— his love language for you becomes curated, extravagant indulgence. it’s not just buying you things; it’s buying you the right thing at the right moment to head off a sulk or celebrate a tiny victory. a new perfume launched in lys? a bottle is on your vanity. mention offhand you hate the traffic on your way to class? a driver is assigned to you, discreetly. he studies your whims like market trends and invests in them heavily. it’s how he translates his busy life, into a constant stream of proof:
you are on my mind.
— you become quietly obsessed with his hands. they are broad, strong, with a few faint scars and calluses that speak of old hobbies—sailing, perhaps, or woodworking in his youth. there’s a slight silvering of hair on his knuckles. when he rests one on the small of your back to guide you through a crowded room, the warmth and weight of it feels like an anchor. when he holds your hand, his thumb absently stroking your palm, it feels like a promise he doesn’t need to voice.
— he has a protective streak a mile wide, but it’s never restrictive. he won’t tell you not to go out with your friends. instead, he’ll say, “text me when you get home, so i know you’re safe,” and his voice is so full of quiet concern that you want to text him. if you’re sick, he doesn’t fuss.he just appears with a bowl of his mother’s recipe for lemon-honey tea, a cool cloth for your forehead, and sits reading reports in a chair by your bed, his presence a silent bulwark against any discomfort.
— he knows the difference between a bratty mood that needs indulging and a genuine hurt that needs soothing. if you’re pouting because he worked late, he might have your favorite absurdly expensive dessert delivered with a note in his firm handwriting: just a small taste of my attention for now. tomorrow, i’m all yours. if you’re genuinely upset, the indulgence stops. he’ll wrap you in his arms, his large hand cradling the back of your head, and just hold you. “alright, sweet girl,” he’ll murmur into your hair. “tell me properly.” he makes you feel heard, even when you’re most unreasonable
— he loves sharing his world. a rainy sunday might find him walking you through the subtleties of a vintage arbor gold, explaining the terroir, watching your face as you taste it. or he might patiently teach you the rules of cyvasse, his strategic mind both challenging and encouraging yours. he never makes you feel stupid for not knowing. he makes you feel privileged for being the one he chooses to show.
— he doesn’t get jealous of your male friends. he trusts you implicitly. but sometimes, when you’re animatedly telling a story about your day, your hands flying, using slang he doesn’t know, referencing a concert he wouldn’t attend, he gets this quiet, wistful look in his mismatched eyes. it’s not envy of the people, but of the time—the years of your life he wasn’t there for. he overcomes it by pulling you into his lap, silencing your chatter with a slow kiss, and murmuring, “tell me again. but slower. i want all of it.”
— your life might be chaotic—a demanding job, friend dramas, the frantic energy of youth. his apartment, his presence, is your sanctuary. It’s always quiet, ordered, and calm. the scent of his cologne and old books. the deep comfort of his sofa. the way he can silence the noise in your head just by wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your head. with him, you don’t have to perform. you can just be.
nsfw
— he knows exactly what he’s doing. there’s no fumbling, no awkwardness. every touch is deliberate, every kiss has purpose. when he undresses you, it’s slow, methodical, his eyes dark and appreciative as he reveals each new inch of skin. he takes his time, because he has it, and because he knows the anticipation is a weapon that makes you tremble. “i’ve waited a long time for this,” he might murmur against your throat, his voice a rough scrape. “i’m not rushing a moment of it.”
— he is a man used to command, and it translates seamlessly to the bedroom. his instructions are soft, but absolute. “look at me.” “arch your back for me, darling.” “be still.” there’s a thrill in the submission, in handing over the reins to someone so capable. he wields his authority not to diminish you, but to elevate the experience, to guide you to places you might not have gone on your own.
— he is vocal in the most devastating way. it’s not crude dirty talk; it’s profound, reverent affirmation. “gods, you feel perfect.” “you take me so beautifully.” “look at you, my perfect girl.” hearing those deep, measured tones fracture with desire because of you is more potent than any fantasy. It makes you want to be everything he says you are.
— you are acutely aware of the physical power disparity. the sheer size of him over you, the easy way he can pin your wrists with one hand, the solid muscle of his thighs holding yours apart. he uses this strength not to intimidate, but to overwhelm you with sensation, to make you feel utterly surrounded and claimed by him. when he finally sinks into you, the fullness is breathtaking, a reminder of his maturity, his sheer physicality.
— he engages all your senses. the scratch of his well-kept beard against the soft skin of your inner thighs. the rich, scent of his skin and sweat that clings to you for hours after. the low, guttural sounds he makes at the base of his throat. the taste of him—expensive whiskey and something uniquely him. the sight of his face, usually so composed, etched with raw, desperate pleasure.
— for him, what comes after is as important as what came before. he will gather your boneless body against his chest, your head on his heartbeat. he’ll fetch a warm cloth and clean you with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. he’ll wrap you in his robe or the softest blanket and hold you, often in silence, just stroking your hair or your back. there’s no rush to separate, no post-coital awkwardness. it’s a continuation of the intimacy, a gentle return to the world where he is once again your baelor, who just happens to know exactly how to ruin you in the best possible way.
+ what if you’re bratty
— your brattiness in the bedroom—the teasing, the defiant little smiles, the pretending not to be affected—is a challenge he delights in meeting. he’ll let you think you’re in control, let you play your games, until with a low rumble, he decides the game is over.“enough ”
— when you’re being particularly mouthy or demanding, his favorite tactic is to drown you in sensation. he’ll use his hands and mouth with relentless focus, pushing you past one peak and immediately onto the next, until you’re sobbing and begging, not for more, but for mercy. “had enough?” he’ll ask softly, kissing your trembling stomach. “ready to be sweet?” it’s his way of proving that for all your dramatic flair, your body belongs to him, and he knows its every secret, every weakness.
— he is lavish with praise when you’re good. “perfect.” “so beautiful when you listen.” but he also metes out delicious, shiver-inducing punishment when you’re deliberately difficult. a sharp, stinging smack on your thigh or ass, not to hurt, but to re-focus. a firm grip on your jaw, forcing your gaze to his. “you can do better for me than that,” he’ll chide, his eyes dark. for a man who gives you everything, having him withhold his approval, even for a moment, is a powerful motivator. you crave to be his good girl again.
a/n: i actually had separate hcs for modern!baelor x bratty!reader at first, but i thought, why not throw some of them in here too?
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“Tell me, does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife, does he lose control when he fucks her, or does that sweet blushing bride of yours recieve the same dreary restraint the realm so adores you for?”
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, rough sex, consent is given, this is some dark shit, oral (female and male receiving), minors dni.
Please be aware that I normally don't write stuff as dark as this, but for the love of fuck I couldn't keep this out of my head. Remember to take care of your mental health.
In this AU, Prince Oberyn Martell is the youngest brother to Prince Moran Martell and Queen Myriah Martell. Because I couldn't help myself.
𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 was not a man 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍 appreciated being near you, his sweet, innocent wife, who couldn't tell whether a man was being kind with his words, or tempting the wrath of a dragon, which from Baelor's perspective, the youngest brother of his mother, greatly delighted invoking.
Prince Baelor Targaryen had never been a suspicious man by nature. He trusted you, completely, but he knew the kind of man Prince Oberyn was, from his countless paramours, to the many bastards he had sired throughout Dorne, the Red Viper, was not a man Baelor admired, something he had more often than not expressed to his mother when she had informed him that he'd be visiting her.
“Then do me the kindness of keeping that man away from my wife,” Baelor loved his mother dearly, but even now as he stood before her, arms folded behind him, he could not contain the disdain in his voice, “she does not know him as well as I.”
“I cannot recall a single moment where you had been this fierce over Lady Jena Dondarrion. I know who and what Oberyn is. I did not think after Jena died you'd love another.”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between mother and son, heavy as castle stone.
His jaw tightened, mismatched eyes drifting toward the open balcony where the sea glittered beyond the walls of the Red Keep. For a fleeting moment, he looked less the celebrated prince who had broken rebel lines and more the weary man who had buried his first wife beneath cold earth.
“When Jena died,” he said at last, his voice low enough that only his mother could hear, “I believed that part of me had gone with her.”
His mother watched him quietly.
Baelor's shoulders tensed for a moment. “I never intended to wed again.”
“I know.”
“I certainly never intended…” He paused, almost sounding irritated with himself. “...to love again.”
Queen Myriah's expression softened, “And yet you have.”
Baelor gave a short, humorless breath. “I have.”
There was no shame in the admission. Only resignation, as though he had lost a battle he had never agreed to fight.
“You speak of Jena.” His gaze settled upon his mother once more. “I honoured her. I respected her. I cared for her deeply.” His brow furrowed. “But what I feel for my wife now…” He shook his head once. “...it is a far more dangerous thing.”
“Dangerous?”
“I think of her before councils. Before battles.” His mouth became a hard line. “I look for her whenever I enter a room.”
His mother smiled knowingly.
“If she smiles…” he continued quietly, “...the day becomes easier.”
“And if she cries?”
Baelor's eyes darkened, “I would burn kingdoms to discover who caused it.”
The Queen reached forward, resting a hand upon his arm. “You are your father's son.”
“I pray not.”
“You love with frightening devotion, Baelor.” Myriah murmured as she watched Baelor.
“I know.”
“And Oberyn?” For the first time, genuine irritation flashed across the prince's face.
“Oberyn flirts because it amuses him.”
“Likely.”
“He enjoys seeing men lose their composure.”
“Also likely.”
“But he will not use my wife for sport.” His words carried no heat, “I trust her with my life.” His gaze sharpened. “It is him I do not trust.”
His mother regarded him for a long moment before speaking again. “You are aware that Oberyn is nearly twice her age.”
“I am painfully aware. He has lived a life of indulgence. He has charmed noblewomen, common women, widows, wives, and maidens alike.” There was no admiration in his voice, only fact. “He knows precisely which words to use, which smiles to offer.”
Baelor's expression hardened further. “And she," he said quietly, “has not spent her life learning to defend herself against men like him.”
“No.”
“She is young. She sees kindness where others hide intention.” A faint crease appeared between his brows. “She would sooner believe a compliment sincere than wonder what lies beneath it.”
“That is why you fear this.”
“I do not fear that she would betray me.” His answer was immediate. “I fear that she would not even realise she was being pursued until someone less honourable believed he had been encouraged.”
His mother's eyes softened. “You have never doubted her.”
“Never.”
“But you doubt Oberyn.”
“I doubt any man who finds amusement in testing another husband's restraint.”
Baelor had no intention of allowing that dance to begin. “If your brother so much as corners her alone,” Baelor said with unsettling calm as he turned toward the door, “he will discover that I inherited more from the blood of the dragon than a name.”
It was the fierce protectiveness of a husband who knew his wife was young enough to believe the world kinder than it truly was, and who knew Prince Oberyn Martell was more than old enough to exploit that innocence if it entertained him.
His mother watched him leave, shaking her head with the smallest smile. “Gods help Oberyn,” she murmured, “for my son certainly will not.”
The feast had begun as such celebrations always did.
Music drifted through the great hall beneath painted rafters where dragons and heroes watched from faded frescoes overhead. Hundreds of candles burned in polished chandeliers, casting warm light across crimson banners and cloth-of-gold hangings until the Red Keep itself seemed wreathed in flame.
Silver goblets were lifted in endless toasts, servants threaded gracefully between crowded tables bearing roasted boar, lemon cakes, river trout, and sweet Arbor wines, while laughter rose and fell like waves against the vaulted ceiling.
King Daeron II had spared little expense in honour of Prince Oberyn Martell's arrival from Dorne.
The occasion pleased more than the court. At the king's right hand sat Queen Myriah, once Princess Myriah Martell, whose composed expression had softened into a smile warmer than many had seen in years. Her youngest brother had finally come to King's Landing.
He simply had not come on time.
The lateness itself scarcely occupied your thoughts. Your attention had been claimed by your husband long before the feast began.
Prince Baelor Targaryen was not a man inclined toward grand declarations of affection. His love revealed itself in subtler ways, in the quiet certainty of familiar gestures.
A steady hand resting against the small of your back as the two of you crossed a room. Fingers brushing yours beneath the table whenever conversation grew tedious.
A brief glance cast your way to ensure your cup remained full and that you had eaten enough before he thought to touch his own plate.
It was the sort of devotion few people ever noticed. You always did. Tonight, however, there was nothing subtle about it.
From the moment you had entered the great hall, Baelor had scarcely allowed more than an arm's length between you.
Whenever another lord lingered overlong in conversation, his hand settled naturally around your waist. Whenever you moved through the hall, he guided you with effortless gentleness, never hurried, never rough, yet always unmistakably present beside you.
No one remarked upon it.
Very few men possessed the courage to question the heir to the Iron Throne.
Still, something felt... different.
You leaned closer until your shoulder brushed his sleeve, lowering your voice so only he could hear.
“Is something troubling you, my love?” you asked softly.
Baelor did not immediately answer as his mismatched eyes remained fixed upon the great doors at the far end of the hall. “No,” he replied at last, the answer came too quickly, too smoothly.
You followed his gaze toward the entrance before looking back at him. “You are waiting for Prince Oberyn.”
“I am,” Baelor admitted.
You studied his face for another heartbeat before asking carefully, “You do not sound pleased.”
For the briefest instant, a muscle tightened along his jaw. “I am not.” His voice remained perfectly calm.
Somehow that unsettled you more than anger would have. You tilted your head. “Has he offended you?”
“Not yet.” Baelor turned his head towards you, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against your brow, “But I suspect he might.”
The evening stretched onward.
Musicians exchanged lively dances for softer melodies. Servants cleared one course only to replace it with another. Lords drifted from table to table, exchanging gossip while cups were emptied and filled again.
Even King Daeron's patience began to show signs of strain.
He checked the entrance more than once.
So did Queen Myriah.
Then, at last, the towering doors to the great hall swung open, conversation faltered and Prince Oberyn Martell strode inside wearing the unmistakable smile of a man entirely satisfied with himself.
His embroidered tunic remained immaculate by most standards, though his dark curls had been left pleasantly disordered by hurried fingers. His collar sat ever so slightly crooked, and lingering beneath the perfumes of feast and court clung another scent entirely.
Sweet perfume.
Heavy perfume.
The unmistakable fragrance of a King's Landing brothel.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest moment before pinching the bridge of her nose.
Across the table, several Dornish retainers developed an intense fascination with their wine cups.
King Daeron tipped his head back, staring toward the painted ceiling as though appealing silently to the Seven for patience.
Baelor did not sigh, yet beside you, every muscle beneath his embroidered doublet hardened until he seemed carved from stone.
His hand, still loosely holding yours beneath the table, tightened almost imperceptibly, never enough to hurt—not that you would have minded the pain— only enough for you to notice.
Prince Oberyn crossed the length of the hall with effortless confidence, seemingly oblivious to every disapproving stare fixed upon him, or perhaps he simply enjoyed them.
Stopping before the king's table, he placed one hand over his heart and inclined his head with exaggerated courtesy.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Oberyn said cheerfully. “King's Landing insisted upon delaying me.”
King Daeron regarded him with patient disbelief. “I somehow doubt King's Landing itself bears the blame.”
“It is a city overflowing with distractions.”
“It possesses brothels,” the king observed dryly.
“It does.”
“I imagine one detained you.”
Oberyn's grin widened. “I would hardly describe the experience as detention.” Laughter rolled through the hall, even a few members of the Kingsguard struggled to hide their amusement.
Only one man remained entirely unmoved, Baelor watched him without so much as the flicker of a smile.
The heir's gaze never wavered, steady enough to make lesser men reconsider every decision that had brought them into his presence.
Oberyn noticed immediately and the smile lingering upon his lips sharpened. “Baelor,” he greeted warmly, eyes filled with hidden amusement as he shifted his stance, curious eyes falling briefly towards you.
“Oberyn,” Baelor answered with equal politeness.
“You look well.”
“I was about to return the compliment.” Baelor straightened quietly, head cooking to the side.
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “You changed your mind?”
“I remembered where you had been.”
Silence settled between them, you felt yourself frown quietly, shifting as Baelor's mismatched eyes briefly flickered towards you.
Then Oberyn laughed, the rich, unrestrained sound echoed easily through the hall. “It would seem rumours travel faster than I do.”
“They needn't travel,” Baelor replied evenly. “You were thoughtful enough to bring the evidence with you.”
Curious, Oberyn glanced down at himself before discovering the faint crimson imprint staining the edge of his collar.
His laughter only deepened. “So I did.”
You looked from one prince to the other, sensing a tension unlike ordinary dislike.
It was something infinitely more dangerous.
Two men who recognised capability when they saw it and men who respected one another's intelligence and who trusted the other's judgement about as far as either could throw the Red Keep itself.
Without drawing attention to the gesture, Baelor's arm settled securely around your waist.
The movement was slow enough to appear entirely natural.
He drew you just a little closer until your shoulder rested comfortably against his side.
Not for the benefit of the watching court.
Not to parade possession before curious eyes.
He had never needed such displays.
It was for one man alone.
For Prince Oberyn Martell.
A quiet, unmistakable reminder that the young woman standing beside the heir to the Iron Throne was not merely under his protection.
You were his wife.
And Baelor intended that, from the instant the Red Viper entered the hall until the feast's final candle guttered into darkness, there would not be a single moment in which Oberyn Martell could forget it.
Only after the laughter had faded did Oberyn's attention finally drift from Baelor.
It settled upon you.
The shift was subtle, yet every instinct in the room seemed to sharpen alongside it.
Prince Maekar Targaryen, seated further down the royal table, noticed it at once. Unlike his elder brother, Maekar's displeasure rarely concealed itself behind measured courtesy. His pale violet eyes moved from Oberyn to Baelor, studying the heir with quiet vigilance.
Baelor had not moved, not so much as an inch, yet Maekar knew his brother too well.
The rigid line of his shoulders. The almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw. The hand still resting at your waist, steady enough to appear relaxed, though Maekar knew the strength contained within it.
Oberyn smiled as though the silence belonged entirely to him. “So,” he said, turning fully towards you, “this is the lady who has stolen the heart of the Dragon Prince.”
His dark eyes lingered only long enough to admire, never straying into outright impropriety, though there was an unmistakable warmth behind them.
“My sister neglected to mention that her gooddaughter possesses such remarkable beauty.”
Before you could think to respond, Oberyn reached gently for your hand, the movement was graceful, almost courtly. His fingers barely enclosed yours as he bowed his head, pressing a light kiss against your knuckles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Princess.”
Heat blossomed across your cheeks almost instantly, as no man save your husband had ever greeted you with such effortless confidence.
Flustered, you offered a timid smile before instinctively drawing your hand back towards yourself, your fingers curling against your skirts as though uncertain what to do with the attention.
“Th... thank you, my prince,” you murmured, your voice scarcely louder than the music surrounding the feast.
Oberyn's smile softened. “Shy,” he observed lightly. “How refreshing.”
Before another word could leave his lips, Baelor spoke. “My wife blushes easily.”
Oberyn noticed that innocence almost immediately and Baelor Targaryen noticed the lingering amusement that remained in his uncle's eyes as they followed you like a viper scenting something delicious to sink it's fangs within.
Yet beneath those few words rested an unmistakable message.
Oberyn met Baelor's gaze again and for a heartbeat, neither man spoke and then, with the faintest hint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes, the Dornish prince released the matter entirely, lifting his goblet instead.
“As you say, Baelor.”
Across the table, Maekar exhaled quietly through his nose. The storm had not broken.
But it had certainly announced its arrival, and Maekar suspected that this visit would only awaken something in his brother he was not comfortable naming.
The conversation lingered only a little longer before the weariness of the evening finally settled upon your shoulders.
You turned towards your husband, your expression softening as his attention immediately shifted from the gathering back to you.
“My love,” you murmured quietly.
Baelor inclined his head, lowering it enough that only you might be heard. “Yes?”
“I believe I have had enough of feasts for one evening.”
The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. “I feared as much.”
You smiled in return, leaning close enough to press a gentle kiss against his cheek. It was a fleeting gesture, tender and entirely unselfconscious. “I should like to retire.”
His hand instinctively tightened at your waist. “I shall accompany you.”
“There is no need,” you assured him softly, laying your hand over his. “Remain a little longer. Your father will expect the heir beside him, especially now that Prince Oberyn has finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
Baelor frowned.
“I would rather see you safely to our chambers.”
“I know,” you whispered. “But I am hardly embarking upon a perilous journey. The Red Keep is full of guards, and I know the halls better than most.”
For a long moment he simply looked at you.
There was reluctance in his eyes, protectiveness and then, with visible effort, he relented. “If anything delays you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“If anyone troubles you…”
“I shall send for you.”
“And if Oberyn wanders the corridors…”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “I shall most certainly send for you.”
That, at last, earned the faintest smile from him. “You have my leave to retire, then.”
“As though I required it,” you teased gently. His answering look was one of fond exasperation.
You squeezed his hand once before offering respectful farewells to the king and queen. With your ladies trailing behind, you slipped from the warmth and noise of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind you until the music became little more than a distant murmur.
Your absence did not go unnoticed.
Oberyn watched the doors for a thoughtful moment before lazily swirling the wine within his goblet and only when several heartbeats had passed did he glance back toward Baelor.
A slow, knowing smile spread across the Dornish prince's face. “I confess,” Oberyn said conversationally, as though remarking upon the quality of the wine, “I had expected you to follow her.”
Baelor met his gaze without expression, “My wife wished to retire.”
“And you obeyed.”
“I respected her wishes.”
“Hm.” Oberyn took an unhurried sip of wine before resting his elbow upon the table, “Tell me something.”
No one missed the change in his tone.
Prince Maekar's attention sharpened immediately.
Queen Myriah closed her eyes for the briefest instant.
King Daeron sighed quietly into his cup as Oberyn's dark eyes never left Baelor.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife?” he asked with infuriating casualness. “Or does the knowledge of having such a young woman at his side temper even your legendary stamina? I must admit, I thought your blushing wife would be older. Not such a spirited little thing.”
The hall fell utterly silent.
A goblet stopped halfway to a lord's lips.
Somewhere near the musicians, a serving girl froze where she stood. Maekar slowly set his cup upon the table with a deliberate clink.
His stare fixed upon Oberyn with open disbelief. “...Have you truly decided,” Maekar said at last, his voice low and edged with warning, “that provoking my brother in the king's own hall is a sensible use of your evening?”
Baelor did not answer immediately.
He remained perfectly still, one hand resting upon the arm of his chair, his expression composed enough to be mistaken for indifference by anyone who did not know him.
Those who did knew better.
His silence was rarely empty.
It was the silence of a man deciding precisely how much restraint the moment deserved. “You speak boldly of another man's wife,” Baelor finally admitted, setting down his own goblet, “especially mine.”
Oberyn's gaze sharpened, intrigued. “I wonder if you fuck her like you used to fight,” he said, voice dropping lower. “All that raw power unleashed without mercy.”
Baelor bristled, jaw tightening, fingers curling against the armrest.
Oberyn muttered, almost to himself but loud enough for the table to hear, “A young thing like her should know the beast beneath his skin.”
Oberyn leaned in closer, the glint in his eyes sharp as a dagger. “You think she fears your wrath, Baelor? Or is it the quiet storm you carry that unsettles her?” His voice was silk and steel, designed to wound and provoke.p
Before Baelor could respond, Queen Myriah Martell’s voice cut through the charged air, firm and commanding. “Enough, Oberyn. Your words serve only to inflame what peace we have left. Do not tempt the dragon further.”
Oberyn’s smirk flickered, a shadow of respect crossing his features as he glanced at his sister, but the fire in his gaze didn’t dim.
Baelor rose abruptly, his chair scraping back sharply against the floor, a storm brewing in his eyes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides—every muscle taut with barely contained fury.
But before he could move, Maekar stepped forward with calm authority, placing a steadying hand on Baelor’s arm. “This is not the moment, Baelor. Temper your fire, or you risk burning those you care for most.” His voice was a grounded force, steadying the tempest ready to break loose.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the tension coiling within him fought down by Maekar’s timely intervention. Slowly, he sank back into his seat, eyes locked on Oberyn with a dangerous promise lingering in their depths.
The room exhaled collectively, the fragile balance restored for now, yet the undercurrents of rivalry and restraint thrummed just beneath the surface.
Baelor’s voice dropped low, hard as steel. “Silence your tongue, Oberyn, lest I cut it from your mouth.” His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a clear warning that his patience was threadbare.
Oberyn laughed, a rich, dark sound that filled the room with defiance. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “Tell me, Baelor,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper yet carrying venom, “have you ever truly lost control… in fucking her?”
The question hung in the air, dripping with insinuation, daring Baelor to confront the chaos beneath his carefully maintained restraint.
Baelor’s breath hitched, the room suddenly tighter, heavier, as silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken truths and raw challenge.
Baelor’s chair flew backward with a harsh scrape against the floor, the sudden movement shattering the tense quiet. For a brief, electrifying moment, his mismatched eyes, one piercing blue, the other a deep, restless brown, darkened, shadows flickering across their depths like storms brewing beneath calm seas.
“I pray that you take this moment and reflect on how close you were to losing that tongue of yours, for one more fucking words and I shall deprave your whores from singing songs of it.”
A low growl rumbled from deep within him, raw and guttural, barely held in check. Without another word, Baelor turned sharply and strode from the room, his departure leaving a charged silence hanging in the air, words left unsaid, emotions unleashed in his absence.
The tension lingered palpably, a fragile calm on the edge of eruption.
Baelor’s steps slowed as he made his way through the corridors, Oberyn’s mocking words echoing relentlessly in his mind. The sharpness of the insult cut deeper than he cared to admit, stirring a storm of anger, doubt, and something darker, an uneasy introspection he wasn’t prepared to face.
When he reached the shared chambers, Baelor hesitated at the threshold, the weight of his own turmoil pressing down on him. Then, as if drawn by some silent need, he stepped inside, the world narrowing until it was only you and the churning emotions he could no longer keep at bay.
The chamber door clicked shut behind him, the iron latch settling into its cradle with a sound that felt louder than a war horn. Baelor stood with his back to the oak, his knuckles still white from the grip he'd kept on his sword hilt all the way from the hall, from the moment Oberyn's smirk had curled around those words and slid them into his chest like a Viper's fang.
“Does the formidable Breakspear hammer his wife? Or does the knowledge of having a young woman at his side temper his sexual stamina? Do you ever lose control in fucking her?”
The question had been poison wrapped in silk, delivered with that Dornish lilt that made everything sound like a joke at someone else's expense.
His hand was still shaking. He could feel the tremor climbing from his fingers into his wrist, the residue of a rage that had no battlefield to spend itself on.
Across the chamber, the window seat caught the last light of dusk. You sat there, your hair spilling over your shoulder in a loose braid, the red of your gown pooling around you like a promise. “Baelor? You are shaking.”
You were reading, or had been. The small leather-bound volume rested open on your knee, your finger marking the page, but your eyes were already on him. They were always already on him, as if you sensed the exact moment he crossed the threshold, as if some invisible thread between them tugged at your attention whenever he drew near.
You rose without a word. “Do not,” Baelor murmured quietly, mismatched eyes ablaze with unrestrained fury, “do not come any closer.”
The movement was unhurried, unafraid as your bare feet found the cold stone floor, and you crossed to him through the amber glow of the fire, your gown whispering against your ankles, “What has made you so upset?”
The candle on the sill guttered and steadied. The room smelled of beeswax and the faint lavender you kept in a sachet beneath your pillow, the scent that had become, in the two years of their marriage, the scent of home. Of safety and the one place in this court of knives where he did not have to be the Breakspear or the Hammer.
Your palm settled flat against the leather over his heart, “Is it Prince Oberyn? Has he said something?”
Through the boiled hide, through the wool beneath, you must have felt the thrum of his pulse, still too fast, still hunting for an enemy that was not here.
Your voice was quiet, not a whisper, you never whispered, not even in the godswood, but pitched for his ears alone, a current that flowed under the noise of the world and found him every time. You said it without accusation, without concern. Just a fact, laid out between them like a piece on a cyvasse board, waiting to see what he would do with it.
He caught your wrist, “I despise that man. He is my mother's brother, but he does not think when he provokes me.” The grip was firm enough to hold you there, to stop your hand from moving, but he could feel the delicate bones beneath his fingers, the flutter of your own pulse against his callused palm.
He had never touched you with those hands the way he wanted to. He had been so careful. Two years of gentleness, of holding you like you were made of glass, of pulling every blow before it landed. Every night they shared, he had kept himself leashed, had loved you with a tenderness that left him aching and unfinished, had fallen asleep with his hands fisted in the sheets to stop them from gripping you too hard.
You had never complained. You had only ever looked at him with those warm eyes and said I am here, and he had wanted to tell you that was the problem, that he had killed men who looked at him the way you had looked at him, that the hunger you woke in him was the same hunger he fed on battlefields, and he did not know how to separate the two.
But he had never said it. He had only held you gently, night after night, and felt the leash grow thinner.
Tonight, Oberyn had snapped it.
You did not pull your wrist free, nor did you flinch when you held his gaze, your gaze calm steady and unmoved, “What did he say to you?”
“He wanted to know whether I fuck you like I fight? If I know how to make you scream,” Baelor's breath hitched when you reached up and unlaced the throat of your gown, the fabric parting to reveal the column of your throat, leaving the skin bare and visible, the pulsing beat of your heart vulnerable, “if I hammer into you like a dragon given flesh.”
You took his hand, the one he had wrapped around your wrist and lifted it.
His fingers splayed across your throat. He could feel the weight of your head in his palm, the fragile architecture of your spine, the flutter of your pulse against the calluses of his sword hand. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and his hand covered almost the entire breadth of your neck.
He could close his hand. He could squeeze. He could —
“I am not afraid of you,” you said. “Husband.”
The word cracked something in his chest. The leash he had held for two years snapped in a single breath, and the hunger that had been pacing behind it, patient and starved, surged forward.
He bent and took your mouth like a man starved.
There was nothing gentle about it. His free hand fisted in your hair and he yanked your head back, opening your throat to his mouth. “Gods,” you gasped against his lips, a sound that was not quite a surprise, and he swallowed it, licked into your mouth, took everything you offered and demanded more, “Baelor.”
You gave it.
Your hands came up, not to push him away, but to grip the leather of his doublet, to hold him closer. Your nails scraped against the stitching, and the small sound you made, low, hungry, wanting, sent a bolt of heat straight to his cock, “Please, tell me to stop. Tell me now.”
He walked you backward, each step a claim as his body pressed against yours, the solid bulk of him driving you across the room until your spine met the carved oak of the bedpost and you had nowhere left to go, “I have been afraid. I have been afraid of breaking you, of wanting to fuck you without the gentleness.”
The post dug into your shoulder blades, and he pinned you there, his hips grinding against yours, letting you feel exactly how hard he was, how long he had been hard for you, how much of that hunger he had been hiding.
His hand was still on your throat, he did not squeeze, “That man has sunk his fangs into me, poured poison into my veins and I cannot stop thinking about proving that I am capable of not being the man the realm adores, I want to show you I can pleasure you in ways I never have before.” Baelor felt the shape of it beneath his palm, the temptation of it, the way your pulse beat against his fingers like a small animal trusting him not to close his hand.
“Is that what you want, my sweet husband? Do you wish to fuck me?”
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell you that he had kept you separate, had protected you from the part of him that broke across the battlefield. But the truth was there, raw and undeniable, and you were looking at him with those eyes like you already knew the answer and were waiting for him to find the courage to speak it.
He pressed his thumb against the hollow of your throat, felt you swallow against the pressure. “Yes,” he said, and the word came out like a confession. “I should not, but the thought of what he had said, what he had made me feel, it unlocked something in me and I cannot,” he shook his head, kissed you once more, grinding against you, because this was not who he was, this was not the Baelor you had come to love and cherish. “I will frighten you.”
You reached up and covered his hand with yours, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your neck. “You won't.”
Something in him wanted to argue, but you were looking at him, steady and unbroken, and your grip on his hand was not a plea, it was a dare.
He took it.
His other hand found the lacings of your gown, and he pulled. The fabric gave way with a sound of parting seams, sliding from your shoulders to puddle at your feet. You wore nothing beneath it, you never did, not when it was only him and the firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, the soft curves of your body laid bare for him.
He stepped back just long enough to tear at his own clothes. The leather doublet hit the floor, then the linen tunic beneath, then the laces of his breeches. He was already hard, his cock curving up against his stomach, and the sight of you, naked, flushed, wanting, made him ache in a way that was almost painful.
He pushed you back against the bedpost, one hand bracing against the wood beside your head, the other finding your hip and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh, squeezing harder than he ever had, and you moaned.
Not a whimper.
A groan, low and hungry, that vibrated through your chest and into his.
He dropped to his knees, the shift was sudden, and you looked down at him with wide eyes, the question forming on your lips. But he did not wait for it. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, the skin of your thigh warm against his ear, and he pressed his mouth to the curls between your legs.
You gasped.
He had done this before, of course he had, every time they coupled he had knelt between your thighs and worshipped you until you shook, but never like this.
Never with teeth.
Never with the edge of hunger that made his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. He licked into you, broad strokes of his tongue that parted your folds and found the bud of your clit, and you cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, holding him there.
He did not need the encouragement.
He ate you like a man who had been starved. “Fuck!” Tongue flat and wide, pressing into you, lapping at the wet heat of you. You were already slick, your arousal spilling onto his chin, and the taste of you, salt and something darker, something that was only you drove him further.
He moaned against you, the vibration making your hips jerk, and he pressed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumb found your clit and circled hard.
“Baelor —”
Baelor didn't let you finish. He swallowed the sound of his name, his mouth clamping down on you with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. He wasn't just tasting you anymore, he was claiming you, his tongue driving deep into your soaking heat, mimicking the rhythmic thrust of a cock.
The sensation was overwhelming, the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the brutal pressure of his thumb grinding against your clit. He was relentless, his movements fast and hungry, pushing you toward a ledge you hadn't even realized you were approaching. Every time your hips bucked, trying to escape the intensity or pull him closer, his grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, marking you as his.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, the words muffled against your pussy. He pulled back for a split second, just long enough to let the cool air hit your drenched folds, before he lunged back in.
This time, he used his teeth. He nipped at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and then he sank his teeth lightly into the plump flesh of your labia. You shrieked, your back arching off the surface beneath you, your fingers clawing desperately at his scalp. The pain was a thin, sharp line that only served to heighten the pleasure, turning the arousal into something jagged and desperate.
He felt you begin to tremble, the tell-tale rhythmic pulsing of an impending climax. Baelor sensed it, and he doubled his efforts. He abandoned the teasing and went for the kill, his tongue flattening out to lap at you in broad, greedy strokes while his thumb maintained a punishing, circular friction on your clit.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. “Give it all to me.”
The world narrowed down to the point of contact, the heat, the wetness, and the sheer force of his hunger. You felt the tension snap. A violent shudder ripped through your body as your orgasm crashed over you in waves of blinding white heat.
Your internal muscles clamped tight around his tongue, milking him as you sobbed his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his face.
Baelor didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking in every drop of your release, his tongue continuing to flick and probe your sensitive depths even as you collapsed, shaking and spent, your breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. He looked up at you then, his face smeared with your juices, his eyes dark and predatory, showing no sign that he was finished with you.
His name on your lips, broken and desperate, and he wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear it until you screamed it.
He pulled back, his chin slick with you, his eyes dark and hungry. “More,” he said, and it was not a question. “I want more.”
You did not argue. You let him stand, let him guide you away from the bedpost and toward the bed, let him push you down onto the tangled furs face-first.
The breath left you in a huff as you landed, your hair spilling across the pillows, your ass raised in the air because that was how he had put you.
He climbed onto the bed behind you.
His hands found your hips, yanking you back toward him, and you went willingly, your knees spreading, your back arching. The sight of you, open, wet, waiting, made his cock throb, a bead of precum already leaking from the tip.
He did not make you wait.
He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, and he pushed in without warning. The sound you made, a sharp, keening cry, was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. You were tight, so tight, your body clenching around him as he buried himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.
He stilled, just for a moment, his forehead dropping to the curve of your spine. You were hot and wet and his, and the feeling of you around him, yielding but not broken, was almost too much.
The stretch was a burn that melted into pure, blinding pleasure. He felt every inch of you yield, your walls rippling, trying to accommodate his girth, then gripping him as if to pull him deeper, letting you feel the fullness, the way his cock pulsed inside you, a second heartbeat buried in your warmth.
Then he pulled back, almost all the way out, leaving only the tip nestled between your folds. You whined, your hips pushing back, chasing the friction, but he held you there, teasing. A shiver ran down his spine as he watched your pussy cling to him, glistening and desperate. He slammed back in.
This time, the sound was a wet, slapping noise that echoed in the room. Your body jolted forward onto the mattress, your fingers gripping the sheets. He followed, leaning over your back, his chest pressed to your shoulder blades, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp, and he fucked into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.
“That’s it my sweet girl, take it.”
Each stroke hit that sweet spot deep inside, the one that made your toes curl. Your moans turned into broken words please, yes, don't stop spilling from your lips like a prayer. He answered by wrapping a hand around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive claim, while his other hand found your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it with his thumb in time with his thrusts, driving you higher, pulling you toward that edge.
Your body began to tremble, your walls fluttering around his cock. He felt the telltale squeeze, the way your breath hitched, and he pushed harder, faster, chasing your release as much as his own.
When you came, it was with a scream that dissolved into a sob, your cunt clenching in waves, milking him. He buried his face in your hair, groaning, and let go, pumping his cum deep into you, each pulse a hot rush that seemed to go on forever.
When he finally stilled, your bodies were slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the quiet. He stayed buried inside you, softening, unwilling to let go just yet.
But Baelor Targaryen was not done.
His hips slammed against you once more, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber, and you took every inch of him, your body riding the force of his need. He reached around and found your clit, rubbing hard circles as he fucked into you, and you bucked against his hand, a stream of wordless sounds falling from your lips.
He pulled out and flipped you onto your back before you could gasp for breath, your legs falling open, and he settled between them, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance once more. This time, he held your gaze.
This time, his hand found your throat.
He wrapped his fingers around your neck, not squeezing, but just resting there, a reminder of the power he held, the trust you had given him.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
Your eyes locked onto his, steady, unafraid, burning with the same heat that was consuming him.
He pushed inside you.
His hand tightened on your throat as he filled you, a ring of pressure around your neck that you did not fight. Your body arched, your mouth falling open, and the sound you made, a moan that was almost a sob, was the surrender he had not known he needed.
He fucked you like that. His hand on your throat, your gaze locked on his, each thrust driving him deeper into you, deeper into the trust you had laid bare. Your hands came up to grip his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. To guide his pressure. To tell him, without words, that you were his to take, and that you wanted to be taken.
The orgasm built in him like a wave, cresting toward a shore he had kept at a distance for two years. He wanted to hold it back, to stay inside you forever, but you clenched around him, your body shuddering as you came, a sharp, broken cry of his name and the wave broke.
He emptied into you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours as his release poured into you in hot pulses. He collapsed against you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body sheened with sweat.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The fire crackled, the candle guttered. His hand was still on your throat, but the pressure had gentled, his thumb stroking the hollow where your pulse beat steady and alive.
“I did not break,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips brushing his temple.
He laughed. A broken sound, almost a sob. “No.”
“I told you.”
He lifted his head and looked down at you. The shadows from the fire carved his face into planes of light and dark, and in his mismatched eyes there was something raw, not a fear conquered, but a door left open. “I know.”
Your hand came up to cup his cheek. You felt the tremor still running through him, the aftershock of everything he had held back for so long. “Come back to me,” you had said softly. “You do not have to be gentle. But I need you here.”
He turned his head and kissed your palm. “I am here.”
He pulled out of you slowly, the loss of heat making you shiver. The sheets beneath you were damp with sweat and the evidence of your fucking, and the sight of you, marked, satisfied, whole, sent a quiet satisfaction through him that was nothing like battle.
He pulled you against his chest, your back to his front, and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your hair spilled across his arm, and you sighed, a sound of contentment that he had not earned but that you gave him anyway.
The door was still closed.
But here, in this chamber, with your pulse steady beneath his palm and your body warm against his, Baelor Breakspear Targaryen felt the leash he had worn for two years fall away — and he knew, with a certainty that settled in his bones like a second sword, that he would never pick it up again.
His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat, not hard enough to block, hard enough to feel the slow drum of your pulse beneath the pad of his finger, steady now, no longer the rabbit-fast flutter of before, but something deeper, more settled. The rhythm of a woman who had been taken and was not sorry for it.
You lay against him, your back to his chest, as the fire had burned low, casting the chamber in a dim orange glow that made the shadows long and soft. The damp sheets clung to your skin, and the air between you was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the lavender that lived in your pillow.
He traced the line of your throat with his thumb, following the column down to the dip at its base, then back up to the angle of your jaw. You sighed at the touch, a sound of pure contentment, and tilted your head back to give him more access. Like a cat offering its throat to a trusted hand.
The question sat at the back of his throat, heavy as a stone.
He had never asked for it. In two years of careful nights, of holding himself back, of pulling every blow before it landed, he had never once spoken the words that had paced behind his teeth like a caged animal. He had been afraid of what you would say. Afraid of what you would think of him for asking. Afraid that the asking itself would crack something between them that could not be mended.
But you had met him tonight with your throat bared and your trust unbroken, you had looked at the beast he kept leashed and had not flinched. You had told him you were not afraid and then you had proved it, taking every inch of his hunger and returning it with your own.
His thumb stilled.
He felt his own pulse in his temples, a thrum that matched the slow beat beneath his hand. The room was quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of your breathing, soft and even. He could feel the curve of your spine against his chest, the warmth of your ass against his spent cock, the way your fingers had curled loosely around his forearm where it crossed your waist.
“Sweet girl,” your name followed and it came out rough, scraped raw by the thing he was trying to give shape to. You did not open your eyes, but you hummed, a small sound that meant I am listening.
He pressed his thumb into the hollow of your throat again, just resting there, a reminder of where his hand had been, of what you had let him do.
“There is a question I have never asked you.”
You opened your eyes then and turned your head just enough to catch his profile in the firelight, and your hand came up to cover his where it rested on your throat. Your fingers were warm, your grip gentle but present.
“Ask it now,” you had said quietly, not a command, not a plea. Just an opening, held steady for him to step into.
He looked at the shadows on the ceiling. At the canopy of the bed, dark velvet that had witnessed every night of his careful restraint. He thought of Oberyn's smirk, of the way the words had slid into his chest and found the fear he had been carrying since the day he first held you in his arms.
“Do you want me to hurt you?”
The words fell into the silence between you like stones into still water. You feel the ripple of them move through your chest, through your hand where it rests on his throat, through the air that suddenly seems too thin to fill your lungs.
You do not stiffen. You do not pull away.
You are still for a long moment, your amber eyes fixed on some point in the darkness beyond the firelight. Your hand remains over his, warm and steady. You can feel his pulse beneath your thumb, still slow, still even. You are thinking. Turning the question over, tasting it, finding the shape of your answer.
“I have thought about it,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he almost misses it. “I have wondered what it would be like. Not in fear as I have never feared you, Baelor. But I have wondered.”
His throat tightens. The air in the room feels heavier, denser, pressing against his chest from the inside.
“What did you wonder?”
You shift in his arms, turning fully to face him. The movement brings your body flush against his, your breasts pressing to his chest, your thighs sliding against his. Your hand falls from his throat to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone with a tenderness that feels almost cruel after the question you just asked.
“I wondered what it would feel like,” you say, “to be marked by you. To carry proof of your wanting on my skin.”
Something in his chest cracks open. A door he has kept barred with two years of gentleness, of careful hands and measured hunger, swings wide on its hinges.
“It is not the pain I want,” you continue, your voice still soft, still steady, your eyes holding his mismatched ones in the dim light. “It is you in it. The part of you that you hide from everyone. The part that fights and kills and comes home with blood on your hands and tries to wash it off before you touch me.”
He flinches.
You had named something he had never spoken aloud, and your hand on his jaw held him there, would not let him look away.
“I want that part of you too,” you said. “I want him in our bed. I want him to take me.”
His hand found your hip, gripping it hard enough that you gasped, a small sound, not pain, not quite surprise. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, and you did not pull away. You leaned into it, your eyes darkening, your breath catching.
“He would not be gentle,” Baelor said, and his voice was not his own. It was lower, rougher, the voice he used on the training ground, the one that made squires flinch.
“I know.”
“He would leave marks.”
“Show me.”
The words hit him like a blow, but not one that hurt. One that woke something in him that had been sleeping too long. He rolled, pinning you beneath him in a single sharp movement, his weight settling over you, his thighs parting yours.
You looked up at him, your hair spilled across the pillow, your lips parted, your amber eyes bright and unafraid. The firelight painted your skin in gold and shadow, and there was no hesitation in your face.
His hand found your throat again. This time, he squeezed.
Not hard.
A test.
A question asked through his fingers. Your eyes widened, just a fraction and your mouth fell open, a soft sound escaping you, not out of distress but rather something in between, something that looked like surrender and tasted like trust.
His grip tightened, “Fuck, sweet girl. You should not allow me to do such things to you.”
The pressure was deliberate, measured, a slow closing of his hand around the column of your neck. He watched your face as he did it, watched the way your breath caught, the way your pulse beat against his palm, the way your pupils blew wide until your eyes were nearly black.
You did not fight. Your hands came up, but they did not push at his wrist. They settled on his shoulders, your fingers curling into the muscle there, holding him.
“Tell me if—” he started.
“I will.” Your voice was thinner, compressed by the pressure on your throat, but steady. “I will tell you.”
He believed you.
He held you there, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his hand a ring of pressure around your neck. The moment stretched, taut and electric, and he could feel everything, your breath against his wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the slight tremor in your thighs where they bracketed his hips.
He bent and kissed you.
It was not gentle, his mouth hard on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as his hand held your throat. You made a sound against his mouth, a muffled moan that vibrated through your chest and into his, and your nails scraped across his shoulders.
He released your throat. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the plane of your stomach to the thatch of curls between your legs. You were slick again, your body ready for him even after everything you had already done, and the discovery of it, that you still wanted him, that you were still open and wet and hungry sent a pulse of heat through his blood.
He pushed two fingers into you without warning.
You cried out, your back arching, your head pressing into the pillow. He watched your face as he fucked you with his fingers, watched the way your mouth fell open, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your hips bucked against his hand, chasing the pressure.
“Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes opened. Dark, dazed, fixed on his.
“You want me to hurt you?”
You nodded, a jerky motion.
“Then beg for it.”
The words hung between you, heavy and charged. He saw the flicker in your eyes, not fear, but something like surprise, as if you had not expected him to ask for that. As if you had expected him to simply take, to show you the beast without making you name it.
But he needed to hear it. He needed to know that this was what you wanted, not just something you were willing to endure. He needed you to speak the wanting aloud, so that he could believe it.
You swallowed. Your throat moved beneath his gaze. Your hand found his wrist, not to pull it away, but to grip it, your fingers tight on his skin.
“Please,” you said.
Your voice was small, but not weak. It was the voice of someone stepping off a ledge, trusting that they would be caught.
“Please hurt me. I want to feel you. All of you.”
He pulled his fingers out of you. You whimpered at the loss, a sound that went straight to his cock. He settled between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slick with your wanting.
He did not push in.
He held himself there, at the threshold, his eyes locked on yours. His hand found your throat again, his fingers curling around the soft column of your neck. The trust in your gaze was absolute, terrifying, beautiful.
“Remember,” he said, his voice low, “you asked for this.”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion. Your body clenched around him, a sharp cry breaking from your lips, and his hand tightened on your throat, not cutting off your air, but pressing, a constant pressure that reminded you who was taking you.
He fucked you like he meant to leave a mark.
Each thrust was deep, punishing, the angle driving him into you with a force that made the bed frame groan. His hand stayed on your throat, and he watched your face, watched the way your eyes fluttered, the way your mouth stayed open on silent gasps, the way your body surrendered to every drive of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, leaving lines of fire in their wake. He grunted at the sting, and it only made him fuck you harder.
He released your throat and caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, one of his hands spanning both of your small bones. You were trapped beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the sight of you, spread open, marked, wanting, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Mine,” he said, the word torn from his chest.
“Yours,” you gasped, and the word was a prayer. “Baelor, please more.”
Baelor releases his grip on your wrists, “Gods, sweet girl,” he leans down and kisses you with such fierceness, his restraint snapping, and then his fingers curl around and tighten around your throat and then his other hand grips your jaw, smushing your cheeks together. “You want me to hurt you?”
“Yes.”
Baelor didn't hesitate. The word "yes" was the only permission he needed to strip away the last remnants of his control. He slammed his hips forward, burying his cock deep inside you with a violent force that knocked the wind from your lungs. He didn't give you a second to recover before he ripped himself out and drove back in, the wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting your ass echoing through the room.
His grip on your jaw tightened, his fingers digging into your cheeks and forcing your mouth open, stretching your lips wide. He wanted to see every flicker of pain and pleasure crossing your face. He began to fuck you with a rhythmic, brutal intensity, each thrust designed to bottom out against your cervix, jarring your entire frame.
“You're a pathetic little thing, aren't you?” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Begging for it. Begging for me to break you.”
He shifted his weight, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you up even further, exposing your soaking pussy to the harsh light and his hungry gaze. The change in angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock stretching your walls to their absolute limit. You screamed, the sound muffled by his hand crushing your face, your eyes rolling back as the friction ignited a fire in your core.
He released your jaw only to slide his hand back down to your throat. He didn't just press this time, he squeezed, his thumb digging into the side of your neck, cutting off the air just enough to make your vision swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you have craved?”
The oxygen deprivation heightened every sensation, making the feeling of his thick cock sliding in and out of you feel like electric shocks.
You thrashed beneath him, your hips bucking instinctively, trying to meet his punishing pace. He chuckled, a dark, predatory sound, and increased the speed. He was no longer just fucking you, he was conquering you. He hammered into you, his movements frantic and raw, the bed sliding across the floor with every violent shove.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release.
You forced your eyes open, locking onto his. His pupils were blown wide, his expression one of pure, unadulterated dominance. He saw the desperation in your gaze, the way you were completely undone by him, and it pushed him over the edge.
He let out a guttural roar, his hand tightening one last time around your throat as he delivered a final, devastatingly deep thrust. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as his body shuddered with the force of his orgasm. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum erupting deep inside you, filling you up, marking you from the inside out.
As he collapsed onto you, his heavy chest heaving against yours, he didn't let go of your throat immediately. He lingered there, feeling your pulse race under his palm, ensuring you knew exactly who owned every inch of your shaking body.
You followed a moment later, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shuddering through a climax that pulled a broken cry from your lips.
The room was warm and dark and smelled of you.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comfort rather than a demand.
“I did not hurt you too much,” he said. It was not a question, but it was. A plea, wrapped in a statement.
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the dark strands, stroking with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
“You gave me exactly what I asked for,” you said. “And you were still here, the whole time.”
He lifted his head. Your skin was flushed, your lips swollen, your eyes soft and glazed with satisfaction. There were red marks on your throat where his hand had been, fingerprints blooming like dark flowers on your pale skin.
He touched them with his fingertips, featherlight. You did not flinch.
“I will have to cover those,” you said, and there was a smile in your voice. “The gowns I wear to court do not come high enough.”
A laugh escaped him, rough, surprised, almost a sob. He dropped his forehead to yours, your breath mingling in the space between.
“I am sorry,” he said, but you shook your head.
“Do not be sorry. I am not, perhaps Prince Oberyn will now know that the formidable Breakspear does indeed hammer his wife.”
You held his gaze, steady and certain. Your hands came up to cup his face, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.
“You are mine, Baelor. All of you. And I want all of you. Not the version you keep gentle for the court. Not the one you wash the blood off before you touch me. All of you.”
He closed his eyes. Let the words settle into his bones, into the places that had been hollow and guarded and afraid.
When he opened them again, something in him was quieter. Not tamed, never tamed but no longer fighting itself.
“And if I want to hurt you again?” he asked.
You smiled. A small, knowing curve of your lips that held no fear, only welcome.
“Then you will ask me first. And I will tell you yes. Or I will tell you no. And you will listen.”
It was not a demand. It was a promise, an agreement, forged in the space between his hunger and your trust.
“And if you say no?” he asked.
“Then you will be gentle with me, as you always have been. And I will love you in the gentleness, and wait for the next time you ask.”
The word hit him in the chest like a war hammer.
Love.
You had said it before, in quiet moments, in the dark of your bed, but never like this. Never as an anchor, holding him steady in the storm of his own wanting.
He kissed you. Soft, this time. A promise sealed with lips and breath.
The quiet settled around you like a held breath. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in a deep amber glow that made the shadows long and soft. He was still inside you, softening, the heat between you slowly cooling as your breathing steadied.
His hand had fallen from your throat to rest on your chest, palm flat over your heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm beneath your skin.
You were watching him. He could feel your gaze on his face, tracing the lines of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips were still parted from the force of his release. Your hand came up, not to his face this time, but to his hand on your chest, your fingers threading through his, pressing his palm harder against your heartbeat.
“There is more,” you said. Not a question. A statement, delivered with the same calm certainty you used to name the weather.
He looked at you. Your eyes were steady, unafraid, and there was something in them that had not been there before tonight, a knowledge, a hunger that had been awakened and was not yet sated.
“You are still hard,” you said, and your lips curved in that small, dangerous smile he was beginning to recognize. Not the smile of the gentle wife who greeted him at court. The smile of the woman who had asked him to hurt her.
He looked down. You were right. His cock, still half-sheathed in your warmth, was stirring again. The sight of you, the marks on your throat, the flush on your chest, the way your body had accepted everything he had given and asked for more was enough to kindle the fire that had barely banked.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was rough, still scraped raw by the confession he had made, the trust you had given.
You shifted beneath him. The movement was small, a subtle roll of your hips that made him slide deeper into you, and you gasped at the sensation.
The feeling of you, still wet, still open, still wanting sent a fresh ache through his blood.
“Then show me,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. “Show me what else you have been holding back.”
He could have taken you again. Could have flipped you onto your stomach and driven into you with the same brutal hunger that had carried him through the last hour. But something in your voice, in the steadiness of your gaze, made him pause.
He had asked you what you wanted, and you had told him. You had begged for it. Now you were asking him for more, not with fear, not with hesitation, but with the same quiet courage you had shown every time you bared your throat to his hand.
He wanted to give you something you had never had. Something that would show you that his hunger was not only a beast to be unleashed, that it could be shaped, directed, used to carry you somewhere new.
He pulled out of you slowly. You made a small sound at the loss, a whimper that he felt in his chest. But you did not protest. You watched him, your eyes tracking his movements as he shifted away from you, as he sat back on his heels between your spread thighs.
The firelight painted you in gold and shadow. Your skin was flushed, your hair a tangled halo on the pillow, your breasts rising and falling with each breath. The marks on your throat were dark against your pale skin, fingerprints that would take days to fade. You were beautiful. You were his.
He reached for your hand. You gave it without hesitation, your small fingers wrapping around his, and he guided you, gently, turning you onto your side.
You went willingly, your body moving with his direction, your back curving as you settled onto your hip. He moved behind you, the solid wall of his chest pressing against your spine, his thighs slotting against the backs of yours. You were warm and soft and yielding, and the position was familiar, he had held you like this a hundred times in the quiet of your bed, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist.
But this time, his other hand found the nape of your neck.
He guided your head back, gently, your throat arching as you let him move you. His arm came around you, his bicep brushing against your jaw, his forearm settling across your collarbone.
It was a cage, gentle but absolute, his arm forming a ring around your head and throat that you could not easily escape.
“Baelor,” you breathed. Not fear. Curiosity. A question formed on the edge of his name.
“Trust me,” he said, his lips brushing your ear.
You did not answer in words. You relaxed into him. Your spine softened, your head settling into the crook of his arm, your body molding against his as if you had been made to fit there.
His cock was pressed against the curve of your ass, hard again, leaking a bead of moisture that smeared across your skin. He did not enter you.
He held you there, in the cage of his arm, and let you feel the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse against your back. “You are safe,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no edge in it. “You are always safe with me. But I want you to feel something.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his profile. Your lips were parted, your eyes dark and searching. “What?”
“How it feels to be held by me. Not taken. Held.”
His arm tightened around you. Not enough to hurt, enough to remind you that it was there, that he could close the cage at any moment, that his strength was a constant presence around your neck and head. His hand found your hip, gripping the soft curve of flesh, and he pulled you back against him, the head of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass.
You shivered. A full-body tremor that ran through you and into him, and he felt it in his chest, in the arm that cradled your head, in the hand that gripped your hip.
“I am going to take you like this,” he said. “Slowly. Gently. And you are going to feel every inch of me, from the inside, while my arm stays around your throat.”
Your breath caught. Your hand found his forearm, your fingers curling around the muscle there, holding him as if you were afraid he would disappear.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”
He guided himself to your entrance. The angle was different, your thighs pressed together, and the head of his cock slid against your slick folds, searching for entry.
He found it, the wet heat of your opening and he pushed in, slow, steady, the pressure building as he sank into you inch by inch.
You moaned. A low, trembling sound that vibrated against his arm where it crossed your throat, and he felt it in the curve of his bicep, in the skin of his forearm. You were tight, so tight, and the angle pressed him deeper than before, the head of his cock hitting a place that made you gasp and arch against him.
He stilled when he was fully seated. His arm was still around you, his hand gripping your hip, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You were trembling, small shivers running through your body, and your hand had tightened on his forearm until your knuckles were white.
“Breathe,” he said, his lips against your ear. “I am not going anywhere.”
You exhaled. A shaky breath that seemed to carry the tension out of you, and you softened around him, your body accepting the fullness of his presence inside you.
He began to move.
The rhythm was slow. Each thrust was measured, deep, controlled, his hips rolling against you in a steady wave that pushed him into you and pulled him back to the edge before driving forward again.
His arm stayed around your throat, not squeezing, just present, a constant reminder of where he was, of the trust you had placed in his hands.
You made small sounds with each movement. Whimpers, gasps, half-formed words that died in your throat. Your hand stayed on his forearm, gripping, releasing, gripping again, as if you were grounding yourself through the contact.
“Look at me,” he said.You turned your head. The movement brought your cheek against his bicep, your eyes meeting his mismatched ones in the dim light. The angle was awkward, intimate, your face cradled in the crook of his arm as he moved inside you.
“I want to see your face,” he said. “I want to watch you feel this.”
Your lips parted.
A soft moan escaped you, your eyes fluttering, and he saw it, the moment the pleasure crested, the moment you surrendered to the slow, steady rhythm of his body inside you.
Your eyes stayed on his, dark and dazed and full of trust.
He fucked you like that for a long time, slow, deep, kissing your brow, swallowing your moans, “You are so good for me,” he would murmur against your skin.
Gentle in a way that was not gentle at all, the gentleness was in the control, in the measured pace, in the arm that held your throat without pressing.
He was giving you the lie of safety, the pretense of softness, while his cock stretched you open, hitting depths you had not known you possessed.
Your breathing changed. Small, quick gasps that came faster and faster, your hips beginning to move against his, chasing something. Your grip on his arm tightened, your nails digging into his skin, and the small sounds you made grew higher, more urgent.
“I am close,” you gasped. “Baelor —”
His arm tightened around your throat.Not enough to cut off your air. Enough to press, enough to remind you who was in control, enough to make you freeze beneath him, your eyes flying wide.
“Not yet,” he said. His voice was low, rough, but there was no cruelty in it. “I want you to feel this longer.”
You whimpered, but you nodded, a small jerk of your head against his arm, and he felt you relax into his control. Your body was a wire drawn taut, trembling on the edge of release, and you held it, waiting for his permission.
He kept the rhythm slow, each thrust pressed him into you, the angle making you gasp, and he watched your face, watched the struggle between surrender and want, the way your lips stayed parted on silent breaths, the way your eyes stayed locked on his.
When he could feel you starting to shake, when your body was trembling so hard that he could feel it in his own, he loosened his hold on your throat.
“Now,” he said.
You came apart.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body clenching around him, your cry sharp and broken as you rode the release. He watched your face through it, the way your eyes squeezed shut, the way your mouth opened on a silent scream, the way your body arched and bucked against him, taking every inch of his cock as you pulsed around him.
He did not let you recover.
He pulled out of you, the sudden loss making you gasp, and he moved before you could draw breath. His hands found your hips, rolling you onto your stomach, and you went willingly, boneless and trembling, your cheek pressed to the pillow, your arms stretched above your head.
He settled behind you, his knees spreading yours, his cock pressing against your wet, waiting entrance. He did not enter you. He leaned forward, his chest covering your back, his lips brushing your ear.
“Now,” he said, his voice a low growl, ”I am going to stop being gentle, but you need to tell me, my love. You must tell me if it is too much.”
“Gods, please Baelor, fucking use me!”
He thrust into you in one hard, brutal motion.You cried out a sharp, keening sound that was not pain but the shock of fullness, the sudden stretch of him driving deep.
He did not pause. He set a rhythm that was punishing, each thrust slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin filling the chamber. “There you go, let them hear who's fucking you.”
The bed frame groaned beneath you, and you took it, your body yielding to every drive of his hips.
“Baelor!”
His hand found your hair, fisting in the strands, and he pulled your head back. Your spine arched, your throat exposed, and he drove into you from behind, the angle deeper, harder, each thrust hitting the place that made you gasp and moan and claw at the sheets.
“You are mine,” he said, the words torn from his chest. “Only mine.”
“Yours,” you gasped, the word broken by the force of his thrusts. “Yours, yours —”
He came with a groan, his release pouring into you in hot pulses, his hips grinding against yours as he emptied himself into you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him, your cry muffled by the pillow, your whole self shuddering through the aftershocks.
He collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath ragged against your shoulder. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, the slow return of the world beyond the walls of your chamber.
He did not pull out. He stayed inside you, softening, his body covering yours, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder.
Your hand found his, your fingers threading through his, and you squeezed.
“Well,” you said, your voice hoarse, your lips curving against the pillow. “That was not gentle.”
He laughed, a rough, surprised sound that was almost a sob. “No.”
You turned your head, just enough to catch his eye. Your smile was soft, satisfied, and full of love
“I did not want gentle,” you said. “I wanted you.”
He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and let the words settle into the hollow places, filling them with something that felt like home.
You turned in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, your body sliding against his as you rolled to face him. The firelight caught the marks on your throat, dark fingerprints blooming like petals on pale skin and he watched your eyes, looking for any flicker of regret.
There was none.
Only warmth, only wanting, only the slow curve of your lips as you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed.
He let you. He let you roll him onto his back, let you settle over his hips, your thighs straddling his, the damp heat of your skin pressing against his half-hard cock.
You were beautiful like this, hair wild, skin flushed, the marks of his hands on your throat like a claim he had not known he needed to make.
“My turn,” you said.Your voice was low, husky, the voice of someone who had been well loved and was not finished. You shifted back, sliding down his body, your lips trailing a path down his chest, over his stomach, your tongue tracing the line of muscle that led to his navel.
He watched you go.
The sight of you, your hair spilling across his thighs, your eyes dark and fixed on his cock made his breath catch. He was already hard again, the blood rising at the sight of your mouth hovering over the tip.
You took him in your hand first. Your fingers wrapped around the base, and you held him there, examining him, your thumb tracing the vein that ran along the underside.
The touch was light, almost clinical, and he felt the ache of it in his balls, in the base of his spine, in the raw need that was already building again.
“I have wanted to do this,” you said, your voice a murmur against his skin, “since the first night you held me.”
Your tongue touched the tip.
A single, deliberate stroke, flat and warm, that tasted the bead of moisture already gathering there. His hips jerked, a reflex he could not control, and you smiled, he felt the curve of your lips against him, before you opened your mouth and took him in.
The heat of your mouth was a shock every time. He had felt it before, of course, you had taken him in your mouth on your wedding night, shy and unsure, and he had let you set the pace, had held himself still while you learned the shape of him.
But this was different.
This was hunger.
This was the woman who had asked him to hurt her, who had met his beast and called it by name, now taking him deep with a confidence that made his vision blur at the edges.
Your head moved, slow and deliberate. Your tongue traced the vein, the ridge, the sensitive spot beneath the head that made his breath stutter. Your hand stayed wrapped around the base, stroking in time with your mouth, and the wet sounds you made, the small, greedy sounds of a woman who was enjoying herself, filled the chamber.
His hand found your hair, “Gods,” he did not pull. He simply rested it there, his fingers threading through the honey-brown strands, grounding himself in the reality of what was happening.
You looked up at him. Your mouth was stretched around his cock, your lips slick with spit, your eyes meeting his with a question.
He nodded. Just once.
A permission he did not need to speak.
You took him deeper.
The head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and you did not flinch and that made him throw his head back, “Oh, fuck!”
You held there, your throat working around him, your eyes still on his, and the sight of you, the perfect surrender of your body accepting him, drove a groan from his chest that was almost a sob.You pulled back, gasping, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock.
Then you went down again. Faster this time. Harder.
Your hand moved in rhythm with your mouth, and the sounds, the wet, obscene sounds of you sucking him, of your throat taking him, of your moaning around his cock, were the most beautiful music he had ever heard.
His hand tightened in your hair. Not to force you, you did not need forcing, but to hold you there, to feel the weight of your commitment, the trust in the way you let him guide you.
He breathed your name, and it was a prayer.
“Gods, that's it, my sweet wife,” he murmured, voice thick with a mixture of longing and relief, as if your presence was the only calm in the storm raging within him.
The moment held a fragile tenderness amid the chaos, a shared sanctuary where unspoken words found their meaning in the smallest of touches.
You responded to Baelor’s urgency with a soft, involuntary moan, the sound blending with his as the intensity of the moment deepened.
When he reached his release, you swallowed it with a gentle, caring motion, a shared expression of trust and intimacy between you.
A moan of your own escaped softly, mingling with the heavy breaths that filled the room, a quiet affirmation of the bond that held you both steady amid the chaos around you.
The space between you was charged, tender, and fierce all at once, a refuge where vulnerability and strength intertwined.
Baelor gathered you into his arms, the fierce tension of moments before softening into something tender and wholly vulnerable. His touch was careful, as if afraid to break the fragile connection you both shared.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against yours with a delicate reverence. Then, slowly, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans into a quiet, intimate exchange.
The kiss was gentle, lingering, an unspoken promise of healing and devotion amid the turmoil.In his embrace, time seemed to slow, and the chaotic world outside the chambers melted away, leaving only the warmth of your shared breath and the steady beat of two hearts seeking solace in each other.
“I quite liked that side of you,” you murmured, voice low and playful, “hmm, you know what they say. Why ride a horse when you can fuck a dragon.”
For a moment, Baelor simply held your gaze, the fire in his mismatched eyes flickering with both amusement and something rawer, pride, desire, and an unspoken connection that needed no further words.
He tightened his embrace gently, a quiet affirmation that the dragon within him, fierce and untamed, was yours alone.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Baelor's eyes linger on the bruises on your throat and he strokes your skin, “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be, you get to rub it in that slimy viper’s face when he realises you do indeed fuck like you fight.”
“Hmm.”
“Gods, Baelor! Again?!”
“I cannot help that you have awakened the dragon.”
Your laughter spills into the air as Baelor rolls over you again, kissing you, worshipping you, ensuring that despite what had just occurred, you will always be safe with him.
tags: smut & fluff, domestic, established relationship (marriage), housewife!reader, butcher!simon, food, body worship & praise, missionary,
a/n: changed a little bit of it for the fic, i hope that's okay! i hope everyone loves it!!
it wasn't supposed to be a big deal, these were little videos that you made when simon was at work. people did a lot worse on the internet! you were mostly in sweet aprons with your username embroidered onto them and occasionally one of the dresses that your loving husband bought you!
you wanted to keep yourself busy now that you were a stay-at-home wife and the income from being part of the creator's program was a nice bonus.
"thank you for the banana bread recipe, mrs. riley!"
"where did you get that dress?"
"i wonder what mister riley looks like! i bet she totally lucked out!!"
you built up a sweet little community that was mostly sharing recipes that you've aquired over the years. viewers were impressed of how well you could handle spice despite your gentle demeanour, but you once said in a video that you had been eating spicy food your whole life!
"plus, my husband loves it too!" that was the big mystery of the account, who was mrs. riley's husband? viewers knew he existed and that videos occasionally were about making his lunches. but he had never showed his face in any video.
you thought the comments were cute, you'd often show them to simon while you were in his lap on the couch.
"they think that you're like christian grey."
"who the hell is that?" simon chuckled as he rested his head on top of your head so he could look down at your phone, "sounds like a real prick with a name like that."
another day, another video. you worked within the kitchen explaining the recipe. "you have to remmeber to add the spices before it all comes together or else it won't have time to mingle with the potatoes or the carrots. the taste will be all off!" you tone was like a bird's chirp as you had one hand on yourhip and the other stirring the pot with a spoon.
"my husband loves this! and i think who ever you make this for, wife, husband, boyfriend, partner, family member, friend, they'll love it too! but i suggest if you're making it for your nana that you tone down the spices a little!" you talked away as you continued to cook.
it filled the near silence in the kitchen and allowed you to keep viewers engaged!
but this video ended a little different. while you showed off finished stew in a pastel pink bowl, viewers caught the sight of him. hulking mass of man in a white t-shirt with a suspicious amount of red stained across it.
"girl, are you okay?"
"who is that?!"
"pack him a sandwich in the next video if you need help!"
"hey girlie, close your fist with your thumb inside if you're not safe!"
you were confused by the comments, simon wasn't a bad guy? he had never hurt a hair on your head. you've been trying to get him into more experimental kinky play in the bedroom!
you heard the door unlock and peeked out of the kitchen to see your husband coming home. you were use to grime he brought home, you met at the butcher shop his long time friend price owned. so a t-shirt stained with blood was nothing new. but then it clicked in your head.
oh they thought that simon was some kind of serial killer.
before you could say anything to your husband, he pulled you in for tight kiss and held you by the back of the head with his strong hand. you smiled against his lips and giggled when he picked you up. you wrapped your legs around his waist and held onto his shoulders.
you weren't the lightest thing in the world, but simon had spent most of his life hauling things (meat) heavier than you could ever be. he eyed you from top to bottom and smiled. his smiles were rare to others but frequent with you.
"how's my love bug today? makin' more videos for the fans." he asked as he carried you to the couch and put you down gently. he then leaned in to kiss you on the lips.
"yeah, they think you're a serial killer though."
his blond brows raised, "serial killer?"
you looked at him in return, "you were in the back of one of my latest videos, i didn't notice anything until i realized that you were in a work shirt and it looked like you were a serial killer."
"i see, i see." he said as he sat next to you and laced your fingers with his, "tell them i'm not, i don't need rumours to start." simon didn't like being the center of attention.
he once told you that he married the brightest woman he could find so she could be the center of attention and he could be supportive from the sidelines. it was why people gravitated towards you while being a little afraid of you towering husband.
you pulled him closer to you and kissed at his scarred face. he was an active service member before he became a butcher, so much history on his body and you loved every molecule of him. when you kissed him, he deepened the kiss and held both your hands.
"simon."
"let me take you to bed." he replied softly before he pulled you to your feet and then pulled you up into his arms bridal style. it took you a while to get used to him carrying you. not that you were worried about him not having a good hold on you, but rather you not having a good hold on him!
he brought you to your shared bedroom and placed you on the bed delicately. he then got his shirt up and over his head, exposing his strong body to you. he wasn't model trimmed, he was built with proper strength.
i ain't no pretty boy, dove.
but you thought your husband was the prettiest of them all. slowly you started to take off your dress, you could feel your husband's hungry eyes on you as you undressed for him. your viewers saw a sweet little wife, bu simon saw that sweet little wife totally nude.
when the mis-matched pair of bra and panties ended up on the floor with the dress, simon felt like a new man. he worked hard to provide for your family of two and would continue to work hard every day. you were his wife, his everything. and he loved you more than he could ever articulate.
so he expressed his love by getting undressed and into bed with you. laid out on top of the covers, your head in the pillows with simon between your legs.
"look at mrs. riley." he cooed as he rubbed his rough hands up and down your bare thighs, "prettier than those little cookies you make.' he chuckled a little, "boy at work watch your videos all the time, you've been a big help to them, finally able to cook for themselves." he went in to kiss you on the lips.
"glad i could help." you replied as you held onto one of the pillows under your head. you arched your back a little when he lined his cock up with slick entrance and pressed himself in.
he leaned forward and braced a hand up against the headboard as he got his cock inside of you. the issue with a size difference like yours, it made it a little hard to have sex in certain positions. usually you were on top, but since you got married you've been able to figure out missionary.
"honey."
"i got ya, dove. you feel so good as always." he said lowly, "everything i have ya, it's a complete treat. you take good care of me, you know that. you are a good wife. happy you're making your little videos, and i'm happier i get to come home to you."
you blushed a little bit and wanted to hide your face but he stopped you by pinning your hand to the bed.
"don't hide from me, dove. i want to see my wife's face." he said with his voice tinged with affection. he loved the sight of you, you were beautiful under him, he couldn't help but lick his lips at the sight of you.
"you make me blush too much." you said as he moved against you. your loving, caring husband moved his hips in a steady pace as he held onto your hand and the headboard. his thrusts were easy on you, not too rough but just enough to make you excited all over. you loved the feeling of him, there was just something about it that made you feel a twinge of excitement in your core.
he was a perfect lover and you loved him so much.
"all mine." he purred as he continued his movements. he watched your videos daily during his lunch break, happily eating the food you made for a video that morning or the day prior. the stews, baked goods and pasta dishes that you were known for.
your emphasis on couponing and how to store foods to make them last longer. it was an honour for simon to be with such a lovely woman. you encouraged food as a form of love. and you showed that love ten times over with simon.
he captured your lips and continued to move against you. he devoured the feeling of his lover up against him. you felt amazing, you felt like heaven. he couldn't help himself. he moved against you and continued to kiss you.
"work so hard every day, you work your ass off beautiful. and i love it, all of you. you know that. i can't get enough of you, how you feel against me. how i feel like our souls are connected."
you giggled, "no need to butter me up, handsome." you smiled when he placed another kiss on your lips. you moaned into the kiss, you eventually held onto his strong shoulders. you two moved against each other, husband and wife. quite the pair you were, and simon wouldn't want it any other way.
"baby." he cooed.
"shh, shh." you said, you opened your eyes and stared into his brown ones, he was so handsome. even when he tried to deny it, you knew the truth. he was quite the handsome man. the kind of man that made your toes curl with each hardy thrust of his hips.
the pleasure ran through both of you, the intensity of it made you kiss one another once more. he continued to work himself inside of you. live in each of this thrusts, affection in every movement. simon loved you and you loved him, hence why you held onto him so closely.
"oh, dove. look at ya. perfect for your husband." he cooed as he felt closer to his climax, it was an intense feeling. the kind of feeling that excited him greatly. he loved you and when he watched your pleasure reach its peak, he felt a swell of pride when you clutched onto him tighter.
"fuck, honey." you moaned as pleasure crushed down on you. you tensed up then relax, enjoying the feeling as it moved through you. you shared another kiss.
simon continued to work his body up against yours, and soon he finished inside of you. he rocked against you through his climax and then only broke the kiss when he stopped. he looked you in the eyes, those beautiful brown eyes.
you giggled lightly and pulled him in once more before he laid out on the bed beside you and held you in his arms.
"not too bad for a serial killer."
"yeah, i bet they'd never know that you're such a teddy bear." you dragged a finger across his strong chest and let out a small giggle. he felt so good against you. you soon sat up and said, "i have something i want you to try, i am working on a new recipe."
before you could get too far, he pulled you back into bed with him and wrapped his arms around you. he held you close and said, "whatever it is, dove. i bet it's amazing, but right now i just wanna hold ya."
-
the following day, on one of simon's days off. you set up the camera and stood beside your much taller husband. you were all smiles as you were ready to bake a nice spring treat.
"hello, love bugs! it's mrs. riley again, and today i have a guest!" you gestured to your husband. you whispered, "you'll need to crouch down a little." and simon bent his knees, "this is my husband, mister riley!"
you hoped that this would quell any concerns your fans might have. and while the comments were positive one made you blush.
"i used to think i had a crush on mrs. riley, but now i have a crush on mr. riley too!"
i hope you love this fic! if you have any suggestions, my open! till next time <3
synopsis: You move to the countryside looking for peace, space, and a life that finally feels like your own. Instead, you find routine, watchful silence, and a neighbor who's always there before you ask.
Wc: 15.8k
CW: fem!reader, artist!reader, butcher!simon, lowkey stalker!simon if you rily squint, kinda mean!simon ( he calls you stupid but in a sexy way), slight slow burn, mention of blood, praise, rough sex, fem! masturbation, mention of breeding, unprotected sex, choking, throat-fucking, spit play, spanking, cunnilingus, analingus, brief mention phlegm, brief aftercare.
a/n: this is a reupload bc the og got labeled and i refuse to be silenced so if you read this already no you didn’t🫵🏼. Jk ily<3
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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── .✦ The devil's in the details
A life that felt like your own.
It's all you've wanted for as long as you can remember.
Growing up meant learning the rules of the real world far too early—waking up every morning just to drag yourself to a grueling job, putting up with nagging customers and insufferable bosses who never seemed to respect boundaries.
Work. Pay the bills. Tend to responsibilities.
It disturbed your soul in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else—this idea that life was just endurance, not living.
Yet you always looked ahead. You never confined yourself to the standard everyone else seemed content with—and that refusal was why you were never taken as seriously as you wanted to be.
You learned early that dreaming meant working harder than everyone else.
I wanna make things with my hands!!
You used to squeal as a child whenever someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up. The laughter that followed always left you quietly confused.
What a cutie.
Wait till she grows up.
As if you weren't standing right there. As if it really was unattainable.
As you got older, that desire only split open and spilled into everything else—into baking, painting, shaping.
Anything that lets your hands create something beautiful. Something meaningful.
Over time, you realized it wasn't just about making things. It was about the space to make them—to exist without being watched, corrected, rushed. To live somewhere quiet enough that your thoughts could finally settle.
It wasn't that you were a complete introvert. You loved people—you loved the ones who mattered. But there was always that persistent pull, that quiet urge to disappear for a while. To exist in a world that belonged only to you. You would spend days on end just imagining.
And lately, that wasn't enough anymore.
You didn't just want escape. You wanted peace. Quiet.
Which was why you took the first opportunity to leave everything behind—a small farming town in rural England, offering work in exchange for relocation. Painting homes. Restoring old businesses. Fixing what had been forgotten.
Everyone had something to say about it. Your family. Your friends. Even your professors warned you against it.
But you didn't hesitate.
You've technically been here for a week already. Long enough to learn the unfamiliar quiet by heart, to wait while the cottage was cleared and signed off and made official. This is the first time you're really standing in front of it.
Ideas crowd your mind faster than you can catch the—paint, repairs, small changes that would make it yours. Your chest tightens, heart swelling, a quiet certainty settling in.
The place is neglected. Weathered. Clearly left behind.
And yet, all you can see is possibility.
For the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is falling into place.
"Excuse me?"
You're pulled from your thoughts by the soft voice beside you. You blink, realizing the man has been standing there the entire time.
He smiles, polite but tentative. "I just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking. It's an older cottage, so...lt isn't exactly our best."
"No," you say quickly, unable to stop yourself from smiling. "It's perfect."
Something about your response seems to catch him off guard. He clears his throat.
"Right. Then there are just a few things we should go over before we-"
A sound cuts him off.
An animalistic, sharp, distant squeal loud enough to make you flinch, the noise carrying unnaturally through the trees. You turn instinctively, scanning the hillside.
Up the slope, partially hidden by the trees, stands a barn. One you hadn't noticed before. The doors open with a loud thud.
For a split second, you don't register what you're seeing—only that something too big has stepped into the light.
Then your stomach drops.
The man fills the doorway, massive shoulders nearly scraping the frame, his silhouette swallowing what little light spills out behind him. He's enormous-not just tall, but wide, built thick and heavy like he was carved for brute force rather than grace.
He's covered in blood everywhere. Dark, soaked into his clothes, smeared across his arms, clinging in thick, ugly patches that glisten wetly in the sunlight. There's a faint metallic smell that drifts through the air, making you scrunch your nose.
To top it off, he had a skull—patterned balaclava covering the lower half of his face.
The printed grin feels out of place against the quiet countryside, against the green fields and open sky. You can't see his mouth. Can't read his expression. Just the size of him, the way he carries himself like nothing around here surprises him anymore.
Your shoulders tense on instinct.
It was straight out of a horror movie.
"Um," you let out a small laugh, more nerves than humor honestly. "Is that... normal?"
"Oh—yeah." The man beside you clears his throat.
"Yeah, that'll be Simon. Local butcher." He gives a small, awkward laugh. "Looks worse than it is."
Suddenly, you remember everything they warned you about.
A woman alone in the woods.
Right.
You watched cautiously as the man walked toward the cottage right next to the barn, slightly more hidden in the woods than yours, slightly smaller as well.
His steps are steady, boots pressing into the dirt with an easy familiarity, like he's walked this path a thousand times.
Halfway there, he slows and glances over.
Just a look - brief, assessing—the kind of look anyone might give when they notice someone new standing where no one usually does. You tell yourself that immediately.
Still, your chest tightens in an unsettling way.
Even from this distance, his attention feels heavier than it should. He doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. Just takes you in for a moment longer than you're comfortable with.
"Don't mind him. He's a private bloke—won't be any bother."
You nod slowly as you turn, stepping back toward the cottage, the normal sounds of the countryside slowly filtering back in—though the image of him, bloodstained and broad-shouldered against the barn, stays longer than you'd like.
His view of you was completely different.
All he saw was a small figure standing out in the open.
Too small for this place.
You were dressed simply, soft neutral colors that didn't draw any immediate attention—yet somehow, you managed to draw it anyway. A long skirt brushing your ankles. A fitted tube top clinging in all the right places, bare skin catching the last of the daylight. Gold glinting faintly at your throat and wrists.
He has been watching you since the moment you arrived.
Could see you almost too clearly.
The thought settled heavy in his chest. The cottage next to his. Empty for years.
And now occupied.
His hand tightened around the handle of the front door as he went inside, the knowledge of you settling somewhere in the back of his mind.
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You wake up before the sun does.
The room is still dark, the cold from the night before still lingers stubbornly around the corners. The smell of wood and damp earth seeps into your space as you lie still beneath the covers, listening to the sound of your breathing and distant chirping of birds.
The nerves you thought you left behind start to stir low in your stomach. You barely slept, drifting in and out of shallow rest. It's funny how the waiting -the planning and the packing was easier than actually waking up inside this new life. A whole week spent imagining, filling the gaps with maybes and what-ifs, had felt gentler than this moment.
But now, lying in your own bed, on the edge of your first real day here, the anxiety creeps back into you like it never really left.
You force yourself up, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to shield against the morning cold. The wooden floor bites at your bare feet as you cross the room.
You move through your room on autopilot. Pushing aside clutter and digging through your box filled with your things to wash up. You pull on a simple black crop top and black leggings—easy and practical, something you don't mind making a mess out of. You fix your hair the way you always do before big jobs, muscle memory taking over as you gather your tools, hand steady despite the tight, resistant pull in your chest.
Your first job is a simple mural for a little flower shop in town.
You'd already been introduced earlier in the week.
Names, faces, smiles. Florence, the owner, had shown you the wall, fingers dusted with soil, excitement bright in her eyes. They'd given you free rein over the design, only asking that you keep to a preferred color palette.
"Okay," you mutter to yourself, crouching by your supplies. "One, two, three-"
You line the cans up on the floor. Reds. Yellows. Whites. Count them twice. Then again.
"Four."
You tap each lid as you go, checking them off in your head like that'll keep your nerves in place. Everything's been ready since last night. Packed. Repacked. Adjusted.
You're stalling. You know you are.
Keys cold in your palm, you stand by the door longer than necessary. Your hand rests on the handle. You inhale once before stepping out.
A loud, wet huff greets you immediately.
You freeze.
Right behind you—way too close—is a dog. If you could actually call it that.
He doesn't look very friendly. Honestly, you can't even process whether or not he is friendly by the way he stands there.
He's massive—thick-chested, broad, and you're pretty sure you saw veins popping out of his shoulders, only reinforcing how strong this dog could be. His paws dig heavy into the dirt at the bottom of your porch. Drool clings to the sides of its mouth, slipping free as it stares at you.
And for a fleeting second, the image of yesterday resurfaced. Barn doors, and a blood covered man standing in the middle of the field.
Your heart jumps straight into your throat.
You lift your hand instinctively, bending just slightly at the knees before you can stop yourself.
"Oh-okay," you breathe. "This is... fine."
"Hi," you try, softer. "Hey, puppy."
The dog doesn't move, just tilts his head to the side.
You glance around, suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. No neighbors. No cars. Just you and the beast blocking your path.
The distant sound of a truck came before you could react, stopping abruptly in front of you.
"Oi," the voice is rough and hoarsed.
"Mate. What'd I tell you?" He reaches over and pushes the door open from the inside.
The dog perking up instantly before running toward him obediently, tail wagging like nothing just happened.
It's only then you realized who it is. Who's standing in front of your door.
The butcher straight out of a slasher movie.
"You botherin' this bunny?" he asks the dog while scratching the back of his ears, happily wiggling his short tail.
Bunny?
"No bunny, just me," you laugh awkwardly before you step down off the porch, forcing yourself to stand straight even though your grip tightens on your bags.
He huffs, something close to a chuckle. "Right."
"Sorry about him," he adds.
"He likes to wander."
"You sure about that?" you ask, looking at the dog.
"Because he looked like he wasn't planning on leaving."
His lips twitches, eyes glinting with amusement.
"Saw you movin' your things yesterday," he says. "The place's been empty for a long time."
"Yeah," you reply quickly. "Feels a little weird, but I'll make it a home."
"Takes time," he shrugs, watching you for a second longer than necessary.
"You heading into town?" he asks, pointing at your bags in hand.
You blink. "Yeah. I was just—"
"Hop in," he says, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"I'll take you."
You hesitate, words catching. "You don't have to—"
"Already going," he replies simply.
You pause for a moment, eyes lingering down the road, wondering whether or not you should climb into this stranger's truck. The bark of the dog breaks your thoughts, deciding to climb in anyway. The smell hits you all at once—raw meat, metallic and heavy, softened slightly by the clean interior and a faint pine-scented freshener.
Large freezers are secured in the back.
The dog squeezes itself between the two of you, panting proudly. Still massive. Just... not focused on you anymore.
cute, you think.
"Simon,"' he introduces himself.
“Y/n."
The car ride is silent, tires crunching over gravel as the hills roll out around you. Fields stretch wide and open, cows grazing lazily, sheep dotting the landscape like pale stones. Trees sway gently in the breeze.
You watch it all pass, mesmerized. Though your thoughts are running wild, thoughts going back to the sellers words.
Private bloke
Not private enough clearly.
Your gaze shifts from outside to his truck, trying to catch a glimpse at the man.
Simon drives easily, his hand on the wheel completely scarred, you wondered if he got it from his line of work or something else, the other holds a cigarette out the window. He looks different like this—clean, relaxed, almost ordinary. He looks handsome. In a rough, rugged way.
"Need somethin'?" he asks, eyes still on the road.
"Sorry," you say quickly, eyes snapping away "Just— thinking."
"Didnt scare you too much yesterday, did i?" he asks, looking at you briefly. "You seem slightly jumpy,"
Your neck snaps almost instantly toward his hard face.
"No of course not!" You reply hurriedly,
He hums in understanding.
The truck slows outside the shop, gravel crunching under the tires.
"This good?" he asks.
You nod, already reaching for the door. "Yeah. Thank you."
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then gives a short nod.
"I'll be back," he states.
You hesitate, but smile anyway. Shutting the door with a loud thud.
You can feel his eyes on you until the bell above the shop door rings and the world shifts back into place.
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The day goes by quicker than you expect.
One moment you're unpacking your things, the next you're moving on instinct alone. You work mindlessly— sketching, painting, letting your hands take over where your thoughts would only get in the way. People drift past on the sidewalk, slowing as they pass, curious eyes gazing at your art. A few linger. Most keep walking. You trade small smiles, nods of acknowledgement.
"Lovely," some say as they walk past.
It brings you back to before, when this was only just a distant dream.
At some point, you stop paying attention to the time.
By the time the sun begins to sink, warm light stretching long across the street, you finally step back.
The mural sits before you—unfinished, but already alive.
You begin packing up your supplies. Brushes rinsed.
Papers stacked. Movements slow, trying everything to not break the spell of the day just yet.
"Alright, Miss Florence," you call out as you step inside, setting your things down on the shop's counter.
"I'll be back around the same time tomorrow."
"Of course, love," she says easily, looking up from where she's standing. "The mural's coming along quite nicely. I'm impressed."
You smile at that, a quiet swell of pride warming your chest.
As you turn to say your goodbyes, her hand comes to rest gently on your shoulder.
"Is everything alright, love?" she asks, concern written plainly across her face.
You pause, staring at her, head tilting slightly in confusion. "Of course," you say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away-just nods toward the door, past the front window.
You follow her gaze.
A small sound of surprise slips from you at the sight of the red pickup truck parked outside. The big dog hangs halfway out the open window, tongue lolling as he pants happily. And leaning back against the hood is the man himself—somehow larger than he'd been in your memory. Smoke curls lazily around him, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"He's been waiting out there a while," she says, careful.
"Oh, we live on the same road. He's just doing me a favor." You smile reassuringly.
That doesn't ease her expression the way you expect it to.
"Why?" you ask, lowering your voice without thinking.
"What about him?"
"Oh—nothing," she says. "He's just a private man, is all.
We were a bit surprised seeing you come out of his truck... and now."
"That's all?" you press, eyes flickering towards the truck.
She pauses long enough that you lift your brows.
"Not much to him, really," she says finally.
"He's been up there longer than most people remember. Bought that land years back. Kept it when no one else wanted it."
"He's the butcher, though, right?" you ask, still trying to understand the wariness.
"He is. But it's odd," she admits. "He doesn't hire out.
Doesn't expand. Doesn't sell beyond what he needs to." She presses her lips together.
"Most folks around here like things that grow, y'know? But he stays exactly the same."
You wait for more. It doesn't come - and the lack of it frustrates you more than anything she's said.
Someone near the counter clears their throat. Another voice adds, quieter, "Never missed a delivery, though."
Florence nods in agreement. "Meat's always clean. Always fresh."
You let out a small, incredulous laugh. "So... he's just serious about his work?"
She clicks her tongue.
"He's particular," she says. "About his space. His time."
"And people?"
She doesn't answer right away.
"He doesn't come into town unless there's a reason," she says instead.
"And he doesn't wait around for nothing."
You glance back toward the window, toward where the truck had been.
"Oh," you say softly.
Florence squeezes your arm once before letting go.
"Just... take care, love."
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On the laptop by the counter, your mom watches you with that same careful look she's had since you told her where you were moving.
"So," she says, folding her hands together. "How was your first real day?"
You laugh a little. "Good. Actually... really good."
"The shop was busy enough to keep me distracted. People came in and out all day. A lot of staring at first, but not in a bad way." You popped a grape into your mouth.
"More curious than anything."
She hums, unconvinced but listening.
"They let me set up like we talked about," you continue. "People stopped to talk. Asked where I moved from. What I do. It felt nice." You glance toward the window. "Normal."
"Were you nervous?" she asks, giving you that look you know so well.
"I was," you admit. "But once I started working, it faded. I kind of forgot about everything else."
Her eyes soften at that, just a little.
"You didn't sleep much last night, though," she says. Not a question.
You pause, then shrug.
"Not really. New place. New sounds."
You smile like it's nothing. "I'm sure l'll get used to it."
She presses her lips together. "That's what worries me. You out there by yourself, in the woods."
"Mom—"
"I know," she sighs. "You're an adult. I just don't love the idea."
"I get that," you say gently. "But it's fine. Really. It's hidden, yeah—but not in a scary way."
There's a beat of silence before you add, almost offhand, "Although... people in town do talk."
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
"About?"
"About my neighbor," you say, a small laugh slipping out. "Apparently he's been up there forever. Everyone has an opinion, but no one says much."
"That doesn't make you uneasy?"
You pause, just for a second. "Not really. I mean, I met him yesterday. He was... normal. A little intense, maybe.
She doesn't look convinced.
"He even gave me a ride into town this morning," you add quickly, like it's no big deal. " ...and back
"A ride?" she repeats.
You stop to look up at the screen, finally aware of how that must sound.
"Mom, it was fine," you say. "We live on the same road. It was convenient, truly”
She exhales slowly. "I just don't like you being so isolated. Especially with people you don't know."
"I know," you say softly. "But today was good. I promise."
She studies your face through the screen, searching for something you're not even sure you could name.
"Just be careful," she says. "That's all I'm asking."
You nod.
"I will."
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You're not sure when it became a routine.
At first, it was just convenience. You'd step outside and Simon would already be there, his red truck waiting at the end of the driveway.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Waking up. Getting ready. Eating breakfast standing by the counter because you never quite sit down anymore. Stepping outside into the cool air and the familiar sight of Simon and his dog waiting patiently for you.
Somewhere along the way, you started bringing him breakfast.
You didn't plan it. It just... happened. A plastic cup balanced carefully in your hand, still too hot to hold properly. And a sandwich wrapped in foil. You remember the first time you handed it to him-how he paused, just for a second, fingers hovering before taking it. His eyes flicked down to the cup, then back up to you.
"Didn't have to," he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
You shrugged it off, like it was nothing.
You did it again the next morning.
And the one after that.
Soon, it felt strange not to. Like something was missing when you stepped outside empty-handed.
Simon never commented on it again. He just took what you gave him every morning. Always made sure the dog stayed put while you climbed in. Always waited until you were settled before pulling away from the driveway.
"Hi baby," you'd coo, rubbing the happy dog's ear as you settle into the familiar leather of his car. Shadow-you'd come to learn the scary dog's name.
You don't remember when that became part of your normal either.
By the sixth day you stopped questioning it.
Simon always said he had business in town. Always said it like it was obvious. Like it explained everything.
And maybe it did—except some mornings, when you glanced toward the back of the truck, the bed was completely empty.
No freezers. No crates. Nothing.
You noticed it once.
Twice.
Then you stopped looking.
It was true what everyone said about him—he was private. Didn't speak unless necessary. Most of your rides passed in silence, broken only by the sound of tires on rocks and dirt and your small comments about whatever you saw outside.
He was intense in ways that was hard to ignore.
On the way he watched the road, eyes steady, barely blinking. The way his jaw tightened when he smoked, like he was holding something back even when he was alone with you.
But there was softness there too-and that was the part that caught you off guard.
It slipped in when he spoke to Shadow, voice dropping low, careful, like the dog was something fragile instead of built like a tank. The way his scarred hand reached down without him even looking, fingers rubbing the dog's belly in slow, absent strokes, like muscle memory.
Even the way he asked about the radio. Not choosing for you. Just a quiet, "What d'you want to listen to?"
You didn't know when you'd started noticing these things. Only that once you did, you couldn't stop. The intensity didn't scare you—it made the softness feel deliberate.
It was.... pleasant.
Comforting even.
Two weeks had passed before someone finally said something.
"Sure looks like Simons has a sweet spot for the new girl in town," a voice from behind the counter says, making you instantly perk up.
"Hm?" You look up, paintbrush still in hand.
They nod toward the window.
Outside, the red truck waits.
"Hes my neighbor," you shrug.
the comment lingers, even after the conversation ends.
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"You should speak more to everyone," you murmur later that night, leaning your head against the window, tired and worn out from the day.
"You eaten yet?" He asks without glancing over, completely ignoring your comment.
"You really do need to learn how to have a conversation Simon," you roll your eyes, shifting your position to where your knees are facing his side, careful not to bother the sleeping pup in the middle.
"Don't know what you mean," he hums.
You smile to yourself, eyes on the road ahead. After a bit, you add, the interaction from later that day crossing your mind, "Someone mentioned you've been acting... different lately."
He glances over for half a second. "Different?"
"Mmhm." You nod.
He doesn't say anything after that, just nods once and keeps driving.
"Have you eaten?"
You click your tongue.
"No."
The car slowly comes to a stop in front of you home, and so does the engine.
This wasn't part of the routine.
You look at him confused, head tilted to the side.
"Worked on a fresh cut today." He says, reaching forward to take the keys out. "Wanted you to have it,"
You blink, caught off guard. Before you can decide what to say, the truck door opens and he's already stepping out, calling Shadow after him with a short sound.
You watch him circle the hood, a flicker of something tightening in your chest when he reaches for your door.
It opens before you can protest. You hesitate before swinging your legs out anyway, letting him guide you without quite remembering when you agreed to it.
He doesn't crowd you. Just walks ahead, like he expects you to follow.
And you do.
When you stop at the door, keys cool in your palm, he stays a step behind you. Close enough that you're aware of his presence, the quiet weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades as you unlock the door.
You glance back once. He meets your eyes, unreadable.
Inside, you barely get the chance to say anything before he turns to the dog.
"Stay," he says—low and firm by the door.
"Simon—he doesn't have to" you say, too soft to be much of a protest.
Shadow listens anyway.
Your house oozes warmth. Simon thinks.
Not just heat—the kind of warmth that settles in your chest comfortably. It's nothing like his place. His is all cold surfaces and silence, everything where it's supposed to be, like no one's meant to linger too long.
Yours doesn't try to hide you.
There's stuff everywhere. Half-finished things. A stack of sketchbooks by the couch, paint-stained rags shoved into a corner, a couple of framed pieces leaning against the wall because you haven't decided where they go yet. It looks like someone keeps starting things and coming back to them.
It smells like you.
Not perfume. Not candles. Just you - soap, clean fabric, something faintly warm. Simon notices it as soon as he steps inside. It's different from his place.
His house never really smells like anything at all. It's just... neutral.
The kitchen's small. He isn't.
He fills the space without trying, shoulders close to the cabinets as he reaches for your drawers to find what you need. Most of them are empty. Just spices. The basics. He sets the steak down, still wrapped in paper.
You begin fixing things that don't need fixing to distract yourself. Sliding a notebook out of the way. Moving a mug. Your chest stays tight. It's the first time he's been inside your house, and the thought sits heavier than it should.
This is definitely not how you pictured your night ending.
The butcher up the road, in your kitchen. Talking about a fresh cut like it's nothing. Like this isn't strange. Like he hasn't just stepped into your space and started moving through it with quiet ease. The shift from how the night should've gone to how it's unfolding now hits you all at once, sharp enough to leave you reeling.
You reach for the remote, turning the TV on just to break it. The sound. The stillness. Anything. You crack a window open too, breeze slipping in as you step back, giving yourself something else to focus on.
"Do you need help?" you ask finally, mostly to fill the space.
"Mmm," he hums, "Where do you keep your pans?"
"Oh." You move on instinct, opening drawers, pulling things out. A pan. A cutting board. Knives. Setting them down beside him without thinking twice.
He works quietly. Salt first. Pepper. The sound of it hitting the meat sharp in the small kitchen. He heats the pan, waits for it, tests it with a flick of water that hisses and disappears.
You lean back against the counter, watching.
The steak hits the pan and the sound fills the room - loud, immediate. He doesn't rush it. Just let's it sit, pressing it down once with the tongs, then leaves it alone. The smell starts slow, then builds. Rich. Savory.
It crawls through the air until your stomach reacts before you can stop it.
You laugh under your breath, hand pressing briefly to your middle.
"That smells amazing," you beam.
He flips the steak once. Cuts into it to check. Juice beads along the surface, catching on his fingers as he pulls a small piece free.
He lifts his hand without comment, holding it out toward you.
You swear you short-circuit for a second before leaning in, taking the bite he's offering, your lips lightly grazing his finger.
He stares at you—openly this time. Long enough that it makes you shift, a shiver running through you before you look away with a quiet, breathy laugh.
"Wow," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you chew, letting the taste settle properly this time.
You swallow, then glance back at him, still leaning against the counter. "That's... fucking incredible, Simon."
It slips out softer than you mean it.
For a second, you forget about everything else-the tightness from earlier, the fact that he's here, in your kitchen. There's only the warmth on your tongue and the way the moment hangs between you.
"How long have you been in this business?" you ask after a pause, watching his face like you're checking for a reaction. Questions aren't usually part of your routine. Neither is this.
"Long time," he answers simply as he fixes the plates.
"Old man ran the business. Guess I kind of inherited it."
You hum, thinking it over. "Must keep you busy.
Between the shop and... everything else."
"Enough," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Mostly keeps me close to home."
That's when he adds, almost as an afterthought,
"Don't like going into town much."
You snort softly. "Could've fooled me."
You meant it as a joke-only half truth.
He exhales through his nose, something like a huff, and shakes his head once before turning back to the plate.
The conversation ends there, easy and unspoken.
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The better part of your day had been spent exploring and wandering the area. Something you haven't gotten to properly do since you got here.
Bare feet planted right on the grass as you wandered into the field behind your backyard, the earth cool and uneven beneath you. You kept breathing in deep without really thinking about it—grass, dirt, something clean in the air. Birds flew low overhead, noisy and playful.
The trees out here were huge. Like, old old. Thick trunks, branches stretching everywhere. You caught yourself staring up at them, wondering how long they'd been standing there, what they'd seen before any of this existed.
You kept walking, pencil moving absentmindedly as you added loose doodles to the sketchbook tucked tightly under your arm. Shapes. Lines. Little half-ideas you'd probably forget later.
You explored every area you could think of, picking rocks and flowers as you went.
Every area except one.
You didn't mean to head that way at first. It just... happened. Your steps slowed as the land subtly shifted, the trees thinning just enough for a familiar structure to come into view.
The closer you got, the clearer it became.
Simon's barn sat just beyond the tree line-close enough that if you turned around, you could still see your cottage. The roof peeked through the branches, almost reassuring. Close enough that you told yourself it didn't really count as trespassing.
The barn itself was a faded, rusty red, the paint chipped and sun-worn, like it hadn't been touched in years. It clearly needed a new coat. You filed that thought away automatically, like you did with everything else.
You slowed your steps, circling wider instead of heading straight toward it.
For some reason, your mind kept dragging you back to the first day you'd seen him there. Bloody. Intimidating.
Almost unreal. The unease returned now, settling low in your stomach as uou get closer.
You'd been sneaking glances at the place ever since, careful not to get too close. Careful to remember that conversation.
"So will I ever get to see your workplace?" you'd asked once, half-teasing.
All he'd given you was that small, almost-missed smile.
"S'not meant for a bunny like you to see."
Today, though?
Today, you wanted that angle.
Simon be damned.
You huffed softly to yourself, shaking your head as you settled into the grass and opened your sketchbook. He really did have a way with words.
You started with the barn first-loose lines, quick strokes-then added his cottage beside it. It stood only a few feet away, smaller than yours, but somehow cozier. It looked like him. Minimal. No decorations. No unnecessary clutter. Just a single chair on the lawn, a small table beside it, an ashtray resting on top.
You shaded, erased and worked until the world narrowed down to paper and graphite.
You looked like a lost bunny.
The thought crossed Simon's mind as he watched you move along the upper slope behind the barn. Delicate sundress, sketchbook tucked under your arm, hair pulled back out of your face. Careful steps, like you weren't sure you were meant to be there.
He paused what he was doing and just stared.
You'd been out since early. He remembered you mentioning you had a few days free from work, maybe more, before someone else found something for you to fix or soften or make pretty. You didn't seem like the type who sat still for long. Always moving. Always making.
Simon hadn't meant to care. He usually didn't.
Years of work had trained that out of him. Grind. Routine. Blood when there had to be blood. He liked his life simple, contained, predictable. The land. The barn. The quiet. When he heard the house down the hill was being rented, it pissed him off. Change always did. New noise. New eyes.
Then you showed up.
He didn't know when exactly he started noticing the warmth—your laughter carrying up the hill, music bleeding out of your windows, sound settling into places that had been empty for too long. It didn't belong here. Neither did you.
And yet.
You stopped near the side of the barn, turning slowly, taking it in. He watched you look around like you were measuring the space, committing it to memory. You could still see your cottage from there - close enough that you were probably telling yourself it didn't count as trespassing.
He wiped his hands, stripped the gloves off, and stepped outside.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were already sitting, sketchbook open on your lap. Pencil moving.
Focused enough that you didn't notice him right away.
You were so in deep you didn't even notice the shadow towering over you at first.
He stopped a few feet in front of you-close enough to notice the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers smudged charcoal without you realizing it.
"Can I help you."
You startled—not badly, but enough that he knew you'd forgotten the rest of the world existed.
You looked up at him, your eyes flicking briefly over the apron, the stains, the evidence of the day's work.
Your pulse jumped—he could see it—but you held his gaze anyway.
"Just….. scoping the area," you say easily, like you hadn't been caught at all, even though your heart was pounding. "Gaining inspiration."
He exhaled through his nose.
"Told you," he said. "This place ain't meant for a bunny like you."
He meant it.
Your cheeks warmed. You didn't deny it.
"I didn't walk in, though, did I."
Silence settled between you —thick, but not uncomfortable. Your pencil resumed its quiet movement against the page. He stayed where he was. Didn't tell you to pack up. Didn't step back either. You took it as a good sign.
He watched you for another moment, then shifted-just slightly. Half a turn. Enough to give you a better angle.
He didn't comment on it, but you noticed anyway.
He stayed like that—half-turned, broad shoulders cutting against the quiet of the field.
The contrast caught you off guard.
He didn't belong in a place this calm, you thought. Not with the way he was built-all sharp lines and restrained violence, hands stained from work that wasn't meant to be pretty. And yet the grass bent easily around his boots. Wildflowers pushed up near the barn wall, soft and careless, brushing against wood that had seen such degeneracy.
Sunlight filtered unevenly through the trees, catching the edge of his jaw, the scar across his face, the quiet tension in the way he held himself like he was always braced for impact.
Your pencil hovered uselessly above the page.
This—this—was the angle you hadn't known you were looking for. The way he looked out of place and perfectly rooted all at once. Feral, yes—but framed by something gentle. Something alive.
The thought settled before you could talk yourself out of it.
"Let me draw you," you said suddenly, not even pausing to think.
"Now?"
"Like this?" he asked, glancing down at his clothes.
Your cheeks warmed, suddenly aware of how dirty he must feel.
"Right-sorry, that was a weird ask," you laughed it off.
"I'll just draw your house." You shrugged, getting up from the grown and walking past him.
"Fine,” he said. "I'll do it."
You stopped short and turned back to him.
"You sure? I don't want you to be uncomfortable. I'm not the fastest-,"
He started walking before you could say anything else, already heading toward the cottage like the decision had been made the moment you asked.
You look around for half a second furrowing your brows before following.
The ground changed under your feet as you left the grass, dirt packed firmer near the house. Up close, his place felt even smaller than it had from afar. The door stood open just enough for the smell of him to drift out—wood, smoke, something iron-sharp beneath it.
He stopped at the steps and sat, elbows resting loosely on his knees, forearms bare. The position looked natural on him.
You looked at him properly then.
The daylight caught his face in a way that made you pause.
You noticed things you hadn't before.
The tattoo peeking from his neck and rolled sleeves. The way his jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, every few moments.
He looked. feral. You weren't sure that was the right word. Beastly, maybe. Grounded. Dangerous in a way that made your thoughts take a turn you didn't want to examine too closely.
You tightened your grip on the pencil, your eyes drifting despite yourself.
Brutal. Masculine.
Your heartbeat picked up as unholy thoughts flashed through your mind.
"You alright, bunny?" he asked.
You froze-caught, like a deer in headlights. Heat rushed to your face.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, shaking your head as you forced your gaze back to his face.
"Here" you say, already leaning closer before he could answer. You reached into your bag for one of the flowers you picked earlier. Small and delicate.
As you lifted your hand toward him, he tensed and leaned back slightly.
You were about to apologize when he spoke.
"Careful. Don't want you getting all dirty."
You blinked-then laughed again.
"Can I?" you asked again.
This time, he stayed still.
You tucked the small white flower behind his ear, fingers brushing skin warmed by the sun. He watched you closely, eyes tracking every movement.
The contrast—him and the delicate bloom resting there—felt almost cinematic.
"You have soft hands, bunny." he says, dead serious.
"Thanks." You breathed out, not realizing you were holding it in.
"Why do you call me that?" You ask after a few minutes.
He shrugged, like it had never needed explaining.
"Because you look like one."
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head—but you stayed. Kept drawing. Like the answer was enough.
You went back to his face. Really focused. Honey-brown eyes. Thick brows. Plump, chapped lips. The scar cutting across him, running from one eye, down his nose, into his cheek like a map of where he'd been.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip on the pencil as you leaned closer, angling the page to catch the light.
Your knee brushed the step without you noticing.
"You got a boyfriend?"
Your hand stilled mid-line.
"Why the sudden question?"
"Well," he said evenly, "you asked one. Now it's my turn."
You laughed at that.
"No," you said. "I don't."
He hummed in acknowledgement.
Silence settled again, filled only by the pleasant sound of trees moving with the wind. You wanted to keep talking. Wanted to know him. But you weren't sure where the line was.
"You," you started. "How long have you been up here?"
"Mmm. Couple years."
You click your tongue.
"Couple years? I didn't know vague answers were allowed."
He shrugged.
"You can allow whatever you want."
You smile at that, soft and a little crooked, and let your pencil move again.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The sounds around you settle into something easy— the wind threading through the trees, the faint creak of the barn in the distance, the quiet scratch of charcoal against paper. Simon stays still on the steps, only shifting when his knee starts to ache, careful not to disturb your line of sight.
He glances down at the page after a minute, curiosity getting the better of him.
"So," he says, casual, like it just occurred to him. "You always draw scenery?"
You hum thoughtfully, eyes never leaving the sketch.
"Sometimes. Helps me understand how things fit together."
"People included?"
"Especially people," you admit.
He watches the way your mouth curves around the words, the focus in your eyes. There's something intimate about being studied like this—not in the way people usually look at him, measuring or wary.
"You any good?" he asks.
You laugh quietly. "Guess that depends who you ask."
"Hm." A beat. "You don't look like you're guessing."
You glance up at him then, catching the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something warmer than indifference.
You go back to drawing.
Time slips by without either of you noticing.
The light shifts gradually, the sun lowering behind the trees, turning the field gold and then amber. Shadows stretch across the ground, softening the sharp edges of everything around you. The flower behind his ear wilts a little, petals curling inward, but you leave it there.
Simon moves once when his leg goes numb, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands. Letting out a low groan of discomfort. You adjust without thinking, tracking the movement, adapting your lines.
"You don't have to stay still," you say after a moment of watching him.
"I know," he replies. Then, quieter, "I don't mind."
You chuckle to yourself, heat creeping up your neck as you look back down at the page.
"You're a good model," you say, a little too quickly.
The breeze cools as evening creeps in, brushing over your bare arms and drawing a light shiver from you.
You shift your weight, knees stiff, and finally lean back, lowering the sketchbook into your lap.
"I think that's enough," you say softly.
Simon straightens a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You hesitate before standing, brushing grass from your dress. There's a strange reluctance in the air now, like neither of you wants to be the one to end it.
You step closer, tearing the page free and holding it up beside his face. The distance shrinks without you meaning it to.
You tilt your head, eyes flicking between him and the sketch, comparing angles and the way the light catches him in real time versus graphite.
"Here."
He grabs it without question. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything.
That usual uneasy feeling in your stomach creeps up slowly, the one that shows up every time you finish a piece. Like you did something a little too personal and now it's just... out there.
Then, quietly, "You see a lot."
"O-oh," you say, eyes wide in surprise. "Only what's there." You lift a hand, brushing the comment off like it's nothing.
He nods once.
"Thank you," he says.
The words hang steady.
"Of course!" You smile softly.
The sun has dipped low now, the sky washed in muted pinks and purples. You step back, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
"I should probably head back," you say. "Before it gets dark."
"Yeah." He stands as well. Drawing still in hand.
"You can keep that, if you want," You call out.
"I owe you a better one, though." you laugh lightly-but the sound fades as soon as it leaves you, suddenly aware of how that might've come out.
Before you can overthink it, you give a quick wave and head down the slope, not waiting for his reaction.
His eyes linger a bit longer till you fully disappear from his view, gaze dropping to the piece of paper then back at you, breathing out slow.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
It's been a month now since you've settled into your new life. A month of building and creating and slowly disappearing into your little cottage, filling it with your things until it felt like a place you'd lived in for years instead of weeks.
A month, too, of growing closer to the local butcher.
The one who had a reputation for keeping to himself. For not interacting with anyone. Somehow, that rule never applied to you.
You were almost inseparable now. Him showing up unannounced to fix small things—a loose lightbulb, a squeaky door-like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
Any time you needed something from town or had a job lined up, he'd already be outside your door, keys in hand.
Sometimes he'd bring uncooked steak even when you'd try to refuse. Fresh cuts wrapped in paper, held out with a casual shrug. He'd say it didn't fit in his fridge. Leftover. No big deal.
A stupid white lie. One that worked every single time.
He'd gotten softer, too. Softer than you suspected anyone else had ever seen him. Letting you borrow his thick coats—or leaving them behind and claiming he'd forgotten them. When you tried to give them back, he'd just shake his head, lips pressed into that tight little smile, like the conversation was already over.
"It's cold, bunny. Shouldn't be wearing that outside," he says immediately, voice stern and low, eyes cutting straight through you.
You swallow, feigning innocence as you shrug one shoulder.
"I thought it was just gonna be a light storm,"
you reply plainly—ignoring the warning as you lean back on your hands, legs crossed, chest subtly pushed forward while you look up at him.
He scoffs and drops down beside you with an exaggerated huff, his damp shoulder bumping into yours. He's close—close enough that you can feel his heat, the steady pull of his breath. It makes your head spin.
His forearms rest on his knees as he settles in, but his eyes never leave you. Those same hungry eyes that have been plaguing your thoughts every night.
"It's gonna get really cold," he repeats, quieter now, looking straight at you.
You swallow thickly before standing, deliberately slow, giving him a full view.
"I can handle a little cold," you tease.
You barely make it inside before you're running, laughter spilling out as you hear his heavy footsteps thudding after you.
Now you're stuck inside, alone, heavy rain hammering against the roof and rattling the windows. Moisture beads along the glass near the heater, the room dim and warm. You sit on the bed with a towel wrapped around your body and hair, picking at a bowl of cut fruit balanced on your thigh.
It's one of those nights.
The kind where loneliness creeps in quietly, twisting into something darker. Where your mind betrays you with memories of every interaction you've had with him.
You'd wanted to relax. Wash the day off, eat fruit and watch tv.
But moments like this don't let you.
They turn that restlessness into something else entirely.
It makes your cunt ache.
Your thoughts drift back to the time when he showed up unannounced, claiming your grass was too high. Brought his own tools, mowed the lawn like it was nothing. Sweat clung to his skin as the sun hit him, shirt damp and sticking in all the wrong places.
You'd worn an incredibly short sundress. The kind that shows off every inch of your curves.
You remember the way he wiped sweat from his forehead with the thin fabric, lifting it just enough to give you a glimpse of his hard bulging stomach. The sight had made something low in your belly twitch.
The way his hand rested at the small of your back when you brought him cold lemonade. How close he stood. The smell of him-clean and earthy. The way his Adam's apple bobbed with every swallow.
Fuck.
Your left hand drifts down without thinking—first over your chest, then higher, barely grazing your nipple. A quiet sound slips from your lips.
Your body feels overly sensitive. Needy.
You picture his hands on you—large, rough—teasing your skin, gripping your waist, your ass. Your free hand slides between your thighs and you gasp when your fingers brush against your slick heat.
You barely touch yourself at first. Just graze your clit. Then down your folds. A soft hiss escapes you.
You're already a mess. You have been since you stepped out of the shower.
His image won't leave your mind. Everything he'd do to you. Everything you'd let him do. You saw him differently today, and it did something to you. It was something you feared from the moment you started becoming close. But you pushed that thought down.
Your fingers begin to move in slow circles, the other hand latching onto your hardening nipple as your thoughts spiral. His hands. His weight. Him bending you over, tugging your hair.
Your thighs squeeze together.
You wonder what he'd smell like fresh from a shower. What he'd look like with water clinging to his skin, a towel slung low on his hips. The thought makes your toes curl.
Your breathing picks up as pleasure builds, slick heat spreading with every movement of your fingers.
A moan slips free.
"Simon," you breathe, barely above a whisper, like saying it out loud makes it too real.
Your hand moves from your nipple to your breast, groping desperately, trying to recreate the way his scarred hand would feel. Would he pinch you? Roll it between his fingers? Replace his hand with his mouth?
Your breaths turn uneven. Your hand between your thighs moves faster.
The image of today is burned into your mind-him rough and bloodied from work, yet speaking to you so softly. It's overwhelming. He consumes your thoughts until you nearly forget why you're even here.
"F-fuck," you moan, eyes falling open as you look down at yourself—naked, wet, undone. Your hips lift, chasing the sensation.
"Si-"
Boom.
The crack of thunder is immediate, violent, followed by sudden darkness that steals the air from your lungs.
You jolt upright with a gasp, heart slamming against your ribs as if it's trying to escape. For a second you just sit there, frozen, the rain pounding against the roof like it's trying to cave it in.
"Oh-fuck," you whisper, the word shaky.
Your body catches up a second later. Awareness hits all at once and sends a fresh wave of panic through you. You scramble, grabbing the towel from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around yourself clumsily, hands trembling as you try to ground yourself. The room feels too quiet without the hum of electricity, the shadows stretching and shifting with every flash of lightning outside.
"Y/N!"
The sound of his voice cuts through the rain.
You fumble for your phone, fingers slick as you swipe the flashlight on, the harsh beam making you squint.
You don't stop to think—just move. Sweats and a tshirt. You tug them on hastily, heart still racing as you rush down the hallway, the floor cold under your bare feet.
The power's out.
When you pull the door open, rain mist clings to the air immediately. Simon stands on your porch, shoulders damp, flashlight in hand, Shadow pressed close to his leg. His face shifts the moment he sees you-concern sharpening, eyes flicking over you like he's checking for injuries.
"Hey," he says, firm but low. "You okay?"
“I—yeah” you nod too quickly, suddenly very aware of how warm your face feels, how close he is. "The power just…went out."
"Yeah." His gaze lifts briefly to the dark windows behind you before settling back on you. "You're coming with me."
"What?" You blink. "Simon, it's really not-"
"Not up for discussion," he cuts in, already stepping past you like he owns the place. He moves with practiced ease, flashlight sweeping through the room as he heads for your bedroom. "Storm's getting worse.
This place isn't insulated well enough for it."
You trail after him, flustered, hugging yourself as you watch him grab a few essentials—your charger, a hoodie, shoes—moving through your space with unsettling familiarity.
"I'll be fine," you insist, even though your voice lacks conviction. "It's just for the night, plus my things are here. I need to make sure everything's in order."
"Y/n," he replies, glancing back at you. His tone softens, just slightly. "Humor me."
You don't argue after that.
The rain blurs everything on the drive over. The road glistens under the headlights, water streaking across the windshield in uneven patterns as the wipers struggle to keep up. The cab of the truck is warm, quiet except for the storm and the low hum of the engine.
Every now and then, lightning flashes bright enough to turn the inside of the truck white, and you catch him glancing over at you like he's checking you're still there.
When you finally pull up to his place, your nerves spike all over again.
You swallow as you step out, rain speckling your skin, heart pounding harder with each step toward his door. This would be your first time inside. After everything. After all this time.
He unlocks it and nudges the door open, motioning you in first.
The warmth hits you immediately.
The house smells like him—burnt wood, something clean and sharp, iron underneath it all. It's quiet, small, almost stark. The living space is simple: couch, TV, dining table pushed close to the kitchen. No decorations. No clutter.
And then you see it. Your drawing. The same one you drew of him months ago.
It sits on the side table framed neatly. It surprised you. Your steps slow without you meaning to, something tightening in your chest as you stare at it. It's not really a big deal but, seeing your drawing there—framed, dusted, given a place—feels strangely intimate. Like walking into someone's thoughts and realizing you've been there longer than you thought.
"Oh my god," you laugh softly, reaching for it. "I can't believe you kept this."
"Hm?" He glances over, distracted at first. Then he sees what you're holding. "Oh. Yeah." He shrugs, like it's obvious. "You make beautiful art."
The words hit harder than they should.
Your face warms instantly as you duck your head, pretending to inspect the frame. "This was so long ago. I thought you'd thrown it away."
"I would never," he says, without hesitation.
Something short-circuits in your brain at that. You clear your throat, setting the drawing back where it belongs before you can overthink it.
"That's... sweet," you say, lighter than you feel.
You move toward the couch, perching on the edge at first before letting yourself sink back. It's smaller than yours, but comfortable.
Simon disappears into the kitchen for a moment, and you hear the faint clink of a kettle being set down. You sit on the couch, hugging the mug when he hands it to you, grateful for something warm to hold onto.
"Wait," you frown slightly, glancing toward the dark kitchen. "How'd you even make tea if the power's out?"
He pauses for a second before answering. "Backup electric stove,"
"Keep it around for storms." He adds
You blink. "Of course you do."
He almost smiles.
The silence that follows is comfortable, not awkward. Just the storm outside and the low crackle of the fire starting to catch as he moves to the hearth. You watch him from the couch as he kneels, stacking logs with practiced ease, striking the match. The flames take quickly, casting a soft orange glow across the room.
"There," he says, standing again. "That'll help."
He grabs his coat from the back of a chair as he passes, hesitating only a second before draping it over your shoulders. The weight of it makes you exhale.
"You don't have to—"
"I know," he says quietly. "Drink your tea."
You do, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. It smells like him. When he sits down beside you, it's close but not pressing. His knee brushes yours. Just once. Neither of you move away.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah," you nod. "Just... settling."
"Mm." He leans back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. Not touching you. Not yet. But there, like an open invitation you don't acknowledge out loud.
You shift a little closer anyway, more instinct than decision. The fire pops softly. The storm fades into background noise. For a moment, it almost feels like you've done this before—like this is normal.
"You're quiet," he says after a while.
"Oh my god," you scoff softly. "Are you calling me annoying?"
He looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then his shoulders shake with that quiet laugh you've come to love.
"No," he says. "Just noticing."
You smile into your mug, cheeks warm.
"Y'know, i never really liked tea till i met you," you mention out of nowhere.
And he looks at you with an almost blank expression, it would've made you nervous if it was for the twitch to the side of his lips.
"Tea's good for you,"
The fire crackles. The coat stays around your shoulders. This is definitely not how you imagined your night going, but you couldn't really complain.
The quiet stretches again, but it's different now. He's closer than before-not just beside you, but aware of you in a way that makes your skin prickle. When you shift, he shifts too. When you breathe, he seems to notice.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"I'm not," you lie automatically.
He doesn't call you on it. He just reaches out, tentative at first, resting a hand on your arm. It's warm, and it has you spiraling. Just a minute ago you were talking normally to each other, but the air shifted.
"Come here," he murmurs.
It's not an order. Not this time. Just an invitation.
You hesitate for half a second before leaning into him, your temple brushing his shoulder. His arms come around you slowly, careful, like he's giving you time to change your mind. When you don't, he tightens his hold just a little.
This is new for the both of you.
Your heart starts to race, loud in your ears, the warmth of him seeping into places you weren't prepared for.
His hand moves absently, rubbing small circles into your back. Your fingers curl into his shirt without thinking. This isn't just friendly anymore.
You pull back slightly, laughing under your breath as if that might diffuse the moment. "Okay," you say, voice a little breathless. "I— I need a second."
He releases you immediately, hands dropping, but his eyes stay on you.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly, already stepping away.
You turn toward the kitchen, more to put space between you than because you actually need anything.
The counter is cool under your palms when you brace yourself against it, breathing in slowly, trying to stop your heart from beating out of your chest.
You're raking your brain trying to put yourself back together, breathing in the cool air when you hear his footsteps behind you.
"You don't have to run," he says gently.
You glance over your shoulder—and that's when you realize how close he is again. Not pressing. Not touching. Just close enough that the room suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
You straighten without thinking, taking a step back.
The space behind you disappears faster than you expect, the counter cold against your lower back. You didn't mean to corner yourself, but Simon always had a way of filing a room without ever touching you.
He's only a hair away from you. You could feel his warm breath with a hint of black tea.
Your hand comes up on instinct—flat against his chest.
He stops immediately.
"Simon," you say, quieter than you meant to.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. He waits.
"If we do this," you say, swallowing, "I don't want to pretend it's nothing."
A beat passes.
Then he nods once. Slow and certain. It's crazy how quickly your nerves and fears ease.
"It's not," he says.
His hands settle on your waist, firm, pulling you flush against him. The contact knocks the air from your lungs, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.
His mouth finds yours slowly this time-testing, deliberate. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.
You don't.
The kiss deepens, unhurried but heavy, his lips moving against yours with a pressure that makes your knees soften. He kisses you again. And again. Each one lingering longer than the last.
His hands stay at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you he's there, holding you in place.
You breathe him in-cigarettes, beer, heat-and it makes your head spin. Your fingers curl around his neck, tugging him closer when he pulls back, chasing his mouth without thinking.
"Taste so fucking good," He exhales against your lips, a low sound, before kissing you again—rougher now.
Hungrier.
As the kiss deepens and your thoughts start to slip, you barely register his hand moving-gliding over your chest, your stomach—until it slides into your shorts with ease. You're already wet.
"Fuck, bunny—you're fucking soaked," he grunts, hands gripping you, making you gasp in surprise. He doesn't pull away, just uses the moment to kiss you again, shoving his warm tongue into your mouth.
He sucks and licks, messy and unrestrained, saliva slipping down your chin as he keeps you close, like he can't get enough.
You feel your knees buckle as he begins rubbing your clothes core with the palm of his hands, his lips trailing down your neck.
"Ah-" you squeal in surprise, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it.
"Hump on me, bunny," he murmurs, low and steady, stilling his hand just enough to make the words land harder.
"W-what?" You blink, pulled back into yourself by his voice, trying to make sense of it as you look up at him.
His expression doesn't change.
"Want you to grind this wet cunt on me bunny," he pressed his hand harder into you.
"Oh my….. god," you breathe, the words barely there as you roll your hips down, tentative at first, trying to find your rhythm. You gasp when the pressure shifts, when his hand flexes and your body lights up in response.
Your thighs start to tremble, weak and unsteady, and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself as your movement grows more desperate.
"Thaaat's it," he encourages, his voice rough, threaded with something that sends a fresh wave of heat down your spine. "Just like that. Feel good for me."
Your hips move on their own now, chasing the sensation without thought. One hand grips the back of his neck, fingers digging in as you struggle to stay upright. You're acutely aware of yourself-too warm, too sensitive, skin slick with sweat, the contrast of cool air and burning need making everything sharper, more overwhelming. The pleasure is dizzying, addictive, pulling you further out of yourself with every movement.
You can't imagine what you must look like right now.
You're sure you wouldn't recognize yourself—messy, unfocused, clinging to him as your body reacts faster than your mind can follow. Every shift makes your breath hitch, every second stretching thinner than the last.
The pressure suddenly increases, firmer now, more insistent. A broken moan spills from you before you can stop it, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the embarrassing sounds coming from you.
"No," he mutters, catching your wrist and pulling it away, pinning it above your head with one strong grip.
His other hand doesn't slow. If anything, it moves with more purpose, stealing the strength right out of your legs. Your head tips back against the wall as you let him take over completely, your body yielding without protest.
Your vision blurs. Everything goes white at the edges, your mouth falling open on a silent gasp as you cling to him, holding on like he's the only solid thing left. The sensation rolls through you in waves, too big to process all at once, leaving you breathless and shaking.
He keeps you close, holding you steady as it passes, murmuring praise against your skin—soft words, grounding words—until your breathing slowly evens out again. Your chest feels tight, full in a way you don't quite understand yet.
"I-" you try to speak, but the thought slips away before you can finish it.
Without warning, his arms hook behind your knees and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled, hands flying to his shoulders as you cling to him, eyes wide, your body leaning into his instinctively despite the shock.
"What are you doing?" you ask, breathless.
"M'gonna take care of you properly, bunny."
His room is simple. A bed. A chair. A small desk. No TV.
No pictures. Exactly what you expected.
He lays you down carefully before gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. Moonlight spills through the open window, tracing every scar and mark along his skin, the faint trail of hair leading up his chest. It makes you press your legs together, biting your lip.
"Like what you see?" he teases.
"Shut up," you mutter-cut off when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is hard, wet, unrelenting. He doesn't hesitate, tugging the flimsy top over your head and tossing it aside, leaving you bare beneath him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you catch the strain in his pants, dark and obvious. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.
His hands slide up your stomach, stopping at the hem of your panties. He doesn't pull them down. Just hooks his fingers there, eyes roaming over you like he's taking inventory. It almost makes you self-conscious.
The hunger in his gaze burns through you, settles low in your belly, makes you feel exposed in a way that's almost empowering.
Your hands fall uselessly to your sides as you whine softly, body arching. Back arching as you expose yourself more to him. You want his weight back on you—his warmth. You need it.
"Look at you, bunny," he murmurs, hands coming back to grip your stomach before leaning up to cup your breasts. "So fuckin perfect."
Your head tips back at the sensation, a soft, surprised sound slipping from your throat. Heat coils tight in your lower belly, dampness clinging to the fabric between your legs. The cool night air brushing over your skin only makes it sharper.
His eyes rake over you, eyes shining as he takes you in.
Your chest rises and falls unevenly, skin flushed, lips swollen from biting and kissing. He leans down, mouth trailing from your neck to your chest before closing around your nipple.
You moan, fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue circles, sucking hard. His other hand grips your opposite breast, kneading, rough enough to make your breath stutter. Dark marks bloom in his wake.
"Si-" you swallow hard, hands clutching his shoulders as his mouth drags lower, down your stomach, lingering before pressing against your soaked panties.
He inhales deeply.
You're so sensitive it makes you shake, his touch warm and overwhelming, like he knows exactly how to pull every reaction from you.
His lips brush your thighs, soft at first, teasing. His tongue slips out, tasting you through the fabric, biting and nibbling while his hands draw slow circles along your legs. Your thighs tremble, the sensation sharp enough to sting your eyes.
"Smell so fucking good," he mutters.
"Please," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him.
"Need you."
Your body burns with want, embarrassment mixing with it until you don't know which is worse.
"Be patient," he groans, eyes flicking up to meet yours.
"I'm gonna take my time with this sweet cunt."
You whine, defeated, frustration curling tight in your chest.
True to his word, he doesn't rush. He kisses, licks, bites—taking his time, savoring every sound you make. You can hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his grip tightens.
Your hands fly everywhere, unsure where to land as his mouth traces every freckle, every curve, every soft stretch of skin.
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, thick and rough, pausing there. The thought of how easily he could tear them away makes your breath hitch.
"Don't zone out on me," he murmurs, tapping your hip before hooking his fingers properly into the fabric. He looks at you, waiting.
"Please."
He kisses your stomach once before tugging them down, tapping your ass so you lift for him. He slides them off with practiced ease, tucks them into his back pocket without a word.
You instinctively try to close your legs, face burning— but he grips your thighs, forcing them apart. His stare is slow, intense as he takes you in, swollen and slick, clit peeking out, folds glistening in the moonlight.
"Prettiest fuckin' pussy l've ever seen," he groans, hands rubbing up and down your thighs, gaze burning into you until you tremble under it.
"Stop messing around," you reply, tummy filled with butterflies as he continues to watch you with mindful eyes. You lift your hips up, wanting any sort of friction from the man.
He smirks, leaning down without breaking eye contact.
His tongue slips out, presses flat against you—covering you fully, dragging over your hole and your clit before he seals his mouth around you.
The contact steals the breath right out of your lungs.
You throw your head back instantly, overwhelmed by the heat of his mouth—warm, wet-slick with his saliva and your own juices. It's too much all at once, your body reacting before you can even think.
He takes his time with it. Licking. Sucking. Lapping at every sensitive spot, tongue tracing your folds with intention. A low moan leaves his throat, vibrating straight through you, sending a sharp jolt up your spine.
He grunts into you, fully focused now, like nothing else exists. His tongue doesn't stop, doesn't rush—just works you steadily while his cock strains hard and aching beneath him. Every sound you make matters.
Every moan, every broken whine, every shaky plea. You feel it in the way he presses closer, the way his breath stutters.
You were a weakness he learned to accept the moment he met you.
He pulls back just long enough to make you shiver before pressing a finger against you. Your mouth snaps shut as you watch, breath caught. His fingers are thick. Calloused. The stretch alone makes you slicker.
One finger pushes in. Slow. Then a second, following behind it, filling you deeper.
"Oh my god, Simon—"
They're big. So big it takes a second for him to settle, fingers stopping fully buried inside you before his mouth drops back to your clit, sucking it in again like he's been waiting for it.
Your thighs start to shake. Your end is nearing embarrassingly quick. But you didn't care, only focusing on the immense pleasure he was giving you.
"C'mon, give it to me," he groaned against your cunt, fingers rubbing inside you faster, harder. Your thighs shook, and the room filled with the sound of your squelching. "Gimme your cum."
It hits you in waves—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You cry out, tears slipping free as your body tightens around his fingers, pleasure tearing through you in a way that leaves you sobbing. You've never felt anything like this. Never been this far gone.
The world narrows to sensation. Sound. Heat.
He laps it up like an animal, only adding to the sensitivity of your core. He doesn't let you come down.
"Si-" you whine, hands pushing at his head just enough to make him look at you.
"Hmm?" he hums, lips brushing a soft kiss where he just had you before standing up off the bed.
Your ears are still ringing from the mind-numbing orgasm, head fuzzy, body slow to catch up. Your eyes are wide as you stare at him, at the way his cock twitches between his thick thighs like it's got a mind of its own. You didn't even notice when he had fully undressed himself.
It's huge.
So thick it barely holds itself upright.
Your brain scrambles, a thousand thoughts crashing at once. There's no way. That can't possibly-
Would this even fit inside you?
But your body doesn't care what your mind thinks.
Your heart kicks up again, anticipation curling low in your stomach, your still—sensitive, drooling mess aching for more even after everything it's just been through. The sting is still there. The fullness lingers. And somehow, you want it again anyway.
The tip of his shaft catches the light, a thick vein running along it, pulsing. His balls hang heavy and full beneath it. Trimmed hair. Thick, solid thighs flexing when he shifts his weight.
You're pretty sure you're drooling when you're ripped out of your thoughts when he speaks.
"You think you can take it, bunny?"
Your body burns, but you nod nonetheless. The arousal you felt was almost too much to bare.
"Let me see that pretty cunt," he lifts your knees up, exposing both of your holes.
Your arms hook beneath your knees, making it easier for him to position himself, lining his cock right at your greedy hole. Your heart pounds in anticipation, lip caught between your teeth hard enough you're sure you might draw blood.
He drags the head along your clit first, smearing you with his precum—then taps it there. Hard.
"Hurry-" you whine, brows furrowed in frustration.
"Just the tip, baby," he breathes, more to himself than you. "Just the tip."
For a split second, you think you understand what he means. Then he pushes in.
"Fuck-" you cry out, sharp and startled, your body locking up on instinct as your walls convulse around him, struggling to take his size. The sensation borders on too much immediately—too full, too sudden. It pulls a low grunt from his chest as he freezes, every muscle in his body going taut.
No. He can't do that. Can't hurt you.
"Shhh," he soothes quickly, voice dropping, steadying.
His hand moves where you need it most, rubbing slow, gentle circles, grounding you while your body panics around him.
Your head feels fuzzy. Like everything is happening underwater.
"Si-ah-too-" you babble, words falling apart as your eyes roll back, fingers digging into his shoulders. You can feel him inching deeper, barely moving, and every fraction of an inch feels like your body is being asked to do something impossible.
Too big. Too thick. There's no way this should fit.
He's not even halfway there, and you already feel stretched past anything you've known. Your mind flickers in and out—whines and broken cries are the only sounds you can make as he keeps going slowly, carefully.
Your hands slide down to his, gripping tight like you're anchoring yourself.
"Hey," he whispers. "Breathe for me."
You try. A shaky inhale. Then another. Tears slip down your temples as you force your body to listen.
He looks nothing like you feel.
He's calm. Focused. Completely present. Sweat beads along his forehead, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths, eyes locked on where you're taking him in.
Then warmth—unexpected.
You jolt lightly as he spits, the heat of it hitting your clit before spreading where you're connected, slicking things enough to take the edge off.
"Too big," you cry, lifting your head to look.
You almost wish you hadn't.
It looks unreal. Wrong. Your body stretched wide around him, doing something you don't understand how it's doing. You swear you can feel him everywher—high, deep, overwhelming.
He hasn't looked away once.
"Almost in, baby," he tells you.
Then he stops. All the way in.
You lose your breath completely. You've never felt this full—like there's no space left inside you at all. His body presses close, skin slick with sweat and your heat, and you can't tell where you end and he begins anymore.
Everything inside you feels pulled tight, stretched to its limit. He's so deep you swear you feel him kiss your cervix.
Your eyes squeeze shut as you cling to his shoulder, focusing on the slow movement of his hands as they slide up your sides, steady, reassuring. You breathe again slowly . Letting your body adjust inch by inch.
Letting the shock fade.
"Tell me when to move," he says quietly.
You don't answer right away. Just a quick nod after a while of feeling his body pressed to yours.
When he finally does move-just barely-the discomfort softens into something else entirely.
Something deep and rolling and unfamiliar. Pleasure replaces the sting in waves, so intense it makes your toes curl.
He moves at a languid pace, dragging himself out of you just a bit before pushing back in. Slowly. Making you feel everything.
You're growing desperate. All the pent—up tension you've been carrying for months finally spilling over, burning hot and restless.
You want him. So bad.
"You can be rougher-ah,"
"Rougher?" he chuckles, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, so gentle it makes you purr. "You don't want me to be rougher, baby."
His hips snap forward sharply, pulling a surprised gasp from your throat.
"I do!" you say breathless.
You see it then-the veins standing out along his arms, the way his jaw tightens as he clenches his teeth. He's losing it. Barely holding on anymore.
And you don't want him to.
"Please," you whisper, voice low, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
His hands fly to your hips, pinning them hard against the bed.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
The smile on your face disappears just as quickly as it came when he snaps his hips forward again—harder this time. The movement is rough and powerful, stealing the air from your lungs.
"You ever had your neck squeezed before, bunny?" His large hand comes up loose at first, fingers barely resting against your throat, and your breath already hitches. Then he squeezes harder, thumb pressing into the side of your neck.
Your vision blurs around the edges, pleasure shooting straight through you. You don't hear a word he says after that, though the soft smile that creeps on your face doesn't go unnoticed.
Something flips inside him.
He's not the caring giant anymore-the one coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, softly rubbing your side and clit to ease the stretch of his cock. No. This version of him is different. Rougher. Bolder. It makes your toes curl in the best possible way.
All you hear is ringing and the sound of his hips hitting your ass.
Your mouth hangs open in a perfect O, no sound coming out except the faintest whimper dragged from you with every thrust. Your eyes cross as you let him do whatever he wants with your body.
You're a drooling mess. Nothing but babbles and broken cries spill from your lips as your eyes roll back, nails clawing at the messy, wet sheets that smell like nothing but you and him.
"Stupid thrust fucking thrust bunny thrust."
The sound sends a warm, overwhelming rush through your stomach, like the drop of a roller coaster. His hips don't falter, and neither does his grip.
With every movement, he rolls his hips in slow circles, making sure you feel every inch, every vein dragging against your sensitive, gummy walls. His hand loosens at your throat only to slide down and grab your tits hard.
"Simiiimon-ah—ah-ah," you cry, voice breaking with each powerful snap of his hips. Short, deep thrusts. His pubic bone slamming into your swollen clit every time.
"So fuckin' tight," he growls. "You feel so fuckin' good一fuck.”
He lets go of your neck, hands moving down your body as his hips slow, grinding into you instead. "I'm gonna rip you in half," he mutters to himself, the rumble in his chest deep and dark.
You don't hear him.
You're too busy gripping the sheets for dear life as the sinful sounds of skin slapping, cunt squelching, and your broken moans fill the room.
The sounds you make only fuel the heavy throbbing of his cock. "Feel good, baby?" he breathes, chest heaving as he looks down at your fucked-out expression, a small smile pulling at his lips.
"Yesyesyes," you babble, drool slipping from your mouth, eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep them open.
"Please-" Your cheeks are wet with tears, hair a mess, body buzzing with heat and pleasure. "Please go faster."
You lift your hips, digging your heels into the mattress, grinding back into him with everything you have left.
He lets out a deep grunt-surprised, pleased.
"Yeah, baby," he teases, thumb sliding down to rub your clit. "You want me to go faster?"
"Please, need it," you sob pathetically. The only thing you care about is pleasure—coming apart on him and letting him ruin you again.
"Work for it, then," he pants, chest rising and falling as he watches your blissed—out face. Beautiful. Fucking wrecked.
Your hips jerk erratically now, calves trembling, sweat slicking your skin as he lets you use him to get yourself off.
"You're-ah-being—mean," you sniff, your legs giving out slowly.
The familiar pressure coils tight in your stomach. Your clit is red and angry with every twist of his thumb, his free hand coming up to squeeze and play with your tit.
Before you can stop it, another orgasm washes through your whole body.
"Fuck," he he throws his head back when you clamp around him, tight and desperate, refusing to let go.
It takes everything in him not to come right then and there, buried deep inside your hot, gummy walls.
You're left gasping, clutching the sheets to your chest like you need something solid as you come apart on his cock.
As you come down, he slowly pulls out of you.
"Ah—" you yelp, the sudden emptiness uncomfortable, almost cold without him.
"Bend over."
His eyes are completely dark as he steps back, cock twitching and leaking. Before you can even lift your head, he's gripping your thighs, dragging you forward and flipping you onto your stomach, then onto your knees. The sheets beneath you are soaked.
"C'mon, bunny," he says, slapping your ass impatiently. "Bend over."
"M'gonna breed this fuckin' cunt," he mutters.
His hands grip your waist, putting you exactly where he wants you—on your knees, tits pressed into the bed, ass up just like he's imagined too many times before.
And you. You're just a cock-drunk, drooling mess. You can't even form words. Just cries and whines spilling out of you.
Music to his ears.
Fuel to his aching cock.
He positions himself behind you, a heavy hand coming down on your ass. The sharp sound echoes through the room, followed by your broken cry.
"Sii-"
His thrusts are messy—messier than before.
Desperate. His grip is bruising, fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you harder, deeper. You chant his name like it's the only word you know.
Your body starts to betray you first. Your legs tremble, knees threatening to give out as the rhythm stutters, breaks, turns reckless. You can't keep up anymore—can't tell where one movement ends and the next begins. Every nerve feels lit, stretched thin, buzzing too loud inside your skin. Your breath comes apart in your chest, sharp little gasps you can't control, like your body already knows what's coming before your mind does.
You're right there—so close it hurts. The need swells until it feels unbearable, like pressure behind your ribs, behind your eyes. Your grip tightens, fingers clawing uselessly at his pillow.
"Fuuuuck, baby!" he nearly yells, hips snapping animalistically, your whole body jolting with every thrust.
"Fuckfuckfuck-" you scream, loud and unfiltered, grateful there aren't neighbors close enough to hear.
The pressure builds again-and just before you can release, he pulls out.
You sob at the emptiness, looking back at him. "No! — please.
He smirks, gripping his cock, a white ring of your slick at the base before he leans down, spreading your ass. Both holes are on display. You can't stop him even if you wanted to.
He spits directly on your asshole before burying his tongue there, licking and slurping like a man starved.
From your clit to your ass, messy and obscene. His hand pumps his cock as he eats you, smacking and pinching your ass, tongue pushing deep enough to make you cry into the pillow.
"Please—want your cock, Simon," you beg, pushing back into his mouth without thinking.
“Yeah, baby,” he mocks, voice pitched higher. “You want this fat cock in your tummy?”
His fist tangles in your hair, jerking your head back until your neck strains, eyes lifting to meet him looming over you.
"Yes, please," your voice is horsed, neck straining with veins popping out. Chin wet and you're panting like a dog.
It made Simons cock impossibly harder.
He sinks into you again-no pause, no waiting. He bottoms out and immediately starts fucking you without restraint, the bed squeaking so loud you're sure it'll break. He slaps your ass, pulls your hair harder, forcing your back into an uncomfortable arch.
"This is what you wanted huh baby," he pants, hips never faltering, yet they get sloppy. His end is nearing.
He knows it by the way his balls tighten. Still dripping a sticky mess of both of you.
Then everything disappears.
Your vision blurs as you cum all over his cock again—no warning, no buildup.
You don't even know how many orgasms you've had.
This last one knocks you out completely.
You collapse onto the bed when he finally lets go, lying there motionless, drool slipping from your mouth as he uses your body for his pleasure.
"Fuck, bunny," he laughs. "Came so fast."
He doesn't give you time to recover.
He hauls you back up onto your hands and knees, positioning himself at the edge of the bed-your face level with his throbbing cock. Every twitch sends a bead of precum sliding down the angry red tip, already mixed with your cum.
"Make me cum, bunny."
"Wha-?" you mumble, still coming down from your high, vision spotting as you look up at him.
"C'mon, bunny," he groans. "You can't just leave me high and dry."
His hand comes down to grip his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your mouth waters instantly.
And then his earlier words echo in your head.
M'gonna breed you.
You whine softly and reach up, nudging his hands away so you can replace them with yours. You shuffle forward on your knees, settling in as you lean closer, both hands moving slowly up and down his shaft.
You tilt your head, staring up at him as you muster the best face you can manage, cheek brushing against the warm weight of him. You love the sounds he's making—ragged moans as he loses control.
"Want it inside," you beg.
Simon's eye twitches.
His breathing turns rough, uneven, gaze hardening as they lock onto you. For a split second, you almost wonder if you've crossed a line.
His grip snaps tight in your hair, the burn sharp enough to steal your breath. You barely have time to yelp before he's shoving his cock into your mouth, the tip hitting the back of your throat hard.
It's sudden. Too sudden.
You choke, gagging around him as he thrusts shallow and rough, spit bubbling at your lips and dripping down onto him.
Your head rocks back and forth as you grip his thighs to steady yourself, fingers digging in.
His grip doesn't falter, using it as leverage to drive you deeper. It's brutal. Too much. The sounds you're making would make you blush under any other circumstance.
Your throat burns, gag reflex overwhelmed as you choke around him, fluids spilling from your mouth every time he pushes deeper. Your cunt gushes as he uses your throat for his own pleasure.
"Yeeeeah gimmie that—gurg, gurg—baby."
He grips the base—what you can't fully take-along with his balls, forcing it down. Your eyes widen as you physically feel the stretch of your throat around him.
You tap at his thighs hard and fast, panic spiking just before he finally releases you.
You pull back immediately, coughing, gagging as phlegm spills from your mouth. Your face is a complete mess when he grips your hair again, jerking himself fast and hard. His expression twists with pleasure and desperation, lips caught between his teeth.
Your hand slips down between your legs, rubbing at yourself as he works his cock over your face.
"M'close," he breathes, chest red and heaving, focus razor-sharp.
"Fuuuck, bunny."
Before you can say anything, you feel it—sticky ropes splashing across your face, catching in your hair, your lashes, your brows, your lips. Everywhere. It lasts longer than you expect, enough to leave you stunned.
He grips the tip, giving a final stroke before tapping your cheek and pulling away.
You look up at him as he backs off, dragging your fingers through the mess on your face and bringing them to your mouth, licking them clean.
"Don't do this to me, bunny," he groans.
You giggle softly, the sound weak and breathless, before collapsing back onto the bed. The exhaustion finally catching up on you. Every muscle feels loose, heavy, like your body forgot how to work all at once.
The mattress dips as he moves closer again, slower now.
"Easy," he murmurs, hand settling at your side to keep you from rolling awkwardly. He grabs something off the nightstand—a cloth, a shirt, whatever's closest—and gently wipes at your face, patient, thorough.
Your eyes flutter half-closed as he works, the room quiet except for the sound of your breathing finally evening out. The tension from before disappearing and turning into something soft, and peaceful.
"There you go," he says softly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. His thumb lingers there for a second longer than necessary.
You hum in response, too spent to form real words.
He shifts again, sliding into the bed beside you and tugging the covers up around you, making sure you're warm. When he settles beside you, he pulls you in without asking, arm firm and grounding around your shoulders.
You melt into him easily.
For a while, neither of you says anything. You just lie there, your head on his chest, his breathing steady beneath your ear. His hand traces slow, absent lines along your arm.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
You nod against him, eyes closed. "M'good,"
His arm tightens just a little.
"Good."
You smile to yourself, fingers drifting over the scars and dips along his chest. "Thought you said you were gonna breed me," you joke softly.
He lets out a low laugh, warm and deep, the sound vibrating through you.
"That was heat talk, bunny," he says easily. His hand slides to your waist, fingers trailing along your stretch marks.
You tilt your head, listening.
"When i do cum in your pretty pussy," he pauses, other hand reaching to drag a finger along your cheek. "It's gonna be for a reason.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write, please heed the tags before each chapter as this story is 18+
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Rewatching A Discovery of Witches, and you know Diana's main attraction to Matthew is that he's her own personal artifact. Harkness should've advertised the series as being "for every girl who's ever wanted to marry a magical antiquity."
a/n: the pictures are used for aesthetic purposes only! reader does not have a physical description! thank you sm for the request anon!! this was very fun to do again < 3 ! my modern!dunk is a bit of a farm man okay walk with me!
MODERN!DUNK did not bother with social media much before he met you. he was a rather busy man, keeping to himself and minding his own business as much as he could. dunk was not a big fan of being perceived by the people who did not matter to him, of possible judgmental strangers having opinions on the way he lived his life or the state of his appearance. he had made a social media account to maybe get in touch with like-minded people who loved horses and enjoyed nature, not to... flaunt himself. it was once in a blue moon that he shared pictures from his daily life, and even then, they were rather candid and poorly captured. dunk was a little ashamed of his photography skills, but those would have to do. having a farmhouse and livestock to look after took most of his free time. there was little left for much else.
he meets you at the supermarket closest to his farmhouse. dunk had seen you around before, but never had the wits about him to approach or strike a conversation with you. luckily for him, it seemed you were more perceptive than he was. dunk supposes it wasn't not hard for anyone, especially you, to realize how lingering his looks were, having caught him a handful of times, big, wide baby blues trained on you in wonder and trepidation. his cheeks have been red too, dammit. but dunk wouldn't beat himself up too much for his clumsiness, for it had landed him your phone number! he could've sworn his smile was about to split his face when you pressed a slip of paper with the neat handwriting on it, urging him softly to contact you whenever he wished. your name was also scribbled on it. dunk blushed. you had such a pretty name. it was only fair of him to offer his own in response with the eagerness of a child.
he wonders, absentmindedly, if you have any social media. maybe you will be curious and look up his name? you do know what he looks like, but maybe you would be curious for more? dunk feels silly for thinking so ahead when he only now got your number. but the thought lingers.
maybe a few more pictures of him on his page wouldn't hurt. what if the pretty lady is curious, after all?
turns out, you are not fond of posting yourself on social media much, dunk learns in the following weeks he spends with you. that's alright, he thinks. nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen! he agrees, after all, more or less, but does tell you about the account he has, shy and reluctant to show you the pictures he posted, feeling like a fool under your scrutiny.
his blush only deepens when you start cooing over his pictures, praising how handsome he looks and how much you love them! dunk feels like he could combust right then and there under all the compliments. the way you pinch your fingers and zoom on some of the photos to see his face better or ogle his muscles. he almost passes out when you comment how strong he looks when he works on the farm. even offer to take his pictures for him next time he feels like snapping a few.
it'll be a win-win for both, you say. he gets to look handsome and you get to look at him.
dunk swears his ears are fuming from how flushed he is, but he nods eagerly anyway, secretly loving the concept of you being the one behind the camera, smiling so prettily at him, your eyes shining.
taking pictures becomes one of his favorite things to do.
a couple of weeks later, and dunk is fumbling with his words, expressing his feelings for you in the most ardent, clumsy way. it's sweet and lovely and so, so honest. just like him.
you two are inseparable afterwards. dunk is over the moon to have you visit his farmhouse more often, showing you every corner and crevice and getting you acquainted with the place. he loves seeing you walk around, interacting with the horses and livestock, and asking about every flower and plant you see. dunk is so in love that he feels like he could burst. you are the loveliest thing he has ever seen, and he wishes to one day take pictures of you, too, just like you do of him. but for now, he's more than happy to be on the other side of the camera, smiling at you and feeling like the luckiest man on earth.
slowly, traces of you start appearing in the pictures. it makes dunk's heart soar in his chest when he posts them for the first time. now people can see that there is someone precious helping him take such beautiful photography, even if it is mostly of himself.
more and more of you start bleeding into the photography, and dunk gets a rosy tint in his cheeks every time someone comments under his post, asking who the other person is.
dunk wants to tell everyone about you. he's not hiding you. never. he is so proud of being your lover, thanking every god out there for bringing you into his path.
he is just... a little nervous. maybe you do not want to put yourself out there so much for people to see. maybe you wish things to be more private, and dunk understands and respects that. he is happy with how things are now.
maybe in the future, he would ask if he can have one or two pictures of your pretty face on his page so people can see who owns his heart and soul.
one day, you mention offhandedly that you two barely have any pictures together, and should take more.
dunk's heart almost stops in his chest out of pure joy and delight, agreeing so, so earnestly, hands already fumbling for his phone.
he keeps all of those in a separate folder, which he names with a cute, simple heart. but it's a heart in your favorite color. he thinks it's cute and romantic. you agree.
dunk does not flood his social page with all the pictures at once. he does not want to make it too overwhelming for you, just in case.
but he cannot help himself as he drops one or two here and there every time he feels like updating his page. now people can see how beautiful his lover is! he's so happy.
sometimes, he sneaks pictures of you, candid and sweet. those might be his favourites.
you look every bit of yourself, relaxed and pretty. capturing you at your most authentic makes butterflies swarm in his stomach, threatening to choke him from how much tenderness he feels for you.
it feels like he has pieces of you with him. he does post those, but also makes sure to print them out and tuck them somewhere in his car where he can see them at all times. the lonely drives feel better now because he gets to look up and see the person he loves most.
dunk's neighbour, egg, often jokes that you two should get married soon.
"you look like those old married couples, anyway!" he would say, and every time, dunk would get this faraway look in his eyes for a few moments, as if imagining it. you, as his pretty, beautiful wife, living happily in his farmhouse and sharing your life with him.
the blush on his cheeks is so bright and warm when his eyes flit to you, already imagining waking up to you every morning and getting to kiss you silly as he comes back for dinner after a hard day of tending to the farm.
maybe he starts making cute, makeshift rings from plants or grass he picks up around his property. and maybe dodges your soft looks and inquiries as to why he suddenly picked up this cute hobby.
secretly, dunk loves feeling like he can protect you, even if you can take care of yourself. he's so proud when he sees you stand up for yourself, even though he wants nothing more than to do it for you. he respects your autonomy and encourages you to be independent.
but he loves feeling needed and wanted.
loves to see how much stronger he looks beside you. how taller. how bigger.
it's a small, shameful part of him that he keeps hidden, like a dirty little secret.
when he can clearly see the difference between your physiques in pictures, he gets so flustered, red from the tips of his ears to the valley of his pecs.
asking you to start a live together is so nerve-wracking, he feels like all the blood rushed to his face, and he cannot find the right words to express how happy that'll make him.
dunk loves you so much, and even though he is happy with how things are, he can only wish to have you closer. so much closer. much more often.
it's a greedy, selfish feeling, but he cannot help it. you are everything to him. the first rays of sunshine at dawn and all the glittering stars in the sky at dusk.
a/n: the pictures are used for aesthetic purposes only! reader does not have a physical description! thank you sm for the request anon!! this was very fun to do again < 3 ! my modern!dunk is a bit of a farm man okay walk with me!
MODERN!DUNK did not bother with social media much before he met you. he was a rather busy man, keeping to himself and minding his own business as much as he could. dunk was not a big fan of being perceived by the people who did not matter to him, of possible judgmental strangers having opinions on the way he lived his life or the state of his appearance. he had made a social media account to maybe get in touch with like-minded people who loved horses and enjoyed nature, not to... flaunt himself. it was once in a blue moon that he shared pictures from his daily life, and even then, they were rather candid and poorly captured. dunk was a little ashamed of his photography skills, but those would have to do. having a farmhouse and livestock to look after took most of his free time. there was little left for much else.
he meets you at the supermarket closest to his farmhouse. dunk had seen you around before, but never had the wits about him to approach or strike a conversation with you. luckily for him, it seemed you were more perceptive than he was. dunk supposes it wasn't not hard for anyone, especially you, to realize how lingering his looks were, having caught him a handful of times, big, wide baby blues trained on you in wonder and trepidation. his cheeks have been red too, dammit. but dunk wouldn't beat himself up too much for his clumsiness, for it had landed him your phone number! he could've sworn his smile was about to split his face when you pressed a slip of paper with the neat handwriting on it, urging him softly to contact you whenever he wished. your name was also scribbled on it. dunk blushed. you had such a pretty name. it was only fair of him to offer his own in response with the eagerness of a child.
he wonders, absentmindedly, if you have any social media. maybe you will be curious and look up his name? you do know what he looks like, but maybe you would be curious for more? dunk feels silly for thinking so ahead when he only now got your number. but the thought lingers.
maybe a few more pictures of him on his page wouldn't hurt. what if the pretty lady is curious, after all?
turns out, you are not fond of posting yourself on social media much, dunk learns in the following weeks he spends with you. that's alright, he thinks. nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen! he agrees, after all, more or less, but does tell you about the account he has, shy and reluctant to show you the pictures he posted, feeling like a fool under your scrutiny.
his blush only deepens when you start cooing over his pictures, praising how handsome he looks and how much you love them! dunk feels like he could combust right then and there under all the compliments. the way you pinch your fingers and zoom on some of the photos to see his face better or ogle his muscles. he almost passes out when you comment how strong he looks when he works on the farm. even offer to take his pictures for him next time he feels like snapping a few.
it'll be a win-win for both, you say. he gets to look handsome and you get to look at him.
dunk swears his ears are fuming from how flushed he is, but he nods eagerly anyway, secretly loving the concept of you being the one behind the camera, smiling so prettily at him, your eyes shining.
taking pictures becomes one of his favorite things to do.
a couple of weeks later, and dunk is fumbling with his words, expressing his feelings for you in the most ardent, clumsy way. it's sweet and lovely and so, so honest. just like him.
you two are inseparable afterwards. dunk is over the moon to have you visit his farmhouse more often, showing you every corner and crevice and getting you acquainted with the place. he loves seeing you walk around, interacting with the horses and livestock, and asking about every flower and plant you see. dunk is so in love that he feels like he could burst. you are the loveliest thing he has ever seen, and he wishes to one day take pictures of you, too, just like you do of him. but for now, he's more than happy to be on the other side of the camera, smiling at you and feeling like the luckiest man on earth.
slowly, traces of you start appearing in the pictures. it makes dunk's heart soar in his chest when he posts them for the first time. now people can see that there is someone precious helping him take such beautiful photography, even if it is mostly of himself.
more and more of you start bleeding into the photography, and dunk gets a rosy tint in his cheeks every time someone comments under his post, asking who the other person is.
dunk wants to tell everyone about you. he's not hiding you. never. he is so proud of being your lover, thanking every god out there for bringing you into his path.
he is just... a little nervous. maybe you do not want to put yourself out there so much for people to see. maybe you wish things to be more private, and dunk understands and respects that. he is happy with how things are now.
maybe in the future, he would ask if he can have one or two pictures of your pretty face on his page so people can see who owns his heart and soul.
one day, you mention offhandedly that you two barely have any pictures together, and should take more.
dunk's heart almost stops in his chest out of pure joy and delight, agreeing so, so earnestly, hands already fumbling for his phone.
he keeps all of those in a separate folder, which he names with a cute, simple heart. but it's a heart in your favorite color. he thinks it's cute and romantic. you agree.
dunk does not flood his social page with all the pictures at once. he does not want to make it too overwhelming for you, just in case.
but he cannot help himself as he drops one or two here and there every time he feels like updating his page. now people can see how beautiful his lover is! he's so happy.
sometimes, he sneaks pictures of you, candid and sweet. those might be his favourites.
you look every bit of yourself, relaxed and pretty. capturing you at your most authentic makes butterflies swarm in his stomach, threatening to choke him from how much tenderness he feels for you.
it feels like he has pieces of you with him. he does post those, but also makes sure to print them out and tuck them somewhere in his car where he can see them at all times. the lonely drives feel better now because he gets to look up and see the person he loves most.
dunk's neighbour, egg, often jokes that you two should get married soon.
"you look like those old married couples, anyway!" he would say, and every time, dunk would get this faraway look in his eyes for a few moments, as if imagining it. you, as his pretty, beautiful wife, living happily in his farmhouse and sharing your life with him.
the blush on his cheeks is so bright and warm when his eyes flit to you, already imagining waking up to you every morning and getting to kiss you silly as he comes back for dinner after a hard day of tending to the farm.
maybe he starts making cute, makeshift rings from plants or grass he picks up around his property. and maybe dodges your soft looks and inquiries as to why he suddenly picked up this cute hobby.
secretly, dunk loves feeling like he can protect you, even if you can take care of yourself. he's so proud when he sees you stand up for yourself, even though he wants nothing more than to do it for you. he respects your autonomy and encourages you to be independent.
but he loves feeling needed and wanted.
loves to see how much stronger he looks beside you. how taller. how bigger.
it's a small, shameful part of him that he keeps hidden, like a dirty little secret.
when he can clearly see the difference between your physiques in pictures, he gets so flustered, red from the tips of his ears to the valley of his pecs.
asking you to start a live together is so nerve-wracking, he feels like all the blood rushed to his face, and he cannot find the right words to express how happy that'll make him.
dunk loves you so much, and even though he is happy with how things are, he can only wish to have you closer. so much closer. much more often.
it's a greedy, selfish feeling, but he cannot help it. you are everything to him. the first rays of sunshine at dawn and all the glittering stars in the sky at dusk.
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↳ reader feels as if she is running out of time, and asks jack to be a sperm donor so she can fulfill her lifelong dream of being a mother. surprisingly, he agrees.
summary: for the past eight long months, jack has had the twelfth floor of the orpheus building all to himself. the calmness was nice, but he missed knowing that there was a living soul next door. little did he know that, in a slow spring morning, he would meet his new neighbour. and the love of his life.
warnings: angst, fluff and smut. this series contains talks of grief, ptsd, self worth and finding love after your partner has passed. most chapters contain smut and each one is labelled with their own warnings. she/her pronouns and afab!reader. the girls used in the series moodboard are not face claims for reader, they are how i imagine them while i write, but there’s no specific descriptions of body type, race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
main story
⚜️ chapter one*
⚜️ chapter two *
⚜️ chapter three
⚜️ chapter four
⚜️ chapter five
companion pieces
⚜️ a new year’s interlude (set between chapters two and three)*
⚜️ theo gets a bath interlude (part of the 1k followers celebration - set between the new year’s interlude and chapter three)
* smut found in chapter.
domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated. dividers by @/uzmacchiato and @/bronzewasp
Some nights rearrange everything you thought you understood about love, loss, and what your body is capable of surviving. 7.5k
⚠️ Miscarriage but happy ending
Ok so I read two pieces like this and wanted to create my own version for Rabbot!! Also saw a really funny tiktok about this circumstance so I incorporated that idea also ;)
As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!
The second night shift is always worse than the first.
The first one still has a thread of adrenaline running through it you’re flipping your schedule, your body hasn’t quite realised what you’re doing to it yet. But the second? The second settles into your bones. Your thoughts get slower around the edges. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water.
By 6:41am, she feels hollowed out.
The Pitt hums around her in that strange pre dawn rhythm, fluorescent lights still too bright, monitors still chirping, the waiting room television murmuring to no one in particular. Outside the ambulance bay doors, the sky is beginning to shift from navy to pale grey, the world preparing to wake up while they are preparing to collapse.
She signs off her last chart slowly, eyes scanning lines she’s already read twice. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back burns in that dull way that comes from standing too long.
And beneath all of that, low, quiet, is the discomfort.
It started around three in the morning. A tightness low in her abdomen that felt like a muscle protesting too much caffeine and too little water. She had ignored it then. She had been triaging a chest pain in Bed 4, running labs, adjusting an IV in Bed 7. There is no room for how do I feel? in the middle of a trauma call.
But sometime around five, when the floor briefly settled and she finally leaned against the counter long enough to breathe, the tightness returned, sharper, more deliberate. She had swallowed two ibuprofen dry in the break room and chased them with lukewarm water from a paper cup.
“Period from hell,” she had muttered to herself, rolling her eyes at her own body.
Now, as she stands and pulls her jacket on, the pain flickers again, not unbearable, not enough to double her over, but enough to make her press her palm briefly against her stomach before letting it drop.
She doesn’t tell anyone.
Jack is finishing up with Mohan across the floor. She watches him absently for a moment, the way he leans in when he listens, the way he nods once when he’s decided something. He looks exhausted too, dark circles under his eyes, hair slightly flattened on one side from where he’s dragged his hand through it all night.
He glances up.
Their eyes meet.
He tilts his head slightly in question.
She gives him a small, reassuring nod.
He studies her face for one beat too long.
Then he nods back.
They’ve been together long enough that these tiny exchanges carry weight. He knows her baseline. He knows when she’s masking. He knows when she’s truly fine. She keeps her expression steady.
He doesn’t push.
Dana’s voice cuts across the floor. “Go home.”
It’s not unkind.
It’s command.
They clock out. The doors to the ambulance bay slide open with a hydraulic sigh and cool morning air rushes in. She inhales deeply and the pain hits again, this time it makes her stop walking for half a second.
Jack notices immediately. “What was that?” he asks, not even looking at her, just feeling the change in her pace.
“Nothing,” she says too quickly. “Just stiff.”
He glances at her now. Her jaw is tight.
“Cramping?” he asks.
She hesitates.
“…Yeah.”
He doesn’t panic. He doesn’t escalate. He just nods slowly. “You drink enough tonight?”
“Probably not.”
He hums like that tracks.
They walk to the car. The sky is brighter now. The world looks normal. Birds have started up somewhere beyond the parking lot.
She lowers herself into the passenger seat carefully. The second she sits, the pain sharpens. Her breath catches.
Jack’s hand is already reaching for her before she can smooth it over. His palm settles on her thigh, warm and grounding.
“You sure you’re good?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” she says, staring straight ahead. “Just cramps.”
He studies her profile. The line between his brows deepens slightly. But he doesn’t argue.
He starts the car.
The city is still half asleep.
Streetlights blink off one by one as the sun climbs higher, their yellow glow fading against a sky that’s softening from navy to pale peach. Traffic lights change dutifully from red to green over empty intersections. Storefront shutters remain pulled down. The world hasn’t started demanding anything yet.
It feels suspended.
Inside the car, the air is warm and close. The heater hums softly, pushing out recycled warmth that smells faintly like dashboard plastic and the coffee Jack spilled last week and swore he cleaned up.
Jack drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gear shift. His posture is loose, tired but steady. His jaw flexes every few seconds in the way it does when he’s replaying parts of the shift in his head.
She watches the buildings slide by outside the passenger window, brick, glass, a bus stop bench with no one on it.
The pain starts as pressure. Not sharp yet. Just… weight. Low in her abdomen, like something pressing from the inside outward.
She shifts in her seat slightly, angling her hips, hoping the change in position will ease it.
It doesn’t.
It builds gradually, a tightening, a small release, then another tightening that lasts a few seconds longer. She inhales slowly through her nose, counting without thinking about it. One. Two. Three. The pressure peaks and then recedes, and she lets her shoulders drop a fraction.
Okay. That’s fine.
Jack glances at her briefly, catching the movement. “You’re quiet,” he says gently, his voice softer than it was an hour ago in the hospital. Stripped of edge. Stripped of authority. Just Jack.
“I’m tired,” she replies, eyes still on the window. It’s not entirely a lie. Her bones feel heavy. Her eyelids burn.
He gives a low huff of agreement. “Yeah. That shift was—”
He trails off when she shifts again.
The pain returns, sharper. It starts low and radiates outward in a band across her abdomen, like someone tightening a belt from the inside. Her breath catches before she can mask it, small, just a slight inhale that’s too quick.
But Jack hears it. He always hears it.
His head turns instantly. “That’s not just tired,” he says quietly.
She presses her lips together, willing her face to smooth out. “It’s fine.”
He studies her profile for a few seconds longer than usual, jaw tight, shoulders slightly lifted, hand curled loosely in her lap. He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t escalate either.
Instead, his right hand leaves the gear shift and settles over her thigh. Warm. Solid. Familiar. His thumb brushes slow, absent circles against the fabric of her scrub pants, grounding, affectionate, checking.
She leans into it without meaning to. The warmth seeps through the thin material and into her skin. The pain loosens slightly under the contact, not gone, but dulled.
She exhales carefully.
Jack notices that too. “Better?” he asks.
She nods faintly. “Yeah.”
The lie comes easier now.
Outside, a cyclist passes through an intersection, head down against the chill. The world looks so normal.
Another tightening starts, slower, more deliberate. It doesn’t spike. It gathers, like a hand closing gradually. She shifts again, pressing her lower back against the seat, trying to counter the pressure.
Jack’s thumb pauses mid circle. “Where?” he asks quietly.
She hesitates. “Just cramps.”
He glances at the dash. “You supposed to start soon?” he asks, tone casual but probing.
She shakes her head. “It’s been irregular, since…”
He pauses, he knows, and he doesn’t want to draw attention to it, so he hums.
The pain crests. Her fingers curl tighter into her palm. She focuses on the sensation of his thumb against her thigh, trying to anchor there instead of inside her body.
It releases again, but not fully. There’s a lingering ache now that wasn’t there earlier, like the waves are stacking closer together.
She closes her eyes briefly.
Just get home. Hot shower. Sleep.
Her body is tired. That’s all.
Night shifts do this sometimes. Hormones get weird. Cycles get thrown off. She’s seen it in coworkers a hundred times.
This is explainable.
Jack squeezes her thigh once more, slightly firmer this time. “Tell me if it gets worse,” he says.
She nods.
He watches her for another few seconds, then looks back at the road. But his thumb never stops moving.
The city begins to wake slowly around them, a bakery door propped open, a delivery truck idling, a jogger crossing ahead of them. The car turns onto their street.
The pain hits again, harder. It steals the air from her lungs long enough that her head tips forward slightly.
Jack sees it in the corner of his eye. His grip on the wheel tightens.
“We’re home,” he says, tone shifting subtly. Not alarmed. But alert now.
He pulls into the driveway. Puts the car in park. Before the engine fully cuts off, he turns toward her fully.
“Talk to me,” he says.
She forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just cramps.”
He studies her face. Really studies it. Then reaches over and brushes his thumb once along her cheek.
“You look pale.”
“I feel pale,” she admits softly.
He exhales through his nose.
“Okay,” he says. “Inside. Shower. Water. If it doesn’t settle, we check it.”
We. Not you. We.
She nods.
The pain recedes just enough to let her open the door and step out. The morning air hits her face, cool, fresh, normal and she tells herself again,
Nothing more.
The house greets them with warmth, not just temperature, atmosphere.
The heat clicks softly somewhere in the walls, pushing out that gentle morning warmth that lingers in the kitchen tiles. The smell of coffee is strong and rich, freshly poured. Toast hangs in the air, slightly overdone at the edges. There’s something sweet too, butter melting into something golden in a pan.
Home.
It hits her in the chest immediately.
The door closes behind them with a soft thud, sealing out the fluorescent lights and antiseptic air of the hospital.
Robby is awake. Of course he is.
He stands barefoot at the stove, one hip leaned slightly against the counter, stirring eggs slowly with a wooden spatula. His hair is slightly mussed at the crown like he ran his hands through it one too many times. He’s wearing soft grey sweatpants and one of her oversized hoodies, sleeves pushed up to his forearms.
Domestic Robby. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Not ED chief. Just him.
When he hears the door open, he turns, and his face softens instantly. There’s no calculation in it. No restraint. Just relief.
“There you are,” he says, like he’s been waiting days for them to walk through the door.
She smiles, genuinely this time, and crosses the room without thinking, dropping her bag by the door. She walks straight into him.
Robby doesn’t hesitate. He wraps around her like he always does, one arm sliding up between her shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers threading lightly into her hair.
She sinks into him. For a second, the pain fades into the background.
He smells like coffee and clean laundry and sleep.
He kisses her forehead first. Then her mouth. Then her temple.
“How bad?” he murmurs, voice low against her skin. He always asks that first, not “how are you,” but “how bad.” He wants to know the scale.
“Busy,” she says into his chest.
He hums softly.
Behind her ribs, another tightening begins. Low. Deliberate. She presses her face deeper into him to hide the wince that threatens to crease her brow.
Robby’s hand rubs slow circles along her back. “You’re freezing,” he says softly.
She realises she is. Her fingers are cold against his sides. “I’m fine,” she says automatically.
Jack moves past them and drops into a chair at the table, stretching his legs out and cracking his neck with a small groan.
“I’m starving,” he announces. He looks wrecked, hair flattened slightly on one side, stubble darker than usual, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
Robby snorts faintly. “Come make your own food then.”
He gently untangles himself from her and returns to the stove, sliding the eggs onto plates.
She pulls out a chair and sits slowly, anchoring herself on the table to relieve the discomfort. The pressure in her abdomen shifts when she bends at the waist, not sharp, just there. Present.
Robby sets plates down in front of them with that quiet attentiveness he doesn’t even realise he has, eggs fluffy and soft, toast cut diagonally, fruit neatly arranged.
“You didn’t have to, it’s your day off,” she says quietly.
He glances at her. “I know baby, I wanted to.”
Jack starts talking immediately, because he always does when he’s exhausted, words spilling out like he needs to empty the shift from his body before he can rest.
“You should’ve seen Mohan’s face when the second trauma was brought in,” Jack says, mouth already full. “Trauma rolls in and the resident just—gone. White. Thought he was going to faint.”
Robby huffs a quiet laugh. “Did he?”
“Almost. I told him if he passed out I was leaving him there.”
Robby shakes his head.
She smiles faintly.
The pain pulses again, longer this time. She lowers her fork for a second, shifting herself to sit slightly on her left side, pressing her thigh against the underside of the table to ground herself.
Jack keeps talking. “There was this psych patient who tried to bolt. Ran straight into a supply cart. Full speed.”
Robby snorts. “You can’t make this up.”
“I wish I could.”
They fall into their rhythm easily, conversation that’s mostly noise and comfort. Small complaints. Shared humour. Domestic planning sliding in between hospital stories.
“We need to clean the attic,” Robby says suddenly, pointing his fork at Jack.
Jack groans. “You say that every month.”
“And yet it still needs doing.”
“Because we’re never home.”
“Then we make time.”
“For dust and old boxes?”
“For organisation.”
Jack laughs. “You’re insufferable.”
Robby smirks faintly. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
She listens to them go back and forth. The normalcy of it presses against her chest.
Another cramp builds. This one doesn’t release quickly. It stretches. Tightens. Holds. Her stomach twists in a way that makes her set her fork down more deliberately this time. The eggs suddenly feel heavy in her mouth, almost metallic.
She swallows with difficulty.
Robby notices immediately. “You not hungry?” he asks, not accusing, just observing.
She shakes her head lightly. “Just tired.”
He studies her face, a flicker of concern now. Her skin looks slightly too pale under the kitchen light. There’s a sheen of sweat beginning along her hairline that shouldn’t be there in a warm kitchen.
Jack is mid sentence about reorganising the shed when he trails off. “You okay?” he asks, softer now.
She forces another smile. “I’m fine,” she repeats.
The pain pulses again, lower now, deeper. She shifts in her seat and the pressure changes with it.
Jack notices. His eyes narrow slightly. “Cramping again?” he asks.
She nods because that’s the simplest explanation. “Night shifts always mess with me.”
Robby leans back in his chair slightly, studying her posture. “How bad?”
“Not bad.” It’s a lie, but not fully yet. It’s manageable. It will pass. It has to pass.
She takes another sip of water, hoping it will settle her stomach.
It doesn’t.
The pain returns again, closer together now.
Jack’s foot nudges hers lightly under the table, checking. She nudges back, and he relaxes slightly.
Robby finishes his coffee and stands, collecting plates that are barely touched.
She pushes her chair back slowly. “I’m gonna shower,” she says, voice steady.
Jack points at her with his fork, lazy but fond. “Don’t fall asleep in there.”
She rolls her eyes faintly, though her energy is thinning.
Robby crosses the kitchen in two steps and pulls her back into him briefly. His arms wrap around her again, one hand flattening against her lower back. The warmth feels good, too good.
She presses into him. Another tightening hits. She buries her face in his chest to hide the breath that stutters out.
He kisses her hair. “We’ll be up in a minute,” he says softly.
Jack calls from the table, “Save me a blanket. You always steal them.”
She lets out a weak huff of laughter. “Robby steals them,” she mutters.
“I did not,” Robby protests mildly.
She nods, forcing herself upright. “I’ll grab one,” she says, and turns toward the stairs.
Each step feels heavier than the last. Halfway up, the pain tightens again, longer, stronger. She grips the banister briefly, breathes.
The boys’ voices float up from the kitchen below, still arguing about attic boxes and garage shelves.
Normal. Safe. Unaware.
She tells herself one more time, It’s nothing.
And continues up the stairs.
The bathroom light is unforgiving.
It throws her reflection back at her in harsh detail, pale skin, faint shadows beneath her eyes, a thin sheen of sweat already gathering at her temples. She looks like someone who just worked twelve hours straight.
She does not look like someone about to fall apart.
The shower runs behind her, water hitting tile in a steady, soothing rhythm. Steam curls slowly upward, softening the mirror’s edges, blurring the sharpness of her reflection.
She grips the edge of the sink and exhales.
Another tightening begins low in her abdomen. This one doesn’t sneak up quietly. It announces itself, a slow, deep constriction that wraps around her middle and begins to squeeze.
Her fingers dig into porcelain. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out at first. The pain swells. Her body bows slightly forward.
“Come on,” she whispers under her breath, as if she can negotiate with it. “Not now.”
It doesn’t listen.
The pressure sharpens, radiating low and inward, a deep ache that feels wrong in a way she can’t fully articulate. It doesn’t feel like cramps. It feels like something working.
Her knees soften. She grips harder. Her reflection blurs. The wave peaks, then slowly, reluctantly, releases.
She inhales shakily. Her heart is racing now, too fast for something that’s “just cramps.”
She presses her palm flat against her lower abdomen. It feels warm under her touch. Tender.
Another tightening begins almost immediately, closer than before. She closes her eyes as it builds. This time it lingers longer at the peak, making her stomach clench involuntarily.
A small sound slips out, broken, breathy, and she clamps down on it instantly.
She waits for it to fade.
It doesn’t fade all the way. It just softens into an ache.
Her reflection looks back at her like a stranger now. Her breathing has changed, shallow, careful.
She reaches for the towel rack beside the shower. Her fingers close around air.
She blinks.
The rack is empty.
She stares at it a second longer than necessary. A stupid detail. A stupid inconvenience. But it feels monumental in this moment.
“Of course,” she mutters weakly.
She turns toward the hallway. The shift from warm steam to cooler air makes her skin prickle.
Each step feels measured now, intentional. Her hand trails along the wall automatically, fingers brushing over framed photos, vacations, hospital galas, small snapshots of quiet evenings at home.
Halfway down the hall, the pain surges again. Harder. It steals the air from her lungs completely.
She stops mid step. Her free hand flies to the wall. Her forehead presses against cool paint. The pulling crests fast, her abdomen tightening so sharply it feels like her body is trying to fold in on itself.
She gasps. Her nails scrape faintly against the drywall.
It releases slightly, then builds again almost immediately.
There is no long pause now. No comfortable gap. Just rhythm, building, peaking, fading, starting again.
Her stomach drops.
Cold dread creeps into her chest.
This is not random. This is not scattered. This is patterned.
She pushes off the wall and forces herself forward. The laundry room door is only a few feet away, but it feels like crossing a field.
She grips the handle and pushes it open. The smell of detergent hits her, sharp and clean, and the overhead light flickers on.
She steps inside. The floor is cool beneath her bare feet. She moves toward the folded stack of towels on top of the dryer.
Another wave begins, stronger, faster. She barely has time to reach out before it slams into her fully.
It feels like something tearing loose inside her. Not surface ache. Not muscle. Deeper.
A scream rips out of her before she can stop it. It echoes off tile and metal. Her knees buckle. Her back hits the wall hard as she slides down, impact jarring her spine.
The cold tile shocks against her legs.
She curls instinctively, arms wrapping around her stomach like she can physically hold everything in place.
The pain doesn’t pause. It crashes again almost immediately, and again, closer, tighter.
Her breathing fractures. She tries to inhale deeply. It doesn’t work. Her body tightens against her will.
Another scream tears out, louder this time.
Downstairs, chairs scrape violently. Footsteps thunder up the stairs two at a time.
“Sweetheart—!”
“Baby where are you—?”
The laundry room door slams open so hard it hits the wall.
Jack appears first.
Robby right behind him.
They both freeze for half a second, just long enough to register her on the floor, curled, crying, shaking, then they move.
Jack drops to one knee so fast his palm smacks against the tile. Robby lowers immediately behind her, sliding one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, gathering her upright without hesitation.
Her back presses into his chest. He can feel how hard she’s trembling.
“What—” Jack starts, then stops because his eyes land on her face, her posture, the way she’s curled around her stomach.
“Hey,” Robby says, voice tight. “Hey—look at me.”
She can barely see through tears. “My—” she chokes out. “My stomach. Something’s wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?” Jack asks, voice low but too quick.
She tries to breathe. “It hurts.”
Robby’s gaze scans her face, then her posture. “How long has it been hurting?”
She hesitates.
Jack’s eyes narrow. “Baby.”
“A couple hours,” she whispers, ashamed.
Robby’s expression changes so fast it’s almost frightening, fear, frustration, disbelief. “Hours?”
Jack’s voice goes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me in the car?”
She sobs, shaking her head. “It wasn’t this bad. I thought—I thought it would stop.”
Robby closes his eyes for half a second, like he’s forcing himself not to spiral.
Jack shifts closer, palm finally landing on her shoulder, steadying. “Okay. Okay. We’re here. Breathe.”
Another wave hits. She cries out and curls tighter, forehead pressing toward her knees.
Robby’s hand cups the back of her head, careful, protective. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Jack’s face goes tight with focus. “Can you straighten out a little? I need to see.”
She tries. Her body trembles as she uncurls slightly, supported by Robby’s arm behind her shoulders.
Jack’s hands move to her abdomen, gentle but assessing, pressing lightly in places that make her flinch. He feels it immediately, tightening under his palm, involuntary bearing down.
Jack’s expression shifts. Subtle, but Robby sees it.
Jack looks up over her head.
Robby meets his gaze.
It’s a silent exchange, fast and loaded. Jack looks back down, jaw set, then glances up again.
In that look is everything, calculation, recognition, a quiet dawning dread neither of them say out loud.
She doesn’t see it. She’s trying to breathe through the next wave.
“I’m going to take your pants off, okay? Just—let me.”
She nods again, breath catching, tears sliding down her cheeks. Jack’s fingers work quickly but gently at her waistband, tugging fabric down enough to see what he needs to see without exposing her to the cold air more than necessary.
Jack’s face tightens when he looks.
Robby’s breath goes shallow behind her.
They share another look over her head, quick, grim, careful, then school their expressions before she can catch it.
“Okay,” Jack murmurs. “Okay, baby. Listen to me.”
“What?” she whispers faintly.
Jack doesn’t answer right away.
Robby leans forward slightly, angling to see past her shoulder, finally seeing what Jack is seeing. He inhales sharply.
The air in the room changes.
He tightens his hold around her instinctively. She feels it.
“Why are you—” she starts, but another wave steals her voice. Her body bears down involuntarily.
Jack feels it. His hand moves quickly now, supportive, steady. He looks up at Robby again.
No hysteria. No chaos. Just confirmation.
Robby swallows hard. His cheek presses briefly to her hair.
She’s crying harder now.
“It hurts,” she sobs.
“I know,” Robby whispers.
Jack shifts closer, bracing her knee, his voice dropping into that calm, steady tone he uses when everything is seconds away from going wrong, but there’s something underneath it now.
Something breaking.
He leans forward just enough.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs.
Another pain tears through her. Her fingers dig into Robby’s arm. Her body tightens again.
And Jack steadies her gently.
“I need you to push."
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
The hotel room smells like sunscreen and saltwater.
They had spent the entire day outside, walking the boardwalk, sitting too long in the sun, sharing something fried and terrible that tasted incredible in the moment. The ocean air still clings faintly to her hair, and there’s sand caught somewhere in the hem of her dress that she’ll find later.
The door clicks shut behind them, sealing out the distant crash of waves and the hum of late night traffic. Inside, the room is soft and golden under dim lamp light. Everything feels warm and suspended, like the night is holding still just for them.
She laughs as she kicks one heel off, then the other, wobbling slightly as she leans back against the wall for balance.
“I cannot feel my feet,” she groans dramatically, flexing her toes against the cool carpet.
Jack snorts as he loosens his tie, his jacket already discarded over the back of a chair. “That’s because you insist on shoes that are structurally unsound.”
“They’re beautiful,” she argues, mock offense written all over her face.
“They’re weapons,” he corrects dryly.
Robby is already crossing the room toward her, sleeves rolled up, top button undone, looking relaxed in a way he rarely does at home. Vacation has softened him. There’s no pager clipped to his waistband. No phone buzzing in his pocket. No hospital lights reflected in his eyes.
Just him.
She bends slightly to unclip the second heel, balancing on one foot. When she straightens, she exhales in relief and stretches her back, flexing her toes into the carpet.
Robby watches her like she’s something precious.
“You okay?” he asks, amused.
“I survived,” she replies, grinning.
Jack tosses his tie aside and moves closer, and the three of them fall into that unconscious orbit they’ve formed over years, always closing the space between them without thinking about it.
She tilts her head back and laughs at something Jack mutters under his breath. It feels easy. It feels light. It feels like the world has finally given them something soft.
Without warning, she rises onto her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around Robby’s neck and tugging him down slightly.
He lets her.
Always.
She kisses him slow and warm, the kind of kiss that says we’re safe here. The kind that carries sun and wine and laughter and the weightlessness of being away from real life.
When she pulls back, Jack is standing right there watching them, that soft half smile curving his mouth, the one he only wears when he sees her genuinely happy.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She hooks her fingers into his loosened shirt and tugs him down into her instead. Jack laughs softly into the kiss, his hands settling instinctively at her waist.
When she pulls away, she looks between them.
“I love you,” she says simply.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t whispered like a confession. It’s easy. It’s obvious.
Robby brushes her hair back from her face. “We know.”
Jack presses a kiss to her cheek. “We adore you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s glowing.
Jack drops onto the edge of the bed and gently tugs her forward by her hand. She steps between his knees, and he rests his hands on her hips. Then his gaze lowers.
To her stomach.
She’s only eight weeks. Barely showing. If someone didn’t know, they wouldn’t see it at all.
But they know.
Jack softens in a way that is almost boyish. He leans forward and presses his lips gently to the fabric of her dress where her abdomen curves faintly beneath it.
“Your momma,” he says quietly, “is also talking to you, baby.”
She laughs, a little embarrassed and a little emotional all at once. “Jack.”
Robby steps closer behind her, sliding his arms around her middle. His hand settles over her stomach instinctively, protectively, reverently. He doesn’t speak to it out loud. He doesn’t need to.
He just presses a kiss to her temple.
The three of them stand there like that for a long moment, quiet, still, hopeful.
There are plans they haven’t said out loud yet. Names they haven’t committed to. Conversations they’ve only brushed the edges of.
But there is something blooming there. Something fragile and bright.
Jack rests his forehead briefly against her stomach again.
“We’ve got you,” he murmurs.
She presses her hands over theirs.
For a moment, the world feels simple.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
The room is dark.
Only the faint orange glow of a streetlight filters through the curtains, cutting thin lines across the ceiling. The ocean is a distant, rhythmic hush beyond the glass.
She wakes suddenly, not fully, just pulled from sleep by something sharp and unfamiliar.
At first, she doesn’t know what it is. A dream, maybe. A muscle twitch.
She blinks slowly, eyes unfocused.
Then the pain hits again.
Low. Sudden. Deep enough to steal the air from her chest.
Her hand moves instinctively to her abdomen. She frowns slightly.
Cramp, she thinks blearily.
She shifts beneath the sheets.
Another spike follows.
Stronger.
Her eyes open more fully now.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of Jack’s breathing beside her. Robby’s arm is draped loosely across her waist, warm and heavy.
The pain comes again.
Sharp.
Insistent.
Her breath hitches.
She presses her palm harder against her stomach.
It feels wrong.
Not like discomfort. Not like bloating. Not like anything she can explain away.
Wrong.
Her heart begins to race.
She shifts again, and something feels… wet.
Her brow furrows.
Slowly, carefully, she slides her hand beneath the sheet.
When she pulls it back, her fingers are slick.
Sticky.
Her eyes struggle to focus in the dim light.
She lifts her hand toward the faint glow coming through the curtains.
It’s dark.
Too dark.
For a second, her brain refuses to process it.
Then it does.
Blood.
The word forms in her mind before she can stop it.
A sob tears out of her chest, raw, involuntary, too loud for the quiet room.
Jack jolts upright instantly. “What—?”
Robby is awake just as fast, already turning toward her.
She can’t speak. She can’t breathe. Her hands are shaking violently.
“Hey—hey—” Jack reaches for her shoulders.
Robby’s hand finds hers.
She shakes her head frantically.
“No,” she whispers.
Another wave of pain crashes through her.
More warmth spreads beneath her.
She knows.
She knows what it means.
“No, no, no—” she gasps, voice breaking.
Robby reaches over and flips on the bedside lamp. Harsh light floods the room.
Jack’s eyes drop immediately to the sheets. Then to her hands.
His face drains of colour.
Robby swallows hard, his jaw tightening visibly.
“Okay,” Robby says, voice steady but strained. “Okay.”
But she’s already crying harder now.
Robby moves without hesitation. He pulls the sheet back carefully. His jaw tightens further when he sees it.
Jack reaches for his leg and moves to the other side of the bed instantly.
“Bathroom,” Robby says softly.
He slides one arm beneath her knees and one behind her back and lifts her carefully. She clings to his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric as if she’s afraid of falling.
Her sobs grow louder. Broken. Hysterical.
“Please,” she gasps. “Please.”
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
Jack flicks on the bathroom light ahead of them. The brightness is harsh, unforgiving against the dimness of the bedroom.
Robby lowers her gently onto the closed toilet lid.
Her hands tremble uncontrollably in her lap.
Jack kneels in front of her immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
She can’t.
Her breathing is too fast. Too shallow. Each inhale stutters like it’s caught on something sharp.
Robby kneels beside her and presses his forehead briefly to her shoulder. His own eyes are wet now, though he’s fighting it.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
She shakes her head violently.
“No,” she cries. “I can’t— I can’t do this again. I can’t lose another one. Please, please don’t make me do it again.”
The words tear out of her. Raw. Terrified.
Jack closes his eyes for just a second, steadying himself.
Robby’s grip tightens around her.
They both know there is no controlling this. No stopping it. No negotiating with it.
They can only hold her.
Jack reaches up and cups her face gently.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
But she’s already hyperventilating, chest rising too fast, too sharply. Her sobs turn desperate, almost animal.
Robby pulls her fully against him, pressing her head to his shoulder, holding her as tightly as he dares.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
But his voice breaks this time.
The bathroom light is too bright. The tile too cold. The night too silent.
“Please,” she sobs again.
☆·❋▪︎◇▪︎❋·☆
“I need you to push.”
For a second, she just stares at Jack like he’s speaking another language.
Push?
The word doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit the context of the room, the laundry detergent smell, the tile digging into her bum, Robby’s arms braced around her. Push is something you do when you are fighting for something. Pushing the context she thinks he’s telling her to doesn’t exist in their world. Push is planned. They hadn’t planned this push.
Not this.
“No,” she whispers immediately, shaking her head hard enough that her hair sticks damply to her cheeks. “No, that’s not— no.”
Another contraction seizes her body before she can finish.
Her torso curls forward instinctively and she tries to twist away, tries to get her feet under her, tries to stand, like if she can just get upright, this will stop. Like motion might undo it.
Robby tightens his legs around her, effectively bracing her in place. One hand stays firm at her shoulder while the other cups the side of her neck, anchoring her gently but decisively.
“Hey,” he says, voice breaking but steady. “Don’t run from it.”
Jack’s hands slide more securely around her waist, holding her hips so she doesn’t topple sideways. He’s breathing through it with her, watching the rhythm of her body.
“I don’t want this,” she sobs. “I can’t— I can’t—”
“Baby,” Robby cuts in softly, pressing his forehead against her temple. “I know. I know you’re scared. But you have to listen to us. You have to push.”
She shakes her head violently, tears flying.
“This isn’t supposed to— we didn’t know, Robby, it’s not ours—”
Another contraction hits, stronger than the last, and this time her body bears down without her permission. A sound rips from her throat, something between a scream and a sob.
Jack’s voice changes. Not clinical. Not detached. Just firm and grounded.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what we need. Don’t fight it.”
“I can’t,” she gasps.
“Yes, you can,” Robby whispers fiercely. “You already are.”
Her hands claw at Robby’s forearms. The pain is overwhelming, but underneath it is something else now. Pressure. Movement. Urgency.
It’s happening whether she understands it or not.
“Look at me,” Jack says.
She can’t focus. Everything feels distant, like she’s underwater.
“Look at me,” he repeats, firmer.
Her eyes find his through tears.
“You’re not alone,” he says quietly. “We’ve got you. We’re right here.”
Another contraction builds.
This one feels different.
Heavier.
Her body curls forward, trembling, and Robby adjusts instantly, supporting her back so she doesn’t collapse.
“Okay,” Jack says softly. “With this one. Push.”
She cries out, half protest, half surrender.
But she pushes.
Her fingers dig into Robby’s arm. Her vision goes white around the edges. The world narrows down to pressure and sound and the two men anchoring her in place.
“Again,” Robby breathes.
She shakes her head weakly.
“Again,” he repeats, gentler but unwavering.
Another surge builds.
It starts low and deep, not sharp this time but heavy, like the earth itself is pressing downward through her spine. Her muscles tremble before she even consciously decides to push. Her body knows what it’s doing before her mind catches up.
She shakes her head weakly, tears blurring her vision. “I can’t—”
“You can,” Jack breathes, one hand firm at her hip, the other bracing gently but purposefully where it needs to be. “Right now. With this one.”
Robby’s chest is solid against her back. His forearm is tight around her ribs, holding her upright as her strength wavers. He presses his mouth against her hair.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Don’t fight it. Go with it.”
The pressure peaks.
Her body folds forward involuntarily and this time she doesn’t resist it. She bears down with a broken sob that rips out of her chest. It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s primal.
The world narrows to heat and force and the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
For a split second, nothing changes.
And then,
There’s a shift.
Not dramatic. Not explosive.
Subtle.
Like something sliding into place.
The pressure that had been building for minutes suddenly moves downward in a way that feels different. Not just pain, movement. A fullness becoming release.
Jack feels it before he sees it.
His breath catches.
“Okay— okay,” he says quickly, voice cracking at the edges now.
Robby tightens his hold instinctively as her body trembles through the end of the contraction. She gasps for air, forehead damp, hands shaking.
There’s one more push, smaller, almost involuntary, her body finishing what it started.
And then,
The pressure is gone.
Not entirely, not the soreness, not the ache, but that crushing, urgent weight disappears so abruptly it leaves her dizzy.
For half a second, the room is completely silent.
Even her crying stops.
All three of them freeze.
There’s a tiny pause in the universe. A suspended inhale.
And then,
The sound.
It doesn’t build gradually.
It doesn’t hesitate.
It cuts through the laundry room sharp and clear and furious.
A cry.
Strong.
Sharp.
Immediate.
It fills the space between the washer and the dryer. It bounces off tile and detergent bottles. It drowns out the humming overhead light and the echo of her sobs.
Alive.
Jack’s head snaps up instinctively, eyes wide and already glassy. His hands move with practiced care, catching, supporting, lifting.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice no longer steady. “Oh my God.”
Robby exhales something that sounds like a laugh breaking in half. His entire body loosens against her back like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
She stares down, vision swimming.
For a moment, she can’t process what she’s seeing.
A tiny body, slick and squirming and loud, protesting the cold air of the world.
The cry doesn’t weaken.
It grows stronger.
Angrier.
Her hands move automatically, instinctively, gathering the baby to her chest as if she’s done this a thousand times before. The warmth against her skin is real. The weight is real. The movement is real.
“Hi,” she whispers through tears that don’t stop coming. “Hi, hi…”
Her voice breaks entirely.
The baby’s cry softens just slightly at the contact, but doesn’t disappear, still announcing themselves boldly into the morning light.
Jack laughs and sobs at the same time.
Robby’s hand cups the tiny head with reverence, his thumb brushing gently over impossibly small features as if he’s afraid they’ll disappear if he presses too hard.
And for a heartbeat, the world reorganises around that sound.
Jack shifts beside her, replacing Robby’s support so Robby can lean closer.
“Hey Stranger,” Robby breathes, like he can’t quite process it. “What are you doing here?”
She presses her chin gently to the baby’s head, overwhelmed by the warmth. The movement. The reality of it.
“I thought—” she starts, but the sentence dies.
She thought she was losing something.
Instead, she’s holding everything.
She doesn’t even register that her body hasn’t stopped.
Her entire focus is wrapped around the warm, crying weight in her arms. The sound of that first cry is still vibrating in her chest. Her fingers are trembling as they trace over tiny shoulders, a damp crown of hair, impossibly small fingers flexing instinctively against her skin.
She’s laughing and crying at the same time.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispers breathlessly, forehead pressed to the baby’s head.
The room feels too small for what just happened.
Robby’s thumb is still cupping the back of the baby’s head. Jack’s hand is firm and steady at her shoulder, grounding her in place.
For a moment, everything else disappears.
And then,
A flicker.
Low in her abdomen.
Subtle at first.
Like an aftershock.
She barely notices it.
She’s too busy memorising the weight in her arms.
But it comes again.
Sharper.
Her breath catches.
Her brows knit together faintly, confusion replacing awe.
The soreness she expected, the dull, post effort ache, is there. But this is different.
This is building.
She shifts slightly, instinctively protective of the baby against her chest.
The pressure increases.
Robby feels her tense before she says anything.
“Hey,” he says quietly, eyes snapping to her face.
She shakes her head faintly, still staring down at the baby as if refusing to look away will freeze this moment in place.
“No, no, no,” she whispers, confusion turning into dread.
Another wave rolls through her.
This one unmistakable.
Her abdomen tightens again with deliberate force.
Jack’s hand tightens on her shoulder immediately.
“Robby.”
It’s not panic.
It’s recognition.
Robby is already moving.
He gently adjusts the baby into Jack’s arms without even breaking eye contact with her. His movements are careful but swift, sliding between her knees again, his mind shifting into assessment mode without losing tenderness.
The contraction peaks.
Her body reacts automatically, a small, involuntary bearing down that makes her gasp.
Robby’s expression changes.
His eyebrows shoot up sharply.
She sees it.
And that terrifies her more than the pain.
“What?” she asks, breathless and panicked. “What is it?”
Robby looks up at her slowly.
Stunned.
Not afraid.
Stunned.
His mouth parts slightly before he speaks.
“No, baby,” he says gently, almost in disbelief himself. “I need you to push again.”
Her eyes widen immediately.
“What? The placenta already?”
Jack looks down at her from where he’s holding the baby, tears still streaming down his face but now mixed with something else, astonishment.
“There’s another baby,” Robby says.
The words land heavy.
Not chaotic.
Not frantic.
Holy.
The air in the laundry room feels like it’s shifted again, like the walls are leaning closer to hear it.
Her brain refuses to process them.
Another baby?
That doesn’t make sense.
That wasn’t part of the plan. That wasn’t part of any conversation. There weren’t two heartbeats. There weren’t two scans. There weren’t two anything.
“That’s not—” she starts.
The contraction slams through her mid sentence.
Harder this time.
Her body curls forward with a cry that sounds torn straight from her lungs.
“This can’t be real,” she sobs. “This can’t—”
“It is,” Jack says, voice thick and shaking. “It is.”
She’s barely had time to understand the first when her body demands more of her.
Everything feels unreal now.
Like she’s floating above herself.
Like she’s watching a version of her on a bathroom floor months ago.
Like she’s watching a different woman entirely, one holding a baby while being told there’s another coming.
Robby’s voice anchors her again.
“Same as before,” he says softly, one hand steady, the other bracing gently. “You did it once. You can do it again.”
Her breathing is ragged.
She looks down at the baby Jack is holding now, small, alive, crying softly.
Then back at Robby.
Then down at her own body like she doesn’t trust it anymore.
Another contraction builds.
Stronger than the first series.
She grips Jack’s forearm with one hand and Robby’s shoulder with the other.
“I can’t—” she whispers weakly.
“Yes, you can,” Robby says, steady and unshakable. “Right now.”
The pressure peaks.
She pushes.
This one hurts more.
Her body is already exhausted, trembling from the first.
A sob escapes her as she bears down again, tears streaming freely.
Jack leans closer, whispering nonsense encouragement, grounding words, her name, over and over.
“You’re doing it. You’re doing it.”
Another push.
Another wave of pressure.
And then that shift again.
That unmistakable slide downward.
Release.
Robby’s breath stutters.
“I see—” he starts, voice breaking.
And then,
Another cry.
Softer at first.
Almost questioning.
Then stronger.
A second voice joining the first.
It isn’t as loud.
But it’s steady.
Alive.
The sound splits her open in an entirely new way.
Jack lets out a laugh that cracks into a sob instantly.
“Oh my God,” he says again, like he can’t find any other words.
Robby closes his eyes briefly as he catches the second baby carefully, reverently, his hands shaking this time.
Two.
Two cries filling the same small laundry room.
Two tiny bodies wriggling and furious and real.
The world didn’t know they were coming.
Neither did she.
She stares down as Jack shifts both babies carefully toward her chest.
Her arms open automatically.
Two.
Two warm weights pressed against her skin.
She’s shaking so badly she can barely hold them.
“Oh my God,” she whispers again, tears blurring everything. “Oh my God.”
She laughs and sobs all at once.
Her mind is scrambling to rearrange itself.
One baby was a miracle.
Two feels impossible.
She looks between Robby and Jack like she’s asking them to confirm reality.
They’re both crying openly now.
And neither of them are arguing.
They just nod.
Two.
And somehow, they’re both here.
Overwhelm crashes into her.
Nine months.
All the things she did. The nights she worked. The coffee she drank. The stress. The running. The not knowing.
“I’m so sorry,” she chokes out suddenly, tears spilling harder. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
Jack immediately shakes his head and leans in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Baby, no,” he says firmly. “Look at them.”
Robby joins him, brushing hair off her face.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “You did everything right.”
Jack cups her cheek gently.
“They’re here,” he whispers. “Alive. Strong.”
She looks down again.
They are.
They’re moving. Crying. Breathing.
Real.
Robby inspects her quickly again, hands gentle, making sure there’s no third surprise waiting in the quiet.
She blinks at them suddenly.
“Wait,” she says faintly. “What are they?”
Jack stares at her blankly for half a second.
And then he laughs, a slightly hysterical, disbelieving sound.
“Oh my God,” he says. “We didn’t check.”
Robby lets out a breathy laugh too, grabbing a nearby towel and draping it loosely over both babies.
“We can check later,” he says softly. “I just want to look at them.”
And they do.
They stay there on the laundry room floor, her supported between them, two newborns pressed against her chest, the world outside completely unaware.
She talks to them softly through tears, voice trembling but steadying with each word.
Robby peppers kisses across her temple, her shoulder, the babies’ heads. Jack presses slow kisses along her jaw, her cheek, her hairline.
Their hands never stop touching, her, the babies, each other.
It’s messy. It’s surreal. It’s holy.
After a long moment, Robby lets out a quiet breath.
“Well,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over one tiny cheek, “at least we’ll have time off now to clean out the attic and the garage.”
She lets out a watery, exhausted giggle.
And in the middle of the laundry room, surrounded by detergent and tile and disbelief, their world rearranges itself completely.
All I could think about writing this piece is a comment under the viral cryptic pregnancy post, "coming home with not one but two strangers 😭"
summary: a missing earring sends you down a spiral
contains: implied age gap, usual ER things mentioned, reader is implied to have previously been in an abusive relationship, victim of domestic violence is a patient, sickening hurt/comfort bullshit
a/n: I broke the seal on the bottle of jack in my mind fridge, you're welcome world! no but fr i really tried to characterize abbot to the best of my ability <3 | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
Underneath your bed is more of a wreck than you thought it'd be. Stray, unmatched socks live among scrunchies and dust bunnies. A rogue pillowcase. A glasses case tipped on its side. You even spy a book Samira lent you that you failed to return.
But no earring.
"Shit," you murmur as you rise from your pancaked position on the floor. Defeated, you make no move to stand right away, choosing instead to dig out your phone right there on the carpet.
Trinity answers after three rings. "A cold call is a crazy move," her voice tins over the line flatly.
"Hey, you're home, right?" You ask, rather than explaining yourself. Your free hand pinches the space between your brows.
"Yeah…?" Trinity draws the word out, intrigue ascending her inflection.
"I can’t find my earring,” you hear the tremble in your voice, then the crush of embarrassment constricting your chest.
This is so stupid.
"Okay?" Trinity responds, the word an obvious placeholder for what do you want me to do about it?
You rub at your chest. "Is there any chance it's in your couch, or under it or something? Remember the last time I was there, I fell asleep on the couch and Dennis had to wake me up? So I'm thinking it might have fallen off, gotten caught in a blanket or something and—"
"Woah, hey, chill out. You're starting to sound a little cuckoo," she says, and you can practically picture the suppressed laugh bubbling in your friend's throat. "Which earrings?"
"My pearls. The gold rim. They're studs, I wear them all the time. I'll send a picture," you move the phone off your face, where the one earring you do have sits, awaiting its twin. You snap a photo of your ear with the front-facing camera, then text it to Trinity.
"I'll look for it, hang on," Trinity sighs. Then, further from the phone, you hear, "Get up, Huckleberry."
"What? Why?" is Whitaker's high-pitched reply. If you weren't on the verge of tears, you'd laugh at how he nearly always sounds like a cartoon mouse caught off-guard.
"Because, genius, today's the day I finally castrate you," Trinity deadpans, followed by a solid thirty seconds of very sibling-esque bickering. Then Trinity explains to him that you're on the phone. "She lost an earring, thinks it might be in the couch. So get up."
"What's the big deal?" Dennis addresses you. "You can't wear different earrings? Are they a family heirloom or something?"
A long sigh ekes out of you, your exasperation coming to its peak after nearly thirty minutes of scrambling around the apartment for this earring. The big deal is that you can't even bear the thought of telling Jack you lost one of them. And he'll be here any time now to pick you up.
It's not Whitaker's fault, you remind yourself, though your impatience with your friend and fellow PTMC resident still lingers.
"They were a gift from Jack," you explain, toying the bottom of your t-shirt with your fingers. You still haven't even gotten dressed for your day out with your boyfriend.
There's some rustling on the other end of the phone, what you imagine is the sounds of Whitaker and Trinity digging under the couch and between the cushions.
"Ew, Huckleberry, stop shoving your protein bar wrappers in the couch," you hear Trinity groan in disgust. "There's at least five under here."
"Least I don't cook in my underwear," is Dennis's mumbled reply.
You grit your teeth, impatience jabbing at your chest. "No luck, I take it?" Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. They're doing you a favor, after all.
The anxiety that's been compressing in your chest for the last half-hour, like a tightly packed snowball, wants to scream yes, of course he will be.
"I-I don't know," you stammer, lifting your knees to your chest. You're caught in a limbo between the knowledge that you're overreacting and the boat-sinking dread that goes hand-in-hand with the look of disappointment on Abbot's face. "Thanks for looking," you sniff, then hang up.
You toss the phone as far away from you as possible, then wrap your arms around your legs and press your face to your knees.
When Abbot gave you the earrings just a few months ago, it'd been after a particularly difficult night shift. The usual scene: the aftermath of a drunk driver, a couple of college kids needing their stomachs pumped, a little boy who'd fallen off the top bunk and broken his arm.
Burnout threatened to crush you each time something went wrong. It hit its peak when a woman, not much younger than you, came in with a couple of bruised ribs after, allegedly, falling down the stairs in her apartment building. The fresh, purple and yellow bruising on the apple of her cheek along with her hovering boyfriend spelled it all out in bright, neon letters.
You tried to get the woman alone —claiming she needed a pelvic exam, that she needed to provide a urine sample— but she was insistent to the point of snapping at you. "I'm fine," she'd hissed sharply, though her shaky hands and equally shaky breaths said otherwise. "It's none of your business."
It always feels like someone slipping through the cracks in situations like this. You saw so much of yourself in this woman. The fear driving the obstinance, insisting to herself and to everyone around her that she's fine.
You pushed too hard. You know you did, in the moment and especially looking back. The pelvic exam plus the urine sample, plus the numerous requests that the boyfriend vacate the room made it increasingly clear what you were trying to do, so the second the pharmacy dispensed the woman's pain meds, they left.
You stood there, occupying precious walkway space by the ER Heroes wall, watching the boyfriend lead the woman out the door, walking much quicker than someone with bruised ribs should be.
"Fuck," you'd said, and stomped your foot. Then pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes.
Ellis had been the one to find you after staying glued to that spot for several minutes. She'd pulled you off to the side, gave you the same old speech everyone else gave you: that you can't save everyone. That sometimes people need to hit rock bottom before they can admit they need to be saved.
Her little chat blocked the flood for the time being, enough to get you through the shift. But by the time you and Jack handed off your patients to day shift, then climbed in his car to head to your apartment, you felt completely anesthitized to any attempts at reflection or decompression.
Jack had been the one open the door to your apartment, using the spare key you'd given him just a couple weeks prior. Your feet were glued to the hallway mat, shoulders threatening to cave in on themselves.
"C'mon, sunshine," Jack's gravelly voice cracked through the glass walls of numbness, and he tugged you inside by the wrist. The door clicked, locked behind you, also Jack's doing. Then he helped you set your backpack down, tugged your jacket sleeves off your arms, and guided you to the shower.
When you came back out, scrubbed clean and wrapped in your fuzzy yellow bathrobe, the pops and sizzles coming from the kitchen lured you back to Jack. He had a stir-fry going on the stove, a usual since night shift has both of you positively sick of breakfast foods. Having changed into his sweats, Jack spared a glance over his shoulder, then to the kitchen island. You trailed those hazel kaleidescopes, made greener in the warm light of the kitchen, to a small, velvet box on the countertop.
Just like Jack to speak without really speaking. To take care of you as easily as speaking a second language.
"What's in there?" You asked, your voice small yet heavy, a stone lodged in your throat.
"Typical custom with a gift dictates the recipient actually open said gift," Jack teased, dumping the contents of the wok into a serving bowl. Your stomach rumbled, so when Jack nodded to the high-backed barstool, you perched yourself up onto one. He leaned against the other side of the island, setting the bowl in the middle and handing you a fork.
The velvet box was certainly intriguing, but you were so hungry, and the colorful vegetables and savory steak steaming in your face took priority. You and Jack silently poked at the sir fry, and after a few bites, Jack's patience waned.
"You're really gonna make me beg, huh?" Jack looked up at you from the stir fry, a brow arched. A tight-mouthed wince flickered over him when he shifted his weight, and you realized then that he had yet to take off his prosthetic since he'd been home.
"Come sit by me, handsome," you urged, dipping your chin to the empty barstool. Jack's gait as he rounded the island was certainly slower than when you left the Pitt just an hour earlier. You were about to pester him about overexerting himself when he palmed the radioactive velvet box and slid it in pointedly front of you.
"What's it for?" you squeaked, reaching hesitantly for the box, creating a square with your fingers around it.
"You had a bad night," Jack shrugged, then turned his stool to face you. He nudged your shin with his foot. "Was gonna give 'em to you for your birthday, but now seems more appropriate."
Your expression dropped a little, lips tightening. "I don't need a pity present, Jack," you gave your head a little shake, then moved to slide the box back to him.
Jack halted your hand with his own. Warm and steady, like he always was, he raised his brow authoritatively. "It's not a pity present. You had a bad day, and if it wasn't gonna be this, I was gonna go out and get you something else. Saves me a trip out."
Nonchalance practically steamed off of him, disarming and inviting, like a sauna.
You still took pause, exasperation written all over your face.
"As your attending, I'm ordering you to open it," the corners of his lips quirked up in that mildly teasing way you love so much. "You deserve a treat, sunshine. Please open 'em, for me?"
Sharply, you inhaled, then pursed your lips in such a way as to feign annoyance. "Fine," you relented, reaching over to card your fingers through his silver curls. "But you're not allowed to play the attending card for at least a month."
Just as your hand started to recede, Jack caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, habitually, without a second thought, before releasing it.
You tilted the box open to find them. The earrings —shiny pearls wrapped in a thin band of gold— glinted in the light of the kitchen. Your shoulders slumped against the back of the stool.
"You said you can only wear the stud kind at work, right?" Jack squeezed your knee, prompting your gaze to snap back up to his.
"Yeah," you felt tears well up in your eyes in that moment, lining your irises with silver to match Jack's hair. You hopped off the stool, then clung to Jack before the tears could fall.
"Now you'll have a piece of me with you through your shifts," Jack's strong hands rubbed your back, followed closely by the soft pressure of his lips against your temple.
You think back to that morning now, as you curl up into yourself on the bedroom carpet. The thoughts of that patient, the realization that you couldn't help her as much as you'd have liked, leave you hollowed out, digging your fingernails into your pajama pants. Even though you managed to save yourself from your own terrible situation, the notion that you couldn't save that woman still haunts you.
The earrings themselves hadn't pulled you out of yourself that day, but Jack knowing what would help without even having to ask? Finding solace in his company, protection, a safe place to be vulnerable? The earrings represent one of the first times you started to think this thing with him was real, and lasting.
And now you can't find one of them.
"Fuck," you close your eyes and sigh, loosening all the breath from your tightened lungs. You feel unmoored, floating through the enemy territory of your own thoughts, no tether to keep you aground.
Jack won't be angry, you have to remind yourself. When is he ever angry, or short, or terse, outside of the Pitt? He isn't like anybody else you've been with. He won't snap at you for something so small, and even if he is upset about it, he'll handle his reaction in that calm, steady way he always does.
You're used to a partner treating you exactly the way Jack does —reverent, worthy, lovable— but then comes the inevitable switch. The nasty, sharp words that slice through you. The gifts become band-aids for behavior, the touches become a leash instead of light. It's all you've ever known, so when Jack proves every one of those rules wrong, it's unnerving. Of course it is.
He takes every rule you've ever created and snaps it in half. He's shown you, time and time again, in a thousand different, silent ways, that you're worth more to him than that.
When you feel like a crumbling, abandoned building, Jack is a long-standing, well-balanced structure. When you brace for impact, Jack surprises you by landing the plane instead of crashing it. It isn't fair to him to think he might react poorly to a lost earring. It isn't fair to yourself to think you'd get yourself in that type of situation again.
Resolve fills you —a pitcher pouring water into a glass— and you hoist yourself up off the ground. You wash your face. Take the singular earring out and set it on the sink. Run a brush through your hair. Avoid your phone and any of its potential distractions, standing in the bathroom with your emotions and giving them space to exist.
How you feel is how you feel, Jack tells you all the time. Best thing you can do for yourself is feel it.
You apply your skincare, moisture mixing in with the tears of your glassy skin. Then you take your time with makeup, and by the time you're freshly blushed and bronzed for your day out with Abbot, you realize he still hasn't arrived.
Padding back into the bedroom, you find your phone where it landed on the floor by the nightstand. You unlock it to find a text from Jack time-stamped a half-hour ago.
Unexpected errand came up. Be a little late, but we're still getting you that banana bread latte thingy from Instagram. No longer than an hour, sunshine.
It's weird, but not that weird. An 'unexpected errand' is probably a check-in with a critical patient that was admitted, even on his day off. It's an attachment to his work that's both admirable and self-destructive, and you've tried to peel him away from it, but he just won't budge. Something you've been slowly working on in the form of a long-term con.
You make yourself comfortable on the sofa, after having dressed in a pair of high-waisted jeans, a soft, lemon-colored halter top and sneakers. Jack's eyes always brighten when he sees you in yellow.
The aftershocks of your anxiety still linger, but you've got a glass of water, open windows spraying the living room in daylight, and some dumb reality TV to keep you grounded for now.
It's another excrutiatingly long forty minutes before his key turns in the door, and you pause the TV just as he steps inside.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," Jack's cheeks are kissed with sun rays, popping against the heather gray of his t-shirt. The mere sound of his raspy voice immediately releases some of the tension in your shoulders.
You stand from the sofa, then shake your head dismissively. "That's alright. Is everything okay?"
When you meet him by the door, you spy the white gift bag in his hand. You freeze, furrowing your brows. "What's that?"
"Santos texted me," Jack says simply, as though that would explain the bag. He takes you in at that moment, then adds, "You look stunning, by the way."
"Oh?" You ask, swallowing hard, ignoring his compliment, though the words send a flutter through your tummy.
"Mmhm," Jack hums, then brushes past you to set the bag on the kitchen counter. "She said you were… 'crashing out'?"
Your cheeks go red, and you open your mouth to explain, but Jack goes on.
"I don’t know what that means, but in a medical capacity it certainly doesn’t sound good," he continues with a bemused snicker, busying himself with the contents of the bag rather than looking at you.
You have the grating feeling he's putting on some sort of show, so you heave a sigh and tuck your hair behind your ears. "I wasn't…" you trail off, then exhale in defeat. "I lost one of my earrings."
Even saying it aloud opens a dark pit of fear in the deepest part of your stomach. Your breath shudders through you, and an apology starts to overflow from you. Old habits die hard. "I-I'm so sorry, Jack. I wanted to wear them today… I mean, I wear them pretty much every day, but I have no idea where it ended up. I checked under the bed, the bathroom, the couch. Everywhere.”
Jack tugs a familiar, velvet box from the bag and presents it to you. "Would you please just open the box?" A fond sort of impatience lines his tone like a scratchy sweater.
When your hands still don't move for the box, Jack tilts the top open, revealing a pair of pearls inlaid in a ring of gold. "I decided you needed another pair," he says, lowering his chin to meet your eyeline. "If you find the missing one, then you'll have two sets."
"Jack," you narrow your eyes at him, shaking your head. "That's ridiculous. You didn't have to do that."
"No," Abbot replies, reaching across the distance between you to grasp the tips of your fingers. He dwarves your whole palm in his, drawing you to him. You let him, rather than digging your heels in like instinct demands. "What's ridiculous is that you thought I'd be upset with you about a dumb pair of earrings."
"They're not dumb," you pout, to which Jack brushes the pad of his thumb over your outstretched lip. "They're my favorite earrings," you pull back your arms, guilt resurfacing like a bad cough. His hand retreats, giving you your space. "You gave them to me, Jack. They're special to me."
"Okay, fine," he relents with a shrug. "It's not dumb. I can accept that. But if you can't find 'em, honey, you can't find 'em. Simple as that."
When you cross your arms over your chest, Jack goes on. "You know I don’t care about this kind of thing, right?" He asks, and the way those hazel eyes search yours indicate he really needs to know. "I’m not gonna… lose my shit on you or anything. ‘Crash out’, whatever the kids are saying now."
The angular, lupine features of his face light up when a smile twitches over your lips. "There's my girl," he murmurs, then extends a hand. "C'mere?"
You take his hand, and he tugs you into a hug. The warm, outdoorsy scent of him swirls around you, loosening the tightness in your chest and unraveling the tangled wires in your gut. "Did I use it right? 'Crash out'?" he asks, voice rumbling low into your hair.
"Won't take away your cool card just yet, old man," you mumble as his hand applies reassuring pressure to the space between your shoulder blades. The two of you stand there for a long while, breathing each other in, the mid-morning sun warming you through the window.
"But you get what I mean, don't you?" Jack circles back as you pull your head away from his shoulder. The sun, you notice, highlights his brown and gray curls, turning them bronze and silver. Your very own Greek statue. "All the stuff we see on a daily basis, a lost earring is the least of my worries."
"I know, Jack, I—"
"I'm not quite done, sunshine," Jack tuts. His eyes maintain a taut connection with yours. His hands slide up and down your arms in an active, intentional display of comfort.
"All I worry about is your safety, and your happiness. In some cases, your pleasure," he slips in a wink, then goes on. "I know, in the past, you've been made to feel fearful to bring something like this up with a partner. But that's not me, okay? That's not what this is. I don’t want you to be afraid to bring up this kind of thing with me."
You nod in agreement, and though in the logical part of your brain, you knew all of these things, Jack's merely saying them aloud lights up a part of you that you thought would always remain in shadows. Your throat tightens, eyes prickling with tears. "I'm sorry," you whisper, though you're not sure if you mean the tears or the earrings.
"You don't need to be," he whispers back, meeting you where you're at. He thumbs your cheek, swiping at a tear over the soft skin.
"I know you wouldn't do that to me," your chin wobbles, and though it might be overkill at this point, you feel it's important to acknowledge. For Jack's sake, and for yourself. You set your palm atop where his rests on your cheek. "I just… I don't know. I panicked. It wasn't fair to you to think you'd overreact to something as small as a missing earring."
"It's okay, angel," he says in a low, rocky mumble. "Your nervous system expects the worst, because the worst is what you learned to expect."
A creak of a laugh vibrates in your throat. "Y'know, I'm a doctor, too, right?"
The lines bracing the corner of Jack's eyes crinkle, the world's most beautiful candy wrapper. "You gonna stand there and pick on me all day?" He asks, reaching out to tickle your hip. You giggle involuntarily and jerk away. "Or are you gonna try these earrings on for me?"
You follow where his eyes flick to the box on the counter. Any comments about how he shouldn't have spent the money, about how the earring is probably in his car or in your locker, get shoved from your mind. He wanted to solve this problem for you in the most direct way he knew how.
You pin the earrings in, securing them with the backs as Jack watches as intently as an acolyte might watch a sermon. "How do they look?" Your mouth stretches into a smile, stepping back so Jack can take in the outfit as a whole.
"Perfect, sunshine," Jack's smile is slow and crooked and familiar. He hooks a thumb towards the door. "How 'bout that weird banana bread latte, then?"
You hum in delight, then grab your bag. Jack's hand warms the small of your back as the two of you make your way down the hall to the elevator. He rambles on about how there used to just be cream and sugar for coffee, but in truth, you're not entirely listening.
Instead, affection swells in your chest for this man —this caring man who sees you without really trying. Who needs someone to show him it's just as important he take care of himself as well as the people around him.
You think, not for the first time, that Jack Abbot needs someone to show him that love is a two-way street.
You think, for the first time, that you wouldn't mind much being that person for a really long time.
summary: a certain pop star admits something on a day drinking segment
pairing: jack abbot x popstar!reader
warnings: mdni, cursing, no use of y/n, suggestive content, not proofread
word count: 1.3k
author's note: ig this is my new thing now hehe. ask and you shall receive part 3 ! lmk any scenarios that you want to see happen or iconic events for popstar!reader. i read every single comment and i'm so glad you love the mini series !! also do we want this pre-MBF or after its release?
part 1 part 2
"Abbot, a patient in North 5 is requesting the 'Juno' doctor," Dana shouts across the room.
Jack sighs, closing his eyes to stop them from rolling for the 100th time. Ever since your concert two weeks ago, that's been his new nickname among the PTMC. And not just from his coworkers. Patients have also been specifically asking to be seen by him.
It's mostly fans of yours that call him that, but he's had middle aged adults come in and widen their eyes when they see him saying 'Aren't you the hot doctor from the concert that went viral?'.
Needless to say, he's well known online.
"I don't have time for that right now," Jack states. Night shift is still wrapping up patients, already two hours over their shift. The E.R. has been swarmed with respiratory cases due to the change in cold weather.
Robby's standing near the hub, reading over charts to catch up. He raises an eyebrow at his friend, "You have time to keep checking your phone each time you get a notification."
Jack fumbles with the iPad in his grasp, "What are you talking about?"
The second the words leave his mouth, his phone buzzes in his pocket. His phone is on silent, but since his pocket is against the computer desk, the vibration is loud enough that he might have as well have left his ringer on. They both pause, holding each other's stare in a standoff.
It buzzes again.
"Gonna answer that, brother?" Robby knows better than to full on out Abbot out loud. Especially in front of Perlah and Princess who are standing a few feet away eagerly waiting for new gossip to drop.
Jack shakes his head stiffly, "No, I'm focused on patients. Like you should be." He places the tablet back on the charging station. He knows it's a lame excuse, but Jack just wants to keep Robby from opening his mouth any further.
Robby flips him off as Jack turns and walks off towards the North wing. He's just out of Robby's sight when he finally retrieves his phone from his pocket, his phone lighting up with 2 messages.
Of course they're from you.
did you get the chance to watch the late show?
you might find it entertaining xx
Jack quickly glanced around not wanting to get caught by Dana, or god forbid Shen, texting while he's supposed to be wrapping up.
Haven't had the time, E.R. has been slammed.
I'll watch as soon as I'm home. Promise.
There's this swarm of nerves every time he texts you, an adrenaline rush that keeps him engaged in creating any type of conversation in order to keep talking to you. It's sick, really, how every time he gets a notification on his phone there's this excitement that flutters because it might be you texting him.
Before you can respond back, he's pulled away from his phone by Dana smacking him on the back with a clipboard.
"You can text pop star at home, Abbot. Finish up your handovers and get outta here," she sighs. From her voice you would think she's annoyed, but her smirk as she passes portrays the opposite. Dana's just happy at least one attending doesn't have a stick up their ass during their shift.
"Have fun on your smoke break," Jack calls back. Rolling his neck out, he slips the phone back in his pocket. He'll just have to text you later before he gets caught again.
Jack has never been happier to be home than this moment. It's a little past 10 am, his shift had him running codes nonstop and his leg is killing him. Throwing his work backpack by the entry, he collapses onto the couch after slipping off his prosthetic.
Sleep is begging to take him, his eyes tired from staring at CT's and screens all day while running in between trauma rooms. There's only one last thing to take care of before he can hibernate before his shift the next night. His hands search across the couch for the remote, fumbling with the smart TV before pulling up YouTube.
His recommended tab is mainly just you. Sure, there are some war documentaries and medical news along his feed, but after he did a deep dive into your discography his recommended is a little… biased.
He blames it on Shen and Ellis, who after they heard about what happened after the concert, proceeded to call it a crime that he hasn't at least heard your songs.
The first couple videos are your segments on the Late Show with Seth Meyers. Day Drinking catches his eye first, the video already having a million views in the first 24 hours. The thumbnail is enticing, your hand covering your mouth in shock as Seth is frozen mid-laugh. You had texted him about being hungover, and now he has his answer why. His thumb hits play before he can swipe through the other videos.
The video starts out normal, a sober Seth Meyers introducing a sober you to the audience as you both sit in an empty bar in NYC. Jack takes a sharp inhale when it pans over to you wrapped in a fur shawl while sitting at the counter in a simple silk nightie. God, this video is going to send him to an early grave.
"Okay we're gonna play 'Spill the Tea', a game where we ask each other personal questions which neither of us have seen, and we can answer truthfully or take a huge sip from this long island iced tea." Seth pulls out a large party bowl filled with the alcohol, two Christmas tree straws sitting by the rim.
You laugh pulling the bowl closer, "Woah."
Seth pulls out his card, "Who did you write the song Dumb & Poetic about?" he reads.
Without hesitation you pull the straw to your lips taking a huge gulp. Looking at the straw in frustration you state, "This straw is a bit shitty, but the drink is good!" Pulling up your own card you clear your throat. "What does it sound like if you, Seth Meyers, very earnestly sing the national anthem?"
He takes a pause, beginning to sing the national anthem as if he's at the Super Bowl. It's slow and you keep breaking his song to laugh in his face. As he ends his rendition, you clap and cheer very loudly.
"What's the most unhinged thing you've ever done to impress a crush?" Seth asks.
You think for a moment, cheeks heating up as you recall the last thing you did that landed you a viral moment online. "I sent him tickets for him and his coworkers and then arrested him at my show," you giggle as you cover your eyes with your palms.
"And did it work?"
Peeking from in between your fingers you nod sheepishly before leaning in to take a swig of long island, "Let's just say that I now know mouth-to-mouth."
Jack pauses the video right before Seth Meyers can even respond. He's already opening his messages before he can finish the rest of the clip.
If Whitaker watches this Day Drinking video I'm a dead man.
Your response is almost instant, a purple 'HAHA' reaction hovering over his message.
was he the mousy one that gave me a sweaty hug after the show??
i hope he doesn't kill you, i would have to find another doctor to arrest :(
He doesn't really know how reactions work on iMessage, but he sends a thumbs up on your first text. Jack draws in a breath at the most recent one, jealousy curling in his chest at the thought of you flirting with someone like Shen at your show.
Don't worry, I can take him.
Besides, there's so many positions to try.
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summary: you’d done an splendid job of hiding your feelings for your attending for four years, but at one fateful night, everything changes.
warnings: 18+ mdni! Smut, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, imposter syndrome, insecure? Reader, she pulls back from others, chief resident!reader, unprotected sex, DOWN BAD reader, unrequited love but not really, happy ending, English isn’t my first language<3
word count: 10.5k+
an: this is very self indulgent and I may have projected a LOT into reader. It might be a deal breaker for some of you but this reader is… very important to me, the whole fic is. Kinda probably being delusional and ooc with how Robby handles it but yeah… i hope you enjoy it!!!!
You must breathe. You must. You can’t pass out from holding your breath for too long because you are looking at him; it would be humiliating, really, awfully humiliating. You are way stronger than that. You have done this for years, you can do it for another shift.
If only your heart listened…
You feel the rise of your pulse, the thump of your heart against your ribcage, and you can even feel your stomach twisting in anxiety. Fuck. Fuck. You like this man so much that it is making your belly quiver, and butterflies flutter in your lungs.
You look away from his disheveled hair and big puffy jacket, sighing shakily as you glance down at the tablet in your hand. You have to stop thinking about him like that, he is just a man. Not any man, though; he is sad cow eye Robby, the attending, whose smile in praise makes you grin in delight.
Stooooop, you mentally curse yourself, shaking your head slightly as you try not to think about him anymore. You have patients to focus on, not how his mere presence lights up your day. Nope, you shouldn’t go there, not now anyway.
But how can you not? He is tall, broad, with a giant heart of gold that has helped you so many times when you’ve felt the horrible pressure of the job on your shoulders. He is sweet, caring, and tough when he needs to be.
He is everything, and you are just… you. Younger, unseasoned — or at least not as much as him — still a resident, less charismatic, and so not his type. You’ve seen his ex-partners, all gorgeous and way out of his league; of course, he wouldn’t look twice your way.
“Hey, kid,” Dana waves a hand in front of your face to get your attention, startling you a little, “You good?”
“Yup, just had a rough night. Didn’t get much sleep,” you smile at her, convincing enough that the Dana Evans believes you. You have gotten way too good at lying to everyone’s face, courtesy of having a fat crush on your boss. If anyone, nature fucking forbid, ever finds out, you’ll be doing the Walk of Shame very soon.
“I doubt anyone has, look at ‘em,” she scoffs, pointing at the staff who are yawning and resting their heads on their stations, “Dancin’ and drinkin’ like they didn’t have work to do next mornin’.”
“You all went out?” Big mistake, Dana’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise at your tone, and you cover the stumble with a smile, “Tequila does that. Maybe we should give fluids to everyone?”
“Honey, we thought–”
“It’s okay, I’m not that much of a party person anyway,” you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to busy yourself with the list of charts in front of you, “Besides, I had to study, like always.”
You don’t let her say anything else, walking away after you hand her the tablet, marching toward one of the rooms to check up on your patients.
It is not an unusual thing for them to have plans outside of work and not invite you. Yes, you have been here for four years, yes, you are the Chief Resident, but there is still an invisible wall between you and everybody else. You are the ‘smartass’, the perfect resident, the always studying until passing out girl, and also… someone who doesn’t think she fits into this tightly woven group of doctors and nurses.
You get along with all of them pretty well, joke around and share lunchtime together, but that doesn’t mean they are your friends. You don’t belong among these amazing people, and that’s okay. Having no strings attached to this place is for the best, because when you leave for an attending spot in another state, you can finally move on from Robby.
It’s not for the lack of trying on your end, you tried to understand them, tried to put yourself in their shoes, and see yourself from their point of view. You’ve joined them for beers a few times in the park, but they have had some inner jokes that you felt uncomfortable laughing at, thinking they might find you too intrusive.
And also… Robby. Anytime you are around him, you have to act to make sure he doesn’t see through you. This version of you that talks to him, that breathes the same air as he does, is not the real you, or maybe it is to some extent, but you can’t duel too hard on it. You are sure of one thing, though: he wouldn’t like the real melancholic in love you.
“Morning,” Perlah smiles at you, putting on the patches on the patient’s chest for an EKG, “How are you feeling today?”
“Eh, not too bad, it’s too early to start complaining,” you reply, going to the computer to see the patient’s chart, humming as you scroll through the notes the night shift has left, “We’re gonna have a hard day… It's the anniversary of Pittfest.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she shakes her head slowly, “It’s gonna be brutal, isn’t it? Robby’s…”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be a lot to handle,” you nod in agreement, giving her a small smile before looking down at your shoes, “But we can get through this, as a team. Like we always do.”
“Yeah, we had a discussion about this last night, actually– oh, fuck me… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
“Perlah, you’re fine, don’t worry,” you put on your gloves to assess the patient, sitting on the rolling stool to get closer to the bed, “I’m still studying for my Boards, so don’t sweat it.”
“You’ve been studying for nearly a year now! You’re gonna do great,” she squeezes your shoulder before stepping away to round the bed and check the patient’s vitals, “You need to relax a little…”
“Relaxing isn’t a word in my vocabulary.” You grab your stethoscope to listen to the patient’s heart and lungs, “Breath sounds are good, we just need to–”
“Hey.”
Fuck me and my life sideways.
“Good morning, Robby!” Perlah grins, following your words for the patient’s medication, giving you a little time to get your breathing back to normal.
“Fuck, sorry–” you didn’t look where Robby was standing before you stood up, and now you are standing chest to chest with your attending’s hands steadying you by gripping your arms.
He is so close, so fucking close that you can smell his woodsy cologne and aftershave. He looks way better from this angle; his nicely trimmed beard, his big brown eyes that seem more gentle than any time you’ve seen them.
“Don’t worry about it,” he gives you one of his easy smiles that makes you weak in the knees, “Just be careful next time. It could be Whitaker you knock out if you stand up like this.”
“He isn’t as fragile as you think,” you snort, acting as normal as possible at the warmth of his fingers wrapped around your biceps, trying not to faint from the close proximity, “But I keep that in mind, thank you.”
“Anytime,” he nods and lets go of you, taking a step back to give you a bit of space, and you have to ignore the ringing in your ears as you feel your nipples brush his chest when you move past him. “You’re already with a patient, I see.”
“I need the distraction before I have the next few days off,” you shrug, not daring to look at him because if you do, you might give out the tiniest clue about your feelings, so you stare at the keyboard under your fingers, “And hoping to leave on time.”
“You really don’t like this place, huh?” He chuckles as he walks behind you to look over your shoulder at the screen. He has done this before, several times in fact, but it never gets easier, and Robby doesn’t make it easier either. “I thought you’d be settling nicely after all these years.”
“This is not the time– to discuss my fucking personal life when my patient is coding, FUCK–” you run to the bed, flattening it down before starting compressions after seeing the flatline on the monitor, “Perlah—”
“Joy, Whitaker, in here!” Robby yells for the students to join you before he steps back, giving you room to work on your patient, “You got this?”
“Yeah!” You reply, not taking your eyes off your work, you’ll deal with him later. Now you have to save this poor guy; Robby can wait. He has to.
****
“Tell you what,” Donnie slides next to you with a shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes at him so hard with a smirk on your face before resting your elbow on the countertop of the staff lounge, “A birdie told me you have the next few days off–”
“A birdie who happens to be my attending?” You ask with a soft scoff, oh boy, he was paying attention. Blinking at Donnie and waiting for him to continue, while you try to ignore the warmth growing in your belly at the thought of him listening to you.
“Mayyyybe,” he throws his hands up in defeat, “Guilty as charged, but!”
“Donnie, I can’t–”
“You don’t even know what I wanted to say!”
“I have my boards coming up in a few months–”
“You can spare us a few hours, right?”
Fucking kill me. Or him. Or both. He has to stop coming in unannounced with that beautiful smile and his dimples and...
“You need to stop snitching on me.” Turning your back to them, you reach for the coffee pot to pour yourself a cup in one of the plastic ones, “I might have a few days off, but I also need to sleep and study.”
“I promise you’ll do much better if you take a break for a few hours.” Robby leans on the doorframe, watching you closely, “They even convinced me to go out with them.”
“Wow, walking in unclaimed territory? How brave of you, Dr. Robby,” you say, looking between him and Donnie, who are waiting for an answer, “You guys are teaming against me. I’m defenseless.”
“Does this mean you’ll come tonight?” Donnie asks, raising his voice as you push past Robby slowly, ignoring how his large frame covers most of the space.
“I’ll think about it, now, please stop bothering me, I need to get back to work,” you shoo Donnie away, making your way to your work station, sitting down with a long exhale, rubbing your forehead as the image of Robby crosses your mind again.
Fuck him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him.
You log into your account, letting go of the badge on your chest to do some charting before you hear the familiar footsteps of him walking past you to his station that is unfortunately across from yours.
You’re not gonna look at him. You won’t. You shouldn’t. Today is already sucking the energy out of you with the heavy traumas rolling in; you can’t let your stupid crush do it as well.
But how can you look away? He looks so peaceful as he types, his eyebrows relaxed for a few seconds before he frowns at the screen, reaching for his phone in the pocket of his cargo pants.
His hair is tousled a little, soft short strands in the front going in so many directions that you know is the result of him running his fingers through them over and over throughout the day.
“Hey, smartass,” Dana calls you, and you glare at her before standing up, abandoning your coffee, “Code STEMI four minutes away. Teach those kids somethin’, they’ve been wandering around like ducks.”
“Half of them were with Samira, and some with Dr. Robby. Why are they not busy?” You ask, reaching for the hand sanitizer, rubbing the liquid between your fingers and palms as you point at Joy and Javadi to join you, “Ready for some action?”
“Not really,” Joy groans, “I don’t know how you decide to wake up and do this every day.”
“Trust me, I don’t know either.” You walk with them to the gurney the EMTs are rolling into the floor, “They pay enough to keep me alive.”
“Weren’t you attacked by a patient last week?” Javadi asks, falling into a rhythm beside you, nodding when Joy gawks at her, “Yeah, she was on nights,a nd a drunk patient pushed her face-first into the ground–”
“Okay, maybe they pay enough to almost keep me alive,” you roll your eyes and nudge them forward, “Let’s move, everyone!”
****
You sigh, dropping your forehead on the locker in front of you, letting your body breathe for a second. Rough doesn’t begin to cover this shift; not many deaths, luckily, just a patient that coded, but the heavy traumas that came in were brutal.
You aced every case that was thrown into your hands, A+ work, and an amazing patient satisfaction score—a great example of how a chief resident should be, just not in your own eyes. Of course, you know you did great, but there is still this hollowness inside your heart that screams imperfect in such a high-pitched tone that sometimes you have to silence it by burying your nose into your medical textbooks.
Now, you can’t, because Donnie managed to pull a frustrated ‘yes’ out of your mouth to their tonight’s get-together. Maybe he did it out of obligation because Dana and Perlah told him how you found out about last night, or maybe he genuinely wanted you there. Either way, you are going to this bar and have a few drinks before you go home and sleep your days away.
“Are you going too?” Mel comes out of nowhere, making you jump out of fear, letting out a little scream, clutching your shirt over your heart. She grimaces a little, giving you an apologetic smile, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to scare you!”
“I know, it’s okay. I should be more aware of my surroundings,” you reach to rub her arm gently, and you relax immediately when she doesn’t pull back or flinch. The first time you tried to do that back a year ago, she wasn’t as welcoming as she is today, rightfully so, and you gave her time as she adjusted to The Pitt, and by extension, she got more comfortable with you. Not as friends, but enough to find some solace in your company, “And… yeah, I’m going. What about you? Any plans?”
“I have to pick up my sister,” she says and moves to her locker to take her backpack, “And I have to get takeout too. I might have a busy night ahead.”
“Yeah? Good for you, honestly. I could do with some sleep, but eh, promised Donnie I’d go. I don’t wanna hurt him when this is like… the first time I’m invited to a night out.”
“First time? I thought you’d join them in the park every night.”
“Not really,” you shrug, slinging your bag on your shoulder, grabbing your phone from the locker, and closing the metal door shut, “I mean, I do go out to the park with them when they mention it. Other times I just… I don’t like to intrude.”
“That’s understandable,” she nods, grinning at you before she starts walking out of the hallway, “See you in a few days!”
“See ya, have fun!” You wave at her, walking through the floor and toward the exit, ignoring the patients that are piling up because they are not your responsibility right now.
None of the crew is around, so you suspect they have already left for the bar, which is just what you want now: a little peace and quiet before you have to slide into your amazing acting role again.
The fresh air is exactly what you need; a little chilly, which raises goosebumps on your skin, but also warm enough that it doesn’t require you to layer up with a thick scarf and two shirts under your jacket. September air is always the best.
You breathe. A deep inhale that goes through your nose and cools down your face and lungs, before you exhale the warm air slowly. It is good to know you can still keep going even if you are feeling wrecked.
“Hey! Wait!”
Your ability to drop dead right now is very high. His voice… fuck. You can find him even in a concert so loud, if he just starts talking with his gravelly raspy voice that rumbles through his chest and moves past his chords. The same voice that says your name, orders the med students and keeps the ED from falling apart. The same voice you wished you could hear in a slightly different way.
“Hey,” you mutter quickly, giving him a curious nod as he jogs toward you, his backpack swinging with each step, “I thought you’d already left.”
“I wanted to, but Jack kept me behind for a patient,” he pants as he stands next to you, flushing from cheeks to neck so beautifully you have to look down at your shoes to regulate your heartbeat just as he does for an entirely different reason, “I hope… You don’t mind me joining you on your walk there?”
“What? No, no, of course not,” you say with ease, the mask coming up again, “It’s a short walk anyway. We’ll be with them soon.”
“That eager to get rid of me?” He smirks, raising his eyebrows at you, and you have to bite your tongue not to say something or worse, fucking moan at the sight, “I promise I’m good company.”
“I did not– why are you teasing me?” You shake your head and walk away from him, and Robby slides next to you, “I know you are good company, I didn’t mean that you’re not!”
“It’s okay, I took offense only a little,” he chuckles when you groan and hide your face in your hands, his arm brushing against yours as he walks side by side with you, “What do you plan on drinking?”
“Good question, I want at least ten margaritas and hopefully three gin and tonics on Donnie’s wallet because he dragged me here. You?”
“You plan on getting shit faced, I respect that,” he chuckles and his voice sends shivers down your spine, “Hmm… I don’t know. I think I could go with classic Bourbon neat, or I could have a couple of beers. Definitely no plans on getting wasted as you do.”
“Live a little,” you say, tightening your grip on your backpack. You have to stop, but you can’t, not when he is looking at you the way he always does, careful and gentle. “You could start with a good Espresso Martini.”
“Noooot a fan of my caffeine and alcohol blended together,” he shrugs, giving you one of his bear-shaped smiles and shrugs, one of those that make your pulse skyrockets, “But I never say no to a good Gin.”
“You’ve got good taste,” you nod, thanking everything between the earth and the sky when the bar comes into view, walking a little faster to get away from him, even for a second, enough to take a deep breath but he is fast and catches up with you, not leaving your side, “Ah, there they are.”
He hums and waits for you to fully go past the door before following you inside. Ever the gentleman, he even held the door for you. You have to stop, or you would one hundred percent embarrass yourself.
“Heyyyy, look! Our rockstar chief residentis finally gracing us with her presence!”
“Fuck all the way off to Mars, Donnie,” you slap his shoulder playfully, hugging him and squealing when he decides to twirl you around a little before putting you on the ground, “That was not necessary!”
“It definitely was,” he scoffs playfully, leading you to the booth everyone’s sitting in, “Enjoy the night before your four days of sleeping and laziness.”
“Hell yeah,” you groan, looking over your shoulder to look at Robby, finding him smiling and shaking his head, averting your gaze before he manages to catch you red-handed and nudge Donnie in the elbow, “You are definitely buying me my first margarita though.”
“Absolutely!”
****
“I’m g’nna get another drink!” You stumble to the bar counter after Donnie gave you a thumbs-up. With slow and unsteady steps, you manage to get yourself through the crowd and sit on one of the stools with a loud sigh, “Can I order somethin’?”
“Don’t you think you had enough?” A pretty lady comes to you, and you grin when you see her bartender badge. “I can get you your drink and a glass of water.”
“Both, please and thank you!” You rest your chin on the palm of your hand, leaning on your elbows on the countertop, “For my driiiink… hmm, I think I want a Whiskey Sour! And cold water? Please?”
“Coming right up!”
You sit silently, feeling the buzz of the alcohol in your ears. You try, you really, really do, but even laughing when Cassie and Dana laugh, or when Donnie tries to do shots on the table, it still isn’t enough to get them to fill you in on their inside jokes, or maybe they do, but you feel like an outcast. Whatever it is, you want to be a part of their group, a friend to them, more than just a smartass or chief resident to them.
But the fitting in is not because of your shy and introverted personality or them not wanting you in, maybe it is on a small scale, but it is not the main reason. It is because of him. Robby. Michael fucking Robinavitch. The man who stole your heart.
He is beautiful when he blushes, and now his cheeks are probably hurting from grinning for so long. His face is red, flushed to the chest probablyو with his lips wrapping around the rim of his glass. He is handsome, deliciously so. His beard is nicely trimmed, and his hair is cut in a way that makes his neck stand out way more.
“Here you go,” she hands you your drinks and moves to another customer, letting you drink your whiskey sour with a deep sigh.
“Enjoying the night?” Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t catch a break from him.
“Yup,” you hiccup, drowning the rest of your drink without looking at him, licking the liquid off your lips, “Love how I don’t belong anywhere. It’s so cool, it makes one wonder what they did wrong.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah, oh is right,” you scoff, glancing at him for a second, finding him exhaling before taking the empty stool next to yours.
“What’s wrong? Why do you not… feel like you belong?”
“Not the best convo to have when I’m drunk, but if you insist,” you shrug, and look at him finally, finding him listening so intently, waiting for you to fill him in. He looks exceptionally good tonight, with his cargo pants still on and a clean green long-sleeve shirt that clings to his biceps in the best way, and frames his belly just right.
“I do.”
“Ugh, it’s stupid!”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“It is! Because if it were anyone else, they’d have already made friends!” You cry out, your feelings pouring into your hands, “I’ve done everything! I thought- I thought I was enough to fit in, but fuckو it’s hard! And then there’s…” you take a deep breath and stop talking before you tell your biggest secret to your biggest secret.
“What?” He presses slightly, pushing your water towards you slowly, “Drink this for me, sweetheart.”
“Nothing,” you shake your head hysterically, reaching for the glass without further consideration, and he hums in approval as you take a large sip, letting the cool water go down your esophagus, “Nothing…”
“C’mon, you can trust me, ya know,” he leans forward a little, decreasing the distance between your bodies, “I won’t tell a soul.”
“It’s nothing, it’s stupid.”
“It’s not, I’m sure. You can tell me.”
“I can’t tell you about you–” you gasp, watching his eyes widen in shock. The reality settles in, and you feel your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach, “Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck–”
“What do you mean?” He chuckles in disbelief, a playful undertone in his voice as he looks at you a little more closely, “Come on, you’ve talked more than you wanted to already.”
“Nothing,” you hiss, drowning the rest of your water before trying to stand up, but the world gets dizzy around you for a good, lasting second. Robby is quick to grab you by the waist, holding you steady and safe between his spread legs.
Both of his large hands are gripping your hips tightly now, pulling you forward a little so you can use his shoulders to keep yourself up. He looks fucking enchanting like this, gazing up at you with concern and a boyish enthusiasm you have only seen in him when he would talk to Nurse Hastings.
He is so warm and broad under your arms, his shoulders are hard under your fingertips as you use him to stand straight, looking into his eyes with a pout. You can never have him, but if this is the closest thing you get to experience with him, then so be it.
“I could help, you know? My therapist says communication is the backbone of–”
“Shut uuup, oh my god!” You whine, pouting even harder when you see how he is trying to talk to you — or get you to talk to him — and it makes your heart clench in adoration. How you love this big, sad, pathetic, gorgeous man with chocolate pudding eyes.
“Am I the reason you haven’t found any friends yet? Because I can talk to them–”
“If I make friends, they’ll know I like you!”
You need to die. Like. Right now. Right fucking now. The ground needs to open up and swallow you whole before you melt into a puddle from embarrassment.
Fuck the Margaritas and fuck the Gin Tonic, and also fuck that Whiskey Sour you had. They had you telling your biggest secret to the last person who should have known.
Your stomach growls in disapproval, and you can feel the ball rising slowly. Pushing Robby away, you dart outside of the bar to empty your stomach, tearing up a little as the acid burns the back of your throat, but at least you feel better now.
“It’s okay, let it all out,” Robby pushes your hair out of your face, rubbing your back before handing you a wet wipe you are sure he pulled out of your bag, “You’re okay. Drink a little water for me?”
You nod silently, wiping your mouth and chin before throwing the wipe in the trash, snatching the bottle from his hands. You do not want to be rough with him, but now he knows. He knows you like him; he doesn’t know it happened in your intern year, but he knows how you feel, why you haven’t managed to find friends — not the full story, but still enough.
“I didn’t know you had feelings for me–”
“We’re not gonna talk about this.” You grab your phone and bag from his hand, marching away from the bar, but to your very unfortunate luck, he follows you, “Go inside, Robby!”
“No, come on! You can’t just tell me you like me and leave!” He yells, falling into a step behind you, “Just– wait a second!”
“Why?” You turn around suddenly, pinning him to his spot with a harsh glare, “I’ve been trying my damn hardest to keep this to myself. It’s just a crush, I can get over it, alright? You’re not that special. I’ll move on when I get my board and attending position.”
“But you haven’t made friends because of–”
“It’s my burden to bear, not yours. And as I said, it’s just a fucking crush.” You don’t explain more, groaning in frustration as you basically jog into the sidewalk and walk back home.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t know that he is that special to you; he is everything you’ve ever wanted in a man, and he is out of your league, worse, he is your fucking boss. And of course, he now knows you like him.
At least he isn’t aware that you don’t like him, but you love him.
****
“Good morning, rockstar,” Robby slides next to you against the central, a shit-eating grin on his face as he puts a coffee cup between your hands, “Did you have a good break?”
“It’s too early to deal with you, Dr. Robby.” You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment, remembering every word you said to him in your drunken state, and now? He is fucking smiling at you like that didn’t happen, or worse, he’s decided to torture you with that information.
You were dueling about running away on your days off. You could have easily picked up your car, a luggage full of clothes, and gotten on the road away from Pittsburgh after you quit medicine for good. Or you could show up and act like you’d blacked out.
“I got you coffee.” He pushes the cup between your fingers gently, nudging your foot with his, “I know you like it black and bitter.”
“You never get me coffee,” you squint your eyes at the cup, running a hand down your neck, “What are you doing, Doctor Robinavitch?”
“I got you coffee.”
“I see that,” you hiss at him, heart pounding against your ribs as you turn your head to look at him, “You never pay attention to how I have my coffee. You never get me coffee.”
“There’s always a first time for everything,” he leans on his palm on the central, moving a little closer and tilting his head to look you in the eye, “I thought after our last conversation–”
“Absolutely fucking not–” you grab the coffee and try to dodge his arm, but he is quicker, falling into a step next to you with ease. You can see the smugness in his face, and it only makes the butterflies in your stomach flap their wings harder and faster, “Stop following me!”
“I’m not following you, I’m walking with my chief resident to her next patient,” he pushes his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants, “You wanna tell me when everything started?”
“You wanna tell me why you are being a jerk?”
“I’m not a jerk, I’m curious–”
“Wrong thing to be curious about,” you take a sip of your coffee, melting a little inside at the thought of him buying you coffee from your favorite spot, too. “If you excuse me–”
“We gotta talk about it, rockstar–”
“We don’t. We never should. I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking correctly, I said something, and I regret ever agreeing to come to one of these shitty get-togethers after work. I need to work now, so please, let me do my job. And you don’t ever have to worry about my stupid feelings towards you.”
You march away from him, going into the closest examination room and pulling the curtains, relaxing when you find it empty.
You know you overreacted, you know you should have slowed down, but how could you really? You’ve been carrying this secret for four years, and suddenly the only person who wasn’t supposed to find out is fully aware of it.
Although you are mad at yourself and him, you catch yourself smiling at the bitter taste of coffee. Whoever has told him about this must know you very well, but you doubt anyone is close to you enough to know how you take your takeaway coffee.
If this were the first interaction after that night, you are already dreading the rest.
****
One approach turns into two, then three, and then you lose count. He is everywhere. And by everywhere, you mean it. Every turn, every room, every stop. He is just there.
It annoys you because you are sure your adrenaline levels spike when you see him way more than before. Your face burns when he catches your eyes and gives you an easy smile, or a wink — fuck, you had to make a beeline to the bathroom the first time he did that to splash water on yourself before you passed out — and worse, he stands way too close to you.
Coffee becomes a regular thing; some days it is accompanied by a croissant or an egg and bacon sandwich. He even ordered you lunch a few times, for himself too, and tried his hardest to bribe you into eating the food with him in the staff lounge, which you declined and thanked Dana for pushing you into an incoming trauma.
Never was anything physical or complimentary outside your work in the past few months, at least not until now.
“You look beautiful today.”
Simple, right? No. NO. Your eyes are probably as big as his head when you turn to look at him, but you notice something different in his smile, something shy, almost, but his eyesare twinkling in mischief as they did before.
“What?” You whisper, clutching the tablet in your hand as you stand in a secluded hallway with so little space between your bodies; he isn’t crowding you, but he isn’t standing at an appropriate distance either.
“I said you look beautiful today. I noticed your new scrubs and earrings. They bring out your features–”
“What the fuck are you doing, Robby?” Robby. Not Dr. Robby. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Just Robby. You are mad, your heart is leaping into your throat, and there is a pinkish tint on his cheeks that makes you want to reach out and kiss him right on the cheekbone. Or slap him. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what, sweetheart?” He looks genuinely confused, and it only makes you whine and stomp your foot on the ground, “Am I… upsetting you?”
“No, and that’s the fucking problem!” You say with a soft whimper in your tone, “I tell you I like you, and then suddenly you are bringing me coffee, lunch, snacks, and then you start calling me beautiful.”
“I’m trying to be nice–”
“You are being cruel!” You don’t realize when tears begin to fall on your face, “You are purposefully pulling on my pigtails and do-do things that make me feel happy, and you know that I fucking like you and it’s making me go crazy! I hate that you know that, and you are using it against me! You are teasing me, and ugh! I hate it!”
You storm off, without even glancing at him, moving straight for the locker room, crying harder when he follows you with urgency.
“I didn’t mean–”
“If you keep doing this, I will quit and leave!” You grab your stuff and put on your jacket before slamming your locker room shut, pushing Robby out of your way forcefully by slamming the tablet to his chest, “Stop playing with my feelings. I’ve been doing just fine for four years! Don’t fucking make my life hell!”
“You… you’ve liked me for four years?”
“At this point, I don’t like you, I love you, but you’re making it really fucking hard to move on!” You furiously wipe your tears, staring into his eyes for a hot minute, “I will, though, I will move on when I get out of Pittsburgh.”
“What–”
“I’m done for the day,” you leave without even glancing at him anymore. He stands there, alone, with a heavy heart, before he starts to follow you, but Dana is quick to grab him by the arm when he is close. His head snaps in her direction, his eyes burning with tears.
“What?”
“What did you do?”
“I… I told her she looked beautiful?”
“You— then why the fuck did she leave?” She gawks and looks at the path you took in shock, “You told her you liked her, right?”
“I… no? I didn’t even tell you–”
“Cap, you literally circle around her like a male bird wanting to mate. I don’t know if she likes you…”
“She’s loved me… for four years,” he tears up, hot drops rolling down his cheeks, “And I tried to show her that I liked her too but–”
“Four years? And no one knew?” She drags him to his work station, pushing him down on the chair with a soft frown, “How did I not notice?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know…” he pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes after handing the tablet to Dana, groaning in frustration, anger filling his body, “I’m so fucking disgusted by myself.”
“You have to fix it, we are already down a senior resident…” Dana slips behind a computer, sighing in relief when she finds what she needs to, “After the shift… you’ll fix it after your shift.”
****
You are studying. Again. The boards can’t come any faster, it seems, and you are heartbroken and frustrated by yourself and Robby. You thought you could handle him knowing your feelings amidst the situation of him being overly doting and teasing you.
But you couldn’t, not when he was looking at you with his perfect cow eyes that could melt your heart. He was so… so frustratingly beautiful and sweet when he would hand your coffee and follow you around.
If only he felt the same.
Your nose is practically buried in your books when you hear the knock. It is slow, steady, and echoes in your apartment. With hesitation, you stand up and walk out of your reading room, your sock feet dragging across the cold floor as you approach the door.
You gasp when you open the door, eyes roaming Robby’s body as he stands with his hands in the pockets of his huge riding jacket, eyes red and wide like yours. Your heart skips a beat at the idea of him crying; the reason doesn’t matter, but this time it should, because it has led him to your door.
“Can I come in?” He sounds so small as he looks down at his shoes, waiting for you to respond before he looks up and starts rambling, “Or I can just say what I wanna say, and then you can slam the door in my face, but I have to–”
“Come in,” you step aside gently, pulling the door open for him, looking at his back as he eases into the space of your apartment, slowly taking off his riding jacket and draping it over his arm before he turns around, “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”
“I came here to apologize.” He runs a hand through his hair, not knowing what to do with his body as he stands tall in your hallway leading to the living room, but he knows what he wants to do with his words: “I didn’t mean to hurt you at all. That-that possibility was not even on my mind; it didn’t even come as a thought to me. I thought that your little crush was cute, and I wanted to make you happy, and in the process of that–”
“You were teasing me, Doctor Robinavitch, that’s different from trying to make someone happy,” you say in a clipped tone, hugging yourself closely as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, “You enjoyed how I… How I got distracted at my job, especially after you found out that medicine is what keeps me tied to this place, yet you used that–”
“I don’t want medicine to be the only string that ties you to The Pitt,” he takes a step forward, and you take one back, inhaling shakily when your back hits the wall, “During the past few months, I started to see you, not as my resident, definitely not like I used to. I saw you, truly, what you like to eat between traumas, what flavor of Monster you hide in your locker room in a water bottle filled with ice – which is a very strange way of keeping a beverage cool when we have a fridge – anyway, uh…”
He scratches his beard, his eyes meeting yours in an unhurried gaze, and he finds the unshed tears that you have been holding back all night in order to study, begin to wet your eyelashes.
“I began to know you, the person you have been shielding from me and everyone for years,” he takes another step closer, his free hand moving to ghost over your cheek, not knowing if he is allowed to touch you, “You are fucking brilliant, do you know it? You move like you own the department; you are unstoppable. And so, so pretty when you are teaching. Did I ever tell you how good you are at explaining procedures to interns? It feels like you have years of experience, but it’s just you. The talented, magnificent you.”
“I… I didn’t know you thought about me like that.” Your lips begin to tremble, breaths coming out in quick puffs of air, tears finally rolling down your cheeks as you stare at him with desperate anticipation, “I didn’t think you’d notice me beside my work.”
He smiles, one of his radiant smiles that warms up your body and pulls his cheek up into the most gentle expression you have ever seen. He finally lets his fingers graze your cheek, his dry knuckles move across your soft skin, and he can’t bring himself to look away from you, not even for one second.
“I always notice you because you are one of the best residents I’ve ever had,” he finally cups your cheek, leaning down a little, “But I started to… notice personal things; like every time you chew on the end of your pen when you are concentrating, or,” he chuckles a little, “Or when you’d grumble under your breath when someone had taken your snacks, or… when you try to laugh when you don’t even understand a joke.”
“I don’t–”
“I didn’t know a woman could be as adorable and beautiful as you are before.” Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you gaze into his eyes. He wipes off the small tears that stream down your cheeks with slow and delicate movements, “But you… You are captivating. And I am very sorry for being a dick to you when I really wanted to start getting to know you more and potentially asking you out if you wanted to know me too.”
“I’ve been in love with you for four years; of course I want to get to know you too.”
You lean in and capture his lips softly, hands moving up his chest slowly before wrapping your arms around his neck. He kisses you back, a little more feverish than you do, letting go of his jacket to hold on to your waist, pressing you into his body to feel every curve of your form, making you sigh into his mouth.
“I don’t want to…” You gasp when he nips at your bottom lip, his heavy lids widening as he hears your words, but you chuckle breathlessly and shake your head, “Not tonight. I don’t wanna have sex with you tonight, Robby–”
“Michael, call me Michael,” he whispers, pecking your lips a few more times before moving down to your cheek, peppering your face with kisses until your tears are dried and you are giggling, “We can do whatever you want. I can even leave–”
“No!” You whine, locking your fingers around his neck to keep him right where he is, “I don’t want you to leave, I just… not tonight. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you were hoping for–”
“I came here to grovel for making you tear up and leave the shift early today, and also how I was the reason you thought you couldn’t fit in amongst the people who love you so much,” he kisses your forehead gently, letting his lips linger on the spot, “Sex was the last thing on my mind. Whatever you’d like to do, we’ll do exactly that.”
“Do you want to stay the night?” You whisper, playing with the neckline of his scrubs, not daring to look into his eyes at the moment, fearing he’d say no and leave despite him telling you he’d do anything you say. “You could say no–”
“Sweetheart, look at me,” he cradles your face in his palms, forcing you to meet his intense eyes, “I want to stay, I want to sleep here, I want to stay with you. If I ever say no, you are allowed to slap me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” you relax immediately at his words, wrapping your arms around his middle, resting your chin on his chest, “But I will exile you to the couch.”
“Good to know,” he laughs, kissing your forehead again before he lets go of you to bend down and pick up his jacket, kicking off his shoes to the side nicely before he grabs your hand and squeezes it, “Bedroom?”
“Mhmm,” you nod and guide him through your apartment, biting your cheek to stop the grin forming on your face. Robby. In your living space. Wanting to sleep here. Wanting to know you better. Wanting to love you the right way.
“Your place is beautiful.”
“Oh, please, I can barely find time to decorate this place.” You push your door open, extending your hand to grab his jacket, leading him to sit on the edge of the bed, “You can give me your scrubs to throw in the washing machine.”
“I don’t have spare clothes with me–”
“Well, you could sleep naked–”
“And you said you didn’t want to have sex,” he pulls you into his lap with ease, holding you by his hands on your waist, “Trying to get me naked before bed.”
“I can still throw you out of my apartment, trade carefully,” you rub your nose against his, enjoying how he closes his eyes to feel the sensation even more, “But… I have spare clothes for you, I think. My father left a few things here last time he visited me.”
“Lovely,” he kisses your shoulder over your shirt, “You look tired, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I need to get some sleep,” you lean down to rest your head on his shoulder, “I’ve been studying for hours again. My eyes are burning.”
“You are going to pass the boards, and I’m telling you as someone who’s trained residents for years,” he hugs you close, and you melt in his embrace, enjoying the way his long arms engulf you and make you feel safe, “You gonna do amazing.”
“Thank you,” you kiss his neck one last time before slowly wiggling your way onto the bed, looking at him playfully, “Go and wash up, I’m gonna find clothes for you.”
“Okay,” he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles before he stands up and points at the bathroom, “There?”
“Yup, you can see the laundry basket in the corner,” you wait for him to walk into the bathroom before flopping down on the bed, panting and staring at his jacket on your bed, bringing the fabric to your nose, smelling his cologne, and grinning to yourself.
It is unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Robby is in your bathroom, cleaning himself and changing clothes. He is going to sleep in your bed. In your house. He is going to hold you.
Fuck, he even kissed you.
This is something out of your wildest dreams. Kissing Michael Robinavitch was one of the few things you were sure you’d never experience. But he is here, telling you he likes you, telling you he wants to try, and it’s making you giddy.
You hear the water stop, and you roll out of the bed to grab the clothes you promised, finding only a gray t-shirt that could fit him after you lower his jacket on the chair in the corner of the room.
“Hey,” you turn around, finding him standing in the doorframe of your bathroom with only his boxers on, his chest turning a bright shade of red when he notices you eyeing him up and down. He chuckles a little, running a shy hand through his hair as he approaches you, “Could you find something?”
“J-just a t-shirt?” You hand it to him, turning around and making a beeline for your side of the bed, taking off your socks with your back to him, “Sorry, no pants.”
“It’s fine if you’re okay with me sleeping—”
“Yeah, yeah! It’s okay!” You try not to sound so flustered, but the reality of your crush sleeping behind you with just a shirt and his boxers on makes you dizzy. “Do you want anything?”
“No,” you can hear the smugness in his voice before you feel the bed dip under his weight as soon as you lie down. Your breath hitches when he scoots closer to the middle of the bed, wrapping an arm around your waist to tug you closer to his body, and you have to bite your tongue to stop the soft whimper from falling from your lips.
It’s not sexual. It’s warm, it is more of a purr than anything, like you are finally where you are meant to be after rejecting it for so long. Robby pulls the covers over your bodies before he cages you between his arms, burying his face into your neck.
You feel safe, and that’s more than enough to knock you out to a blissful sleep in Robby’s embrace.
****
You’re being dramatic. He wants to be here; if he didn’t, he would leave immediately after he apologized. Hell, he wouldn’t even apologize. But there is a tiny voice in the back of your head that is shouting in the distance that you need to go, you need to pull away.
You should study. Right. You can leave the room and be back before he is up. He likes you… But does he really?
You feel his arm tightening around your waist in his sleep, keeping you against him with a firm grip. How can you think he doesn’t want you? It isn’t how you can, it is the very insecurity that has been bottled over the years telling you that is the truth.
He was pressured into this. If you kept your mouth shut that night, he wouldn’t need to go out of his way to make you feel comfortable. He wouldn’t be obligated to do anything about it.
You sigh, enjoying the warmth radiating from his hand on your skin for a lasting minute before you slowly slip out of his hold. You want nothing more than to cuddle him tightly and kiss him and hold him, but the hesitation that you feel is messing with your head. What if he really came here out of force to keep you from quitting? What if–
“Hey…” Robby grumbles in his sleep, reaching for you after he blinks rapidly and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed with your back to him.
Your head snaps in his direction, lips parting in surprise as he gently grabs your wrist, a small frown making its way to his face. He looks so peaceful like this, all the grinding hard work of the ED faded away with sleep, at least for a few hours.
“Go back to sleep…” You don’t touch him back; instead, stare at his face with a deep fondness. You don’t deserve him. He isn’t the most perfect man, quite far from that actually, but he is… endearing, whole-consuming, enough to set your skin ablaze.
“Why are you up? What time is it?” He groans and sits up on his elbow, squinting to look at the watch on the wall of your bedroom before giving you an unamused look, “Five in the morning? Please, get back in bed.”
“I have to study,” you pull your hand away and try to stand up, but he is quick to wrap his fingers around your wrist again, “Robby…”
“I told you to call me Michael,” he gently tugs you down, and you let yourself be moved until he is sitting against the headboard with your back to his chest, both of his arms wrapped tightly around you as he looks down into your eyes. “You need to take a break, sweetheart. I’ve seen you studying for so long, even in The Pitt sometimes. Unless it’s not about actually studying… Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s not you, it’s–” you take a shaky breath, hands coming up to hold onto his biceps, “I… I thought you… nevermind, I let my head wander off–”
“Listen to me,” he brings his hand up to cup your face, his grip firm and steady to make sure you are listening carefully, “If I have to remind you that I like you and want you every hour of the day, I will. Because I want you, and I’m not fucking around this time.”
“I thought you were doing all of this because you felt forced to,” you rush out the words, pressing your ear to his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart, “It’s so fucking stupid, I know!”
“It’s not, I promise you, it is not stupid at all,” he kisses your forehead, “I’m not forced to do anything, sweetheart. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be. But I do, I want you so fucking much–”
You crash your lips into his, clinging to his arms with desperation, kissing him with all the strength you have got inside you, and he reciprocates with a small chuckle, moving his lips with yours in sync. His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek as he devours you.
You wiggle in his hold until you are straddling his hips, lips still locked and tongues tied together. You slide your palms under his t-shirt, breath shuddering when you roll your hips and find him already half-hard in his boxers.
“Hmm, you are feisty,” he groans when you scoot a little closer and start grinding over his bulge, both hands moving up to his to feel the heat of his skin, “Are you sure you wanna go this fast?”
“I need to feel you right now,” you gasp against his lips, pushing up the fabric of his t-shirt until he grabs the back of the fabric and pulls it off quickly, giving you time to breathe and take off your clothes in haste before you crawl back into his lap, underwear abandoned on the bed.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he trails his hands up and down your hips, squeezing the flesh and biting his lips as he lets his fingers wander over your exposed skin, reaching around your body to undo your bra, latching his mouth to your collarbone, “Fuckin’ love you like this…”
“Michael,” you sigh his name, enjoying the way your hands explore the broadness of his shoulders while he gets rid of your bra and starts kissing your breasts and sinking his teeth into the flesh, “Fuck, baby…”
“I got you, beautiful,” he whispers into your skin, grunting when you drag your bare pussy against his thin boxers, making his cock jump in excitement, “Jesus, you are so fucking warm.”
“Please, I need you,” you push him back a little to make room for your hands to travel down the expanse of his chest, pulling on the hem of his boxers before he starts pushing the fabric down his ass and thighs until his cock is free, bobbing with desire.
He is big. You didn’t expect anything else, but to see it finally, and not imagining it still knocks the breath out of your lungs.
“You should let me prepare you–”
“I’m not joking when I say I’ll start spiraling if you’re not inside me by the next minute,” you drop your forehead on his, locking your eyes with his as you line up his tip with your wet hole, “I’m so pent up I could probably come from just sitting on you.”
“You don’t wanna know how I’m doing, sweetheart,” He groans, gripping your hips tightly when you slide down on his throbbing cock with ease, both of your lips falling open at the sensation, “I can come just by looking at you.”
“Y–you feel so good, Mike,” your eyes roll to the back of your head, nails digging into his shoulders as you begin to roll your hips, his cock reaching deep into your core and stretching you out in the most delicious way, “I’ve always imagined doing this with you.”
“Yeah? How did you imagine it, sweetheart?” He grunts, bending his knees and leaning back against the headboard to have more space to help you bounce on his lap, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he follows your movement, “How many times did you imagine it?”
“So many times I lost count," you throw your head back, closing your eyes when he starts thrusting his hips up, driving his cock deeper into you while he clings to your body, “I thought our first time would be sweet, a-and not… not rushed, fuck…”
“What is this? Another of your fantasies?” He leans forward, attacking the column of your throat with kisses and bites, groaning and squeezing your body the faster you move, “Did you think about us fucking too?”
“All the time!” You hiccup when he reaches between your bodies to play with your clit; and play he does with how he rubs quick circles then pulls back when you shudder, only resuming his attacks when you grab his wrist tightly and roll your hips in an angle that his tip nudges your sweet spots, “Fuck- fuck, baby, ‘m gonna come–”
“Come for me then,” he gasps when you clench around him, your warmth engulfing and choking his dick until he is throbbing inside you, “I’m so close too. Can you come with me, huh? I know you can, C’mon, sweetheart.”
Your orgasm washes over you intensely, making you jolt forward and hug Robby tightly while your hips stutter and thighs begin to shake. He isn’t in any better position; you are just too tight and too warm, and he is losing himself in the feeling of you.
He follows you soon, his cock twitching and filling you up with his thick load, wrapping his arms around your back and shoulders as he thrusts a few times inside you, biting your collarbone to muffle the groan that falls from the depths of his chest.
“You okay?” He asks, still breathless and sensitive as he holds you close, relaxing when he feels you nod and mutter a tired ‘yes’ under your breath, “Let’s get cleaned up and then we go back to bed.”
“You don’t have a shift tomorrow?” You ask, slowly lifting yourself from his lap to lie down on the bed, humming when he hovers over you to kiss you sweetly on the lips before he gets off the bed to find a towel in your bathroom.
“Nope,” he shakes his head as he walks back, crawling on the bed next to you to wipe off the mess he made between your legs, swiping the towel gently, careful not to touch anywhere that could be too sensitive, “I’d not be this relaxed if I had to go back there.”
“You’ll stay then?” You caress his arm when he settles back beside you, pulling you into his chest, smiling and holding you right above his heartbeat.
“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”
****
This has to be one of the worst shifts he’s ever had. In his top ten, definitely. Not because it is crowded or they have some horrible traumas rolling in. No. It is bad because he doesn’t have his chief resident here with him.
He should be used to this, not having you around. If it were seven months ago, he wouldn’t care really, but now he does, because he wasn’t in a relationship with you before, so the distance didn’t hurt as badly as it does today.
You are having the day to yourself, spending the hours on the bed or, as he very much insisted, using his card to buy anything you wanted because you deserve it after the hellish few weeks you had to study before your Boards.
He is walking out of a trauma when he hears your voice, mid-conversation with Santos as they make their way to the central.
“Michael!”
He has at most ten seconds to brace himself before you abandon all the HR rules and throw yourself into his arms.
“I did it! I passed the Boards!”
“You did?!” He asks, laughing in excitement before he pulls back a little to cradle your face in his hands, pulling you in for a quick yet feverish kiss in front of the entire department, “Why am I even asking? Of course you did! My brilliant girl, I knew you could do it.”
“Wouldn’t have done it without your support,” you kiss him back, grinning and rocking on your feet in happiness, “I also had an interesting interview upstairs… someone had put in a recommendation letter for me.”
“Hmm, very nice of him, you should ask him out.”
“Good thing I’m already dating him.” You wink at him, tightening your arms around his neck as he does around your waist, “Would be a shame if it was Abbot who wrote it though–”
“Don’t even think about it,” he shakes his head before he notices Dana and Donnie approaching, “What’s going on?”
“I’m gonna say something, and you can’t say no, rockstar,” Donnie starts, pointing at you, “The only answer we’ll be accepting is ‘yes, thank you, we’ll be there’, got it?”
“I don’t even know what you're gonna say!”
“We're going to throw a party for you because you passed, and we will not–” he brings his hand up to stop you from interrupting, “We will not accept no for an answer.”
“You don’t have to–”
“We want to, honey,” Dana rests a hand on your shoulder, “We love you, and we want to show it.”
“I…” you look back at Robby, and he has to stop himself from pouting at the small lingering hesitation and insecurity in your eyes. Instead, he kisses your head and squeezes your waist.
“We want to celebrate you. We can cancel it if you’d like. But we really, really want to do this for you; it’s the least we can do after all these years.”
“It won’t be a bother?” You ask in a hushed tone, blinking at him with a shy smile,” Because I’d hate if you–”
“Nothing is a bother when it comes to you, sweetheart.”
“Okay…” you turn around and look at the nurses, “I’d really appreciate it. Thank you–”
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” Dana pulls you out of Robby’s arms, hugging you tightly without even glancing at the man, “You gonna rock this job, kid.”
“You accepted the spot?” Robby smirks, crossing his arm and looking at you with playful eyes.
