
You swallowed.
"Or maybe..." he continued quietly, "...it was the first time I heard you laughing with Lena at three in the morning after the worst shift imaginable."
His smile grew. "I realized the department felt lighter whenever you were in it."
Your eyes shimmered. "Jack..."
"I've spent months reminding myself why this can't happen."
He looked away for the first time. "The power imbalance. The professionalism."
"The responsibility."
He nodded. "Every single reason is valid."
"Then why are you telling me this?"
"Because if I don't..." He exhaled slowly.
"...I'll spend the rest of my life wondering whether you knew." He looked back at you. "I care about you."
The words were simple. No dramatic speech. No flourish. Just the truth.
"I care about you far more than I ever intended to."
Your eyes searched his.
"I don't expect anything from you. I don't expect an answer. And I'm not asking you to cross any lines." His voice was steady.
"But I couldn't keep pretending this was only in my head."
Your own voice came out barely above a whisper. "It's not."
He closed his eyes briefly, almost relieved. When he looked back at you, there was a softness in his expression you had never seen before.
"No?"
You shook your head. "No."
A long silence settled between you. Not uncertain. Just full.
Finally, you smiled, a small, tired smile that somehow said everything neither of you had been brave enough to say for months.
"I think..." you whispered, "...we're going to have to be very smart about this."
Abbott held your gaze. "I think you're right."
"And very patient." A corner of his mouth lifted.
"I can be patient."
"You've had a lot of practice."
"So have you."
The room fell quiet again. Not the hurried silence of an emergency department. Not the brief lull between pages. A different kind of silence. One that seemed to press in around the two of you until the sounds of monitors and voices beyond the door faded into the background.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed able to.
You became acutely aware of how close he was standing. Close enough to see the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes after twelve relentless hours. Close enough to catch the scent of antiseptic mixed with coffee and the clean detergent from his shirt. Close enough that if either of you took a single step forward...
Your pulse hammered.
He let out a slow breath. "I should go."
"You should."
Neither of you did.
His eyes searched yours as though he were committing every detail to memory. "I meant what I said."
"I know."
"I've tried to convince myself this would pass."
You swallowed. "Did it?"
A quiet, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him. "No."
Your heart squeezed.
"I tried not looking for you when I came into the department." He smiled to himself. "That lasted about a day."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I tried pretending you were just another nurse."
"And?"
"And then you'd laugh..." he said softly, "...or argue with Mateo over something ridiculous, or make one of our patients smile on the worst day of their lives."
He shook his head. "I'd forget I was supposed to keep my distance."
You took an unconscious half-step closer. "So, it wasn't just me."
His eyes flicked briefly to the space between you. "No."
The gap had narrowed to inches. You could feel the warmth radiating from him. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you seemed willing to break whatever invisible thread had drawn you together.
Your voice was barely audible. "Jack..."
He looked at you as though waiting for you to tell him to leave.
Instead, you whispered, "If we do this..."
"I know."
"It changes everything."
"I know."
"We can't pretend this didn't happen."
His answer came without hesitation. "I don't want to."
Your breath caught. His hand lifted slowly. Not rushed. Not assumed. His fingertips brushed lightly against your jaw, lingering there just long enough for you to lean into the touch before you even realized you were doing it.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured.
You looked into his eyes. There was no uncertainty in them. Only restraint. Only the question. Instead of answering with words, you closed the last inch between you.
His forehead rested against yours for the briefest moment.
"You sure?" he whispered.
You nodded. "So are you."
That was all it took. He kissed you gently at first, almost cautiously, as if giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn't. Your hand found the front of his top, fingers curling lightly into the fabric as you leaned closer.
The kiss deepened naturally, months of restrained feelings finally slipping past every careful boundary you'd both built. It was warm and unhurried, filled with quiet certainty more than urgency. He cradled your face with one hand while the other rested lightly at your waist, drawing you just a little closer.
The world outside disappeared. There were no monitor alarms. No overhead pages. No bustling emergency department. Just the two of you.
When you finally pulled back, neither of you had gone very far. Your foreheads still touched. You were both smiling in that slightly stunned way people do after something they've imagined for so long finally becomes real.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. "I've wanted to do that for months."
His smile widened. "I know."
"You know?"
"I was hoping."
You laughed again, and this time he laughed with you. Then reality quietly found its way back into the room. The physician’s workroom. The open door. The department just outside. You both glanced toward the hallway before looking back at one another.
"We really have to be smarter than that," you said.
He smiled, reluctant but amused. "We do."
"But..."
"But?"
"I'm not sorry."
His expression softened. "Neither am I."
For one lingering moment, neither of you moved. Then, with visible effort, he took a single step backward. The distance returned. Professional. Necessary. Agonizing.
He slung his bag over his shoulder. "The department has waited this long."
His eyes never left yours. "We can wait a little longer."
You nodded. "But now..." A smile tugged at your lips. "...at least I know what I've been waiting for."
He held your gaze for one last heartbeat before opening the door.
"Ladies first."
You walked out together, careful to leave a respectful space between you before anyone could notice. To everyone else, it looked like two exhausted coworkers finishing another overnight shift.
Only the two of you knew that everything had changed.
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summary: you show up to the bar with the intention of leaving with someone. which you wouldn't have to do if you didn't have such an embarrassing crush on the nightshift attending. jack abbot is hellbent on making sure that you don't leave with anyone else tonight. which he would tell you, except for that fact that he's under the impression that you have no idea he exists.
notes: based on this request! not proofread
masterlist 𓊔 request
“Look who finally decided to join us!” An all-too familiar voice jeers from a hightop table, making you snap your head to the left.
Trinity is already out of her seat, arms up in the air to celebrate your arrival. Not that arriving at this dusty, cramped bar should be celebrated by anyone. It was the only bar that was open this late-- or early, depending on how you look at it. You’re wrapped up into a cinnamon-scented hug before you can protest, her arms squeezing tightly around your shoulders.
Behind her, you see Dennis, Robby, Princess, and Jack all sitting in a booth.
What the hell kind of grouping is this? You wonder silently as you double-take the crowd.
“You’re like… really late!” Trinity shouts over the music as she pulls away, grabbing you by the elbow to drag you to the table.
“I’m like… not here to see you!” You call back mockingly, but don’t force your arm away from her tight grip. Of course you’ll come over to say hi to your coworkers. Regardless of whether or not you’re being hauled by a small powerhouse of a woman.
“Then who are you here to see?” She narrows her eyes.
“Well, hopefully,” you start, then pause to scan the crowd until your eyes land on a guy with a dark buzzcut playing darts, “that guy over there.”
Her gaze follows yours and then she snorts out a laugh.
“Cheap thrills tonight, doc?” The two of you are close enough to the table that Robby howls out a laugh. At the same time, he’s sliding closer to Princess in the booth to make room for you. Trinity waves her hand at them. “No need. She’s got her eyes on other company tonight. Didn’t come to see us.”
God, she’s too drunk and you’re too sober. Though, by the looks of the other four, they’re not any better than her. Another raspy laugh from Robby and Princess’ loud snort confirm that suspicion.
You can’t help the way your eyes dart from them across the table to Jack. He’s sitting straight as ever, curls a little messy and eyes a little glassy as they dance between you and Trinity with amusement.
And God, he looks so good doing it. It’s impossible not to stare as he lifts the lip of a beer bottle to his mouth and tips it all the way up. There’s a little trail of gold liquid trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
Pulling your lip between your teeth and averting your gaze is the only way you manage to keep from licking it clean.
“You look hot,” Princess says as she rakes her eyes over the outfit you chose with the specific intention of going home with someone tonight.
A shocked laugh is the only thing you reply with, pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head.
“Oh yeah, stay away from the rad tech,” Robby chimes from next to her. At your frown, he continues. “He had some… things to say about you.”
Your chest tightens slightly as you cross your brows, trying to think about what wrongs you may have committed to have radiology venting about you over drinks with your attendings.
“He wants to fuck you,” Princess stage-whispers across the table.
With this information, you drop into the seat next to Robby, knocking a knee into Jack’s across from you as you settle in.
Trinity has found her way back between Jack and Dennis, the latter arguing with her over something minute as always. Beside you, Robby shifts, hooking an arm over the back of your seat.
“I don’t think that was the exact verbage,” Jack corrects with a finger pointed to him.
“Right, no. He asked if you were single,” Robby amends.
That sends a memory flashing through your head.
“Oh! Brown curly hair? Young guy, cute?” You ask, and Princess’ enthusiastic nod confirms. “Okay, yeah, yeah. I knew that already, he asked me out a few weeks ago.”
Her jaw drops, eyes widening to the size of saucers.
“What?” She shouts, leaning over Robby to smack you on the arm. “How did nobody know about this? When did this happen?”
“Yeah, when did this happen?” Jack asks dryly from across the table, bringing the beer to his lips as he watches you through narrowed eyes.
Giving him a confused look, you shrug.
“Couple weeks ago, I guess. It was like a two-second interaction, I guess nobody saw it. He came up as I was charting and asked me to go to some theater thing,” you reply with a dismissive wave of your hand.
“Theater?” Robby chortles. “That feels like a bold choice for a first date.”
Again, you shrug. It was genuinely the only conversation you’ve ever had with the man, and you hadn’t even seen him since. Really, you were incredibly surprised that he’d brought you up at all tonight after so long.
Princess starts telling Robby something about how the nosebleeds are a great place to fool around without anyone seeing, and that’s your cue to go get a drink. Across from you, Jack pushes himself to his feet at the same time, a little unsteadier than you expect him to be.
“Too much to drink, Abbot?” You tease, letting your eyes fall over him now that he’s standing.
He’s wearing a black tee shirt that pulls taut across his chest, and a black and white flannel over it. The extra layer is probably contributing to the pink flush on his drunken cheeks. Through all the layers you can still see the bulge of his biceps as you take him in. You already know you’ll be staring at his ass in those blue jeans the moment you get the chance.
“Not enough for whatever conversation they’re havin’,” he jerks his head in the direction of the table as the two of you start walking away. “Didn’t know you knew the radiology guy.”
“I don’t. Him asking me out was the first and last conversation we ever had.” You eye him carefully.
“Huh.” He hums, nodding as if not believing you.
Then he takes a final drag from his beer, tosses it in the trash, and breaks away from your path and toward the men’s bathroom.
Weird.
You continue walking to the bar, where the crowd is significantly more than you’d expect at 3 a.m. on a weekday. There’s one space where you can easily saddle up between two other people, so you do.
As luck would have it, one of those people would be the man you pointed out to Trinity earlier. He’s cute, a bit of a firefighter look to him that you’re sure charms plenty of women. Strong, too, though in a way that’s more lean and less bulk. Handsome, strong, and judging by the amount of shots he’s buying right now, employed.
Bumping into him, you pretend to act surprised, as if you hadn’t just orchestrated the move for the sole reason of getting his attention. As you planned, he turns to face you, arms darting out to steady you on your feet.
“I’m so sorry!” You call over the noise around you, resting a hand on his chest and pushing yourself up to your toes to get closer to his ear. “Are you ok?”
That puts a little grin on his face. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and he nods, amusement written all over his features.
“‘M fine. You good?” His eyes are moving up and down the outfit you’re wearing. Just like you hoped they would. Based on the long exhale he blows out, you’d say the mission was accomplished.
“I’m good. Thank you!” You give a sweet smile and then turn back to face the bar, hoping he’ll--
“What’s your name?”
Fuck yeah.
The typical flirty conversation carries on between the both of you while you stand there waiting for your turn to order drinks. His name is Brett and he is a firefighter. He’s twenty-nine and moved here from some city out West that you don’t much care to remember.
Most importantly: he’s single.
The two of you have two drinks at the bar while you talk. Eventually, you follow him back to his friends where he drops off the shots and then let him bring you to a high top closer to the bar. He pulls the chair out for you and you can only hope that his chivalry extends to the bedroom as well.
“What do you like to do for fun?” He asks, standing next to your chair with his hand on your side. With the height of the stool, you’re about shoulder-height to him.
“I could show y-”
Your worst nightmare comes true.
“Hi! I’m Princess.” She’s cuddling up next to him.
Brett furrows his brows for a moment, but upon seeing your knowing look, chuckles.
“Brett. You two know each other?” He wraps his arm around her and watches as you roll your eyes.
“Princess, fuck all the way off,” you groan, nudging her with the toe of your shoe.
She shakes her head, a sorry little smile appearing. Her leaning into your date while she does it sure does nothing to convey any sincerity.
“Can’t. If I can get you to come back to the table I get $50. And if you let me stay here for longer than 3 minutes I get an extra $10 on top.”
Of fucking course she does. These people are gambling addicts. You didn’t even know that they were still here, let alone watching you. Grumpily, you bring your drink to your mouth and empty it.
Brett laughs again, patting Princess on the back and then moving to stand behind your chair, placing both hands on your shoulders.
“How about $100 and you let me take her back to my place?” He proposes.
Your stomach twists, and you feel bile rise in your throat. He had been nice up until now, and you’re sure he probably didn’t mean for it to come out like he was paying to have sex with you. But holy fuck, you’ve never been turned off so fast.
Princess is quiet, and you don’t look at her as you get out of your chair and grab your purse.
“I probably should go back with my friends,” you excuse, giving a tight-lipped smile to the man who has so suddenly soured your night. “It was nice to meet you, Brett. Have a good night.”
Before either of them can say anything else, you’re throwing open the door to the women’s restroom and locking it.
God, why did they have to ruin that? What the fuck were you even doing here? Why can’t you just sit at home and listen to fucking audio erotica to get your rocks off like the rest of the universe? Why do you have to put your faith into non-fictional men who make jokes about paying for sex with you?
And why the fuck are your friends so goddamn annoying?
Frustration tightens your chest in a way that makes you feel mean. The alcohol isn’t sitting well, it’s ready to bubble over into this stupid situation and make you lash out at what few friends you have because they made a stupid joke that ruined your stupid hookup.
You’re washing your hands as if you can cleanse the anger away. The water is cold, sobering, in a way, and you let it run over your skin to soothe the sting of anger.
Outside the door, muffled voices begin to spill in through the crack in the door.
“You should just go, man.” It’s Jack that you hear outside. His tone makes you turn the water off to be able to hear better.
“I want to make sure she’s ok. I didn’t mean to-” It’s Brett.
“It’s over, kid. Have a good night.”
Kid. Your cheeks grow hot as you let yourself become even more upset. That’s the fucking reason you’re here. Because Jack Abbot is the only man you’ve ever wanted to like you, and here he is calling a man older than yourself kid.
You can’t be enough for him. Could never, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be his age. Never have his experience. Never come close to breaking down those walls that guard him because he will never care about you enough to let you try.
The urge to scream appears, and when you tamper it, it’s only replaced with the urge to hit something.
Here we go again. It’s time to go home.
As you barge into the hallway outside the bar, you don’t expect to trip over your own feet and right into Jack, who is alone now.
“Whoa, hey. You okay?” His strong arms hold your waist.
“Fuck off,” you mumble, pushing yourself off of his chest. But his grip on you is too tight.
One hand stays on your waist while the other finds your jaw, lifting it from where you’ve locked your eyes on the wall over his shoulder. The thought of seeing his handsome face when you can’t have him feels like a lead weight in your bones. But his grip forces you to meet his eyes. They’re soft, searching in a way you’ve never seen him before. Not like he’s being a doctor, but a friend.
There’s a neon sign above the bathroom door that shines all sorts of colors across his pretty grey curls. He’s ditched the flannel, too, now only clad in that tight black shirt that has your lips parting to get enough air.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His question frustrates you to no end.
“Let me go, Jack.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he insists, and you see the bit of desperation on his face.
It’s far too intense for this situation, and too vulnerable for Jack. But he’s drunk, and these are some pretty typical drunken dramatics by any definition.
Rolling your eyes, you find your footing and move his hands from your body. They drop back to his sides with a thud against the wall behind him. You back away from him until you’re flush with the opposite wall so that you can breathe your own air. The first inhale feels cool, settling.
Until you hear your name from down the hall.
Brett is walking toward you, starting another apology when Jack steps up from the wall and blocks you from the other man.
“I told you to leave,” he warns, and a shiver runs up your spine at the danger in his voice.
“Dude, just let me-”
“Fuck off!” Jack shouts now, and you jump a little, shock and fear running through you all at once.
Before you have much time to process anything, you’re being swept into Jack’s arms and into the women’s bathroom once again. He comes in with you and locks you both inside. Once he’s done that, he’s lowering you to your feet and grabbing your face with both of his hands.
The pace of your heart is concerning. It’s hammering in your chest, and you wonder if Jack can feel it where his fingertips hold the bottom of your jaw.
“Don’t forgive him,” he pleads, and you startle because what the fuck.
“What?” You ask dumbly, face a little squished by his palms.
“That guy. He-- I don’t-- just don’t.”
His hands go from smashing your face to cradling it, fingers curling around the nape of your neck and thumb stroking your cheekbone. It feels like you have whiplash.
Why is your hot attending holding you in the women’s bathroom right now? Why did he just shout at your date? Why does he seem so invested in whatever is happening here right now?
“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m a little confused.”
A little laugh leaves his lips as he nods, then drops his head until his forehead meets yours.
“I didn’t know you knew who I was,” he replies quietly. This surprises you, brows crinkling beneath him. “I saw you, with that guy. And I guess I made a face. Santos told me that you… like me.”
You’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“I didn’t send Princess. That was her own idea and I told her not to,” he assures quickly. “I just, I didn’t think you’d ever glance twice at the grumpy old guy who works the night shift. I didn’t know I had a chance, and I didn’t want to make you uncom-”
The words die as you press your lips to his. In their absence, his mouth melts against yours, tongue instantly darting out to reach for your bottom lip. With a soft sigh you part your lips for him, letting him deepen the kiss to explore your mouth.
His hands tighten around your face, fingers curling into the hair at the base of your neck to hold you in place. At the slight tug he gives it, you whine, reaching out to grab him and finding his shirt bunched into your fists tightly to pull him closer. It’s futile. You’re as close as you can be without molding into one.
Then your feet leave the ground, and he’s hoisting you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, expecting him to carry you somewhere, maybe to the countertop, but he just stands there, backing you into the wall and keeping you settled around his torso.
“Jack,” you pant as his mouth dips to leave hot kisses down your neck. “Fuck you feel good.”
His breath is warm as he hums against your skin, working his way behind your ear and then along the shell of it. When he reaches the very peak, he pauses and drops his head against yours to whisper.
“Needed this for so long, sweetheart.”
It’s raw, it’s fucking sexy.
You’re running your hands all over him when his lips collide with yours in another heated kiss. As time passes, he gets more comfortable. Low moans rumble from his chest as you run your fingers through his hair.
Then he’s pulling away, trailing chaste, sweet kisses across your face as he draws his head back.
“Hmm, something wrong?” Your eyes flutter open, a lazy grin on your face when you see his deep flush and blown pupils.
“Come home with me.” It’s not a question, really, but you nod anyway.
You expect your feet to hit the floor, to wipe your lipstick from his neck and face and ears before going back out to face the rest of the bar. But, no. Jack keeps you held tightly against his waist as he carries you back to the table (still full of your coworkers), grabs his flannel and your purse, and then leaves wordlessly.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little proud, despite trying to hide your face in his neck the whole time (leaving lots of kisses there, of course).
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
